the incipient turvy

people-sketch: the old medicine

2012-01-25T11:04:00.001-08:00

(this was from 2003, a few years before grandmother passed away.)

I'm in town for a visit. Grandmother and I are sitting in her living room. We're both drinking coffee, just staring through the sliding glass door, watching squirrels jump around in the yard.

Her neighbor comes over...an elderly gentleman, probably in his upper 70's. I haven't seen him in a very long time, but I'd interacted with him a fair amount as a kid. He grew peanuts...would fill our pockets with then any time we passed his fence. I remember his demeanor being gruff, quiet, for the most part, but he was nice enough, always generous with his time. He never hestitated to help neighbors out with house repairs and gardening chores, things like that. He was sort of an all-purpose handyman for the neighborhood.

He crosses the yard, steps into the house. He stares at me for a second, then says, "Howdy, young man."

"Hello, sir. Been a long time."

I stand, shake his hand.

"You got scarce on us," he says, "Heard you're a hillbilly now, living in the mountains."

I laugh. "Yes, sir. Been there about 9 years or so."

He sits at the kitchen counter...talks with my grandmother for a bit...asks if she needs any more repairs on her riding lawn mower. While they talk, she makes more coffee, pours him a cup.

To me he says, "I'm trying to recall...don't believe I know what you do for a living. Last I heard you was in college, but that was way back. Did you finish?"

"Yes, sir. Degree in psychology."

"How about that. And what do they have you doin' up in them mountains?"

"I work at a psychiatric facility. It's a transitional ward, 8 clients."

"Eight people. Small for a nuthouse, aint it?"

"Yes, sir. Not a big facility."

He pauses for a bit, then says, "Now, I bet you didn't know this...I used to work at a nuthouse myself. You probably thought I was a peanut farmer my whole life."

"I'll admit, I did think that. Had no idea."

"Didn't have no degree, but yes sir, I worked in a nuthouse for some odd years."

I ask, "Was this a hospital?"

"Yep. Military hospital. This was for the army, you see. During The War, they had this big old nuthouse on base, and me and some fellas worked there, keeping the peace. The doctors, you know, they'd come through and talk to the crazies and do whatever it was they did. They were never around long, the doctors, they'd just pass through couple of times a day. The rest of us who worked there...the orderlies...we had all the real work, you see. We had to keep 'em in line."

"Did you like the work?"

"No sir. Nothing to like about it. Boy...hadn't thought about that in years."

He pauses for a bit, thinks. He says, "I tell you what, your grandaddy and I, we liked of threw a fit; The War started and we enlisted soon as we could. We wanted to fight. But with my eyes and your grandaddy's back...we weren't sure how it'd go. But we wanted to fight, so we left at the same time to sign up. Next thing you know, I'm calling your grandaddy all disappointed...I tell him, "They got me working the nuthouse!" And he says, "Oh yeah? Well I'm a fry cook!" We liked of threw a fit. We was disappointed."

My grandmother interrupts, asks if we want cookies. We both delcline...she gets up, starts making them anyway.

The neighbor says, "Nuthouses...they're all different today, is my understanding. The patients you're working with now, how do you manage them? When they get wild?"

"Well, they take medications...those are always being monitored, adjusted. And we teach them basic symptom-management techniques. That's it, for the most part."

He shakes his head, says, "We just kicked them in the stomach."

I try not to do a spit-take with my coffee.

He continues. "Back then, we didn't have the medicines like they do now. If a fella got riled up, we'd just give him a good kick, try to take the wind out of him. Now, I'd give a fair warning...I'd say, "Simmer down or else." But if they were blowin' full steam, I'd put a boot in their stomach."

I ask, "Did that work?"

"A little," he says. "Kick 'em just right, and they'd stay down for a bit. I know it's different, nowadays. I wonder what would happen if you went back and kicked one of your patients."

"Jail."

"That's what I figured."

We drink coffee for a bit. He repeats, "It's different nowadays."

I nod.

Night Shift (part 8)

2012-01-23T10:02:00.000-08:00

(stories from my previous job. names and details have been changed for the privacy of those involved.)

From 2003

It's nearly 8a.m. I get all of the clients to the front porch...their bus pulls up, drives them to their day program. They'll stay there until five in the afternoon, then return home.

(The day program is located on the same campus as the psych ward I work at. Our facility is on the west end, the day program is on the east end. The rest of the campus: eight buildings containing an assortment of mental health facilities...some are in-patient, some are out-patient. They divide evenly between services for adults and children.)

With the clients gone, my shift is basically over. I spend about five minutes doing paperwork; just as I'm about to leave, the phone rings. I pick it up, say the name of the facility.

A woman says, "M? This is Tricia...I'm a secretary at the Adult Services building."

Adult Services: this is where the psychiatrists have their offices. It's open to the public, it's the largest building on our campus. I never have any dealings with the place, so it's odd that they're calling.

Tricia continues; "I contacted my supervisor and she said to call you. There is a man here named Walter...my supervisor said you work with him?"

"Yes. He just left the facility here a few minutes ago. Is he okay?"

"Well...he came in just now and started yelling. He's in the middle of the waiting room, yelling very loudly. He's, I guess, delusional or something. And the waiting room is filled with clients this morning, so he is scaring a lot of people. And honestly, even the staff are a little scared. He seems really, really agitated."

I say, "I'll come over. He's supposed to be at the day program, I guess he walked away from it."

"My supervisor said we could call the police if we felt unsafe, but she asked us to check with you first. He's just...really, really agitated."

"Understood. I can assure you that Walter is harmless. If you could not call the police, that would be ideal. I'll just be right over to get him out of there, okay?"

"Okay."

We hang up. I rub my eyes, say, "Shit". Part of me is irritated with the staff over there for overreacting...it's a mental health facility, people are going to yell, act wild sometimes. But I also know that Walter can seem intense; and he's a big dude...that sort of thing can make people nervous.

Mostly I'm frustrated by the fact that I have to go over there and see people. I'm used to being isolated on the night shift...tend to let my appearance go as a result, since it really doesn't matter what I look like. On this particular morning: I haven't shaved in a month or so; my hygiene is not what it should be (thank you depression); and I'm wearing old, impossibly wrinkled clothes (including a coffee-stained t-shirt that has the word "yarn" on the front of it).

So I hate that I'm about to walk my disheveled ass into a busy waiting room just because some mentally ill guy is acting mentally ill in the middle of a mental health facility. I head that way, mumbling, "Fuck, fuck, fuck" as I walk.

I go through the big, glass door, into the Adult Services waiting room. Walter is there. He's screaming into his hand, saying, "Moses?! I am here for my shot and it will clean out your empty lands! Moses?! I am here for my shot..."

Clients are standing against the walls, getting a little distance from Walter. Secretaries are staring from behind their glassed-in counters, watching the scene.

I sigh, walk up to Walter and say, "Sir? We have to go now."

He stops screaming for a second, replies, "I need to be here for a shot, M. A medical shot."

I start to respond but he interrupts me by lifting his hand, yelling into it, talking to voices. I tell him, a little more insistently, "Walter...you don't have anything scheduled for today. I checked. We have to leave, sir."

He stares at me. I stare at him. I say, quietly, "Walter...look around, please. You're being loud and disruptive. It makes people uncomfortable when you yell like that."

He looks around the waiting room...sees the other clients...and says, "Oh shit. Oh oh oh shit. Was I yelling again?"

"Yes sir. And if you and I don't leave very quickly, the staff here are going to call the police. We need to go."

"My oh my," he says. "My oh my. Just let me finish one thing. Real quick."

He lifts his hand and whispers into it, "Check one, check one...medical shot denied. Repeat that...medical shot denied. Check one, check one."

He looks at me and nods. I start walking towards the front door; he follows. I don't know which of the secretaries looking on is Tricia. I just raise a hand and say to the room, "Tricia! Thanks! We're leaving!"

I take Walter over to his day program. I tell one of the staff there that he had wandered over to the Adult Services building, was yelling in the waiting room. The staff barely reacts, just says, "Yup. Happens."

I nod, say, "Anyway. I'm off."

As I'm leaving, the staff person says, "Hey...awesome yarn shirt."

I detect the sarcasm. I mumble, "Thanks," go home.

people-sketch: Night Shift (part 7)

2012-01-14T19:23:00.001-08:00

(part 6)

Stories from my previous job. For the privacy of those involved, names and details have been changed.

2006.

5:45a.m.

I'm sitting in the kitchen area, at a little table. I'm drinking coffee. Across from me, Diane is holding a cup of coffee as well. She's staring into it, thinking.

She's 54 years old.

She is up unusually early...well before the other clients. Which is a notable change in behavior. She is typically one of the hardest ones to get out of bed in the mornings.

I don't say anything. I drink coffee, stare through a window. She looks around; opens her mouth...closes it. She's dwelling intensely on something, but can't get it out. She's been like this all week. Mentally perturbed, but struggling to get the words out.

For most of her life, Diane lived in the mountains, way out. She spent her entire childhood and much of her adult life living in a small trailer, with her mother and younger brother. They shunned outsiders, lived insular lives in an isolated town. Her brother ran away as a teen. Her mother died when Diane was 35.

So she continued to live alone, in that trailer, into her mid-40's. One day, a case worker arrived to help her fill out financial assistance forms. When the case worker drove up to the trailer, Diane walked onto the front porch...lifted a rifle...fired into the air.

She shot off to the side, no one was hurt. Police arrived...Diane went to jail. It was determined fairly quickly that Diane was severely mentally ill. She was diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder (sort of a mix of schizophrenia and a mood disorder). She bounced around various hospitals and psych wards for a few years, before winding up at our psychiatric facility.

I worked with her for a total of six years. She was mostly quiet, kept to herself. She was suspicious of others, especially staff. She preferred to stay in her room most of the time. She made no friends. She talked to herself, in a mumble, almost continually.

So on the morning that she woke up early and sat across from me, it was a little unusual.

I just drank coffee and waited.

She rubbed her hands together...mumbled to herself. The she asked, "M?"

"Yes ma'am?"

She stared at me for a few seconds and then said, "There was this Mormon fella' that came to the door."

She stopped, said nothing else.

"Here?" I asked. "A Mormon came to the door here?"

"No, no," she replied. "This was ages ago. Momma answered the door and this Mormon fella started talking his devil talk. I could see that, the devil in his heart. And, uh...you know, I just saw him there, the Mormon. And I knew him, I recognized him. He worked at the grocery store. He stocked the cans and the cleaners. He had the devil in his heart, but I knew he worked at the store in town. And, uh...do you know what he said?"

"No, ma'am."

She glared at me...pointed a finger at me...and said, "Well, that little Mormon up and said, 'A tide is rising. A black tide.' And he said, 'It will cleanse this world of it's thorns and dander.' Clear as day, he said a black tide was rising. And Momma...she just startled and said, 'What kind of talk is that? What kind of talk is that?' And she slammed the door in that Mormons face. Oh she was so mad."

Diane looked around, confused expression on her face. Exasperated, she said, "I was fourteen! But I hated that man. I could of slapped him. I saw him at the store later on and I screamed, 'Devil!' And it's true, that man was just filthy with it, with his unclean words. And I, uh...can I...well, anyway."

She mumbled to herself for awhile. I couldn't make out what she was saying. I think back over what she just said, try to categorize it...but I can't tell if she's describing delusions or real memories. No way to know.

She mumbles...looks around. Then she says, "M?"

"Yes ma'am?"

"In the world, how many Mormons are there? Like, in the woods and in the cities and...you know, the world...how many Mormons are there?"

I think for a bit. I sip coffee. I say, "I need more coffee."

She stares at me. I say, "Diane...what about you, a little more coffee?"

She holds her cup out. I fill hers, mine. She mumbles to herself for a bit. She says, "I just wonder...how many Mormons are hiding in the world?"

I don't say anything.

Diane asks me how many Mormons I know personally. I ignore the question, ask if I can make her some breakfast. She ignores me and talks about Mormons.

Then it's quiet.

She and I drink coffee, wait out the shift.

in the shadows where we summer

2012-01-10T17:29:00.000-08:00

I am 36 years old, and I still can't figure out whether or not I want to have friends.

I've been living in a different place for 2 years now, and have not made friends here and I'm unable to determine how I feel about that. My best guess is that I'm fine with it. I think.

I don't know. My reactions can be elusive. It's like trying to close your eyes and grab fish out of a stream...slick, wriggling things, impossible to hold onto. I don't know what I think, a lot of the time. I just feel that stream in me...sense the dark shapes moving past.

As a kid, I was unable to make friends and it was a terrible thing. I felt this profound loneliness inside of me, yet I was too awkward and clumsy-headed to do anything about it. I'd try to interact with kids, make friends, but it never worked...I just pushed them away, made things worse.

In high school, I finally got the hang of it. I learned that if you nod your head a lot, agree with everything everyone says, at all times...you can do okay. Also: never tell anyone about your own thoughts and interests. Ever. Just bury that shit deep, as deep as you can. It took no time at all to realize, with my new friends: they could care less about anything I had to say. They just wanted to talk, be listened to. And I thought that was okay. It was simpler, easier to navigate conversations once I understood that.

I remember my first friends were nerds. I didn't choose them as friends, so much as wind up sitting at the same table with them in the lunch room. The nerd table: it wasn't that anyone wanted to sit there...we were just excluded from all of the other tables. We had nowhere else to sit. The nerd table is basically a big social lint filter, and some of us just wind up there by process of exclusion. And once you're there, you make do. You strike up conversations, try to make the most of it.

My first batch of nerd friends were into a lot of nonsense that I didn't care about. Math and fantasy novels and genuinely terrible movies. I felt absolutely no kinship with them because my interests were so different from theirs. Worst of all, they were into this Dungeons and Dragons-type of card game that made no sense to me...you sit around and play cards, and somehow you're enacting battles and defeating goblins and god knows what else. I never bought the cards to play it, so when that was happening, I'd just hang out in the living room and talk to my friends parents. Or I'd watch TV and wait it out. What I wanted to do, when I was going to a friends house, was take a book along...but I knew the social world didn't work that way. You can't show up and say, "Thanks for inviting me over! I'll be in the corner, now, reading. If you could do me a favor and keep your mouth shut, that would be awesome."

Nope, you can't take books to a social gathering. It sucks.

Anyway. In college, I did find a lot of people with similar interests...only to realize that I still didn't like sharing my thoughts on anything. I either prefer to engage my interests in a solitary manner...or I've just learned to enjoy them that way after years of social ineptitude. I don't know which. The point being: I made friends in college as well, but continued to feel relatively distant and artificial around them. Finding people with similar interests really didn't help the situation much.

In my 20's, I avoided people altogether. Very nearly committed suicide. Therapy ensued (see this blog for details; this is me discussing friends, making them; rough). And now I have more connections in my life, very meaningful ones, a terrific relationship. But I don't have, like, friends...I don't go to dinner with couples, or see movies with friends...don't have guy friends or anything like that.

I see people together, friends, and I always wonder what it feels like. To be the sort of person who enjoys that sort of thing, who seeks it out and truly enjoys it. It's odd to me, and curious. I really wonder about it.

Anyway.

Streams, dark shapes, etc.

(more soon. i'm about to post my final session with the doctor, from 2010)

definitions for knowing

2012-01-09T07:07:00.000-08:00

Lamps-

Lamps are objects that, at the top of them, glow. They help you see other (non-glowing) objects. They are, in this sense, descendants of The Sun, the first and largest of the Glowing Objects.

Lamps were invented after cave-people grew tired of bonking their heads against cave walls. With no electricity available, they generated illumination by setting the lamps on fire.

Eggs-

Eggs are the oval grow-cases. We don't know what happens in there, but the babies pop out and add to life's vast pool of need and misery.

In a humorously viscious circle, eggs come from the efforts of the needy and miserable to feel less lonely.

Books-

Books are pre-internet info-viruses. They carry symbols that, once seen, make changes in the human brain. That person is then a "carrier" of the info-virus, and can spread it through speech and/or writing.

Books became extinct in 1997. The last known book was a highly-prized, 1st edition copy of "The Little Engine that Could". It was, ironically, shot and burned by poachers.

Holiday Affective Disorder (part 3 of 3)

2011-12-19T06:29:00.001-08:00

(part 2)

I.

I at first took George, the manager, to be kind of an oaf. He was heavy-set, bearded, disorganized. Came off as hyper, unfocused. Also, he hired me to work the jewelry counter: huge red flag. Some really bad judgement going on there.

So, I had him down as an oaf, but that ended up not being quite accurate. George was sharp. He was constantly gauging employee performance...offering mini-pep talks; quick words of advice he would tailor to the individual. And because his demeanor was so off-the-cuff, playful, no one ever took it the wrong way. Basically, he was an effective motivator. Acting bored out of his mind, he would roam around the store, chatting people up, working in suggestions. The "disorganized oaf" thing was shtick and he used it well.

Not that I benefited from any of it. I was a crap salesman...I saw and appreciated his technique, but never absorbed his feedback. He would offer advice...I would nod as if listening...nothing ever changed.

II.

His primary motivating tactic: once he assembled a sales team for the holiday season, he announced that a competition would be taking place. At the end of each week, he would post the sales totals for each employee. This list would go up in the break room and be ranked by success: best salesperson at the top, worst at the bottom.

Saturday would come and George would make a big production out of it. Parading through the jewelry room, waving the list above his head. "Here it goes, people! I'm putting the list up!"

Everyone would follow him to the break room, gather around, check out their ranking. Exciting! Fuck yeah! People burbled, "How did I do? How much did I make?"

I never played along. While they took in the list, I just sat in the corner, ate cheese puffs and waited.

George would say, "M! Don't you want to see?"

"Am I last again?"

"Yes."

"Then no, George. I don't want to see."

Not exaggerating, I was dead last every time. I suspected as much, but the list provided confirmation: I was quantifiably the worst salesperson on the team. Possibly the worst salesman ever.

When I started on the counter, I had been disinterested in the work, but the list made me feel kind of guilty. George had gone out of his way to put me on the team...and it didn't feel good to consistently generate such poor numbers.

On the other hand: that's precisely why he put the list up, to elicit self-motivating responses like guilt, so I had no problem ignoring it. I didn't want to be there...wasn't going to waste time feeling guilty.

III.

Still, it reinforced the strangeness of being picked for the jewelry counter. George seemed to be all about sales, understandably. I couldn't figure out how I fit in with his system.

One day I decided to ask him about it. I assumed that my sales numbers were disappointing and I wanted to sound him out on that.

We were in the break room, eating cheese puffs. I said, "George, the list...this is the fourth straight week that I've been the worst salesperson."

"Bah, forget the list. You're doing fine."

"No. I'm doing terrible. I'm mean, there's the list...I'm at the bottom. I just feel bad that you put me here and I'm not really delivering."

"You're great! You're my guy."

"I just mention it because, if you wanted me to go back to the toy section, that would be okay. You could bring someone in who might generate a little more money."

He laughed and said, "I love it. See what you're doing right there?"

"No."

"You're trying to get off the jewelry counter."

"Kind of."

"It's music to my ears! When you interviewed and said you weren't interested in working jewelry...I was dead set on putting you on the team. It's higher pay, it's more money...everyone asks to work jewelry. Every single person. You were the one guy to come along and say, 'Nope! Toy section for me.' Love it."

I think it over and say, "I guess that would make sense to me if I were doing okay. But it's pretty clear now that I'm not good at this. At all. George, I'm terrible."

"No, no. You're missing the point. I'm not valuing your sales ability. I'm valuing your honesty. I'm valuing...immensely!...the fact that you could care less about jewelry. You can't even imagine how huge that is."

"No," I say. "I guess I don't understand that."

"Let me ask you this. See if you can guess. What do you think causes the biggest loss of revenue for the jewelry industry? If you're a manager, what's enemy #1?"

I think about it, say, "I don't know."

"Employee theft. By far. It's the dirty secret of the industry...and it's a wide open secret. The merchandise is just to small to protect. Too easy to conceal. Cameras, sensors...a joke and everybody knows it. Only real protection: hire honest people. Don't get me wrong, love my top sellers. Love 'em. But when someone comes along with no interest in jewelry...it's, like, beam of light, angels singing...those are my people."

"Ugh. So you're saying that I'm stuck on the jewelry counter."

"You are indeed, sir. Pay no attention to the list."

I feel half flattered, half defeated. I'm flatfeated. Deflattered.

He wanders out, goes back to roaming the store, mingling and chatting. I go back to the watch-band section where I stand and sell very little.

IV.

The only good part of the job: a particular co-worker. She was cute. We would talk in passing and I would think to myself, "She's nice! I like her. I should stand taller. Why does my posture have to suck?"

She would walk into the break room; my heart would beat faster; I would stumble through conversation topics, desperately trying to do or say something that might seem interesting.

It was a textbook flirtation for that time. At work, or at college, I often wanted to flirt, but could not figure out the mechanics. I lack true non-verbal communication...and cannot perceive it in others. So I would feel interest in women, but get absolutely nowhere. I would rely on small-talk scripts...use the all-purpose gestures I had learned for basic social situations...but I was unable to work in the additional steps required for flirting. I would just talk, listen...lost in my artificial social mechanics...and think, "Is this flirting? Is something happening? Anything?"

Flirting for the mind-blind: it's like flying on autopilot in a plane with no windows. Usually with the same result.

She and I would cross paths in the break room, talk. Nothing would happen. She would resume working. I would resume my disinterest in feigned normalcy.

IV.

So, that's it.

Salesman M.

The holidays, 1996.

Customers: some beamed, some slumped, most went into debt. Salespeople chatted and sold and competed. I blinked in the lights and thought about my favorite Proust quote.

"The death of oneself is neither impossible nor extraordinary; it is effected without our knowledge, even against our will, every day of our lives."

Proust. Appropriate for every setting. Christmasey even.

Holiday Affective Disorder (part 2)

2011-12-13T16:04:00.000-08:00

(part 1)

I.

As an aside:

I read a newspaper article one time that detailed, in general terms, the primary difference between introverts and extroverts. I haven't been able to find it online, I was hoping I could link to it.

Using very basic terms, it described introverts as people who feel most comfortable alone and less comfortable around others. Extroverts: most comfortable around others, less comfortable alone.

The distinctions are usually blurry. Introverts may very well enjoy company and desire social interactions...but the longer they are around others, the more mentally worn down they feel. It's when they're alone that they feel refreshed, recharged.

Extroverts may very well enjoy moments alone...but too much of it can make them feel tense, restless. It's interacting with others that gives them that spark of energy, of momentum.

It was a simple article, but I liked the breakdown. I could fit myself into it: I definitely enjoy interacting with others, but it wears me out, mentally. When I'm around people, I can always feel the exact moment that I cross the energy threshold. I'll be talking, listening, talking...and think, "That's it. I'm done. Completely out of energy".

And for me, the threshold hits fast. And hard. Then it's just nodding gestures, pretending to listen. From that point on, I'm in my personality screensaver, socially adrift. Broken

I remember that the threshold hit particularly fast when I was working a jewelry counter in 1996. It was the holiday season and every aspect of the setting induced profound, pitch-black mental exhaustion. And it amazed me, watching the other salespeople. They would turn on their outgoing, chatty personalities and run with them the entire shift. It would be 8, 9 hours of sustained extroversion. I would go in...and just very quickly lose all ability to sell crap. Way too many customers...Christmas music playing non-stop, over and over...jewelry counter lights hanging right at eye-level, bright, punishing my eyes. I would just stand and watch the mob scene and steep in sensory hell.

At any given moment I could look out and place the customers into camps: those visibly jazzed about the holiday season, and those beat down by it. The holidays are aggressively social...it's all about others, groups, meshing, sharing. The introverts and extroverts responded accordingly. Some customers: bright-eyed, laughing, energetic. Others: slumped, weary, monochromatic. It wasn't too difficult to look around, spot my people.

Anyway. Back to the me-selling-jewelry story...

II.

Before starting on the jewelry counter, George asks me to meet him in the break room for a quick training session. He shows me a lot of catalogues...describes the merchandise...tries to coach me on sales jargon.

"Don't just say 'bracelet'. Say 'lovely bracelet.' Really punch those adjectives hard, talk up the product. No matter what a customer is looking at, react like it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen."

I stare at George. I stare at the catalogues. Virtually nothing sinks in. My disinterest in jewelry defies the possibility of comprehension. He talks more. I sip coffee and wait it out.

III.

I start at the beginning of November, will work for two months, until the year ends and the next semester begins. During that time, I prove beyond all doubt: there's no such thing as an introvert salesman.

The first problem that pops up: my communication skills tend to bottom out around New People. I get nervous and have trouble seeming engaged in the conversation. In the context of retail sales, it means I'm unable to generate fake enthusiasm.

I see it in the other employees: their effective fake enthusiasm? Sales gold, an absolute necessity. My bad fake enthusiasm? Sales poison. Customers...scratch that, human beings...pick up on that sort of thing instantly. If I noticed a customer eyeing the watches, for example, I would walk up...sigh...and go into my pitch.

"So...watches. Apparently they exist. Here, in fact, are watches displayed in front of us. In summary: watches."

Me: sales poison.

IV.

Another problem I quickly ran into: the social terrain was difficult to navigate. There was the usual level of work-place drama, soap opera. But all of the salespeople were competing for commissions...the more you sold, the bigger your paycheck...so there was an added level of territorial stress. Everyone wanted to stand near the high-priced jewelry, so lots of psychological elbowing and fights over space ensued.

On one level, this made for great people watching. The little games, tactics, maneuvers...it was straight out of a nature documentary. However, I'm not intuitive about this sort of thing. I like to see it, watch how people interact, but I wasn't able to throw myself into the reindeer games and participate. Initially, I clashed with unspoken rules, committed numerous social infractions. Eventually, I found my solution. Co-workers wanted to parole the prime real estate. Fine. I just stood near the watch-bands...sold as little as possible...and watched the Co-worker Show from a distance.

George spotted this and offered an endless stream of mini pep talks. "M! Get out there! Mix it up! That's where the money is!" I would nod, reply "Okay, George" and not move an inch.

V.

By this point in my life...1996...I was consciously aware of the fact that I had a social disorder of some sort. I couldn't pin down the specific diagnosis, but it was obvious that my body language was...off (i.e. non-existent). I had taught myself a few basic postures, gestures, but I lacked true non-verbal communication. Face, voice, arms and hands: fairly blank relative to the thoughts and feelings I have.

My arms in particular frustrate me. They just kind of hang there. So I was absolutely fascinated by the way other salespeople used their arms and hands to enhance their sales technique, it was really striking to me.

Again, it goes back to the fake enthusiasm. Co-workers used their arms to indicate excitement over the jewelry, clasping their hands together or handling merchandise as if it were handcrafted by god. They would amiably tap the elbows of customers, conveying "Hey, aren't we best friends?" Phony, manipulative BS, yet it worked like magic on customers. I watched, envious over how natural they made it seem. I generally feel hurt, angry at myself when I notice things like that.

During that time, I would look down at my arms a lot...inert, dangling appendages...and think, "Why can't you guys do that? Move like they do? Gesture? Anything? Traitors, both of you."

Weeks passed. I stood still. I people-watched and sold the occasional watch-band.

[next post: George fuels the competitive fire between employees...I respond with indifference; Christmas nears; crowds grow; i try to flirt with a co-worker; everything sucks.]

Rudolph: genetic outcast or inverted other?

2011-12-08T21:07:00.000-08:00

I think the story of Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer sends a pretty confusing message to kids. The story itself is nice...but the conclusion sort of undermines it's own premise.

Rudolph: he's a misfit...an underdog. He's shut out of the reindeer games, friendless. Then, when his light-up nose is found to be useful, Santa offers him a job at the head of the pack. Santa is saying, essentially, "Hey, now that you're useful, why don't you join our side?"

Rudolph could have replied with:

"Sorry, but I've learned from experience that hierarchical systems of dominance...systems predicated on exclusion and demonizing the other...are moral wrongs. I'd rather participate in non-competitive groups organized around the concept of inclusion. So, you know. Go fuck yourself."

But of course...resentful little nerd he is...Rudolph jumps at the chance to be leader of the cool kids. He goes from "Those reindeer are mean," to, "Hellz yeah I'm on their side!"

The story throws out it's initial premise so that Santa can transform Rudolph into the hyper-competitive alpha-male he really was all along.

Santa: what a prick.

I'm going to make my own animated holiday special called Profound Mental Exhaustion. It's about a magic, suicidally depressed snowman who, every December, seals himself up in a cave and tries to wait out the holiday season by subsisting on a diet of sleeping pills and booze. It's a story the whole family can enjoy.

Holiday Affective Disorder (part 1)

2011-12-06T14:53:00.000-08:00

(this is a series of posts i had up a few years ago. i'm re-writing it, re-posting it for the holidays. my favorite, favorite time of the year.)

I.

My first job was at a toy store. It's a unique setting: happy customers, outgoing staff, a pleasant atmosphere.

I got fired from that job.

The great thing is that it's not even a long story. Managers like to giver orders. I like to...patiently, calmly...ask managers to explain the logic behind their orders. So they fired me for "insubordination". Fun stuff. (Personally, I thought I asked great questions, but they were never received with enthusiasm. Which I both recognized and understood at the time; I would have fired my ass way before they did).

That happened in September of 1996. I was about to begin my junior year of college.

II.

In October of that year, I began looking for a new job. The plan was to work weekends at first and then load up on hours during the holiday break from classes. This place, Service Merchandise, seemed fine. The store was divided into two areas: exercise equipment and a large toy section on one side...electronics and a jewelry counter on the other side.

I'm a creature of habit. On the application, I listed my prior experience with toys and specified a preference to work in that section. And as a reference, I just listed a friend's number. I didn't want my dark, dark past as one of The Insubordinates coming to light. I didn't think the friend trick would work but, with no other job experience to list, I didn't have much of a choice.

It worked. They called me in for an interview.

(Mid-post...randomly...I'm switching to the present-tense. Because...I said so.)

III.

The interview: straightforward. The store mangager asks interview questions. I give interview answers. He seems bored, barely looks up from his sheet of questions. I glance up a lot and pretend that the ceiling tiles are giant crackers.

Halfway through the interview, George comes in. George: bearded, heavy-set, energetic. He collapses into a seat and says, "All right! Sorry I'm late! I'm ready!" The Store Manager explains: "This is George, our manager for the jewelry section. The managers take turns sitting in on these. George? All set?"

George rubs his hands together, replies "All set".

The interview continues. More questions, more answers, more ceiling tile crackers.

After looking at my application for a bit, George says, "You know, it's strange. You want the toy section. We've had 25 to 30 applicants this week...and every single person requests the jewelry counter."

I don't say anything. George continues.

"The holidays are coming up. And employees on the jewelry counter make a percentage of their sales. So...I don't know. That's everyone's first choice."

He waits. I know that I am jewelry counter averse. With toys, you just answer questions from customers...and you pretty much know in advance what people will ask. It's mentally low-maintenance. With jewelry...you have to sell. And be personable. Sounds like a nightmare.

I tell them, "I'm already familiar with the toys people will be asking about, so I think with that section I'm just prepared to start. I can integrate pretty quickly there. And the whole toy area, it just smells really intense...that whole box and plastic thing, it's overwhelming, so that's something I won't have to adjust to. I'm pre-acclimated to the toy-scent."

Both managers stare. I mentally cringe. But George...he just cracks up. He looks at the other guy and says, "Hey, I like it. He's pre-acclimated."

Somehow I get the job.

IV.

I start, initially working weekends. I roam around the toy section, listening to questions, almost always giving the same answer. Which can be summarized in terms that apply to any given Christmas season: "No...the over-hyped, arbitrarily popular item you want is not available. It's out of stock because 4 billion TV-addled, obedient consumers simultaneously want the same piece of shit toy."

I really win people over with my holiday spirit.

I see George every shift. He makes it a point to walk over, small-talk, ask how I'm doing. If other people are around, his favorite thing is to walk up and- in a stern voice- say "M. Walk with me. Quickly, please." As if I'm in trouble. He then goes to the breakroom...where, each time, he proceeds to buy cheetos for both of us and chat about random topics: the weather, weird customers, anything. He concludes each conversation with the same phrase. "Well...I'd better get back, pretend to be a manager."

I'm slow to warm up to people, but I decide George is okay. It's particularly surprising since I usually have a hard time with chatty personalities.

V.

One day...the store is filled with customers. It's hectic, noisy, frantic. Then the intercom dings, signalling an announcement. People pause. It's quite for a second. And all over the store, you hear George laughing over the intercom. Then he clears his throat and says, "Wait, wait. We need...M? M to the principles office. M. To the principles office immediately."

I go to the main office. The store manager and George are there. George is smiling and rubbing his hands together. He says, "M! I've been pushing this and pushing this since day one and I've finally gotten permission: we're moving you to the jewelry counter!"

Nope. Not good. I say, "No, no. I don't think that would be fair to the store. I'm not salesperson material, George."

He's not having it. "It's done! Set in stone! I promise, you're going to love it. The money is better. Way, way better. Lotta people are wanting that spot, M, but you're my guy."

Sales. I try not to look overly mortified.

The store manager says, "We're wanting to try something new this year. We'd like for all of our jewelry people to dress for the season. Not sure what you have, but we're looking for reds and greens...or holiday patterns...that sort of thing."

I go ahead and look overly mortified. George tells the other manager, "He's golden, this one. Can't wait."

[Next post...me on the jewelry counter. During the holiday rush. Spoiler Alert: I am not, in fact, golden.]

people-sketch: wedding (3 of 3)

2011-11-30T10:20:00.000-08:00

We go to the church where the wedding will be held. It's the church my grandparents attended for almost 60 years. My grandfather and uncles helped build it. I was last here for my grandmothers funeral just a few years ago. I tell Sarah, "When I was growing up, I used to attend vacation bible school here in the summers...we'd memorize bible verses, do arts and crafts; at the end of the week, we'd put on a little bible-themed play for the parents."

We show up early so that Sarah can familiarize herself a little more with the sound system. She volunteered to do the music for the ceremony...so she spends some time looking at the system...at all of the lights and knobs and buttons. She says, "Looks easy enough." One small red light keeps flashing...I ask her what that is. Sarah winces and says, "Yeah...I don't know. I'm pretending that it doesn't exist."

Then family begin to arrive for the wedding. My dad has more than ten siblings...all of whom had multiple children, so the gathering is large. I roam around the church lobby, mingle. I see uncles, aunts, cousins...my cousin's children.

These are people I've avoided for many years now. People I last saw just prior to an emotional collapse...one that kept me isolated for more than a decade.

The sense of lost time...of frayed connections: it hurts in a way that I can't find words for. There's just a hollowness to the day; the handshakes and hugs and greetings all feel like ephemeral, faded things.

And it's strange...despite the unexplained absence, everyone is exceptionally nice. Everyone is warm and affectionate. It makes me feel guilty. I have to acknowledge, as I'm interacting with everyone, that the time I spent away was entirely my fault. I can't blame a collapse or depression or my family...I chose it, the isolation.

I look around and know that every person in the room represents a relationship that I damaged. It's particularly painful when I see my cousin's children...kids I've never met until now. I see them and feel simultaneously curious and hurt. I want to know what their little minds are like...what toys or cartoons they obsess over...what personality traits they've absorbed from their parents...and which traits are uniquely their own. I feel curious...and knowing that I could have spent time with them, could have spent the previous years getting to know them...it hurts. They're just tiny little strangers. I don't know them. The curiosity I feel just emphasizes what I've lost.

I'm unsettled, sick with who I am. But I mingle...try to navigate the conversations. Then I go hang out with Sarah for a bit, at the sound system. She asks, "How's it going out there?" I just pull my hair and say, "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

A few minutes later my mom walks by. Sarah asks her, "Why is everyone sitting at the back of the church? All of the front and center pews are empty." Mom laughs and replies, "It's a Baptist thing, like an unwritten rule: we fill up our churches back to front." Mom walks on. Sarah asks me if that's true. I say, "Yes. I don't know why, but it's a thing."

The wedding begins. Sarah plays through the various songs...each song signals a different portion of the ceremony. It's all orderly and scripted and brief. A preacher preaches, rings happen, a bride is kissed. Then we go to a different area of the church for the reception.

It's crowded, my heart is tense, anxious. Sarah, freed from her sound duties, is now available to meet people. Humans pass by and I'm obligated to make introductions. With family, I can manage this task fairly well. It's more of a problem with friends of the family because, growing up, I was so fucking introverted that I never really got to know any of these people. I look around and realize, with much of the crowd, I've forgotten their names. The introductions will be a problem.

This happens repeatedly: a vaguely familiar faces walks up...says, "M! Good to see you! And who is this?" And then I have to introduce Sarah to someone whose name eludes me. It's awful. Mostly I try to skim past it. I just say, "This is Sarah!" and leave it at that. A few times? It actually works...the person shakes her hand, offers their own name. A few other times? It fails miserably. I say, "This is Sarah!" And the person waits...and waits...for me to introduce them as well. So I stand there like an idiot, stewing in the awkward silence...until the person says their own name. Stiffly, a bit offended. They walk away and I pull my hair and say, "Shit."

One woman walks up, introduces herself to Sarah. She says, "I'm friends with his mom going way back. We all grew up together around here. Now...I have to tell you this story. M may not remember it. When he was, oh, around 5 or so, his parents came over to our place for dinner. M was with them. They walk in...and, I tell you what, they practically had to drag M inside. He just did not want to be around us. Eventually they got him in the house. He was on the couch for a bit, just sitting there looking absolutely miserable. Finally, he got up, ran to the door and started pounding on it. With both fists. And he yelled, 'Let! Me! Out! Of! Here!' And I liked of died, I just thought that was the funniest thing. I mean, I felt bad, but the sight of him pounding on that door...it was something else. I remember that clear as day."

The woman walks away. Sarah says, "I didn't know how to tell her: you still do that."

Later, I tell that story to my mom, ask her if she remembers it. She says, "Oh no. That happened so often, I just stopped noticing after awhile."

People mingle, make plates, sit around tables, talk and talk. I just pace around the periphery of the reception. I'm too stressed to eat. Sarah makes me a plate anyway, but I don't have an appetite. I just push a strawberry in circles around the plate.

Eventually, I sit. I listen to the sound of nearby conversations. I watch kids dart around the room. I watch my dad tell a story to some of his brothers...he pantomimes shooting a gun, holds his fingers above his head, makes funny faces.

Sarah and I leave for a bit to drive around the old neighborhood. We look at the house I grew up in. My grandmothers former house, where a lot of my family were born and raised. We look at my old elementary school...and see the playground, where I got my ass kicked pretty regularly. There's a convenience store down the road from the school...starting in 6th grade I used to sneak away from class, walk to the store, shoplift candy bars.

We drive and drive.

Briefly, we go back to the church, say goodbyes.

We head back to the hotel. I practically run to the bar in the lobby. I drink for a bit...try to mentally decompress. But conversations from the day replay in a loop. Over and over.

I think mostly about my family and how nice they were...both to me and to Sarah. I think about how uncomfortable I am around them. And it's a common occurrence: when I really examine the discomfort I feel around people, I find...not traits in others I dislike or any rational position upon which to stand...I just find resentment, self-doubt and my own bad choices.

I drink, replay conversations. My head wears me out. At the end of it all, I go to bed guilty and confused and tired.

people-sketch: wedding (part 2 of 3)

2011-11-17T07:21:00.000-08:00

A family member is getting married. Before the ceremony, Sarah and I stop by my parents for coffee.

Dad is on the couch, watching a foot ball game. He watches intensely, eyes focused like lasers on the television...his arms and shoulders are rigid with excitement. He periodically blurts monosyllables; "Gah!" and "Oh!" and "Run!" are a few of his favorites. At one point, he says, "M! Check out this replay!" I look over. I just see some dudes hopping around; a ball flips into the air or something. I can't really tell what's happening. I say, "It appears to be a maneuver of some sort." Sarah whispers, "They just blocked a field goal attempt." So I say out loud, "Oh! Nice block," and my dad says, "Man, that was something else." I give Sarah a thumbs up.

Mom walks over with some pictures. She shows them to Sarah and says, "Here are some photos of M when he was little."

One picture is of me on a basketball team. I was seven years old. Mom says, "He used to love sports."

What?

I say, "Mom, I was the worst player on the team. I didn't score a single goal the entire season." She says, "Oh, you had talent, you were just...too polite. You were too much of a gentleman to steal passes, push your way to the goal and all that."

Mom lives in a reality of her own choosing. It'd be admirable were it not so...I don't know. Disturbing.

She shows a few other pictures...mostly me in sports or martial arts...says, "He just had so much energy when he was little. That changed later on...he went from active to just...I don't know. I'll never understand what happened."

Crippling depression? But let's pretend like it's mysterious. I shrug and say, "Who knows?"

"I bet it was the asthma," she says. "I think that really slowed you down."

I don't know what to say to her. I just say, "Maybe."

I drink coffee. Mom and Sarah talk. I watch my dad watch football. He roots and blurts. My brother shows up. He collapses into a recliner, tells dad that his team sucks. Dad doesn't respond. He just stares at the game and yells, "Gah!"

I ask my brother if he's going to the wedding. "There's gonna be free food?" he inquires. I say, "Yes". He thinks about it and says, "Yeah, I'll go."

Sentimental, that one.

Sarah and I leave. It's around lunch time. Sarah expresses an interest in food specific to the state. She says, "I don't know what people eat here. I'm curious." So we drive to the river district...find a place that specializes in fried food. We get a big basket of catfish and frog legs and, as a side, slices of pickled green tomato. It's good, a happy lunch.

Then we go and get dressed for the wedding. I have to pull the computer out, go on You Tube, and watch an instructional video on how to tie a tie. I practice. The tie ends up heaped on my chest, a mangled clump. I unclump and re-mangle it until a tie-like effect is somewhat achieved. Then we go to the wedding.

people-sketch: wedding (part 1 of 2)

2011-11-09T11:01:00.000-08:00

Last week.

A family member is getting married. I fly in to attend the ceremony. Usually I skip these things, but this one is more mandatory than usual.

Friday night, I go to the rehearsal dinner. I'm not in the wedding, but the rehearsal scene is quieter, more low key than the wedding will be, so I think it's a good time to mingle, meet family (many of whom I have not seen in many years). So we're there: Sarah and I, assorted family, a few friends of the two getting married.

People rehearse the ceremony, then for an hour or so we sit around a table, eating, talking. We're in an old gym beside the church, where tables and decorations are being set up.

I ask my dad how hunting season is going. He says, "Muzzle loader just ended. Which, boy, that didn't work out. Over the course of one weekend I shot two doe...the first one got up, ran off...left no blood trail. I shot it square in the shoulder far as I could tell, thing still managed to run off, get away. Next day I shot another doe...same thing happened. Shot was a little off, but I thought I had her. She dropped, kicked around...and then that little rascal hopped up, ran off, just like the first one. Blood trail faded out, never found her. Two doe running off like that, so close together...all my years, never seen anything like it."

My mom told me he had built this huge deer stand...this mammoth, enclosed deal with comfortable seats and a little heating unit...I ask him about that. He says, "My deer camp Taj Mahal. It's all set up. Think maybe if I run some plumbing through it, your mother might even go out with me."

Mom shakes her head "no".

An uncle asks my dad, "You got your camera set up this year?"

Several family members hunt, and they all utilize these motion-sensor cameras...a small piece of equipment that takes a photo any time a large object passes by. What they do is attach these to a tree, beside their stand, several months before deer season...that way they can check the photos, determine whether or not their stand is in a good location. Tips them off to the frequency of the surrounding deer traffic.

My dad says, "I checked the photos right before the first season started...looking good. A lot of pictures of deer. Had a few turkey go past. I'm feeling optimistic."

My uncle sighs, says, "I'm feeling broken hearted. Checked the camera this week. Had about 200 photos of hogs. No deer. Gonna be a rough season."

I ask when modern-rifle season begins, and several people say, at the same time, "Next week."

They talk about guns for a bit. An uncle...a preacher from Texas...turns to Sarah and tells this story: "They may have told you, I run a church camp most of the year. Out in the middle of nowhere, real cow country. Anyway, I don't hunt, but I've had my fair share of incidents involving guns. Few years back, I see this car coming down the road. It's late and there is no reason for a car to be out, driving where it is. That's an automatic red flag. Then I see it park in front of the camp offices, where we keep the main safe. I tell my wife...'Well, that ain't good.' I get my gun and walk over to the offices. And through the blinds, I can see them moving around inside...they'd broken in. I call the sheriff, say, 'I got intruders.' Sheriff says, 'I'll head that way...why don't you call em' out, get their names, tell em' to sit tight.' So I yell, 'Boys, ya'll come on out! Sherrif's on his way! Let's not have any trouble over this!' And these two young fellas come on out. I say, 'Tell me your names, where you live.' First guy tells me his name, where he's from. Second guy says, 'I ain't gonna tell you.' I tell him, 'Son, you're on my property and you're committing a crime. Tell me your name, where you live.' And he says, 'No sir, I can't do that.' So I put the gun to his head, cock the hammer...it clicks, and I say, 'Next sound you hear is gonna be a lot louder.' And real quick, he tells me his name...his parents names...his address...the school he went to...his social security number...and on, and on. Sheriff shows up, asks, 'You get their names?" and I say, 'Did better than that. Got most of this one's life story.'

Everyone laughs. We eat, talk a little more. The bride walks over (I met her for the first time tonight). Walking beside her is the guy who's supposed to do the sound for the wedding (he's just a local guy who works at the church). Sound guy tells everyone that he won't be able to attend the wedding, something came up. Bride asks if any of us will volunteer to work the sound in his place. Sound guy explains that he can give a quick tutorial, explain how it all works.

It's quiet, no one immediately volunteers. Bride looks around and says "M should do it, right? I keep hearing he's the smart one."

Whoa, shit. I panic. I think by "smart one" she means "nerd"...and in her mind, "nerd" is synonymous with "techie". And I'm a whole different species of nerd. I am techno-averse, no skill there whatsoever. Bride looks at me, says, "You can learn the sound system real quick, right?" I open my mouth, no words come out. Sarah raises a hand, says, "I'm a fast learner. I'll do it." She elbows me, says, "Be right back." She heads off for the sound system tutorial. She returns 20 minutes later and says, "Looks like I'm doing the music for the wedding."

I say, "Wow, you learned it all that fast?"

"Meh, not really," she replies. "The guy explained how the sound board worked. To me, it was just a bunch of knobs and buttons and little flashing lights. But I'll manage."

"That's great," I tell her. "The bride...I think she thinks I'm a tech-nerd. Or something. What was that about?"

Sarah shurgs, says, "I don't know. I just know that she said your name and I saw that rabbit/headlight look cross your face and I thought 'Me to the rescue'. Anyway. You're in the clear."

We leave the rehearsal, go to a bar. Sarah drinks a little drink. I drink a big drink. She asks, "Are you nervous about seeing more of your family tomorrow?" In response, I cringe, rub my face and order more booze.

winter light

2011-10-20T07:20:00.000-07:00

autumn. it means the light outside starts to change. going from a bright yellow to a clinical white.

i don't prefer one over the other. the yellow aches. the white is a sharper discomfort.

my brother has a stronger aversion to lights than i do and he literally spends most of his time indoors. i only learned a few years ago about his habits...that he is sleeping during the day...usually for 12 to 14 hours...then spending the rest of the day in his room...curtains closed, lights off. he just sits in a recliner watching television for the remainder of the day. he'll go into the kitchen for food, drink; he'll go to the bathroom. otherwise he says in his room.

it's more than light that drives him inward like that, but it doesn't help, the aversion.

i worked a graveyard shift for 12 years...slept during the day...but i still had to get out. i'd go driving around at night, aimlessly. or walking. everyone said, "you shouldn't walk in the middle of the night, it's not safe," but i walked anyway. had to get out. i could never stay indoors to the extent my brother does. so i'd walk, sometimes run. it was a hilly place, just past the foothills of a mountain area; so the walking and the running turned my legs into aching rubber, but that was okay. that just made sleeping easier, it wore me out.

hiding from light.

i used to nail blankets over windows, and that would freak my parents out. they would visit and say, "you're a hermit!" and i wouldn't really say very much. i never knew what to say to them. every year for christmas, they'd buy me lamps. sometimes i would throw the lamps away. sometimes i would donate them to charity.

(i wrote this post right after one their lamp-oriented visits)

one time they bought me this huge, bright lamp. i took it home...disassembled it; put the pieces in a plastic bag, then walked along my favorite trail. i liked the trail because it went past a little pond. i tossed the lamp-pieces one by one into the pond. plunk, plunk, plunk. they sank and presumably sit there to this day...submerged, muddy, illuminating nothing.

it's my favorite lamp now.

anyway. saw the first of the autumn light the other day; the clinical white. made me think about my brother and walking at night and the lamp in the pond.

non sic dormit, sed vigilat

2011-10-11T12:13:00.000-07:00

August, 23 2007

The Doctor mimics using her left hand to pull her hair.

D: You're doing this. Stress.

M: I have to make a decision today. It's unpleasant.

D: Okay.

M: A few months ago my grandmother passed away.

D: I remember.

M: That was my mom's mom. And earlier this week my dad's mom passed away. Her funeral is in two hours.

D: Tell me what the "unpleasant" decision is that you might make.

M: I think I might not go to the funeral. I'm not sure yet. I don't know what to do.

D: With the other grandmother, you attended that funeral.

M: Yes. I've had no difficulties with that side of the family. They're rednecks. They keep to themselves and leave me alone.

D: And this other side; your dad's side...

M: Normalcy-addicts. Suburb-dwelling Happy People. They're all investment bankers, lawyers, administrators...

D: Okay. I'm trying to think back and I'm remembering a few things now. This side of the family has given you a hard time about your differences. And you've mentioned this grandmother before. She was unpleasant towards you.

M: She liked to give me shit. She liked to embarrass me in front of others. She was one of those people who thought insults were the best way to correct unwanted behavior. If she saw something she didn't like in a person, she would tease them mercilessly, and I think in her mind, that was a legitimate, valid response to traits she didn't like. It's twisted, but I think she viewed teasing people as a way to help them.

D: What did she tease you about?

M: As I grew up, the ways that I was different evolved, so there seemed to be a new thing each year that she would focus on. I was an awkward kid, so there was never a shortage of targets. There was one thing she would go back to, though, it was sort of her pet insult. I can't remember the word...she liked to make fun of the way I carry myself. Like, physically, the way that I move.

D: Your gait.

M: Right, gait. It's one thing that's never really improved, so she would always target that.

D: Any differences with your gait are subtle. That she would would focus on that...

She pauses, breathes out.

D: I guess I'm supposed to feel sad that she passed away, but I'm just feeling...like at this particular moment....I'm just feeling angry. Gait...you cannot tease someone for that.

M: It was always striking to me that she would focus on things I was already self-conscious about. When I was in junior high, it did not escape my attention that boys began to walk a certain way...they began to carry themselves a little differently; obviously conforming to standards of masculinity. And I couldn't pull it off. My arms, they just hang there, they don't cooperate...so I was very frustrated by this. And when she would bring it up, it just confirmed in my mind that this was a real problem. Her intention was to change me, to use her words as a corrective, but it just made me feel like shit. So it was weird, to me, that she had this radar for my differences, she could really zero in on them in a way my parents, or other family members, never could.

D: What do you mean?

M: My parents, I don't think they could really pin-point the ways I was different. They were never very insightful about what was happening with me. Also, they're just fundamentally nice people. They would see things, maybe something different about my gait...certainly the social difficulties...but just ignore it, basically. They didn't know what to say, so they said nothing. My grandmother, though, she was perceptive...always watching for differences, always pushing back against them. More than any other family member, she was aware of my differences, and in a very specific way.

It's quiet for a bit.

M: Gait, she liked to go on about that. Then, from college on, she focused exclusively on the fact that I wasn't dating. No reason to go into details about that, pretty obvious what her statements were like. But that was all she would talk about, year after year...I guess hoping she could tease me into being socially adept. Or Something. I don't really know what she was thinking, I guess she just couldn't turn it off. I think I've mentioned, she raised 11 kids...and I guess if you implement a certain parenting strategy, it kind of gels and becomes your default reaction to the world. She just denigrates anything and everything that is different; it's how she shaped those around her. And she had no off button for it, that was just her thing.

D: I have to ask, how do your other family members react to her? Do they find her to be harsh, cruel?

M: No, they adore her. She basically says what everyone else is thinking. Everyone on that side of the family is hostile towards difference, but for the most part, they're like my parents: polite, outwardly nice. So I think they get a kick out of it when she says stuff. It's like, "Glad somebody said it!" Also, I think most people think it's funny when an elderly woman is verbally abrasive. Grandmas are supposed to be sweet and kindly and nurturing. So when they say something shocking or rude...it makes people laugh. That's the most common reaction to her statements: people crack up. "Oh, that grandmother. There she goes again."

D: I'm going to ask this because your family strikes me as being very conservative, traditional.

M: Right.

D: Do you think she or anyone else in your family questioned your sexuality?

M: Oh, definitely. I think from high school on they were "concerned".

D: Have they just asked you? Directly?

M: Yeah, a few times. I've had cousins ask me. My brother doesn't ask, he just periodically calls me a "fag". I've never minded any of that, because...I don't know, what can you do? I know I like women...think about women constantly. But I also know that if you don't act a certain way...conduct yourself a certain way, meet certain expectations...people will just make assumptions like that.

D: Did your grandmother every say anything?

M: No. I think there's a generational difference about that. As rude as she could be, I don't think she would ever say anything or imply anything about my sexuality. Today, you can use the word "gay", say it, but I never had the sense that that was a tool in her tool box. That was probably off-limits even for her...again, because of the generational thing.

D: Okay.

It's quiet.

D: Let's talk about the decision. You're considering not going to the funeral. Would you avoid it just to stay away from that side of the family?

M: It's a little more than that. I've always had a hard time being around them. Particularly after college, when I became depressed. The way they would question me about my life, make judgements...it was hard to be around that. It's an awful thing to feel disappointed in yourself...it's awful to try to improve yourself and to fail. You know, to be in your 20's and to be alone and low-income and struggling with every facet of your life...and then to hear from these people, "M, are you dating yet? Working a better job yet?" I never knew how to convey to them that their disappointment wasn't necessary. I wanted to tell them, "I've got that whole disappointment thing covered, thanks."

I pause, think about how to word the next part.

M: And then, because of the marionette...because of how distant and fucked up I felt around people generally...I started to think about killing myself. I realized that there was a pretty good chance that I would do it. I felt ready. And what I did was, over a period of five or six years, I put a plan into motion. I began to cut ties with family and friends. I stopped talking to people, began to avoid interactions.

D: Preparing them for your suicide.

M: Right. And that took some doing, my family is really close. My dad has ten siblings, and they all popped out an ungodly number of children. I can't even count the number of cousins I have. And the family, they get together constantly, for cookouts, holidays, reunions. They're fucking extroverted, these people, insanely so. Anyway, when I began to seriously consider suicide, I thought it was time to definitively cut ties. They made me uncomfortable anyway...and I knew what I might do to myself. So as part of a plan, I ignored phone calls, e-mails. I attended zero get-togethers. I started to spend holidays alone. I was in my early 20's and I thought that if I isolated for five years or so, it might make things easier when I did eventually die.

D: I'm trying to recall...during our first session, I asked you about that, I think. About the social isolation. I was concerned that it was intentional. Part of a plan. If I remember correctly, I asked you if you had a plan. And I asked if you were in the process of enacting it. You didn't really answer.

M: I thought you knew. I thought you could tell.

D: My sense was that it was a very real possibility. That was a scary session.

M: So...I don't know what to do now, Doctor. My grandmother passed away...the funeral is in two hours. And in-itself, the problem is not that I have to see this side of the family. The problem is that...I'll have to see people I never thought I would see again. I very carefully and very fully damaged certain relationships. And it never occurred to me that I would be in a situation like this. I don't know how to re-enter the world. I don't know how to interact with people I had cut ties with. I guess it's just now hitting me that I have to contend with...you know? Not just living, but with the consequences of having not died. If that makes any sense. I don't know if it makes sense.

D: It makes sense, M. You said "re-enter the world" and I think that's a great way to put it. That's very much what is happening here. And as you do that...as you and I have this conversation, and you begin to piece together a new life...you're going to have to decide...how much of your old life do you incorporate into the new one? That's what hit you this week...you're emerging out of this long stretch of depression, isolation...and you're realizing that the old life is still there, embodied in your family, your old friends. So now you have to begin sorting through all of that, deciding how to co-exist with all of these fragments of the past.

I don't say anything.

D: Re-entering the world. I want you to keep that phrase in your mind, okay?

I nod.

D: Depression is complex. It's not a feeling. It's not a sensation. It's an entire reality...a sort of artificial world. And what it does, is, it slowly takes the place of the real world. When someone is depressed...and I'm talking about severe, clinical depression...the person doesn't realize that they are now living in this false reality. It's a reality that is dark and bleak and hopeless. Someone living there looks around at the world and they can see absolutely no reason to live, no possibility of change. It's a world of absolutes: "things are awful and they will never change." I find depression to be frightening because you can see someone living in this false world...and they're right there in front of you, yet you can't communicate with them. They're so locked into this reality, that they can't really hear you or absorb your words. When I tell a depressed person that things can be different, do you know what the most common reaction is?

M: I assume they laugh at you.

D: That's exactly right. They laugh. You've laughed at me, right?

M: Sometimes.

D: That world is so bleak, even the suggestion that things can be different sounds ridiculous. So what I'm hearing today is that you're sort of caught between these two realities. You're confronting the real world...and it feels strange, because you didn't expect to be back here. To me, it's an indication that you're leaving the depressive world, at least a little bit. Even though it's uncomfortable...I like it. I like that you're having this awareness.

M: You're not going to call it progress are you?

D: Oh yes. Big time.

M: I mean, I'm stuck with family that I don't know how to interact with. Doesn't feel like progress. Just seems like I'm running into old problems.

D: True, but problems that exist in the real wold. Where you belong. Where I want you to be. It's going to be messy and difficult for awhile...and we'll sort through all of that, find ways to deal with it...but you're here. Now we can work on building a life that you do want. The past: you don't want that. Depression: you're moving away from it. We know what you don't want. Now we start to piece together what you do want.

M: My past, I definitely don't want that. Even though it's nonsensical to feel that way...the past is there, part of me...I don't really want it. So to me, it just means I want to continue to stay away from my family. I guess I feel pretty strongly that I don't want to see them today.

D: Your plan is to skip the funeral?

M: Yes.

She nods.

D: Okay.

dither

2011-10-11T06:39:00.001-07:00

i like this song; and the lead singer is a funny person, i like her. she obsesses over random historical events, weaves strange anecdotes from her readings into many of her song lyrics. i think the mix of dramatic music and dry anecdotes is sort of funny. her music is basically an off-kilter wikipedia set to music. i've previously linked to her song about rose kennedy.

heard this lyric from one of her songs today:

"i have half a mind
it's cracked and breaking
it's recommended
as great for tasting"

i don't know, i'm having trouble writing. i'm broken.

tangent: i think we need new sayings. figures of speech, aphorisms, similes, those sorts of things. i want to erase them all and start over.

the cliches we use to express ourselves, i'm tired of them and want a shiny new set to work with.

here's one i've come up with:

"the grain of sand in the crickets mandible"

it doesn't mean anything, but that's the whole point. i think if we repeat it enough, it will snowball into something. i want to use it to the point of cliche, so that one day i can have the following exchange and it will actually make sense:

someone talks, relates a story from their day; let's say they describe a seemingly minor problem at work that ultimately led to major difficulties.

i listen...nod...and say, "ah yes, it's the proverbial 'grain of sand in the crickets mandible.'"

and the person says, "exactly."

woo hoo! can't wait! when that happens; me, aglow with the happy.

october

2011-10-03T09:59:00.000-07:00

Trying to recall Halloween memories, but I can't think of many.

I know that when I was a kid, I liked Halloween. I had a sweet tooth, so the whole candy thing appealed to me. I went for that. And I liked the idea of costumes. I didn't become a living marionette until junior high, but even as a young kid, I found costumes to be interesting. I liked what they implied.

But my parents are so religious that they weren't really down with the Halloween situation. Too satanic. Or pagan. Or something. I don't remember. I just remember that they were uncomfortable about it, so they kind of downplayed the holiday.

I could wear a mask, they were okay with that. They'd buy a flimsy, two-dollar piece of shit mask from the grocery store and, on Halloween night, I could walk around the neighborhood with that on; collect candy. Mostly, though, they took me to church where they had a more neutral celebration. It was like Halloween, but without the fun. I remember you'd go to the church...no costume...and groups of kids would wander around the facility. And you'd go up to a classroom door, where an adult would be standing. And you would hold up your bag...and the adult would drop a few pieces of candy in, along with a religious tract. Usually a religious tract designed specifically for kids; a little cartoon, imparting simple lessons from the bible.

The whole thing, it bored the life out of me. I never liked the other kids at my church, so didn't enjoy having to be around them. They clumped and ran around the church together. I just kept to myself, ignored my parents when they said, "Go play with the other kids!" I'd usually just sit on a church pew, eat candy...read the religious cartoon books. Which were terrible.

That would be it, basically. Halloween would end.

I'd keep the mask, though. I didn't mind that they were flimsy and cheap. At random times throughout the year, I'd lock my bedroom door. Put the mask on. Stare at myself in the mirror.

people-sketch: little plastic bears (prt. 1 of 2)

2011-09-30T14:51:00.000-07:00

I.

When he was a baby, my younger brother had a significant delay with his language. At the age when most babies are beginning to use their first words, he remained non-verbal. My parents went to a doctor regarding this. The doctor said, "Wait, see what happens." My parents waited. Time passed and the doctors confirmed that he was experiencing a significant speech delay.

More time passed. At a certain point...around the age my brother was a toddler...my parents believed that he was beginning to use words, but that he was struggling to enunciate them correctly. And a specialist confirmed this. He was speaking, finally, but he had a severe speech impediment.

So for the first five or six years of my brothers life, he was unintelligible. My parents and I, we could understand much of what he was saying...we slowly learned to decode his sounds and gestures...but to anyone not with him on a daily basis, he was unintelligible.

Even for us, it was difficult. He would talk, talk some more. We would get bits and pieces, understand one word in five, then have to guess as to the overall meaning of his statements. His writing was even more delayed than his speech, so we had trouble finding ways around his difficulty with words. We just listened and struggled through the decoding process.

This made him angry. If repeated attempts to communicate failed, he would despair, begin to scream and cry. Understandably, he would get so frustrated. He would say something...repeat it...then repeat it louder...then pull his hair, cry.

He saw a speech therapist to help him with the muscular component of speech. He had to learn to make the right shapes with his mouth, to match up the words in his mind with the physical mechanics of speaking.

And it worked. By the time he was five or six, he was speaking more clearly, to the point that anyone could understand him. He still had a slight impediment, an "accent" my mom called it. That persisted for years, a certain muffled quality to his words...but even that faded away eventually.

I'm only a few years older than he is, but my memories of that time period are sharp. Painful.

I remember one day, when he was around 4 years old, he was frantic to communicate something. He spoke a few words, repeated them, then cried. And it seemed like he was wanting something, a specific action or object. He was visibly agitated. Mom said, "Honey, can you point to it? I don't know what you want. Help me understand."

He repeated the sentence, slowly, loudly; his face red with frustration. Then he repeated the sentence many times in a row, over and over, until my mom began to cry. She said, "I don't understand, honey. Can you point to what you want?"

He gave up; rolled around on the floor, screamed.

II.

Once he could speak, he was able to integrate into the regular classes at school. He had a variety of learning disabilities, though, so his work load had to be tailored to his skill level.

His primary difficulty was dyslexia. It was severe and he would later say that words were not just reversed on the page, they appeared to move. They couldn't settle, fix in his mind. For him, words were shifting, ephemeral things.

This also made him angry. The difficulty involved with reading a word on a page could infuriate him. He would look, try to pin the word down with his eyes, but he just couldn't capture it, not easily. Reading was a constant struggle.

To manage this, my parents sent him to an after school learning center that specialized in dyslexia. There, he was able to get one-on-one attention from a mentor, who spent an hour each day working with him on reading exercises. I don't know what this entailed, specifically. But Monday through Friday, 6 to 7pm, my brother would go to this center, work on his reading skills.

So there was a mentor...there were reading exercises...but what I mostly remember is that the center's remedial efforts were largely predicated on a token system. The mentor would work with my brother on a variety of exercises, and if my brother performed well, he would be given a small token gift.

The tokens were these little plastic bears. They were small, maybe half an inch high; multi-colored, most of them blue or yellow or red.

So every night, he would leave the center with a pocket-full of these little plastic bears. I'd see him walk in the front door...dump the bears on the kitchen counter...plop down in front of the television. My mom would scoop the bears up, count them, say "Wow, seven! Good job tonight honey!" He wouldn't say anything in response. He would just cross his arms, watch television.

My parents were encouraged to implement the same token system at home. When he began at the center, my parents were given a sack filled with hundreds of the plastic bears.

If my brother attempted to read a book, he was given a bear. If he saw a word on the television screen and read it out loud, he was given a bear. Good reports from school, completing homework, reading billboards: more bears.

Over the three years that he attended the learning center, my brother accumulated hundreds and hundreds of the plastic bears. They became a ubiquitous presence in our lives. They permeated every nook and cranny of the house...you'd see them anywhere you looked; on counter tops, in drawers, scattered on the carpet. They liked to make their way into pockets, which meant that a batch of them would inevitably make it into each load of laundry. Clothes would be washed...put in the dryer...and that's when the rattling would begin. Someone would ask, "What's that rattling sound?" And mom would say, "Bears in the dryer. Again." Years after he had left the center, we would lift couch cushions...look under beds...and find them.

My brother was indifferent to the plastic bears. He didn't dislike them, but he didn't like them either. He was never motivated to earn more, to collect more. And after a certain point, there were so many available to him...so many crammed into drawers and pockets and piled about the house...that they lost whatever novelty value they might have initially had. The little plastic bears were everywhere, and therefore pointless. (In other words, inflation kicked in. If a token system functions like a currency, the same basic rules will apply.)

Three years at the center, and the impact was negligible. His reading skills stayed at the same level, his grades did not improve.

His mood was the only thing to change over the years. He got angrier.

The Boutique (part 5)

2011-09-20T09:32:00.000-07:00

(part three, four)

I volunteered for awhile at a cancer resource center, where, amongst other services, free wigs and breast prosthetics were given to clients.

For the privacy of those involved, names and details have been changed.

May, 2009

A woman comes in one day, around 40 years old. She is squeezing her hands together; her shoulders are tensed up; she is nervous.

She walks through the front door...looks to her left, then her right. Then she approaches the desk where I am sitting. She says, "I was told maybe I could look into breast prosthetics here?"

She whispers the words breast and prosthetic.

I say, "Yes ma'am. Let me call down one of our staff and they can assist you."

She tries to ask a question: "Are the staff...I mean, I was wondering if there are any..."

She pauses, searches for words. I can guess what she's trying to say, this comes up a lot with the breast prosthetics. I tell her, "We always have female staff assist with the prosthetics."

She laughs, relieved, and says, "Thank you. I saw you at the desk and I...I don't know. I didn't know how this worked."

I tell her, "Not a problem. Let me call Samantha, she'll be right down."

Normally, with the subdued, nervous clients, I ask Debra or Catherine to help. They're cautious...know when to give a client a little space, respect their comfort zone. Whereas Samantha: chatty, gregarious, facebook obsessed Samantha...she can be a little overwhelming for some people. She is like an instant best friend, and some of the clients are a little too emotionally raw for that kind of approach.

However, on this day, Samantha is the only staff on site. I breathe in. I call her upstairs office. I say, "A client needs assistance with the prosthetics." And the only thing I hear in response: running footsteps as she barrels down the stairs.

The client hears the footsteps...glances at me nervously. I say, "She's energetic."

Samantha rushes over, introduces herself. Then she walks the client over to a couch, they sit. Samantha says, "Tell me how I can help, sweetie."

The client explains that, two years ago, she developed breast cancer and had undergone a double mastectomy. She had opted not have to have reconstructive surgery. And she chose not to wear a breast prosthetic (often a silicone breast that is inserted into a specially made bra. At the center, both bras and prosthetics are available and free to clients). She describes that, after the surgery, she became depressed and began to socially isolate, had been avoiding a lot of friends and family for a long time.

"But," the client says, "my wedding anniversary is in a few months and we're going on a cruise in Hawaii. And..."

She becomes upset, begins to cry. She continues, "I want to wear a bathing suit. And I just...I want to have my shape back. I don't want...."

She gestures at her chest, says, "this. I don't want this anymore."

Samantha takes her hand, squeezes it, asks, "And you didn't want the prosthetics until now?"

"No. I hated the idea of them. I still do. I always worried about...i don't know. How they would feel. And I thought everyone would see them and just...you know? I thought they would look so fake. The whole idea of a prosthetic...I was just afraid that I would look and feel pathetic."

Samantha says, "Sweetie, give me 20 minutes to show you what they look and feel like. You'll leave here feeling differently about them, I promise. These things are so well designed now...very comfortable, very natural looking. We'll take some measurements, get you fitted for a bra...I promise, you'll love it."

The client sighs. She looks skeptical, miserable. Samantha says, "You don't believe me and that's okay. In your mind, breast prosthetics are, like, weird, clunky granny-boobs."

The client laughs a little.

"But," Samantha says, "I'm telling you! The way these things are designed now...they're miracles. Twin miracles."

They go into the boutique, do measurements. The client sounds anxious, a little down. At first. But Samantha chisels away at her, talking, talking, breaking out her A material. You know she's in her zone when she begins to tell facebook stories.

"I get this friend request from my aunt; my moms oldest sister. Haven't seen her in years, so I think, "Cool, I can catch up with her, see how she's doing." I accept the request. Look at her page. And I see photo after photo of half naked dudes all greased up, flexing muscles, wearing these tiny little speedos. I was like, 'Oh my god!' My aunt is 62!"

Like that. She tells stories, gets the woman talking about her internet habits, her TV habits. It comes out that they both read those Twilight books. Obsessively. And from that point on the conversation is rapid-fire, full-volume chaos.

Then Samantha says, "Okay, we're all set. Here's the bra; you can go into that room there, try it on. Then come out, let's see you."

Minutes pass. I hear a door open...I hear the client crying. Samantha says, "Aw, sweetie. I hope those are happy tears."

The client doesn't respond for a bit. Then she mumbles something I can't hear. Samantha says, "Awesome. That's what I like to hear."

The client is pleased with the result. They talk for a bit, about the feel of the bra, the weight of the prosthetic. The client expresses enormous relief.

Catherine, the program director, walks through the front door, returning from a meeting. She hears, from the boutique: crying, laughing, loud conversation.

Catherine looks at me. I say, "Samantha. With a client." She replies, "Sounds like it."

Samantha pops her head around the corner, says, "Catherine...I just hooked this awesome lady up with a sweet pair of cruise-boobs. You gotta meet her!"

Catherine goes back, they all talk for a bit. Catherine goes upstairs.

And then Samantha's demeanor changes. The chatty, outgoing personality drops away.

She says to the client, quietly, "I'm going to tell you something now...and it's something you already know. You need to do something about the depression. Prosthetics won't help with that."

The client doesn't say anything. Samantha continues. "Find someone to talk to; the sooner the better. I have a list of phone numbers you can try. Or, if you want...join one of our groups. We have one every week, women going through exactly the same thing. Seriously great women, I think you'd like them."

The client says, "I don't know if I can."

"I hear that," Samantha says. "No pressure. I just want you to think about it."

They walk into the lobby, the client says goodbye. They hug one another.

As she's walking out, the client says, "Oh! I told my best friend I would call her after this."

She takes out her cell phone, presses numbers. As she's walking away, she says, "Donna? I have boobs!"

Samantha yells, "Woo hoo!" and goes back to her office.

the data retch

2011-09-15T15:55:00.000-07:00

I'm completely fine with facebook. I have no problem with it. I can see where I might be perceived as being hostile towards social media, but that's really not the case.

I guess it is a little difficult to see the bright side of it, but...trying to be positive about the whole thing.

I don't think it can be denied that social media has grown into this viciously hungry, inexorable, all-consuming shit-wave of mass extroversion...but that's probably fine.

I just breathe in, breathe out; tell myself: social media is a positive, constructive development in the macro-structure of Human Communication.

I just go with it.

Where I do have a minor quibble with social media: I think it and introversion are mutually exclusive. No overlap. Period. I think social media and introversion are antithetical to one another. Blood enemies.

Most likely, arguments to the contrary can be made, but I'm dogmatic in my belief. If you make a counter-argument, I will plug my ears and hum.

I believe this...and am dogmatic about this...because I tried to create a facebook account one time.

This is what happened:

One day I created a facebook account. This was a few years ago. The site had just started to get big...people were saying, "This is the Next Big Thing!" And I was swayed by that. It's true, I'm swayable. I want to sit at life's Cool Table.

So I started a facebook account and I thought that, perhaps, I would post the kinds of material that I post here. Personal shit. Humiliating shit. Deep, dark embarrassments from years past.

I filled out a profile, posted it. One hour later: I had 50 friend requests.

And not the good kind. Not the like-minded-people kind.

The requests were from, as follows: my mom; my brother; assorted family that I hate, hadn't seen in years; old neighbors that I once hated; friends from 20 years ago that I never really liked to begin with; friends of friends from 20 years ago; my mom's preacher, my dads's proctologist, a guy who had sold me a dented trumpet when i was 13, and so on.

Fuck! Nightmare!

It was like facebook had triggered the gag reflex of my past.

And my past retched.

And out of it...out of that jaundiced vat of experience...came bad memories and forgotten horrors.

I'm not educated about social media. Until that moment, I didn't realize that the technology was such that facebook would connect you to people from your past. I didn't even know that was possible. My goal had been to create an account and replicate the kind of anonymity I'd enjoyed with blogs.

So it was a real shock to see all of those friend requests...to see all of that social detritus...bitter detritus that I'd swallowed, piece by piece over the years, forced down, tried to keep hidden.

And then, in the simple act of posting a profile, the detritus heaved back up, violently, all at once. And it wanted to be friends.

Re-connecting with the past: not my thing.

I deleted the account immediately. Closed the lid to my laptop. Went to the back yard. Dug a whole. Buried the laptop...deep. (Poured concrete over it, etc.)

Anyway, that was my one experiment with facebook. Lasted about an hour.

I'm sure it's possible to use facebook in a truly meaningful way. I know a lot of people who post there about important topics, issues...connect with people, create vibrant communities. But I'm pretty sure I would just play farmville compulsively and post fart jokes and twitter about eggrolls and socks. I'm not going to, for example, advocate civil disobedience and incite revolution (I'm looking right at you, Tunisia).

The point being that I'm not inclined to have an account, but even if I did, I'm pretty sure I would misuse it in a serious way.

Wait, wait, I'm off topic. What I'm saying is that...I am pro-social media! Blogs like this one are a form of social media. Sure, it's anonymous and five people read this site and I post, on average, about once a decade...but it's social media and I'm participating.

So it's all good. I'm upbeat about the whole thing.

science is knowing

2011-09-14T07:31:00.000-07:00

The last post was just a bit of silly fun.

And I certainly have no intention of knocking science. After Swann's Way and The Grapes of Wrath, science is one of my absolute favorite stories. Love it.

Also, I've spent a lot of time on this blog posting about science. I've been collecting all of the facts I can gather about the world. I'd like to make sense of this place, and that wouldn't be possible without science. The "definitions for knowing" I've collected so far:

- Spoon, magma, George Washington, shapes

- Socks, rabbits, trends, Saturn

- Koala bears, warm bread, Jupiter, vernacular, sunset

- Pants, pheromones, birds

- Toasters, shoelaces, moon, bees

- Books, utensils, knees, Asperger Syndrome

the empathy debate

2011-09-13T17:00:00.000-07:00

In the link: an interesting discussion between a scientist who concludes that people with autism lack empathy...and a person with autism who believes otherwise; worth reading, thinking about.

To increase my understanding of the issue, I myself recently spoke with a scientist who has reached similar conclusions.

Here is a transcript of that discussion:

Incipient Turvy: You've concluded that people with autism, or on the autism spectrum, lack empathy.

Scientist: Yes. The data is pretty clear on that.

IT: Yet when you look at personal stories...both from autistic individuals and family and friends of autistic individuals...the evidence seems to indicate that they do, in fact, experience empathy.

S: Personal stories may indicate that...but stories are not evidence. Scientific studies provide us with evidence. And the evidence is clear; people with autism lack empathy.

IT: I understand that personal stories are not scientific...but surely they have weight, can impact the understanding of an issue.

S: Personal stories are what we in the scientific community like to call "crap". No scientific value of any kind.

IT: But to privilege data over the personal experiences of the group being studied...that in-itself would seem to require a profound lack of empathy.

S: Oh, yeah. No doubt. I don't know if you've noticed, but there's no empathy button on a calculator. There's no place for it in science. Data, baby. That's what we're all about. People? Meh...not so much. They muddy up the results, make a mess of everything.

IT: I guess I just have a problem with the studies, since the personal stories are so consistent. Empathy, by any reasonable estimation, seems to be a common trait amongst people with autism.

S: I would agree...were it not for this sweet chunk of irrefutable data-love that i have here.

[scientist holds up a pie chart]

S: Pie chart! Boo-yeah! Can't really argue with this. I'll take my pie chart over your "personal stories" any day.

[scientist begins to cuddle the pie chart, gently kissing it, caressing it].

S: Beloved, beloved pie chart. This is all the evidence I need right here.

[click to enlarge]

more definitions for knowing

2011-09-13T08:34:00.000-07:00

Pockets-

Pockets are the other places. They are the elsewhere. Pennies, lint and hands reside there to convalesce and hatch their schemes.

Pockets were accidentally invented in London during the infamous Sewing Machine Freak Out of 1837.

Science Fun Fact #39: haddock swim to pockets once every 3 years to lay eggs and die.

Eggs-

We don't know. You open one to find out and it's a mess. Stop asking.

Atilla the Hun-

Fat guy. Violent. Motivated the Huns with his famous battle cry: "Let's crazy this shit up, ya'll!" A battle cry he customarily announced before...you know, the raping and the looting. A real problem child, that one.

Notable characteristics: inventive warrior; brilliant battlefield strategist; ironically bad at checkers.

nightshift (part 6)

2011-09-06T06:57:00.000-07:00

(part 5)

Staff stories.

I worked at a psychiatric facility for 10 years. I worked the graveyard shift, because it allowed me to sleep during the day, avoid sunlight...and it allowed me to avoid people, for the most part. This particular facility had only one staff person on site per shift, so for someone like me it was ideal.

I had to see clients, of course...but the clients at our facility were largely disconnected from the social world...too sidelined by mental illness to engage in genuine, back-and-forth conversation. They generally made the same kinds of statements, every single day, without fail. For my part, I only needed to provide feedback, suggestions...in other words: one-way statements, rarely anything resembling real engagement.

But still, staff interactions were unavoidable and they were the worst.

For one thing, I would always trade shifts when I arrived at work; the staff who had worked the previous shift would fill me in on the clients, tell me how they were doing, then they would leave.

At the very most, this conversation would last five minutes...yet it was the worst part of my day. Interacting with 10 seriously mentally clients...all expressing delusions, describing hallucinations: that I could handle without a problem. But five minutes of normal, straight-forward small-talk with staff...I fucking hated it. I went to work just pre-loathing it, dreading it.

I was always looking for ways to avoid that particular conversation; seeking any trick or defensive maneuver I could find that might get me out of it.

One thing I learned is that if I acted deeply, profoundly tired, people would usually take the hint and leave. I'd arrive at work at 11pm...walk to the staff room and launch into my routine.

They'd say, "Hi M."

I would yawn...rub my face...and say, "I feel like shit. Holy god. I just woke up and it's terrible. I am literally going to die."

Then I'd lie on the floor, on my back, start moaning, writhing, continuing to rub my face. I'd say, "I think this is it! For real this time! I think I am actually going to die of fatigue! Why does it have to feel this way?!"

It was effective; I could really clear out a room with that one.

Mornings were nice, they involved zero staff interaction. At the end of the shift, around 8a.m., clients hopped on a bus and went to a day program, so no staff came in to replace me. I just turned off all the lights, locked the facility up, went home. Mornings: happy.

I had to go to meetings though, and those sucked. Once a month...all the staff at this facility...we'd get together, sit around a table with our supervisor. We'd discuss the clients and the supervisor would give us suggestions, direction, tell us how to handle this or that situation.

Torture.

It only took a few months to realize that nothing ever gets accomplished at a meeting. Ostensibly, you're there to work up a game plan for the clients. But in reality, people are just there because they can talk and feel listened to. I guess the presence of a group made people feel like, "Hey, these people are stuck here for the next hour. They have to listen to me!" And so they would talk and talk. People would raise their hand, clear their throat, then launch into detailed monologues about absolutely nothing.

A lot of the time, people just used the opportunity to talk about how ignored they felt by fellow staff and management. This came up all the time. Staff would work with the clients independently...and in the process, they would develop ideas about new approaches that should be tried. Then, at a meeting, they would tell everyone about these ideas...and inevitably come away with the impression that their ideas had been ignored. (Probably because they were; no one gave a shit.)

It resulted in statements like this one: "Well, I just feel like, as a team, we never communicate." This criticism came up more times than I could count. And it took me awhile, but eventually I realized that the word "communicate" was code for "do things my way."

I thought it was absurd because, those of us who worked at this facility: status-wise, we were the bottom rung of the ladder. We were the least credentialed, the least qualified to make decisions. Our role was to work with the clients...provide information to therapists, psychiatrists, supervisors...and let them make all of the decisions. Yet, at meetings, staff were determined to do their share of the decision making. You could just tell: they resented their lack of status and it came out as complaints about being listened to. Never mind our lack of qualifications, staff knew what should be done, how it should be done; management just didn't "get it".

Ideally, a good supervisor can create the impression that staff are being listened to...but I don't know that this is actually possible. My suspicion is that no matter how fairly you treat people in a work environment: they're always going to feel resentful about lack of status...they're always going to second-guess other staff, superiors, feel like they have the better ideas; therefore, they will always complain about not feeling "listened to" (i.e., obeyed).

Over time I learned that, at it's core, a meeting is about one thing and one thing only: staff attempting (and failing) to suppress their inner dictator. They wanted to be heard, to feel a modicum of power or attention. And so, they talked. And talked.

And talked.

A lot of the time I just said, "fuck it" and skipped meetings. I just wouldn't go. I'd get e-mails from HR telling me I was out of compliance. So I'd go to the next meeting, then skip a few more.

A few times a year I would get a verbal reprimand from a supervisor...but I could tell they didn't really care. I worked the graveyard shift, I was even more irrelevant than most staff, so their reprimands were half-hearted.

"So, you know. Try to be at meetings or whatever."

I'd say, "Okay," and continue to skip meetings.

I just did everything I could to minimize time with staff, maximize time with with clients.

The clients spoke mostly to themselves; and they weren't interested in anything I had to say.

I liked that about them. It was the only thing that made the job bearable.

people sketch: family at lunch

2011-09-02T07:04:00.001-07:00

Disney World.

Last Wednesday.

I'm in a busy restaurant. It's lunch time. Sarah is sitting next to me.

And there's a family at the table. A mom, a dad; their two girls.

The youngest girl looks restless. She's fidgeting, slightly anguished. The dad hands her his Iphone. She takes it, starts tapping away, absorbed in some sort of game.

I say to the dad, "I'm assuming that thing is a lifesaver."

"Definitely," he replies. "If you can get her to focus on it pre-meltdown...or even mid-meltdown...it can make a big difference. She can get into it, shut out some of the sounds that are going on around her."

About the Iphone, I say, "A few years ago, nothing like that was available. It's amazing how quickly technology has developed, to where you can go into a public place and have some way of managing...you know, that level of anxiety."

The dad says, "I think about that all the time. When you and I were kids, there were no tools available...no gadgets that could help a person manage their senses, their reactions. And more than that, there was no real effort to even acknowledge the issue. I'm always struck by how ignored autism was until very recently. I look at the level of care she needs every second of the day and I think, 'How was it even possible to ignore this?' Blows me away."

All of us look at menus, except for the youngest girl. She just taps the screen of the cell phone. The dad says, "She has a script for lunch. She'll say, 'Do I smell cheese pizza?' And then she'll order it."

The waitress walks over, says hello. The youngest girl pauses...breathes in...and yells, "Do I smell cheese pizza?!" The waitress laughs and says, "Yes, we do have that." The little one orders cheese pizza.

There's a carafe of coffee on the table. I drink one cup, pour another...drink it. The mom watches, resentful. She says, "I'm only supposed to drink decaf." When I pour a third cup, she says, "Grrr. I can't take it anymore." She pours herself a cup. When the waitress walks by, the mom says, "Pardon? Could we get a second carafe of coffee? That would be terrific."

She mentions to the waitress that she's supposed to drink decaf, but is going for the good stuff. The waitress says, "You know, the other day, a customer actually tried to order a decaf espresso."

We collectively shudder.

We wait for the food, small-talk. At another table, a baby cries. The youngest daughter doesn't react, she just plays with the cell phone. The mom says, "Wow. I can't believe she's not reacting. Baby sounds can push her over the edge."

To the dad she says, "On the bus this morning, there was a toddler crying...and she freaked. I mean, it was a scene. The kid was screaming; she was screaming."

The dad says, "Sounds bad."

The mom says, "Beirut."

I drink more coffee. The oldest daughter is 9. I say to her, "I'm trying to educate myself about Iphones...I know nothing about them. And I've been trying to put together a list of which apps I should get...but I'm clueless. I was wondering if you had app advice."

She says, "I can show you some pretty cool apps." She takes out a gadget, says, "It's not an Iphone, though. It's an Ipod Touch."

She walks over and talks me through some of the apps. She says, "This one is called Talking Tom. It's a cat...you can, like, make it talk. Or you can beat it up if you want." She demonstrates...taping the screen, beating the cat. I say, "That's sweet."

She says, "There's another app just like it, but with a snowball."

She pulls it up. I see a snowball with a cute, smiling face on it. She taps a button which allows her to apply a blowtorch to the snowball. It screams and melts.

"So," I say. "Abusing things. Seems to be a whole genre."

She says, "Pretty much." She shows me a few games...gives me some app advice...goes back to her seat.

The food arrives. The youngest girl asks, "Monkeys don't really like bananas, do they?" The dad replies, "Sure they do, honey." She thinks about it and asks, "Monkeys don't really like bananas, do they?" And he replies, "Sure they do; sure they do."

We eat; small-talk. I drink more coffee and announce, "I've had too much coffee."

Sarah says, "By the way, everyone should know...M had a birthday yesterday." I look at her and growl. She says, "Sorry, I had to out you."

The little one, she's mostly wrapped up in the Iphone, but she reacts to the word birthday. She throws her hands into the air and says, "Happy Birthday!" Then, quietly, she sings a little of the song.

"Happy birthday to you....chop chop chop. Happy birthday to you...chop chop chop..."

She trails off, stops singing. The mom says to her, "Don't worry, honey...we'll all sing once he gets some dessert with a candle."

She tells the waitress, "We're ready for dessert. His needs to have a candle in it."

The waitress asks, "Oh, is it a birthday?" And I interrupt: "You can bring a candle, but nothing else. It's not technically my birthday anyway. I don't want...you know, a whole thing to happen."

The waitress nods, walks off. I say to the table, "If Mickey Mouse comes out waving a bunch of sparklers around, it could get ugly. I'm not above punching a universally beloved cartoon character."

The dad says, "That would make for an awesome blog post, though."

"It's true," I say. "'M Goes to Disney World- a dark, disturbing tale.' I could definitely imagine that one."

The desserts come out. I have this little pie thing. There's a candle in it. The waitress lights the candle. The older daughter says, "Don't forget to make a wish." The younger one says, "Happy birthday!" I blow out the candle, everyone sings; the little one says, "chop chop chop" between each verse.

We drink more coffee and work on the desserts. The mom, she has a little chocolate Mickey Mouse in front of her. It's basically an edible figurine. She picks it up and eats one leg...then another. She bites off his arms, then his ears. She holds him up and inspects him. I say, "He's not looking too good there. Poor Mickey." She bites his head off and says, "Mmm...delicious."

The dad watches this...indicates the older daughter and says, "When she was much smaller, we had a birthday party for her. And the cake was Elmo. And I don't mean it was a flat cake with Elmo depicted on it...I mean the cake was shaped to look like Elmo. So, we had a party...kids everywhere...the cake comes out. And because of the way it's shaped, I can't really find an ideal place to start cutting. So I just make a judgement call...and lop off Elmo's head. I just thought it made the most sense to start there, so I literally cut off Elmo's head and serve it up on a platter. And of course the kids weren't thrilled about it. They freaked a little and I realized that maybe Elmo's head wasn't the best place to start."

The little one has a scoop of strawberry ice cream in front of her. She peers all around it and says, "I see four strawberries."

The dad says, "That's okay, honey. I can pick them out." He takes a spoon, removes the fruit.

She begins to eat, but accidentally knocks the ice cream onto the floor. Dad says, "That's okay, honey."

Waitress brings a new ice cream. Little one peers all around it and says, "I see three strawberries." Dad picks them out and holds the bowl in place while she eats the ice cream.

Lunch ends. We get up, head for the door. We hug, say goodbyes. The youngest one walks up, throws her hands into the air and says, "Happy Birthday!"

I say, "Thank you."

The family heads off to pursue their last day at Disney. Sarah and I leave.

definitions for knowing

2011-08-25T11:13:00.000-07:00

Toasters-

Toasters are grabby little heat-machines used in the de-softening of bread. They were invented in 1477 by The Bakers Of Ill-Repute (an illicit cabal of wayward pie-cooks). Lashing out at their rivals, the Pro-doughist Union, The Bakers forced bread into what was initially called "The Vertically Toasting Burn-Slot Oven". This was later shortened to "toaster" (or, within hipster circles, "toe").

Toasters are nocturnal breeders and emit horrible urine when frightened.

Shoelaces-

No one knows what these are. The droppings of cloth pigeons? We don't know. Ambiguous, they menace and taunt us all.

Moon-

The moon was not made by ducks. It floats and glows and is probably stupid. Scientists landed there decades ago. They hopped about in air-suits and looked with their investigation faces. They discovered: boulders, no ducks, a modicum of dust and a great many teflon deposits.

Bees-

Bees are tiny ducks. Their pointy bills are in the wrong place and will sting you. Wear that bee-keeper suit when duck hunting. Bees were first discovered by Viking scientists out on one of their educational looting sprees. It was an exciting time.

nightshift (part 5): Jill

2011-08-16T07:13:00.000-07:00

(part 4)

Stories from a previous job. For the privacy of those involved, names and details have been changed.

I.

August 2004:

I stay in the break room most of the shift. I read a bit. Fill out forms, try to catch up on paperwork that I am weeks behind on. I eat lunch at 3a.m. It's a quiet night, the clients sleep soundly.

At 5a.m., I hang out in the common area...recliners, two couches, a television, a pool table. Clients slowly rouse, make coffee. They hang out in the dining room and the common area...I small talk with each client, try to chat them up, see how they're doing. Some of them don't respond; they just stare at the floor, sip their coffee, lost in thought.

Jill drifts by, going straight from her room to the back porch, where she proceeds to chain-smoke for 15 minutes. She smokes furiously, rapidly...her hands shaking either from the massive nicotine hit or from anxiety, I can't tell which.

I join her on the back porch. I say, "Hey Jill. Hope you're doing okay this morning." I generally avoid asking her questions directly...she rarely speaks. It's a recurring topic in staff meetings: did anyone hear Jill speak this week? We gather her statements like pieces in a puzzle, try to gain some sense of her internal life.

On average, she speaks once a year, sometimes twice.

I hang out with her for a few minutes. I stare out at the horizon, at clouds. I drink coffee. I stand up, ready to go back in. That's when Jill shocks me. She says, "They put blue light on my face."

I slowly sit down, feign nonchalance. I ask, "Who put blue light on your face?"

She doesn't respond. I ask a few other questions, but she just smokes and says nothing.

The morning goes by. The shift ends. In the staff log, I write: "Jill spoke. Said, 'They put blue light on my face.' She was tense, shaking; otherwise no change."

I do not hear her speak again for two years.

II.

Jill: 29 years old. Average height, dark hair. Thin...she forgets to eat. We remind her, put food in front of her. Sometimes she eats, sometimes she doesn't. We have to give her nutrient shakes to keep her weight up.

Schizophrenia often develops slowly, over a period of years. It hit Jill rapidly and at a relatively early age. 4 months after her first psychotic episode, at the age of 19, she was severely withdrawn and almost completely non-verbal.

She had the psychotic episode while at college. She was there studying painting and education...her goal was to one day teach art classes at the high school level. She was outgoing, had a lot of friends. She was involved with a volunteer organization, one focused on teaching art to low-income children.

One day her dorm roommate called Jill's parents and said that Jill had been acting strange. She'd begun to socially isolate...to miss classes...and to make statements that no one understood.

A few weeks later, Jill disappeared. She walked off campus and vanished. The police found her three days later, sleeping on a sidewalk. She had apparently been wandering aimlessly the entire time. She was delusional, hallucinating. Most of her statements were gibberish...she was chanting the same set of syllables over and over. The chanting went on for two days. Then she was silent.

From that point on, she remained in a cycle common to the seriously mentally ill: short stays at home; lengthy periods in psychiatric hospitals; occasional bouts of homelessness.

The cycle became her new life.

III.

When I trained new staff, I would tell them that the clients are expected to be relatively independent. Clients need to take care of their own hygiene and chores. And, they are expected to do their own shopping. Hearing the last part, new staff would invariably ask the same question: "Jill doesn't speak. How do you know when she needs to go shopping?"

This is how it works.

Twice a week, staff drive a van to the grocery store so that the clients can buy whatever they need. If you ask Jill, "Do you want to go?" or "Do you need anything from the store?" she won't say anything. She'll just stare at you. So what you do is say to her, "We're leaving for the grocery store in ten minutes." And if she needs anything, she'll just follow along. She'll get inside the van, go to the store and buy whatever she needs.

A trip to the store can take a long time due to her odd gait: she lifts and lowers each foot very slowly, as if she's walking underwater. And when she's in the aisles, she tends to pause for a long time and stare at the items. But eventually she'll pick out her toothpaste or socks or whatever and check out.

It works, but it can be awkward when cashiers say "hi" to her or try to engage her in small talk. She never responds, just stares blankly at them. She then gets strange looks from the cashiers...and people in line often begin to watch her, suspicious. I would always hang back, watch, ready to step in...but mostly it went okay, she would get through it.

III.

This story was related to me by Allison, the staff who worked weekends and who spent the most time with Jill:

Allison arranged numerous activities during her shift, tried to keep the clients busy. She would take them to movies, fairs, festivals, any sort of public event. She also put a lot of effort into finding hobbies or interests that might appeal to each individual client.

Jill never went for any of this. She just smoked, paced the house and kept to herself. It was hard to get her out for anything other than a grocery store run.

One day Allison announced that she was going to a book store to browse and drink coffee. A few clients headed towards the van...including Jill. Allison couldn't believe what she was seeing, she was thrilled.

At the store, everyone browsed. Jill wandered up and down aisles...she didn't pick up any books, but Allison had never seen her look so alert. Allison told her, "I'm going to buy a few coffees if you want one". She bought one for herself and set the extra one on the table. Jill picked it up and walked to a table outside. She just sat and sipped coffee until it was time to go.

May not seem like much, but this was major progress for Jill.

After that, Allison tried to make a habit of the bookstore trips. She offered to take her each Saturday morning...and Jill went along.

After six weeks, though, the trips ended.

They were at the bookstore one day. Allison was wandering the aisles, browsing. Jill was doing the same, in a different part of the store. Allison then saw two police officers walk through the front door and converse with staff. The staff...all grouped together at the front of the store, all looking anxious...pointed at a certain aisle.

The officers walked to the aisle and approached Jill. They asked her, "Ma'am, is everything okay?" Allison interrupted and said, "She's with me. And yes, everything is okay. We're just looking at books."

Allison spoke with them for a few minutes. She did not give them any information about Jill, but the officers seemed to understand what was happening. They were polite, quickly left.

They told Allison that someone had called 911 and reported a "suspicious person" at the bookstore. The caller had said that the person was acting "weird" and making customers "uncomfortable". Jill is calm, aloof...I can only assume that her idiosyncratic gait made some of the staff uneasy.

Allison took Jill out to the van, made sure she was buckled in, ready to leave.

Then she walked back into the store. She put her finger in the managers face and said, "She didn't deserve that. You should be ashamed of yourself." She marched out, drove back to the facility.

Allison offered to take her to a different location the following week, but she showed no interest. Jill just resumed her habit of pacing the house, smoking, keeping to herself. She never went back to a bookstore.

IV.

Two years after she made the "blue light" remark:

Jill walked up to me one morning. For a full minute she just fidgeted and grimaced. After having worked with her for 8 years, I heard her speak for only the second time; this would also be the last time.

She whispered, "Cigarettes." I didn't respond; I just nodded, drove her to a gas station. She bought cigarettes.

definitions for knowing:

2011-08-11T08:34:00.000-07:00

Koala bears-

Koala bears are small marsupials found in southern Australia. Described as "cute and harmless" by 18th Century explorers, these tree-dwelling leaf-addicts are now the primary cause of species extinction and global deforestation. Their chewing...their bleak, inexorable chewing...cannot be slowed or reasoned with. Our planet will die.

Warm Bread-

Not to be confused with room-temperature bread, warm bread exudes heat. It has no plans, no angle. It will gladly sit still for hours, or days, without complaint. Eventually it molds, and then you have a decision to make. Warm bread was first discovered by viking lunatics in 877 AD. Without warning, it popped out of a small volcano and was found to be delicious.

Jupiter-

A sky-smudge. Pinkish. Inedible.

Vernacular-

The saying of, the wording. Composed by those of us in the know, it then seeps outward and binds. It subjugates tongues. See also: linguistic feudalism.

Sunset-

We don't know what sunset is. The sun goes, but it's confusing. It drops away, elusive. Research is under way to discover where exactly the sun goes at night. A NASA press conference was recently held to announce the creation of the study. "I mean, where is that fucking thing going?!" raged sun-expert Steve Wilkins. This comprehensive new study follows numerous smaller efforts that have failed to yield significant results. Said Dr. Wilkins of one such effort, "We sent Pedro, one of our interns, over a hill the other day to see where the sun was headed. And he came back and was like, 'It's setting there too'. That is so fucking confusing!"

Numerous theories have been offered to explain the sunset phenomenon, though two in particular have gained considerable popularity in recent years. Most scientists now believe that the sun is either 1. a celestial, heat-producing object around which our planet rotates, or 2. a lonely glow-whale whose immense size alienates it from the rest of god's creation.

people-sketch: two conversations in a bar

2011-08-03T12:37:00.000-07:00

From August 2007.

(I put up this post one time about a conversation with my redneck neighbor. I had taken some time off from work, I was too down to function very well. I ended up taking three weeks off, which seriously irritated my supervisor. Anyway, one week after the redneck conversation, I went out to a bar.)

I keep making plans to leave the house- "I should get out, do something"- but then find excuses to stay in- "I'm tired. I'm broke. I'm...um...tired".

I read too much. By the end of each day, my eyes hurt.

I drink too much.

One day I finally talk myself into getting out. I go to a pub. I have the option of sitting in a booth and being alone, but I talk myself into sitting at the bar. I tell myself, "Be social. Interact with humans. Make your psychologist happy." I have to selectively ignore the fact that she would loathe my being in a bar.

A guy walks in, sits to my left. He's wearing a white dress shirt, black pants. His sleeve is riddled with stains.

I say, "Waiter."

He says, "Olive Garden. Best job ever. Love it."

He waves at the bartender, says, "Dude, I am so sorry about last night." He turns to me and explains: "I was here last night. Got totally messed up." He asks the bartender, "Did I pay my tab?" Bartender replies, "Yup" and the guy tells me "Sometimes I get so out of it that I forget to pay. I've had that happen at least three times now. I black out, wake up at home and there's a message from the bar...I'm special; they've got my personal info on record. I'll hear, 'Beep. This is The Bar. We've got a tab here you need to pay on.'"

I tell him, "They must trust you...to let you leave like that, without paying."

"Meh, they know I'm just drunk. And I'm a waiter. They're good to waiters here."

I drink a bit. My head is off-kilter from the alcohol and social-anxiety. Thoughts swim, merge...like bobbing wax in a lava lamp. I look around.

"They have a lot of televisions in here," I say. "It makes my eyes hurt. Too much flashing going on, everywhere you look."

"I don't watch television," waiter-guy says. "Unless I'm out like this or something. But at home, I don't have a television".

"Good for you. You must be a smart one."

"Nah, it's not that. It's just a computer thing. I'm on the computer a lot. Warcraft."

He looks at me. I don't say anything. He says, "You haven't played Warcraft?"

"I haven't."

"Well, it's kind of pointless. I'm not into it really. I play a little bit, but mostly I'm too busy for stuff like that."

He mentions a topic, then backs away from it. He's worried I'll judge. I don't want him to feel that way, so I bait him into elaborating. And the best way to bait someone with a special interest: say something inaccurate about the topic.

I say, "Warcraft. That has...like, magicians?"

"No, no. Mages."

"And you fight...goblins?"

"Orcs. And it depends on which faction you're with. You could be an orc and fight the mages...well, technically you're fighting the Alliance, which includes the mage guild..."

He pauses, then says "I think, anyway. I don't have a lot of time for it".

"Right."

"It's like I said, it's sort of pointless."

He's in retreat mode again. I have to keep him going: "Doesn't sound pointless. Sounds like you're really having to employ strategy, logic..."

"Very much so."

"Sounds like chess a little bit. You're having to think through all of the steps."

"It's like chess, but way more complicated. I'm mean, with the guilds, you're having to compartmentalize your powers and then sort of delegate everything...like, depending on your skill level, you're having to delegate this finite quantity of power and that all gets down to the specialty of the characters..."

"And they participate in factions?"

"Um...it's more complicated than that. It's hard to describe, because I'm not overly familiar with it..."

He has to throw out these defensive clarifications.

I ask, "What's the difference between a faction and a guild?"

"Okay. It's like this: in the game, you have to choose to be on one of two sides..."

"Is it a good and evil kind of thing?"

"No. It's just two sides. It's value neutral. And the two sides...those are the factions."

He names then. I can't remember the names.

He continues: "Then, within each faction, there are a variety of skill subsets; characters with a specific focus. Some characters focus on magic, some on weapons, some on intellectual ability...and these specialties, these are the guilds."

"Which guild are you in?"

"Oh, dude...I've got like twenty characters going right now. I'm in all of them. You have to employ all of the different guilds in order to win a fight. You can have multiple characters or you can join up with other online players. What I've learned is that: when you're in a fight, you have to counter-balance the skills of your characters so that you can inflict maximum damage."

He describes a typical fight and begins lapsing into increasingly obscure gaming lingo. I'm zoning out. All I can manage at this point is, "Chess-like."

"Totally. You should play it. It's really, really good."

I pretend to watch television. He keeps going. And since it's my fault, I feel trapped. I hear the phrase "skill level" 800 times. Eventually, he starts calling people on his cell phone. He tells someone, "Seriously dude, PVP was a joke. I kicked his ass. He broke out this dinky little sword and this sad little pouch of magic stones and I was like, 'Sorry bitch, but I can hurl lava.' Boom! Destroyed him."

A guy takes the seat to my left. He watches a television that's showing a news station. He glances at me and says, "Ugh, the news. Nothin' but lies."

Conspiracy theorist. I should have stayed home.

He asks, "You buying any of that stuff? The news?"

"I guess not."

I'm conflicted about whether or not to have this conversation. On the one hand, I'm curious about which sort of conspiracy person he is...left-wing or right-wing? On the other hand, it will bore the shit out of me either way. I get enough of this kind of shit at work. There's always this part of me that wants to know, that wants to label, but it's tough to stay motivated.

The guy says, "It's getting to where they don't even bother with news anymore. They'll talk about the weather or do these little puff pieces. It's all distraction. Noise."

Generally speaking, there are two conspiracy people:

1. book-of-Revelation, mark-of-the beast types; they fixate on "single currency, single government" paranoia and utilize catch-phrases such as, "New World Order" and "cashless society". These are Christians with too much free time.

2. 9-11-is-a-lie, the-buildings-were-rigged types; they fixate on neo-conservative/Israel paranoia and utilize catch-phrases such as, "Building 7" and "controlled demolition." These are politically disaffected sorts with too much free time.

I steel myself. I say, "So, the news is a lie. Example."

He says, "9-11"

I say "Excuse me," walk outside, call my former roommate and say, "You have to hang out with me today. I'm at the pub. If I don't have a normal conversation today, I'll lose it. I'll become one of Them."

I go back inside. The guy is waiting: "There is so much they never explained. Like Building 7..."

And so on. I drink an ungodly amount. By the time my old roommate shows up, it's too late: I'm one of Them. We move to a booth and I ramble for hours about my topics of choice: depression, isolation, anxiety.

He listens and nods politely, because that's what friends do: nod politely as you drink and over-verbalize your despair.

That's my week off.

"when she began to become incoherent, they stopped": a true story

2011-08-01T22:17:00.000-07:00

I.

Rose Marie Kennedy.

Third child in the family. She was the first daughter.

The second child in the family was John Fitzgerald Kennedy. JFK. He would go on to become president.

Here's a quote from her wikipedia entry:

"She was educated separately from the other students. Two nuns and a special teacher...worked with her all day in a separate classroom. The Kennedys gave the school a new tennis court for their efforts. Rosemary 'read, wrote, spelled and counted' like a fourth-grader. She studied and studied but felt she disappointed her parents, whom she wanted to please. Her mother arranged for her brother Jack to accompany her to a tea-dance where thanks to him she appeared 'not different at all'.

II.

Other quotes from her wikipedia entry:

"Kennedy has been described as being a shy child whose I.Q. tests reportedly indicated a moderate mental retardation, but this is a question of some controversy. The Binet intelligence test given to her before first grade termed her a 'moron'.

A biographer writes that Rose [her mother] didn't confide in her friends and that she pretended Rosie was normal, "Even cousins and other relatives beyond the immediate family did not know about Rosemary's condition."

III.

Another story from her biography:

"She was presented to King George VI and Queen Elizabeth during her father's service as the American Ambassador to the United Kingdom. Her father presented his daughters instead of, more customarily, his wife...a decision which earned him favor in the press."

"Rosemary's 'slowness' was also unconventional and daring for a debut (the blue bloods of England took pride in their lineage and hid, for example, two of the queen's nieces in a mental hospital because they were retarded)."

"Young women would practice the rather complicated royal curtsey, sometimes learning the performance at the Vacani School of Dancing near Harrods. Rosemary practiced for hours and hours...Just as Rosemary was about to 'glide off' by stepping to the right, she tripped and nearly fell. Rose never discussed the incident and treated the debut as a triumph. The crowd made no sign, the king and queen smiled as if nothing had happened, and nobody knows if Rosemary was aware of her stumble."

IV.

The Kennedy family had ambitions; needed to present a certain image...a strong image. Meaning they had a serious issue to contend with: what do you do with a misfit?

The answer? A little more from her wikipedia entry:

"Placid and easygoing as a child and teenager, the maturing Kennedy became increasingly assertive in her personality. She was reportedly subject to violent mood swings. Some observers have since attributed this behavior to her difficulties in keeping up with siblings who were expected to perform to high standards, as well as the hormonal surges associated with puberty."

"In 1941, when Rosemary was 23, doctors told her father that a new neurosurgical procedure, lobotomy, would help calm her mood swings and sometimes-violent outbursts. At the time, relatively few lobotomies had been performed; James W. Watts, who carried out the procedure with Walter Freeman, described what happened:

'We went through the top of the head, I think she was awake. She had a mild tranquilizer. I made a surgical incision in the brain through the skull. It was near the front. It was on both sides. We just made a small incision, no more than an inch.'

"The instrument Dr. Watts used looked like a butter knife. He swung it up and down to cut brain tissue. 'We put an instrument inside,' he said."

"As Dr. Watts cut, Dr. Freeman put questions to Rosemary. For example, he asked her to recite the Lord's Prayer or sing God Bless America...'We made an estimate on how far to cut based on how she responded.' When she began to become incoherent, they stopped."

The result of her lobotomy:

"Rosemary was left with urinary incontinence and an infantile mentality — staring blankly at walls for hours. Her speech became unintelligible."

I can't read this story very often.

V.

Rosemary Kennedy was lobotomized in 1941. She passed away...after an adult life spent in psychiatric hospitals...in 2005.

The last paragraph from her wikipedia biography:

"She was the fifth of the Kennedy children to die, but the first to die from natural causes. A genealogical website indicates that she was buried in Holyhood Cemetery in Brookline, Massachusetts."

"There is no discernible grave marker."

A song about her.

-

2011-07-27T15:33:00.000-07:00

comments turned off again while i fix up old posts.

for the time being, this from two weeks ago:

a london park; strange buildings in the distance.

The British Museum: a nocturne

2011-07-20T09:54:00.000-07:00

(visited on july 16th, 2011)

"once i wasn't anywhere
i arrived there when i tried
walking through an open door
that had no other side"

- a nursery rhyme told to me by a skeleton on the banks of the Thames River

They're everywhere, the skeletons, walking up and down the banks, inviting people to follow them.

They are tour guides...employees of the museum.

I say "yes" to one. It nods...places one of it's hands on the back of my head. With it's other hand, it places a small stone on my tongue and begins to lower me into the river.

The skeleton holds me there, beneath the water. I close my eyes, breathe in, sink deeper into the Thames. When I die, the skeleton says, "Welcome".

The tour guide then pulls my body down...further down...towards the mouth of a cave far below. The word "entrance" is carved into the stone above the cave.

The tour guide asks for my ticket. I remove the stone from my mouth, now redolent of death, and hand it over. He gestures towards the underwater cave. I enter the British Museum.

I. The Lobby

The entrance hall has a steep incline, the water recedes. I walk into the lobby proper and look around.

Tens of thousands of dead tourists mill about, trying to orient themselves to the museum. They read guides, question staff, stare at signs. I approach one of the staff, another skeleton, and request a multi-media guide. It nods, provides me with a gadget. The handheld device displays navigation charts and info about the various rooms (names, dates, descriptions). And, through earphones, it provides audio-commentary about the museum's more prominent displays.

I place the earphones on my head, press play. A soft voice says, "The museum: a vast network of rooms, corridors, lost tunnels and unexplored chambers. Each artifact, each object, each display: one piece in the puzzle of human culture. Unfortunately, many pieces are irretrievably lost. And the puzzle itself has no shape, size or form. It is unknowable."

The voice pauses, then says, "Face the entrance please. Head right. There is a door in front of you. Please enter."

I walk into the first room.

II. Ancient Egypt

A riot scene. The room, packed with tourists: they squirm and shove, shoulder to shoulder...yelling, bleeding, violent. They attack the displays. Swarming mobs kick down the glass cases and remove the ancient artifacts.

I see a sarcophagus dragged from it's base. It topples to the floor, breaks open. The mummified remains are pulled apart...it's wrappings unwound, the body inside disassembled. Children kick the head about until it crumbles to dust. A femur is pulled from the corpse, used to break the glass of another display. A teenager pulls a second mummy onto the ground, lies on top of it, pantomimes humping it. His friends laugh, take pictures.

The multi-media guide, unaware of the chaos, describes...in a quiet hush...notable mummies, statues of interest, interpretations of funereal rites. It leads me to the center of the room and, after a dramatic pause, says, "The Rosetta Stone".

The pedestal where it once sat is now empty. I look around and find bits of the Rosetta Stone scattered about the floor, broken into a dozen or so pieces. Initials, curse words and crude drawings of sexual organs have been gouged into the stone, obscuring the hieroglyphs and ancient Greek.

The guide says, "The Rosetta Stone has been housed in the British Museum for more than two-hundred years. It is our finest...and most visited...piece. Photographs are allowed."

I pick up one of the fractured pieces, peer closely at it. The word "shit" has been carved onto it several times.

The guide says, "Next room. To your left please."

III. The Hall of Reluctant Cannibals

Hundreds of thrones line the walls of a long and narrow hall. Despite the low ceiling, chandeliers hang the entire length of the room. They touch the floor, leaving the crowds very little space to navigate between the chandeliers and the thrones.

Rulers from different periods of history sit upon each throne. They are sweating, breathing heavily, grotesquely corpulent. Billowing flesh slides from ornate clothing and overlaps each seat. The rulers fan themselves and converse with tourists. I hear one mumbling, "It was for the good of my people, you understand. The good of my people." Another says, "I had no choice, you see. To survive, my people needed space. I did what was asked of me." Another ruler wipes tears with one hand, holds a large piece of meat with the other. He weeps theatrically, eats, says, "Strength is existence. Anything else is extinction. As the father of my people, I owed them nothing less than the full expression of my strength." He pushes more meat into his face, sheds more tears.

The guide says, "Great men, all. Here they are allowed to tell their stories, to explain the impetus behind their noble decisions. These are gentle souls who rose up, met the challenges of their time."

A group of children slap at the exposed belly fat of one ruler. They rub butter onto his stomach, poke their fingers into his belly button. He cries, shoves bread into his mouth, bovinely works his jaw. The children kick at his shins, steal ruby buttons from his jacket. He suffers the indignity in silence. He works his jaw, swallows.

At the end of the hall, a young monarch weeps, says, "It was for the good of my people. I had no choice. It was a matter of survival."

All of the rulers moan and eat and say the same things.

IV. The Mosaics of Ancient Rome

I walk into a spacious chamber. The guide says, "This room once housed one of the largest collections of Ancient Roman mosaics in the world. Unfortunately, tourists have destroyed many of the pieces."

The floor is covered entirely with mosaics, as are the walls. I walk around. Many images appear to be intact, but small piles of colored stone are heaped everywhere. The guide continues, "Tourists routinely break up the original images and reassemble them into crude depictions. Our experts work, without pause, to restore each mosaic to it's original form...but the recreations themselves are often destroyed. What you see in this room is a small number of original mosaics...a larger number of restored mosaics, that are as close to the original as we can make them...and an even larger number of false mosaics, created by vandals."

I walk in circles, pace the floor. Images drift by.

Deer. Man hunting a boar. A Greek god. The word "shit".

An eagle. A Gladiator. An owl with enormous human breasts.

A forest. Three goats. A river. A nude JFK holding a gun to his head.

More animals, more weapons, more curse words.

It is unclear whether the museum or a vandal created, in mosaic, this quote from the pre-Socratic philosopher Heraclitus.

“The most beautiful world is like a heap of rubble tossed down in confusion."

V. Miscellaneous

The multi-media guide talks me through one room after another. It describes the displays, the artifacts, and offers a series of concise history lessons.

What the guide doesn't know is that, from this point on, every room is vandalized beyond recognition.

A room that once contained two-thousand stained glass doorknobs...created for a mentally ill queen...is now a debris field.

One area housed a prized collection of ancient Greek statues. All I see: faceless heads; shapeless torsos; rubble.

Jade masks, fertility statues, ancient pottery. All broken.

Graffiti has been spray painted onto Michelangelo's Epifania.

The Cyrus Cylinder, from ancient Mesopotamia...considered to be the world's first documented charter of human rights...has been turned into a bong.

I walk. The guide whispers it's knowledge. Around me, skeletons lead groups of tourist-vandals through ancient detritus.

VI. Under-Babel

In one room, the museum gives way all-together. Tourists have lifted up the marble floor tiles and begun to dig a massive tunnel. It drops straight down. The digging has been underway for years.

With no way to move forward, I make my way down. Rope ladders and crudely fashioned stairs are in place so that people can navigate the walls. The tunnel is a black pit; the bottom too far away to see.

The walls of the tunnel have been stabilized with broken bits from thousands of museum displays. Pieces from statues and mosaics and tombs have been pressed into the muddy walls. As I descend, I pass a sarcophagus. An Aztec mask. A piece from the Rosetta Stone.

I remove my earphones and press the multi-media guide into one bit of exposed wall. I won't be needing it anymore.

I look around. Thousands of people are visible along the wall...some descending, some working. I see people shaping the broken artifacts into new sets of stairs, or hanging new ropes, or pressing items into the walls, trying to strengthen the tunnel.

Hours pass. Then days.

I reach the bottom of the tunnel.

VII. The Final Exhibit

Pitch-black, except for the occasional beam of flashlight. I'm surrounded by mud, tourists.

An aperture has been dug into the ground. I step into it, climb a ladder down to a small chamber. One of the exhibits has been brought down into the room, left intact.

Inside of a glass case, I see an ancient human. He fidgets, shifts around in a pit of sand, tries to find a comfortable position. But he's visibly agitated, can't seem to rest. He fidgets some more, sighs, stops moving for a bit. He reclines at an awkward angle.

A tourist whispers to me, "That's Adam. He's still alive."

Adam's skin is paper-thin from age. His lips have decayed away, leaving in their place a fixed grimace. His eye-lids have dried and permanently retracted, meaning that he can't close his eyes to rest. He looks out at the tourists, confused, fatigued. He fidgets again, continues to seek a comfortable position.

One pane of glass has been removed from his case. Tourists reach in to touch him. Some touch his head. Some squeeze his fingers. Some poke his knees, his stomach. One tourist grasps his withered penis and says, "It's dry, like sand."

Adam startles away from every touch, but is too weak to effectively escape. He just sits in his ancient pit of sand and suffers the tourists.

A rumbling, then. The ground shakes. The tunnel collapses.

VIII. The Gift Shop

(past-tense now)

The ground we were in began to churn and undulate.

The museum, we discovered, was actually a giant entity. We hadn't destroyed it or defiled it's exhibits or harmed it in any way. The displays were merely bait. The museum just wanted people in it's belly.

I only saw a glimpse of the beast as it dug deep and began to devour us.

It's feathers were fish, it's throat a lighthouse and it's guts were a civilization.

It's stone mouth closed around us.

In miles dark, we were squeezed through ages of change. We learned secrets and truths and lies and then forgot them as our minds warped and re-formed in the violence of digestion.

The museum's waste was war and, expelled, we cooled and hardened and became nothing else.

Then: temporary incoherence; a modicum of darkness. I looked around. We had been excreted into the gift shop.

I browsed, inspected the trinkets. I bought a Big Ben fridge magnet and a picture book.

the end

(when we left, Sarah asked, "what did you think of the museum," and i said, "it was strange.")

update

2011-07-18T10:11:00.000-07:00

photos added to the last post, each worth a thousand words. meaning that the thousand or so words surrounding the images are worth, in total, one picture. sort of depressing, when you think about it.

sketches: Suffolk, England (part 1)

2011-07-13T08:53:00.000-07:00

from tuesday

I.

Sarah leaves early for work.

I use the electric kettle in the hotel room to make a large mug of instant coffee. The hotel used to be a farm house; it's around 500 years old. The room we're staying in used to be a horse barn. The hotel was renovated at some point; nice, plain rooms; a very small restaurant; a pub.

I head out at 9a.m., walk to a footpath nearby. It winds alongside a stream that pushes it's way through a small forested area, then past root vegetable farms. After 20 minutes of walking, the footpath splits...one path takes you into a small town. The other path veers off further into the countryside. Eventually it loops around, joins the main street of a small neighborhood. Follow that street and you wind up at the other side of the hotel.

II.

I walk the footpath.

At the head of it, there sits a house with asymmetrical windows. Most houses on the other side of the stream have gardens, scarecrows. Ducks circle around in the water, herd their little ones about, go nowhere. I sit on a stump where the water meets the path...try to read...but a dozen ducks swim up, making noise, I guess expecting bread. I pat my pockets to show I have nothing; they don't believe me, crowd closer. I walk off.

A lot of people are on the trail, walking their dogs. One lady has her small dog unleashed. It runs up to me, teeth bared, barking. It hops and growls. The lady says, "Come on, then, shut it. Shush now." To me she says, "No worries, mate. She's all mouthy, no teeth."

I nod, walk past them.

I near an area close to town where there are benches. I sit on one and read. An elderly man walks by. He's short, stocky...walks with a limp. He's holding a metal rod, the end of which is shaped like an ice cream scoop. The scoop is holding a miniature soccer ball, maybe three inches in diameter. He flicks the wand sideways, the ball flies out into the field...his dog chases after it. I don't know dog breeds. It's medium-sized, long hair, black and white patches. It retrieves the ball, drops it at the feet of the elderly guy. He uses the scoop to pick it up; flings the ball back into the field.

He sits next to me, says, "Lovely day." I nod, say, "Yes sir, it is. Beautiful weather."

Dog brings the ball over...guy tosses it into the stream, says, "Go on then, get wet, you know you want to." The dog bounces into the stream.

I say, "He's very handsome, your dog." The man replies, "Problem is he knows he's handsome. Gets a little full of himself. He can be a handful. Been a real treat having him, though. We adopted him from a rescue shelter. He's two now...we adopted him when he was one...the shelter said he went through two surgeries to repair his intestines."

"Oh. That's terrible. What happened?"

"Kicked, many times, by the previous owner. He was able to recover from the surgeries in about a month or so, physically speaking. Took him most of the year to move past the emotional damage. He was timid for a long stretch there."

"Well," I say, "I'm glad he found a good home. He's looking very happy now."

"That's because we've spoiled him. He's all full of himself...thinks he has the run of the place."

The dog swims out of the stream, walks over...begins to shake off the water, gets both of us wet. The guy says, "No, no, stop that! You're soaking the poor man!"

I just laugh and tell him it's okay. They walk on.

III.

I follow the path into town.

Little shops all over, side-by-side...pharmacies, real estate agents, cafes. Standing alone are a variety of restaurants and rectangular, blocky pubs.

In the middle of town, there's a stately old church: tall cathedral, towering windows, narrow, arched doors.

Tombstones are scattered about the grounds; some tilted at angles; most so eroded that no words are visible on them; they're just flat, blank stones. The lack of names, the loss of them, puts strange ideas in my head, pleasant ones, about death. I stand over a grave and close my eyes. I visualize the needy earth below, grasping non-descript bones, squeezing anonymity into them.

The grave stones having suffered the least erosion, with visible characters, show dates going back to the early 1800's. The latest date I can find is 1824.

IV.

I see a pub ahead, the Maid's Head (pictured in the blue building).

I go in, ask if food is available. The bartender says, "Sandwiches." I order one. I tell him that I'd like a pint, but that I don't know what to order...I don't know what the good beers are here. He gestures at a row of taps and says, "All good English beers. Can't go wrong with these. Proper cask ales."

I say, "Cask ale...I guess I'm not sure what that means."

"It's not pressurized," he says. "A tap beer in the States, you'd get that from a keg...which is pressurized. Cask ales, on the other hand, are not, so there's no carbonation. It's the only proper beer, if you ask me, but to Americans they can taste a little flat."

I say, "I definitely want to avoid drinks I can get back home. I'll take a cask ale. Not sure what to choose though. What do you drink?"

He answers, "Depends on the time of day. This one here? This one you only drink late at night...and only when someone else is driving. Very strong. This one...now, that's a day-time ale. You can drink this and still make your way about. Personally, I recommend this one."

"Thank you. I'll take it."

He pours the beer. Because the cask isn't pressurized, it's not like taps in the States where you just hold a lever down until the glass is filled. He has to pump it out, lowering the lever, lifting it, lowering it again...over and over, a good five or six times. He sets the glass down and says, "Wait a bit." We watch it. It's all foam. The foam settles, leaving the glass only three quarters full. He returns it to the tap, pumps another time or two, till it's full. He hands it over, says, "Cheers, mate."

I stay at the bar, try it. I see what he was saying about the cask ales...it's a bit odd to my American palate. Even though I tend to drink darker beers, I'm still used to at least some sort of pressurization, to the texture of bubbles. This has zero carbonation, it does taste flat...strange at first, but it becomes pleasant. It makes the beer sit heavier on my tongue, so the taste is more intense. It's rich, wraps around my tongue like a heavy, brown coat...so I sit there and think about the flavor for awhile.

Also, the beer is served at room temperature, so that does even more to bring out the intensity of the flavor.

The bartender: he's wearing a Nine Inch Nails t-shirt...ripped up jacket and jeans. His hair is shaved to the scalp above his right ear; the hair on top is shoulder length, frizzy; above his left ear, it's cut short, maybe an inch long.

I ask him about Nine Inch Nails...he talks about that for a bit. Describes the various projects of it's lead singer, says, "Trent strays from the band from time to time...did the score for Natural Born Killers way back...The Social Network recently...I've heard he has a new project out with his wife...but he's Trent, you know? Has to go back to the band, the music sort of pulls him in every few years. I don't think he can stay away from it. May not always go back for an album, may just turn up at a festival or something...but that's where he needs to be, I think, creatively speaking. The rest is just seasoning."

He asks what I think of the area. I tell him I like it, think it's beautiful. He asks, "Are you visiting the other towns? A lot of spots worth seeing." I reply, "I'm really not sure where to go. We were told to visit Bury, so we went there last night."

He nods, says, "Bury...nice gardens there, and the old cathedral, of course. Now, have you been to Ely?"

"No. I'm not familiar with it."

"Well, huge cathedral...I'd recommend a trip. Close by...lovely to see. Nothing else like it, really, the cathedral there is quite something. Considered to be one of the seven wonders of the medieval world. And...lets see...the coast is an hour away...any town there is nice...the food alone is worth the trip."

"I keep hearing about the cod from one coastal town. Stowe...something?"

"Lowestoft," he says. "Big fishing town.

I say, "We were planning on visiting Newmarket last night, but someone told us there's nothing to do there. That it's strictly a horse racing town."

"Yup. There's one main street and it's all geared towards the race track. Few good pubs, but nothing to do there really, if you're not betting. And this is the heart of the season. It's July...one of the few months where Football isn't happening. So the obsession turns to horse racing. Big thing right now. And...let me think...have you been to Cambridge?"

"No."

"Beautiful there, what with the universities...the entire area is nice. Um, personally I stay out of the main areas there. It's a bit...well...there are a few too many bars, if you know what I mean. Not enough pubs."

I think about it, say, "I guess I don't know what the distinction is, between a bar and a pub. In the states those words are kind of interchangeable."

"Well, a pub...you go there to unwind and that's it. There's no pressure to look a certain way, to act a certain way, and there's no rush. You chat with your mates, have a pint...you stay as long as you like. You know? It's a pub. Bars, however...you know, the lighting is a certain way; the drinks are all fancy..."

"Okay. Pubs are laid back. Bars are trendy, pretentious."

"Exactly. Cambridge is full of them. It's a lovely area to see, but if you want a pint, stick to the back streets. Avoid the main sections of town."

He leaves for a bit, returns with the sandwich. I eat, drink a pint...we watch a television that hangs on a wall across from the bar. It's showing a program called Top Gear. I ask, "What's good television to watch right now, in the UK?"

He says, "Isn't any. It's all rubbish. I stick to computer games, mostly. Bit of a gamer. If I want to watch something, I just put in a disc of Red Dwarf. Seen that one?"

"I have. I've seen a few episodes. Seemed really good."

"It's fantastic," he says. "Who knew four blokes in space could be so funny?"

I nod. We watch a little more television.

I pay, thank him for the various recommendations, head out. I go back to the footpath, take the other branch of the trail. I see trees, streams, more root vegetable farms.

In the hotel room, I turn on the electric kettle, make more coffee.

V.

I nap in the afternoon, let me eyes decompress from the day. Sarah returns, and we go to the hotel pub. We get pints...cask ales. Order food. She gets bangers and mash (sausages and mashed potatoes), I get fish and chips.

My plate comes out and the fish is huge...a giant strip of fried cod that overlaps both sides of the plate. It's sitting on a bed of thick chips (french fries). And it's served with a pea puree...on the menu at this pub, it's actually called "pea puree", but at other restaurants, I've seen it called "mushy peas". I tell Sarah that, because it makes me laugh. "They call it mushy peas, at some places."

She says, "I saw an advertisement today for a type of cookie, and it referred to them as 'deliciously squidgy'. Cracked me up."

I ask her, "What does squidgy mean?" and she says, "I have no idea."

After the meal, we go back to the room and look up the word. It means "soft". Sarah says, "Man, I'd love a squidgy cookie," and I say, "I really liked the squidgy, mushy peas."

The farm/hotel:

on the island (part 3 of 5)

2011-07-07T05:48:00.000-07:00

This is all out of sequence.

I.

I can't really remember how the trip began, because it's somewhat difficult to fly to the Azores...much, much plane swapping has to happen...much waiting, flying, waiting some more...layovers, nights in a hotel, more flying.

Basically, through one or more flights, you make it to Lisbon. Then, whenever another flight is going to the Azores, you tag along.

Anyway, something like this: a few weeks ago, on a Saturday morning, we leave the house, go to an airport. We fly to Philadelphia...wait out the layover in a bar. That evening we board a plane and fly for nine hours to Lisbon. Sarah sleeps a bit on the flight, but I can't. I just read and look around and wait. There's no flight to the Azores till monday morning, so we're spending that day and one night in Lisbon.

II.

Sunday morning: the plane lands in Lisbon. We leave the airport, check into a hotel and sleep till early afternoon.

We clean up, dress. Sarah says, "Sunday in Lisbon...should be pretty dead. A lot of shops closed...not much going on."

In the hotel elevator, Sarah small-talks with a bellhop, in Portuguese. I don't follow the conversation, but I hear this phrase: Festa de Lisboa. When the bellhop says it, Sarah looks at me and says, "Wow! That's like the big, big party!"

"It's happening today?"

"It's happening today. Just...wow. I was very wrong. Lisbon will not be dead."

The party starts late that night, so we walk around for awhile, just look at buildings, people.

She tells me that religious processions and celebrations are common in Portugal, happen throughout the year. But once a year, every town has it's own unique "Festa"...a festival that celebrates a particular saint. In Lisbon, the big Festa is in honor of Saint Anthony.

As we walk around, she says, "The Festa is a major point of pride for each town. They spend a huge amount of time preparing for it...practicing the dances, the songs, the processions. Guarantee you: ask anyone from Portugal what their towns Festa is like...they will all say, 'Oh, it's the best. By far. The other towns have sort of okay Festas, but ours is the best.'"

To illustrate this: at lunch, Susan asks the waiter what the Lisbon Festa is like. He puts his hand over his heart and says, "I have to say, ours is the best. It's the best one in Portugal."

We manage to keep straight faces.

III.

The lunch we're having is at a seaside restaurant. We're on a patio, overlooking a boardwalk area that stretches along the ocean. It takes awhile to order the food because, if you speak Portuguese, each meal is inevitably preceded by a long, long conversation. I don't speak Portuguese, so it's all on Sarah.

What happens is that we sit...a waiter walks over...and the discussion begins. Sarah and the waiter peer intently at a menu. She points, asks questions. He responds, points at other items, offers advice. Sarah sits back and thinks. Then she and the waiter walk over to a glass counter where fish, caught that day, are on display. They point, discuss, pause to consider the options. They go back to the table. They pause again, think, then launch into a protracted marathon of concluding statements.

She makes a decision. I think, "Phew, they're done." Then: the waiter brings out the wine menu. Not only does this involve an intense discussion between Sarah and two waiters...but the restaurant owner himself joins the fray. He walks over, offers his suggestions. He goes inside, returns with several bottles for Sarah to consider. They read the labels...talk...work through the menu again. Finally, a sample glass is poured...Sarah tries it...nods appreciatively. A wine is chosen.

I ask Sarah what they had discussed. She says, "That was a perfect example of just how strong the food culture is here in Portugal. People here really, really want you to have a good meal. The waiter talked about the fish that were available today...described their flavors, textures. He sounded me out on what I was interested in trying. Then he said, "I always recommend looking at the fish; that can sometimes help". So, we checked out the fish counter. And the wine...I mean, the wine discussion was one you would never have in the States. People here are very concerned about price...they want to spend carefully; they think it's kind of vulgar to spend more than you absolutely have to. So, they showed me the wines they felt would compliment the fish...and the owner actually said, "This wine is considered to be the best. But to be honest, this other wine is 5 euros cheaper and I think it's just as good.' I kind of laughed, you know? No waiter or owner in the states would ever talk you into a cheaper bottle of wine."

The fish is grilled, the waiter brings it out. It's unbelievably tender...the soft, white meat almost has the consistency of a pudding. And it has a light, smokey taste...very pleasant. We booze it up a little on the wine, slowly work through the fish and watch people strolling around the boardwalk.

Above the boardwalk is a sky-tram: glassy boxes gliding past on a wire. The owner walks out, stands on the patio, his arms crossed. He watches cars on the tram go by. He shakes his head sadly, says something to Sarah as he walks back into the restaurant.

Sarah says, "He just told me that the tram costs eight euros to ride. Then he said, 'A waste of money. Walking doesn't cost a thing.'"

IV.

We finish the meal. We walk around a little more. We sit on a bench and listen to the ocean. We watch waves and birds and people. Then Sarah looks at her watch and says, "We need to be on the other side of town". She flags down a taxi and says to the driver, "Festa de Lisboa."

The driver drives. We get there, work our way into the cobblestone labyrinth.

The outer edge of the Festa:

super fourth of transformer july

2011-07-06T06:39:00.000-07:00

a holiday weekend, over.

theater lights presented a film, the transformers. it was a success in the way that it should be.

what follows is a preview of the next transformer movie; a brief synopsis of the plot.

(spoiler alert)

Transformers 4: the Super Bowl Arcana

the oceans empty out. they evaporate and lonely people climb down into the new valleys.

the People Above...those with families, friends, pets...they stay where they are and create new ways of living. new lives, new communities. absent the still minds of quieter people, life above becomes more vibrant.

deep creases in the earth, where oceans used to be...steep trenches, staggering valleys...they fill up with the quiet and the lost. people trudge downward and build small houses of cardboard. they stay in their homes, light candles for warmth and wait out their lives.

the leader of the transformers, optimus prime, watches over them. he flies over the trenches, watching, vigilant.

he protects them.

melancholy settles deep into his heart as he surveys the once-ocean landscape. optimus flies and sees passing beneath him an endless stream of detritus: whale bones, cardboard houses, dessicated shells.

he thinks about empty structures. he thinks about walls without content. he thinks about hollow minds.

the quiet people hover darkly in their boxes.

the People Above mesh and create.

suddenly, optimus prime is followed by his nemesis, megatron. they shoot missiles at one another. they sustain injuries. they fly and shoot and emit sparks of damage.

additional action-film juvenilia is peppered throughout the film. cars do back-flips. buildings throw grenades. people say "fuck" and explode. young women squeal and strike sexually suggestive poses.

optimus prime is destroyed by his nemesis. his last thought as he crashes into the once-ocean landscape: "finally. i'm an empty shell amongst the whale bones and boxes."

the quiet are now unprotected. they begin to hover more alone, more strangely. they subsist on a diet of stale bread and pennies. they slowly die out.

the People Above agree that they should mourn the loss of the oceans and the quiet people and optimus prime. they vote to commemorate these losses by creating a new 4th of july super bowl extravaganza.

for the game, holographic pop stars replace the football players. the football itself is a confetti grenade. the players wear disco-ball helments. neon lasers dance on the helmets when a touchdown is scored.

(the half-time show: fighter-jet explosion; jumbotron sex; a gun.)

end film.

normal sorts

2011-07-01T08:41:00.000-07:00

Last week...

I go to this event at a small auditorium. It ends and the crowd begins to disperse.

I see this couple there, vague acquaintances, and i cringe. I have to flee the scene. I'm desperate to avoid a conversation with them.

I rush towards the exit...but then i'm distracted by a table full of food; appetizer odds and ends. The new plan: make a plate, then rush out.

(food. food happy.)

I make the plate, turn around...the couple is right behind me. I'm caught.

These are Shiny People, high-end normal. They're definitely teeth-whiteners...I strongly suspect they whiten their personalities as well.

They walk up and both say, "Hi!" at the same time. I say hi and stare longingly at the exit.

She looks at my plate and says, "I'd love to eat, but I just haven't felt well today."

I say, "I'm sorry to hear that."

The guy shakes his head and says, "Go on, ask her why she doesn't feel well."

I ask, "So...why aren't you feeling well?"

She playfully punches him in the arm and says, "Well, I've just been hitting the gym so hard this week and maybe I overdid it or something. Today, especially; I must've been on that treadmill for two hours. He, of course, teases me about it. Keeps telling me to eat more protein before I work out, but I just can't; I'm sticking to my diet."

He says, "She doesn't get it. I keep telling her, without the protein in your system, you're just burning muscle. I offer to make her a protein shake, she turns it down. Then, of course, she works out and feels terrible. Gotta hit those shakes, you know?"

I contemplate jabbing a knife into my face, ending everything, but instead I mumble, "Protein, yes." It's all I can muster.

She smiles her teeth-whitener smile and says, "I'm gonna mingle, you boys behave." She walks off. The guy stands there. I eat cookies and mentally caress the exit door. It's precious.

He says, "She's one of those people, keeps switching her exercise routine. I tell her, won't work unless you stick with something consistently. But she's on the treadmill one week...bike the next week...a class the week after that."

He shakes his head sadly. I nod my head and eat ham.

He continues. "It's like they say, if you wanna exercise efficiently, you gotta do what you love. Pick something that works for you, stay with it. I started weights in college and man, that's been a life saver. I tried running...I have this friend who's a fanatic about it...and I don't get it. He kept telling me, 'Gotta go for that runners high,' and I finally told him, 'I just get runner's boredom'. Lifting, though, that makes sense to me. It feels right."

I nod, eat tiny muffins.

He asks, "What are you into?"

I reply, "Treadmill? I guess?"

He doesn't respond, so I say, "I'm an inside cat."

He nods his head, bored, says, "Right, right."

It's quiet for a bit. I drink punch and eat a cracker with cheese. (I do this, in social settings, stress-eat like a deranged bobcat.)

His wife walks back over and asks, "Are you two still talking about me?" We shakes our heads no. She fake laughs and says, "Oh, I'm on to you two." I fantasize that I have a live grenade in my pocket.

The wife asks me about places I used to live...then asks me about the housing market in those areas. I'm clueless on that topic. I just tell her, "I'm out of the loop on that sort of thing, I guess."

The guy says something about the local housing market and it's fucking gibberish to me; makes no sense. I shovel olives into my face and think about death.

Sarah walks into the room. She sees me talking to the couple and looks alarmed. She rushes over, takes my arm and says, "Hi guys! Gotta head out! See ya'!"

We walk to the parking lot. She asks, "How did you let that happen?" I tell her, "It was a trap. They put food out as bait. Then, when I was putting a plate together, they snuck up on me."

"I see. What did they talk about?"

"He was talking about weight lifting and protein shakes. She started asking questions about the housing market."

Sarah says, "Those two, yeesh."

people-sketch: M

2011-06-27T09:41:00.000-07:00

Autobiography.

I have a birdhouse for a head. Entry-holes for eyes. Peg nose. No mouth.

Inside of this birdhouse resides a clock with no hands. It is antique. Gears of oak. Springs of incense.

Within the clock resides my mind: an acorn a with small window on it's side. Through the window you can see my self: a little sparrow with a stained-glass beak. It's tongue is a scrap of green velvet. It's feathers are the leaves from a long lost tree. The leaves grow golden in autumn...fall away...grow back. The bird talks to itself, chirping in the language of a clock, ticking, sounding out it's walls...pretending the echoes are an old friend.

The bird's heart is a cardboard box, small and crumpled. And that's it. Box within a bird within an acorn in a clock in the middle of a mouthless house.

(the rest is academic. dry like a chalk-board.)

empty

sketches: on the island (part 2)

2011-06-27T07:31:00.000-07:00

(part 1)

Wednesday morning. I go to the same pastry shop as the day before, order the exact same items.

Pastry is a thing in the Portugal. They have a lot of these little custard filled crusts...creamy and sweet, but not too sweet. They taste fresh and have none of the saccharine/cardboard heaviness that breakfast sweets in the states tend to have.

Not that I'm against an overload of sugar; the pastries in Portugal just have a nicer, more developed flavor.

Back to the gardens...roaming around, steeping in the views, reading.

The primary fountain in the base level of the gardens is turned off, the surrounding pool empty. Three workers are busy there...two working on the fountain itself, one guy power-washing the tiled sides of the the pool. On sidewalks around the pool, four additional workers are busy. They tend to plants and remove trash and fallen leaves from the grass. Standing nearby, observing all of this...in nice clothes and expensive looking sunglasses: a boss sort of guy. He stands in the shade and looks on, occasionally offering a word of advice.

The workers are all keeping busy, but chatting...they laugh a lot, work, take turns telling stories that end in eruptions of group laughter. Boss guy, he smiles a little, but never laughs.

Power-washing guy...he begins working on a section very near the boss. He pauses from his work...he and the boss make eye contact, hold it. Then power-washing guy slowly lifts the hose, aims it at the boss. Boss guy raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. There's a pause...all of the workers stop what they're doing and look on. Power-washing guy lowers the hose, goes back to work. Boss uncrosses his arms. The workers look at one another...smile...go back to work.

II.

At 10a.m., I go into a place called Dona Pizza; a tourist place, serving pizza and burgers. A television on the wall plays some European offshoot of VH1.

The interaction with the waiter is typical of how the entire week goes, in terms of me navigating restaurants and cafes:

I walk to the counter, say "Good morning." The elderly man working there says, "Bom Dia." I say, "Cafe and aqua." He says something in Portuguese that I don't understand. I look at the floor and think. He reaches into a refrigerator...holds up two bottles of water, each a different brand, says something in Portuguese. I point at the bottle on the right. He nods, gestures at a table. I sit, he brings the items over.

I sip espresso, drink water, read for a bit. I glance at the television and see a pretty young woman in sparkly clothes. She hops around like an idiot and shakes her booty.

I finish the coffee and water, walk up to the counter, wallet out. (I can't remember the word Sarah taught me for 'check", so I spend the entire day just walking up to counters with my wallet in hand...it worked out.) The elderly guy types into a calculator, turns it around so I can see the numbers. I hand over Euros in that amount. We say "Obrigado" at the same time and I leave.

III.

For lunch, I go into this small place, seems to be popular amongst the worker bees. My appetite just isn't there, so I eat light...cod fritters and a salad. Everyone else seems to be eating either bifanas, a type of pork sandwich, or fish stew.

Talking, talking, the room is loud. I watch a news program...more seemingly-depressed government officials are shaking their heads, speaking in a dour monotone.

I leave, spend the afternoon, walking...down to the beach, through residential neighborhoods, through shopping districts.

IV.

Sunlight from the day begins to create headaches, so I sleep a little in the afternoon. Early evening, Sarah texts, says she's on the way, wants to head out of town for dinner.

She picks me up, we drive to Sao Mateus. She forcibly wedges her car through the busy streets...through densely crowded roads, past wandering flocks of people. She makes it to the docks and we find a restaurant there, overlooking the sea. The waiter talks to her for a bit; she translates: "He says they let a bull loose in the streets, just two blocks away...some kind of annual event...so the town is packed."

We sit outside, on the patio, listen to the sounds: ocean, boat horns, firecrackers, cheering.

Sarah orders two appetizers: lapas...also known as limpets, a type of sea snail; and cracas. I ask Sarah what these are and she says, "Maybe a type of barnacle? Not sure. I like them...don't know what they are".

Lapas: small bit of meat attached to a single, thick shell. They come out grilled, covered in diced garlic (found this photo online). We eat the tiny disc of meat right off the shell; the taste a little fishy, thick with garlic, it's nice.

Then the waiter brings out a plate of rocks. Or at least what appears to be a plate of rocks. The waiter gives each of us a tool: it looks kind of like a nail with a hooked end. Sarah gestures at the rocks and says, "Cracas. I can't tell you what they are; I can just tell you that I've never seen them outside of the Azores...and they're good, I like them. Most Americans, though, won't touch them."

She talks me through eating cracas.

She holds up one of the rocks, roughly the size of a large egg, and points to the mouth of a shell that's embedded near it's top. She wiggles the hooked end of the tool between the shell and rock...presses it down as far as she can...then pulls everything out that the hook can catch. The shell pops out...and dangling beneath it is a lump of white meat. She says, "It can take a little practice to get all of the meat out in one pull."

I pick up my tool, insert it's hook beneath a shell, pull it out of the rock; i discard the shell, try some of the meat. Subtle flavor...it's just sort of mild and pleasant. (this is one picture of cracas that I found online.)

We finish the appetizers and it's quite a scene: empty shells piled here and there, lumpy rocks scattered about. Our table resembles at beach a low tide.

Our meals arrive: she gets grilled skewers of prawn, squid and fish. I get grilled octopus. I've never had octopus before, have been curious to try it. I use a fork to sort through my plate, take a look around: a group of tentacles, covered with diced onions and herbs; at the edge of the plate, a little salad and potato.

Sarah says, "People judge octopus based on two factors: is it soft? does it taste good? That's basically what you look for."

I eat. I think I expected octopus to have a very fishy taste, or at least a very exotic taste. Instead, it's basically a comfort food. Tender and warm and meaty and soothing.

For dessert, the waiter brings out pineapple slices. We eat that...drink booze...listen to the waves and the boat horns and the firecrackers.

sketches: on the island (part 1 of 4)

2011-06-19T11:46:00.001-07:00

Last Tuesday.

I.

We wake up. Sarah gets ready for a day at the work site. I curl up in bed, apprehensive. She looks at me and says, "Don't worry. You have your cell phone. Everything will be fine."

I sink further under the covers.

Usually when we travel, I just follow Sarah around and she does all of the talking; I hang back, say nothing and slide by. Zero interaction.

This time Sarah will be working...all day long and part of the evening. Four days in a row. So I'm on my own.

She looks at herself in the mirror. She pats her pockets...nods, ready to go. She says, “Don’t worry about the language barrier. If you get lost, just flag a taxi down, show them your hotel key card, they’ll take you there. Umm...for lunch: most restaurants have a plate of the day, so just go in, say, ‘Plata de dia’, it should be something good. You know how to order coffee and beer, so...that’s it. Call me if you run into trouble. Get out there, have fun.”

She leaves.

I go out at 8a.m. and walk the sidewalks for awhile.

The Azores...a small group of Portuguese islands; two hours away, by flight, from the mainland. We're staying on the island of Terceira, in a town called Angra.

I walk and walk. Up narrow, winding cobblestone streets, back down them. I sit on a bench from time to time and read from a paperback novel. I need breakfast, but I’m procrastinating, a little nervous about the language barrier. I don't speak Portuguese and the majority of people here do not speak English.

I walk, sit on a bench beside a church, look around. Every house, every business, every building: white walls, orange roof. Veins of cobblestone between them.

Time to stop procrastinating.

I go into a café and say, to a waitress, “Café.” I point at a pastry in the pastry case and hold up one finger. She nods. I sit at a table. She brings over an espresso and the pastry. I feel relieved.

I sip, eat, peruse the book. And I people-watch a little. Glancing around from time to time, absorbing. I see: old timers staring off into the distance, perfectly still, espresso on the table in front of them. Young business men wearing pricey, European glasses, speaking tersely into cell phones. A table of scruffy, bearded dudes, with big arms...worker bees; they're laughing, talking loud, gregarious.

I accidentally make eye-contact with the waitress. She brings an espresso over. I drink it so that it seems like I had, in fact, ordered it.

A television over the counter is running a news program. It shows: people dancing in a Lisbon street; a weather map; a map of Iraq; Portuguese government officials with their arms crossed, speaking in monotone voices. I can make out that (maybe) there are elections, new parliament issues; big changes.

I look around the room...accidentally make eye-contact with the waitress. She brings another espresso over. Er.

I’d like a water, but I’m afraid that if I make eye-contact with the waitress, she’ll just keep bringing espresso. The eye-contact stuff, the unintentional signals...it's throwing throwing me, so I pay at the counter, leave and get a water from a snack bar further down the street. To get it, I just walk in and blurt, “Agua!” before anyone can hand me an espresso.

II.

I walk to the gardens of Angra. Here's the base level, a day after workers fixed and filled the fountain:

The town is a collection of steep hills, so the public gardens are located on multiple levels. You walk through the base level, then climb a stone stairway to the next one; more stairs to the next level, and so on. Each area has a variety flowers, beautifully grouped together. It’s shaded by trees, dotted with benches, fountains. And at the very top is a tall, yellow steeple. You can see it from all over town, and it helps me to navigate the scene. Wherever I’m at in Angra, I just look around, find the steeple, get some sense of my location.

A winding stair:

I enter the gardens, find a bench, read for a bit. Climb a level, read a little more. I stroll around, take in the view of Angra...you can see virtually all of it from various overlooks...all the hills and buildings tumbling towards the ocean; the mountains of another town in the distance; and very far away, the clean line of the horizon. Intensely beautiful.

From one of the overlooks:

I sit again and people-watch. Wind sifts through flowers and I breathe slow, letting my head steep in the aroma.

I make it to the top, to the steeple. There’s an exit there, leading into a residential neighborhood.

(it's hard to see, but at the top of this photo...taken from the lowest level of the garden...you can sort of make out the yellow steeple)

III.

I walk around for an hour, lost, but not worried. The rule is that if I go downhill, I’ll eventually hit the main plaza, where the hotel is located.

Up hills, down them; the roads are narrow, the sidewalks just a ledge of cobblestone. I peek down an alley. I see an elderly woman leaning out of her third story window. She’s staring at the empty wall across from her, smoking a cigarette.

Some of the walkways, roads:

When I get close to the main plaza, the sidewalks become crowded...many people just leaning against walls, talking. Other people are rushing along, busy, busy. The roads are bumper to bumper traffic. I don’t see pedestrian walk ways, so I watch for a bit, try to see how people are getting across the streets.

They basically just walk across...seemingly at random...and through some sort of magic, cars don’t run them over. I watch some more, can’t really see how it’s done. I wait. The cars, for just a moment, stop due to the congestion, they can’t move forward. I seize the moment, step onto the road, attempt to pass between two cars. The car to my right suddenly begins to back up and hits me...just a tap. The driver rolls down a window, winces sympathetically and says, “Oof.” I hold my hands up, palms out...say “Oof” and walk away.

There’s an outdoor café in the main plaza. I sit...but nothing happens. No one walks over. I look at the waitress...smile. She smiles back. I still get no service. Time passes. I look at the waitress again, stare at her...she stares back. Then she, very slowly, begins to nod her head. Before she can finish, I nod my head once, rapidly. She marches over, takes my order and I get an espresso. After that...after observing her tutorial nod...things go okay. To get service, I just make eye-contact, nod...all the language I need at this particular spot.

I stay in the plaza for a bit, beneath an umbrella, nose in a book.

IV.

I walk down to the sea. The sand is dark, the water a little darker. People fill the small beach; some on blankets, some in the water. Boats clutter several docks. I sit on a recessed bench carved into a stone wall that faces the sea and just breathe and think and watch.

Approaching the beach from a distance:

The familiar can be strange if you're properly inattentive.

Feathered motes of dust swirl and chirp above the shoreline. Collectively, it lowers...settles onto the sand. Wind picks up, stirs the living dust once again. Collectively, it rises, swirls and chirps.

One little feathered speck bobbles my way, stands by my right shoe and stares at me for a bit. A tiny pigeon. Each eye a perfect red circle with a black dot in the middle. I lift up the the end of a shoelace, offer it to the pigeon. It nibbles it...rejects it...flies away.

I fix my attention on one small wave. It steadily heaves forward...lifts, rolls into itself, collapses on the sand. Death by destination.

A father and son walk by. The dad is young...the kid maybe four or five. The kid has a large ice cream cone in his hand...globe of white ice cream atop the cone. The kid takes a deep breath...places his mouth against the ice cream...and tries to press the entire cone into his mouth, all at once. He pushes it in...a cheek bulges out. He chews a little, trying to break the cone so he can fit more in. It’s an alarming sight (and brings to mind one those nature videos where you see a huge jungle snake dislocating it’s jaw to better fit it’s mouth around a boar). When the cone is half way into his face, the kid walks out of visual range; I’ll never know if he succeeded.

Couples walk by, holding hands. German tourists stroll past...blackberries in hand, texting in progress. Elderly women go by...always in pairs, always chatting intensely.

V.

I climb stairs, go into a restaurant that overlooks the dock. I nod at the waiter, say hello in English. He says, “Good afternoon”, brings me an English-language menu.

When I first began visiting Portugal, I made an attempt to learn basic phrases in the language. What I found, though, is that if I said something in Portuguese, people would begin to converse entirely in Portuguese and I would be lost. However, if I said something in English right off the bat...things tended to go a little more smoothly. If the other person knows English, they’ll switch to that. If they don’t, you can rely on gestures, on pointing. As long as you’re polite and deferential about the whole thing, you can get by. Which is to say: dropping the pretense of fitting in brought a great deal of clarity to most interactions. Awkward, but effective, communication ensued.

Waiter brings over a menu. I know very little about Azorean cuisine. By and large, it’s over my head. I can’t decipher menu options here...the food phrases are unique to the islands. Even translated sentences can sound unfamiliar to me. But Sarah has introduced me to some of the more traditional meals, so a few items have stuck.

I look at the menu, order alcatra de peixe.

Alcatra is like a stew. It’s not stew, but that’s the closest word I can think of. It consists of vegetables and meat in a...well, a broth-like substance. And the alcatra will contain one of several possible meats, whatever that particular restaurant is offering. There's beef alcatra, rabbit alcatra, pork alcatra and so on. The restaurant I'm at is by the sea...it's likely that the fish here are very good. So I order the fish alcatra (peixe being the Portuguese word for fish).

When I order, the waiter gestures at himself and says, “For me, with alcatra de peixe, I always...always...drink a glass of white wine. Together, they are very good.”

I tell him, “If you’ll choose the wine, I’ll take it.”

One thing I do know about Portugal: trust the wait staff. Always. Good things happen when you do that.

Later, he sets a glass of wine in front of me and a plate. Behind the plate, a bowl of potatoes. Beside the potatoes, a plate with 3 slices of thick, toasted bread. Then he brings out a clay pot filled with steaming, bubbling alcatra. He says, “Very hot. Let the bubbles stop. Enjoy.”

The bubbles stop. I place a piece of the toasted bread on my plate, a potato next to it. I spoon some of the “broth” onto the bread, to soften it. I lift onion and garlic slices out of the clay bowl, heap them onto the bread. Then I just dig around in the pot for a bit, see what else is in there. Large chunks of fish steak, from at least 2 different types of fish. At the bottom of the bowl is a small, intact fish...head, tail, it’s all there. I see lots of garlic, lots of onion...and tiny black spheres that are either peppercorn or something like it. Small cubes of pig fat float at the top of the broth.

I spoon a fish steak onto the plate, separate meat from the spine...I mix the meat with a piece of the moistened bread and onion. Can’t begin to describe how good it is. The waiter asks, “Everything okay?” I put my hand to my heart...look stricken...and say, “It’s very, very good.” He nods, pleased.

I sip the wine, nibble a potato.

I dig out the small fish; use a knife to scrape skin away, a fork to comb meat from bone; mix with brothy, oniony bread. A little wine, potato. More fish and bread. My head gets dizzy with all the flavors.

The discard-pile on my plate...for the skin, bone, peppercorn and fat...it grows and grows until the alcatra has been thoroughly dismantled, diminished. I finish.

My body feels leaden to it's core and deeply fatigued. I weigh ten-thousand pounds; could sleep for ten-thousand years.

After a very long time, the check still hasn’t arrived. I walk to the counter, wallet out...pay, leave.

Later I tell Sarah, “Everywhere I go, I have trouble getting the check. I tried to rely on non-verbal gestures, but the entire day, it remained a problem.”

She replied, “I should have warned you. Getting the check here...it’s a whole thing. It’s important to wait staff that a customer never feel pressured to leave...I think there’s an impression that, if they bring the bill to soon, it’s rude or pushy. Also, it’s not unusual for customers at cafés and restaurants to hang around for hours...that’s the norm here. So, to get the check, you have to be very direct...you basically have to know what to say, when to say it...and you have to be really clear. I lived here for years and even I have trouble getting the check sometimes.”

VI.

Late afternoon. I go to the hotel, sleep one hour. Sarah texts to say she'll be at work most of the night.

I walk to the same outdoor café, in the main plaza, that I was at earlier. I see elderly men, alone at tables, sipping whiskey, reading books. I like the look of it all, so I order a whiskey...open a book.

The sky: yellow, then gold, then orange, then red, then blue, then black.

I move to the hotel bar. A television is on, showing Blade Runner with Portuguese subtitles.

I watch. A female character walks into the apartment of a guy who lives by himself. She looks around and says, "Must get lonely here, JF" and he replies, "Not really. I make friends. They're toys. My friends are toys. I make them. It's a hobby."

That sticks, the words. I run them through my head a dozen times, then a dozen more.

A little bitterness to end the pleasant day.

nightshift (part 4)

2011-06-08T07:06:00.000-07:00

(part 3)

Stories from a previous job. For the privacy of those involved, names and details have been changed.

March, 2007.

I'm in the break room, at a desk, letting my head rest on a pile of magazines. It's a little after 5:30a.m. I hear clients moving around in the kitchen, foraging for breakfast. I go out, say "Good Morning," make coffee.

Clients sit around the dining room table, eating, drinking; blank-faced, staring at the floor. I stay in the kitchen, leaning against a wall, waiting out the shift.

Holly walks up to me...stares for a second...and says, "Wake up, sleepy head." Then she walks away to microwave a bowl of oatmeal.

She's 41 years old. Friendly, outgoing. Of the 8 client, she's the only one you can hold an actual conversation with.

As the microwave is running, she looks over and asks questions. She asks what the weather will be like. She asks if the newspaper is inside yet. She asks if she can go shopping, says she is almost out of toothpaste. I tell her that I'll notify the afternoon staff, set up a store trip.

She glances at the microwave, watches the bowl rotate as it heats. She says, "I'm getting burned-out on oatmeal. I should try something else tomorrow."

I ask what she'd like to try next. She says, "I've kinda been in the mood for..."

She stops talking; her facial expression changes. She looks confused. She slowly tilts an ear forward, like she's listening to something.

Then she looks at the digital display on the microwave, at the numbers counting down. She leans forward, her eyes an inch away from the display. She places a thumb against the numbers and rubs them. She rubs for a bit, then blows on them.

Then she breathes out in disappointment. She says, "So close! Oh, man, that was so close."

She forgets to resume the conversation we were having. When the oatmeal is ready, she goes to the common area to eat and watch television.

She begins small-talking with another client. She says, "I heard it's supposed to rain today. And...ugh...I do not like rain, but we so need it. It's been, like, crazy dry lately, you know? The trees are looking all sad and dry, so maybe a little rain will be okay."

She eats for a bit, then asks the other client, "Did you hear what they just said about the code?"

The other client doesn't respond.

She says, "They were announcing all of the numbers in the code and before they could finish it, they said 'Microwave'. And I was like, what does that mean? So I looked over...and behind the numbers on the microwave, you could see the code a little bit. It was hidden behind the regular numbers. And, man! I thought I was going to see it all! But it was kinda blurry and hard to make out. And it went away before I could see the last number. That was the closest I've ever been!"

Holly has been listening to the code...and waiting to hear those last numbers...for nearly 20 years.

She small-talks a little more and finishes breakfast. I walk by and she says, "Sleepy head! You awake yet?"

I say, "Not even close."

She hangs out on the couch a bit longer, watching television.

Every few minutes her facial expression changes. She looks confused. Then she tilts an ear forward, hallucinating.

on verisimilitude

2011-05-31T07:02:00.001-07:00

I.

Things that look like other things.

I saw this one day (I was sitting on a park bench).

Sunlight passed through a tree, it's leaves...made a play of light and shadow on the sidewalk in front of me. Dark limbs on the sidewalk swayed, reached out, retracted. Shadow-leaves mingled, meshed, separated.

In the undulating play of it all, there were shapes. I would catch brief glimpses of a face...then a giraffe...then a beetle...then another face...and so on.

Shadow-forms, with light as negative space.

The was no purpose to it, no end-game. The world was just playing with shapes, lost inside of itself. Child-like.

An unguarded moment, I felt lucky to see it.

I felt something else as well: envy.

That it could make so many shapes, so effortlessly...

I felt a little hurt, a little angry.

II.

I started making my own shapes when I was around 15 or so. Practicing postures, gestures. Staring in the mirror, trying on faces.

One of the exercises I utilized: I would look in the mirror and make a face (bored, interested, pleased, etc.). Then I would look away for a few minutes. Then I would look back at the mirror, see if the expression was still in place. It was a problem, back then, keeping a facial expression in effect for any length of time. This was the duration exercise i invented. It helped a little.

I practiced walks, stances, eye-contact. Slowly, I pieced together a marionette.

It was practice. It was play.

Non-verbal language arranged like trinkets in the display case of my body.

III.

A few quotes from Sartre's autobiography, "The Words".

As a child, he was fond of writing adventure stories. He particularly liked creating characters...playing with sense of self, with alternate identities.

He writes, "As author, the hero was still myself; I projected my epic dreams upon him. All the same, there were two of us: he did not have my name, and I referred to him only in the third person. Instead of endowing him with my gestures, I fashioned for him, by means of words, a body that I made an effort to see. This sudden 'distancing' might have frightened me. Instead, it charmed me. I threw verisimilitude overboard."

A few pages later: "I was beginning to find myself. I was almost nothing, at most an activity without content, but that was all that was needed...The liar was finding his truth in the elaboration of lies. By writing I was existing, I was escaping from the grown-ups, but I existed only in order to write, and if I said 'I', that meant 'I who write'. In any case, I knew joy. The public child was making private appointments with himself."

IV.

My own elaboration of lies, the marionette, became a failed project. It represented a break in existence, a fault-line.

Pretending to be normal: it didn't work. Well, it worked, it fooled a lot of people, but it failed in that I stayed fundamentally disconnected from others for a very long time.

A fault-line, inside.

It's difficult to think back and imagine what alternatives might have been available to me. I really don't know. Bad options and other bad others.

Makes me think of the Danish theologian Kierkegaard and his line about choices:

"I see it all perfectly; there are two possible situations - one can either do this or that. My honest opinion and my friendly advice is this: do it or do not do it. You will regret both.

the pane of glass

2011-05-27T11:26:00.001-07:00

Another random Proust quote. Unfortunately.

From the second volume.

The narrator is walking around, people-watching. (that's what i like about the books...they consist entirely of a morbidly introspective dude walking around, talking to himself, people-watching. good times.)

The narrator...curiously named M...is on vacation. He strolls around a beach town. Seeing rich folk enjoying a meal inside of a fancy restaurant, he remarks:

“An important social question is to know whether the pane of glass will always protect the feast of the marvelous beasts and if the obscure people peering at them through the night will not come and pick them out of their aquarium and eat them.”

I'll have to dig out his quotes on pop art. I don't agree with them, but they're funny. He loathes pop art, defends the fine arts. And he critiques the suggestion that fine art is created for the wealthy elite by saying, essentially, "Rich people are some of the dumbest people I know".

Sartre wrote an autobiography that he intended to function as a refutation of the Proust series. I'm reading it, haven't finished it. I'm curious to get a sense of it, I'm not really clear on what Sartre is reacting against, trying to say. So far it's just his description of a privileged, frivolous childhood...he's pretty up front about the fact that he was an obnoxious little shit as a kiddo. The second half, that I haven't read, gets into his reading habits, the books that impacted him in later childhood (I think). Curious about that.

You will unfortunately receive updates about this. Take that!

The Boutique (part 4 of 5)

2011-05-20T16:54:00.000-07:00

(part 3, staff sketches)

I.

For almost two years, I volunteered at a Cancer Resource Center. It offered a variety of services, but most clients came in for the boutique...the wig and breast-prosthetic room.

I would sit at the front desk, which faced the main door. I would answer phone calls, do a little house cleaning (vacuuming, dishes, laundry), put stamps on envelopes, give financial assistance forms to clients, and so on.

Usually, once or twice during my shift, someone would come in and ask to see the boutique. I had the option of either helping them myself, or asking one of the three female staff to assist them.

When I began volunteering, I had serious reservations about my competence level. I had been socially isolated for a long time, was only just beginning to leave the house more, interact with people. I worried that I wasn't the best person to help clients going through a difficult time. They needed an environment that was welcoming, supportive. And I worried that my social deficits would get in the way. A lot of my conversation is scripted, robotic...I just say what I assume people are supposed to say. I tend to be ill at-ease around people and didn't see how i could be a good fit for the role of volunteer.

But I gave it a shot (i.e., The Doctor pushed and pushed until I gave in). And it went well. It was a positive experience.

Once I began, I found that I was, in fact, ill at-ease around people. My conversation was robotic and scripted. But I also found: that was okay. What happened was that I began to notice patterns with the clients...similarities and consistent personality traits that helped me to navigate the interactions. Took some time...took about a month or so...but I began to develop a comfort level functioning as a volunteer. I became adept at identifying situations where I could help a client...and situations where staff were the ones to be involved.

To put it differently...I identified my strengths, weaknesses, and used that awareness to create a niche for myself at the center.

II.

One pattern that proved to be very helpful: I noticed that women tended to approach losing their hair and choosing a wig with one of three mindsets.

1. The General.

I can't think of a better way to describe it. Some women walked in like generals on the battlefield. Angry at cancer, ready to fight. Women like this usually marched in visibly determined...chin up, shoulders back...and supremely confident. They were often surrounded by an entourage of rowdy, supportive female friends. It was like a party when the generals came in. A woman would try on wigs...her friends would offer feedback, advice. They would laugh and say, "That's a granny wig! Get that thing off your head!" Or, "Eww, trampy. Next". Six, seven wigs would be tried on, until the Chosen Wig was found. And then the friends would go into high-end compliment mode, expressing boundless love and support for the new look.

I had no problem helping the generals. They were the ones in charge, so I just kept my mouth shut and did what I was told. Usually, I'd serve food, coffee, keep the festive atmosphere going. If a client like this had a lot of questions and I did need to involve staff, I always called Samantha down...she was young, chatty, fit right into the social scene. And she was big into the confidence, the high-energy pep-talks. She was a good one with the generals.

2. The Stoics.

Other women responded with deep, deep stoicism. The diagnosis and the beginning of treatment could do that, cause some people to shut down emotionally, at least for awhile. Women would come in rigid, blank-faced, matter-of-fact. They wanted nothing to do with pep-talks, positivity. They wanted to see the wigs...choose one...and leave. Women like this often came in alone, or with an older female relative.

I could help the stoics, because they had zero interest in small talk. Discussion was kept to a minimum. Their goal was to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible. Generals could stay in the boutique for an hour or longer; stoics were usually in and out in under ten minutes.

One day a woman came in: blank face, arms crossed. She was in her late 30's. Glasses, long dark hair; she reminded me of a librarian. She said, with mild disgust in her voice, "I begin treatment next week. Show me the wigs."

We walked into the boutique. She looked around, asked, "How does this work?"

I told her, "You choose a wig. We'll try it on, see what you think of it. And...that's it. Until all of your hair has fallen out, it will help to wear a skin cap beneath the wig. It presses the remaining hair down so that the wig fits more comfortably. So, if you like, we can try on a skin cap and then a wig."

"Is that what most women do? The skin cap and wig, they try it on here?"

"Yes ma'am, but it's up to you. Also, we have female staff on-site if you'd be more comfortable..."

She cut me off. "I don't care. Just...give me a skin cap and..." She pointed, "That wig."

Sometimes you help clients fit the cap and wig in place. I just handed them to her and waited back.

She tried them on, looked at herself in a mirror. No expression. She said, "Fine."

I bagged the items, returned to the front desk. She began to walk out. She paused for a bit...turned around, and asked, "How much is the wig? I'd like to pay for it. I don't accept charity."

I explained that wigs were given to the facility free of charge by corporate and private donors. I said, "They cost the center nothing, so we can't charge for them. They're...you know...free. For clients."

She took out her checkbook and wrote a check for one-hundred dollars. She said, "This is a donation then. I won't accept charity."

She walked out before I could give her a receipt.

If a stoic did have questions, ones I couldn't answer, I would call Catherine down. She was reserved, more politely distant and formal. She knew just what to say to stoics. Samantha...garrulous and a spontaneous hugger...would have driven them out of the room

3. The Overwhelmed.

Some clients came in looking for a wig, but really they were looking for a way to understand what was happening. To their bodies, to their lives. My sense was that a lot of women left their Oncologist visits with more questions than answers. So, coming into the center, they might have dozens and dozens of questions...questions about everything...cancer, diet, treatment, social roles...everything.

Also: what happens with cancer is that your body...your most familiar point of contact with the world...becomes, suddenly, deeply confusing and unknowable. Your own body becomes a malevolent stranger and it's a terrifying experience.

At times women would come in for a wig and they would be emotional, understandably, and all of the questions would come out. All of the fears and uncertainty.

I generally did not work with these clients. I paged Debra, Super Nurse, instead. She was qualified, experienced. Not only could she answer all of the questions, she would teach clients about the questions they should be asking. She trained women to be educated consumers of information relating to their condition.

So, Debra would help with the wigs...but she would listen the entire time, discuss the array of other issues, begin the education process. She would talk women into joining support groups, offer to sit with them during doctor's appointments, recommend books and videos. Advice, assurances and hugs ensued.

I would say that Debra had poor boundaries, except for the fact that her job description, basically, was to have poor boundaries. It was her job to get involved, to forge bonds.

The Overwhelmed. I stepped aside. They needed Super Nurse.

Anyway. I started at the center and that's how things went. Once I realized that I could identify client needs...when to help, when to match a client with the appropriate staff member...I felt comfortable being there. It went okay.

III.

I don't know. This happened.

One day a woman came in with a suitcase, she would be staying in one of the four rooms for about a month. (Clients who had a long drive into town for treatment could stay in one of the rooms, free of charge; if they had a series of appointments, this made it much easier for them, removed the commute).

Anyway, she walked in. Short, thin...she had straight, silver hair, parted down the middle. But it was a young silver, she looked like a senator or professor. She was in her early 60's.

I stood up to shake her hand...she pushed it aside and gave me a giant bear hug. She said, "Personal rule. I always hug volunteers. You're my heroes. Can you give me a hand with this suitcase? There's more in the car. Name is January, by the way. Do you like yogurt? We'll work on that. I left my book at home. Oh lordy do I need a book."

She talked a mile a minute.

And she walked very fast, I couldn't keep up with her. She was just this huggy, speedy little hummingbird person, zipping all over the place.

We took the suitcases to her room. She had an ice chest in her car, I carried that to the kitchen, helped her unload food items into the fridge. It was all organic vegetables, special vitamin drinks...and yogurt. A lot of yogurt.

It wasn't yogurt though, because she said, "This isn't yogurt. It's skyr."

She explained that skyr was an Icelandic dairy product. Extremely nutritious. A miracle food. She said, "You have to try some, young man! Right this second!"

She made a bowl. We sat at the kitchen table. I tried skyr. Tasted like yogurt, but had a different texture. Dense, extremely so. It was like eating chilled granite.

She asked, "What do you think?" and I said, "It's like eating chilled granite," and she laughed. Then she talked me into trying sweet pea juice. (It tasted like sweet peas.)

Anyway. I had only known her ten minutes, but we were already deep in conversation, trying and discussing various foods from her ice chest. She was intense, but in a fun, lively way.

Samantha came down...saw January...and did a happy-scream. Two fierce huggers in the same room: it was quite a scene. January hopped up...leapt at Samantha...and they began what appeared to be a protracted hugging competition. Squeezing, shaking, squeezing some more. Joyously violent. From what I could gather, the competition ended in a tie.

Samantha explained that this was January's fourth visit to the center in the last six years. "She's my favorite!" Samantha said; "She's the coolest lady I know!"

January pointed at her stomach and said, "Gut cancer. Keeps coming back. I've beat it four times. I'll beat it a fifth."

She stayed for a month, received treatment at a local hospital. Radiation. During every shift, she would come down, chat. She'd talk about books, her passion for hiking, her passion for health foods. She often paced when she spoke, used big hand gestures. She was tired by the time her treatments ended, a little worn down, but remained energetic, active. We had one final skyr lunch during her last week at the center, and then she left, returned home. The staff sent her off with balloons, a card and a pile of books.

One year later, she returned.

Sixth bout with stomach cancer.

When she walked through the front door, my heart hurt terribly. It was a painful shock. Her shoulders were stooped, she appeared to have lost most of her teeth. She walked with a cane, could barely lift her feet.

January was gravely ill.

She sat in a chair next to the front door, to catch her breath. She looked at me for a bit and said, "I remember you."

She didn't say anything else.

I offered to carry her bags to her room, but she said, "Niece is bringing them in. She's parking the car."

Then silence. I said, "It's good to see you." She nodded her head.

The niece came in, they walked upstairs to their room.

My shift ended. When I went in the next week, on a Monday morning, Catherine said that January had transitioned to a hospital the previous Friday.

Had needed emergency surgery on Saturday.

And had passed away on Sunday.

Catherine said, "Samantha's taking it hard. If you could do me this one favor: January's food is still in the fridge. If you could throw it out before Sam sees it, I would appreciate that. It'll really upset her."

I placed the organic vegetables, vitamin drinks, and skyr into a trash bag and threw them a way.

Samantha came down later...opened the fridge.

She stared at it for a long time, but didn't say anything. She just went back to her office.

la oficina cartesiana

2011-05-10T17:58:00.000-07:00

there was a movie about glenn gould..and i remember thinking it was pretty wonderful. they never made a readily available dvd of it...it was out there, but scarce, but it was one of the very few treatments of the pianist that seemed to fit. i remeber that i liked it. they've since made numerous documentaries about gould and they all suck, hagiographic pieces of shit.

the film that was decent, i saw it many years ago, i don't know if it holds up. i've been curious to watch it again. i remember elements of expressionsism...felt, but not literal truths (the best kind). visual poetry that seemed insightful, illuminating. i'd like to see that one again.

who else? jacques tati, i can't say enough about him. his films, they're core experiences. they'fe life, for me. oxygen. i watch a tati film and can find myself in contact with a familiar place.

the doctor, one time, asked me to talk out my sense of the world, in terms of sensory input. she said, paint a picture for me, so i can see through your eyes.

and i said, just watch the film "playtime" by tati. that's what the world looks like...feels like...to me. i've never seen a more clear portrait of the world than that.

films, stealing impressions. absorbing them. something, something.

glenn gould, i can bring myself to watch that one film about him. it establishes a baseline level of respect.

i can't do the same with films about jacqueline du pre. those are to be avoided, i think, the films, the books. even a film as esteemed as "hilary and jackie", i can't watch it.

and today, there's no need to watch films or read books about her. the internet is fractured, dispersed...countless gaping wounds, all available for viewing.

you can go to straight performances and avoid the narrative retellings. the unpleasantness that films can do to people. you can watch du pre perform and leave it at that. this bit, for example...you don't need anything else.

not long after this performance, multiple sclerosis would take away her ability perform. a cello prodigy, who, at the age of 28, began to lose feeling in her limbs.

performances like the one in the link: a gift.

oxygen.

anyway.

i watch tati's film a lot, 'playtime'. the feelings of disconnect are nice, i go for that.

in the special features for the dvd of playtime there are some home videos shot by tati and his colleagues.

the film was very expensive...very imaginative, creative. tati put his life savings into the film.

and what happened was, he lost everything. the film made zero money. he lost his savings, his home. the project...financially and creatively...broke him.

so in the special features, there's home video of tati witnessing the demolotion of the massive sets for 'playtime'.

in one shot, he is watching a building being torn down. he walks up to the building, with a script for the film in his hand. he looks up at the building...and the structure begins to topple...it begins to fall in his direction, this multi-story building.

(at the time that this home video was made, 'playtime' had already hit theaters and was a certified financial disaster.)

tati, in this video, watches the building fall towards him. he tosses the script beneath it...and runs. the building collapses, crashes to the ground, and misses tati by a few feet.

i suppose he intended some sort of symbolism, part of the set falling, crushing the script. but he almost lost his own life in that moment, it was a close call.

i don't really know. it's painful, watching the clip. tati making a joke of the film...this big piece of his heart, his mind, that he had spent a decade creating.

and it just collapses and nearly kills him.

the society

2011-05-09T13:20:00.000-07:00

I studied psycholgy in college, that was my major.

Depression-wise, for most of my time in college, I was in the deep end of the pool. I was pretty...something or other. I don't know what.

Anyway, the following is a true story. I say that...and think it's funny...because I'm vague on the details, I can't remember it all.

Something, something.

One day, at the end of my junior year of college, a psychology professor asked me to stay after class. She lectured, we took notes, the class ended. She waved me forward, handed me an envelope. She said, "Congratulations. Not many students receive this honor, but you're officially invited into..."

And she said some kind of phrase. My mind interpreted it as, "Psychology Club" or something like that, but it was basically a national society for the top students in each psych progam.

She explained that the top 5 students (determined by grades within the program and the written testimony of professors) were invited into this national psychology society. This would involve meeting, once a week, with the other students who had been accepted...attending seminars, lectures...traveling to national conferences...and so on.

She mentioned when the weekly meetings would happen. She gave me a schedule of the state seminars, the national conferences. She shook my hand and said, "Congratulations."

I never said anything to her. She spoke and I nodded my head. Once I was out of her classroom, I dropped the letter into a trash can, I never opened it. I just walked away and forgot about it.

That semester ended. The next began. Months passed, a year.

At the end of my senior year, just before graduation, the same professor summoned me to her office. She said the faculty were having a banquet in honor of the five graduating students who were in this society. She didn't say this in a happy way, she was kind of flat and aloof about it. She said, "I've personally traveled with the other four students over the past year. We attended six national conferences; several state-based seminars; and we've been meeting together once a week to discuss issues relevant to our studies."

She paused and said, "You chose not to be a part of this."

She waved a hand dismissively and said, "Your decision. But I do feel like you should attend the banquet. What will happen is that, at the banquet, we will be giving out official certificates of acceptance into the society. With the certificate, you can identify yourself as a member on any resume, application, or during any interview. It's a document that solidifies your status as a member...and to be honest, if you can't attend the banquent, I'm comfortable canceling out your membership. It's rare to do that. It's not something I take lightly...but, you know, we have hundreds of students in the program, only five get an invitation like this...I'm a little disappointed that you chose not to be more involved."

I hadn't seen this professor in a year, so I was caught of guard. I had to think back, remember what this was even about. An envelope, a membership...something. I felt bad that she was so passionate about this yet I hadn't been more attentive. So I said, "I apologize, circumstances have made things...I don't know. I apologize."

I told her I would attend the banquet. I cleared my throat and added, "I guess I'm not sure what people wear to this sort of thing. To a banquet. What's the dress?"

She glared at me for a bit. She said, "Banquet attire." I looked at her. She had nothing else to say, so I left.

I immediately tracked down my friend Jen-Ling, she was all about structure and boundaries and social rules. I said, "I have to be at this banquet and the dress is 'banquet attire'. What does that mean?"

She said, "Coat, tie. Do you have a suit?"

I said, "No. The thing is, it will probably be a small banquet. It's only for a handful of students."

She sighed and said, "In some cases, small banquets can actually be more formal. I will help you."

We went to a discount store the next day. She helped me pick out a black coat, a cheap one, a clip on tie...some cheap pants, a whole look.

I walked out of the dressing room to get her opinion. She sighed and said, unconvincingly, "It will suffice."

So I went to the banquet in my Normal-person Disguise. I infiltrated the scene. Me, amongst the others. (Tiny bottle of whisky in my coat pocket. I nipped at it before the event. Little whiskey kisses. They helped.)

I walked into the banquet hall. Small set up, a few dozen people...faculty, friends, family members, a few administrative sorts. Tables, horrible food, a typical banquet.

I was mortified to discover that the five Chosen Students had to sit at a table next to the podium, beneath a spotlight. My plan was to hang back, nip at the tiny bottle, wait things out. Instead, I had sit in front of the crowd, in the middle of it all.

The banquet itself was awkward, no other word for it. I sat at the table...with the professor who hated me and four students I didn't know. Four students who had been actively engaged with the psychology progam. Students who were very bright and very engaged with their studies.

I knew they were bright and engaged because the evening began with a slide show of pictures from the past year. Pictures that featured the four students...and the professor...at a variety of events: seminars, lectures, fundraisers, parties.

I was really struck by the slide-show because everyone in it looked...connected. Involved. Active.

I tried to remember where I had been that last year. I couldn't place myself. It was difficult to recall what I had been doing.

Meanwhile the slide show went by, each picture like a puzzle piece, one fitting neatly into the other...clicking, meshing, forming a social whole.

Then, a few professors got up and spoke about the society, it's relevance; the students, their boundless potential; the program, it's impact...and so on. And they would say a few words about each of the other four students, relating memories from the past year, discussing the students by name.

It was awkward to be conspicuously absent from every photo, every story. To be sitting there at the table, in front of everyone: a non-participant. Present physically...redacted in every other way.

With no one to blame but myself. I had every opportunity to join this vibrant, active collection of dedicated people.

I didn't, though.

I just blanked out for a year and suddenly found myself at a banquet, watching a slide show...featuring pictures of very different lives. Me sitting there like an idiot. Tipsy, unsettled. Wearing a clip-on tie. Lost.

Slide-show, people spoke, food happened. Then the certificates were given out. The professor who had given me the envelope...she related a few observations about each student, called them up, shook their hand, gave them the certificate. She did that four times in a row. Then she paused and said, "And, finally, M."

I walked over, took my certificate, walked away. I sat. I looked at my empty plate. I went ahead and removed the little bottle from my coat pocket. Nipped a little, in front of everyone. Stupid, alone.

The night ended.

The next day, Jen-ling asked how it went and I said, "It went okay." She always wanted me to do well, so I couldn't bring myself to tell her the truth. That the night was pointless, sad.

the reluctant hunter (part 2 of 2)

2011-04-26T18:31:00.000-07:00

I.

My dad goes hunting three seasons a year. Bow and arrow season, muzzleloading season and modern rifle season.

When I was growing up, I went along for the muzzleloading and modern rifle hunts, but skipped the bow hunts. I was a terrible shot with a gun, you can imagine what my aim was like with a bow. Dad spent about two years trying to teach me to shoot an arrow straight, but the difficulties with proprioception made that impossible. My arms just wouldn't cooperate. I'd hit the ground, trees way off to the side, everything but the target.

Some shots were so bad they became mathematically interesting. The arrow would veer off at an odd angle and laws of physics...laws once fixed, unbreakable...were broken.

I failed to improve over time, so he dropped it. Which was telling. Usually he would throw me into things, over and over, regardless of my competence level. Sports, church activities, youth groups. But he backed away from the bow and arrow thing. M, arrows: public menace. He got the message on that one.

It was frustrating, because I liked the idea of bow hunting more than gun hunting. Bow hunting is archaic, out of fashion and I liked that. Also, it's very difficult to kill a deer with an arrow, even for the most skilled hunter. What tends to happen is that you hit the deer...it runs off...and you have to track it, looking for drops of blood or broken twigs or disturbed leaves. You have to track it until it bleeds out, that's the norm. It's just very tough to get a quick kill out of an arrow. Anyway, the chase element...it made bow hunting more active, engaging and I liked that.

Wasn't in the cards, though. I shot at angles...weird angles. I missed a lot and broke math. The archery lessons faded away.

II.

Muzzleloading season, modern rifle season, those were the times I went along.

Muzzleloaders are the pre-modern rifles: you don't place a bullet into the chamber and shoot. You pour gun powder into the mouth of the gun...then insert a metal slug. I don't know. I'm trying to remember everything involved with preparing a muzzleloader. You place a small blasting cap beneath the hammer. I remember the gun powder, the slug...I remember a tiny bit of cloth went between the two, called wadding. You poured the powder, then used a rod to slide the wadding down, over the gun powder, I think that's the order...then used the rod again to push the slug down.

It was important that the slug be firm against the powder, and there was a way to test this. You held the gun vertical. You pressed the slug down as far as you could, with the rod. And then you lifted the rod up a bit..and let it drop. If the rod bounced, it meant the slug was as far down as it could go. If it dropped but failed to bounce, it meant you needed to push the slug further.

I have intense memories of this. We'd drive into the deer woods at 4:30a.m. and stand beside the car, using the inner dome light to see by.

Which was not much light.

We'd put our faces right against the gun and measure the powder and pour carefully and prepare everything. Mostly in the dark. In the cold. Dad watching, making sure I was careful. It was intense, because I wanted to get everything right. I didn't want to spill powder or do something out of sequence. I didn't want to embarrass myself.

It was a relief when modern rifle season came around, because the prep work was easy. Pop a bullet in the chamber...double check the safety. You're set. Muzzleloaders were just too much work, especially since I tended to miss my shots.

You don't get second shots with muzzleloaders.

III.

Average hunting day:

Wake up at 3:30a.m. Struggle into the layers of clothes. Pack a bag with snacks, bottles of water, knife, and so on. Drive for awhile, in the dark. I like night driving, that was my favorite part of the day. Arrive in the deer woods around 4:30a.m. Prep the guns. Dad would walk me to my stand, make sure I was in place, then walk off to his own stand, usually quite a ways off. Out of bullet range.

The goal was to be in the deer stand at least an hour before sunrise. Right around the time the sun comes up (or goes down), that's when deer are most active.

So we'd sit in our stands and watch and wait. If nothing had happened by 1p.m. or so, dad would walk over. We'd head back to the truck. We'd sit there and listen to the radio (either gospel or preaching or football). We'd eat lunches mom had packed. Maybe we'd roam around deer camp and chat with people. They'd tell their stories from the morning. The near-misses, the lost chances, the big kills...the drama of it all. Deer hunting is painfully mind-numbing...overwhelmingly dull...yet to hear a hunter tell it, every hour on the stand is straight out of The Odyssey. Immortals-amongst-men type stuff. Big drama.

It was hard not to laugh. I'd hear hunters describe their morning and it would be this momentous tale of noble strife, epic battle. Heady material, these deer camp tales. And I'd reflect on my morning and think, "I just sat on my ass for six hours and stared at squirrels".

I had a hard time seeing the majesty of it all. Anyway.

4p.m. at the latest, back to the stand for a few more hours. Sunset...then dark...then you leave.

That's if you kill nothing.

If at any point in time you kill a deer, then your whole day changes. It goes a different way. Then it's blood and guts and organs being cut and lifted out of the carcass and skin being pulled away and meat removed, carefully, placed into an ice chest.

My dad is old-school, he can disassemble a deer down to the bone. Every bit of edible meat is coming off...even the neck meat, which most people discard. My dad uses it for stew. Nothing gets wasted.

Not even the bones! My mom's brother, he raises beagles for a living. Raises them, sells them to hunters. He has a huge pen in his back yard with two dozen yelping, noisy beagles. So my dad, once he has gutted and skinned the deer...removed it's limbs, surgically cut away the meat...he drives to my uncles house, tosses the bones over the beagle fence. An entire carcass...in a few quick hours...is eaten down to nothing.

The violence, the cutting...the meat and the bones...the Grand Guignol of it all.

It's a different day, when you kill a deer.

IV.

I never learned all of my dad's tricks. I could gut a deer, sort of (ineptly)...get the limbs and skin off (the easy part)...but I could never really get the meat out. That took skill...you had to know what you wanted, exactly where to cut, otherwise you'd fuck up the meat. I never progressed very far with that.

With my dad, it's second nature. He's hunted for as long as he can remember. Every aspect of it...every ritual...happens automatically. The prepping, the waiting, the killing, the cleaning.

When my dad was a kid...(this is a true story, by the way...this sort of thing sounds crazy now. Today, we treat kids like little emperors...they're always watched, guarded, fiercely protected. And that's good, there's nothing wrong with that. But it used to be different, and I suspect that this difference was more pronounced in the south, or at least in isolated, rural areas. I don't know, really.)

Maybe I should preface this story by saying this: my dad's father was a preacher, for many years, in the Ozark Mountains. That's where my dad grew up.

And when he was a kid, it was very normal for him to camp in the forest, alone, for days at a time.

Starting when he was 8 or 9 years old, my dad would get out of school on a Friday afternoon...and then my grandfather would drive him to the edge of the forest. And that was it...my dad would hike, hunt and camp, alone, till Sunday morning. The only thing he had with him was a little food, some water, a gun and a sleeping bag.

9 years old.

He could eat what he packed, but his goal was always to hunt and have meals from that. Squirrels, rabbit, whatever he could catch.

On Sunday morning, my dad would walk back to the spot where he had been dropped off. My grandfather would be there, in his car, waiting for him. They would drive straight to church, then go home after that.

Today, if you left your kid in the woods for two days...come on!...that's automatic jail time! A whole lot of jail time. And it would be national news...there would be screaming, hysterical reporters describing a feral child and clearly insane, neglectful parents.

But it was normal back then...you were expected to be self-sufficient at an early age. It wasn't something you talked about or made a big deal out of. It was just a reality you lived. It was a quiet, normal thing. (Basically, you were an adult by the time you hit mid-childhood, that's how you were treated. Today, you're a child throughout your teen years...and that's if you're female. If you're a guy, you're pretty much allowed to be a child until you hit...what? Sixties? Seventies?)

So hunting...and all of it's rituals...it's like breathing for my dad, it's second nature. And it was never like that for me. I hunted, regularly, but it never took. I hadn't steeped in it like he had.

I just went along and pretended and waited it out.

I missed my shots and smuggled books and went through the motions.

I tried to seem normal, generally.

Specifically, I tried to seem like a son.

the reluctant hunter (part 1)

2011-04-19T14:09:00.000-07:00

I.

One of the big passions in my dad’s life is hunting. Deer hunting mostly, but he works in a little of everything.

As a kid, I couldn't get out of it; I had to go along with him every year. I found it to be a fairly agonizing experience. Getting up at four in the morning, sitting in a deer stand, in the cold, for six to eight hours, not allowed to move or make sounds: it was a little more fatigue and discomfort than I cared for.

As a teen, I had a choice...I could have opted out...but dad expressed such a child-like exuberance for hunting that I just went along with it. If I declined, he'd look a little hurt and say "Oh, ok. I understand" He sort of deflated and I felt bad for him. I knew how much hunting meant to him. As a token gesture of affection, I usually agreed to go.

I didn't mind it as much, as a teen, because I had learned a variety of tricks for managing the boredom by then. Which is to say: I stopped trying to actually hunt. When I was little, I'd go along with anything my dad told me. He'd say, "Be very still...don't move, don't make a sound." And I'd sit there rigid, terrified of moving or sneezing or breathing too loud. Even when he put me in my own stand and walked off, I'd still spend the entire day desperately trying not to move.

I don't know why it took so long, but eventually I asked myself: why not move around? Get comfortable? Once my dad walked away to his own stand, was out of earshot, I'd fidget and shift around, do whatever I needed to do to relax. Sometimes I'd climb out of the stand, stretch my legs. My movements were noisy relative to the heavy silence of the forest...and it almost guaranteed that I'd never see a deer...but it helped pass the time with a little more comfort.

Also, around the age of 12 or so, I began to smuggle books into the deer woods. That helped. We'd get up early, begin the arduous ritual of getting dressed, struggling into layer after layer of clothes: thermal underwear, sweat clothes, coveralls, a big coat, hunting vest over that; gloves, boots. Then I'd wait for my dad to busy himself with something; to pack the cooler or sharpen a knife. And once he was busy, I'd surreptitiously cram a book into an inner coat pocket. Some little paperback...Stephen King, Michael Chrichton, something like that (in college it was Nietzsche, Schopenhauer; strange fare for the deer woods, but fun). The book smuggling, that made all the difference; hunting became more pleasant once I had something to mentally focus on.

II.

Success in the deer woods can be measured any number of ways. Number of deer killed. Amount of meat. Size of antlers. And so on. Different people hunt for different reasons.

My dad was old fashioned. He didn't trophy hunt, he just wanted a freezer full of deer meat. If he killed a doe, he was thrilled. They were bigger, provided more meat. He didn't care too much about antlers. Maybe he cared a little, but not much.

My uncles were more the trophy hunters. They looked for horns...mounted them, bragged, judged people by their trophy kills.

A few people I knew? They just wanted to fill out their tags. Kill what was legally allowed. Nothing else. Meat, horns, they didn't care, they just wanted to kill a few deer, hit their quota. The old timers, they tended to be like this.

Again, a lot of different ways to measure hunting success.

By any metric, I was a spectacularly awful hunter. Possibly the worst hunter ever and I mean that historically. I'll put my record up against any human that's ever lived and likely win Worst Ever.

To be specific: over the course of 20 years, I killed a grand total of two deer. Two. I was in the deer woods every year, several times a year, for two decades...and that's the best I could manage.

My hunting street cred: shit.

There were two problems.

One: the aforementioned moving around thing that I did. I shuffled, fidgeted, stretched my legs and flipped pages. I rarely saw deer. I'd go years and years and not see a deer. It confused my dad. He'd kill two, three deer a season. I wouldn't even see a deer. It made no sense to him. We'd finish a day in the woods, start driving home and he'd say, "Wow. No deer? Not one?" And I'd say, "Nope." And he'd shake his head, try to puzzle that one out. Me and the deer woods, a big mystery. I was sitting there all still and quiet, as far as he knew. He couldn't make sense of it.

The second problem is that I'm a terrible shot. Today I understand that my left arm and right arm have difficulties working together. It's subtle, but I can have problems determining which hand I should use for any given task. Sometimes, my right hand feels strongest and I use that without difficulty. Sometimes, my left hand feels strongest and I use that one. Other times, it's less clear and neither hand seems to function more efficiently than the other. I'm ambidextrous, but in a weird, inconsistent way.

Early on, when my dad was teaching me to shoot, we'd go to a range and practice. Because I use my right hand more than my left, he tried teaching me to shoot right-handed. And it was a disaster. I couldn't aim at all and it felt wrong, like when you try to write with your weaker hand. So we tried left handed, and that worked a little better. It felt more comfortable and the shots were slightly less off base. They were still very, very off base, but somewhat better.

(In college, I found that I can't play pool for the same reason. I have to shoot left handed, but I'm unable to move the stick in a straight line. There's something about using both hands simultaneously that triggers the right-hand/left-hand confusion).

On the deer stand this translated to missed shots. Not that many deer walked by. But when they did, I'd aim, shoot, miss. The deer would pause...look at me with irritation...and slowly walk away. I'd hear my dad running towards my location, feet tearing through leaves. He'd yell, "Get it?" I'd say, "No." And he'd say, "Don't worry, you'll get the next one." A year or two later I'd take another shot, miss and we'd repeat the conversation.

When I finally did manage to shoot a deer, I missed the spot I was aiming for. You're supposed to hit a deer where its neck meets its shoulder.

I was 14.

A deer walked by, sniffing around, cautious. I aimed for the spot, paused to breathe in and pulled the trigger. I blew a big, gaping hole in its guts. Worst shot you can make. The deer staggered around and suffered. I had to shoot it a second time. And it took an hour to clean it...dad and I scooping out intestines and green bile, gagging, choking on the stench. A real mess.

A year later when I was on the stand and saw a deer walking by, I just ignored it. I thought, "Fuck it," and let it pass. I went back to my book.

rectangles, cursor

2011-04-18T07:25:00.000-07:00

I.

community/regional myths used to be...you know, the thing.

then: industry revolved (revolted?)

community/regional myths grew fuzzy...gave way to national myths. myths mass-produced, mass-distributed. usually with coupons in the back. free with a minimum ten dollar purchase.

then: internet. which did the opposite of what you would expect. instead of global myths, you get billions of dispersed, tangentially connected individual myths.

but not self-generated myths, in the way that communities generated myths or nations generated myths.

individual myths...rising, like incense, from social networking sites...they're a weird hybrid of personal and impersonal.

identity is no longer something you tell...it's not a story, a narrative.

identity is now a template. a series of rectangles. a profile page beside a title space and a content box. that's your new anatomy. your muscle, your ligament: empty rectangles and a flashing (impatient) cursor.

click on the keyboard, input data. press a button. invisible math whirrs. a template organizes, appears.

it's interesting! not a good thing, but also not a bad thing. it's value neutral.

the personal as data. the template as self. a little...yes...a little scary, but again, value neutral.

"this is not a pipe." (myth)

hamlet, bound in a nutshell...i wonder what profile options he would choose, if he had a facebook page? i wonder what "relationship status" he would choose? "it's complicated"?

hamlet2011@gmail.com, bound in a rectangle. a king of finite templates.

II.

that cursor is interesting. that flashing line on the computer screen...waiting for you to click and push it along. it's insatiable. no matter how much you type, it continues to flash and flash. it's bored, waiting for you to type. you're godot, to the cursor.

i have a fantasy where i type for days on end, exhausting myself, pouring out every thought and idea. and the goal is to wear out the cursor. to type until there's nothing left to say so that i can see the cursor give out and die.

and i try to imagine what it would look like when that happens. i imagine typing, typing...staring at the computer screen, watching the cursor flash and move along ahead of the words.

and it suddenly stops, the cursor. it holds still and ceases to flash.

then it thickens, petrifies. becomes a permanent artifact on the computer screen. it's dead. a final barrier.

that's a fantasy. i'm looking at the cursor now. it's peering into it's boot, waiting. bored.

anyway, i don't know what i'm talking about. myths. hybrids. free with a minimum ten dollar purchase. something.

this is not a post.

other playgrounds

2011-04-05T08:58:00.001-07:00

when i was a kid. it happened more then.

i liked to transpose visual oddities and steep in them. my mind sought that out: the pleasure of discovering an unexpected likeness.

i remember the school bus had these green seats.

cheap. they felt coarse, like leathery plastic. i liked the look of them, their texture.

the closer i looked, the more creases i saw. i'd lean forward...eye an inch away. tiny, tiny creases. everywhere.

and it struck me as familiar. my mind clicked and hummed. i thought, i've seen those little creases before.

it was my hand. the texture of the seats reminded me of the creases on my hand.

so i held a hand up to compare.

right hand an inch away from my right eye. left eye close to the cheap green seat.

slowly, i would focus my right eye. allow it to sharpen and magnify. i would inspect the creases on my hand.

then i'd let my right eye grow fuzzy...while my left eye began to focus. i would magnify and inspect the creases on the seat.

perfect match.

my mind spun with pleasure.

drug experimentation (part 2)

2011-03-29T09:25:00.001-07:00

(part 1)

I.

I started drinking alcohol in college. One of my friends, he had a frat guy roommate and these parties would spring up around us on a regular basis. My friend and I, we'd be sitting there at his place watching old episodes of Doctor Who. Then we'd hear cars pull in to the driveway. We'd hop up, frantic, immediately switch the television to ESPN. Try to mask our nerdiness. And people would file in. Frat guys, sorority girls, dozens of them. And that was it for the rest of the night, just drinking, drinking.

So that's when I started to tinker with my head, my sense of self. I drank a little one night and it made me really curious to see if I could feel different, more at peace in my body.

Normally, my thoughts feel very repetitive to me. I'm obsessive about things, my interests. My mind will latch onto something...some film or book or piece of music...and that's it. That's all I'll think about for months, years. And mentally, it's exhausting, my head feels like it's grinding itself into metal shavings. It grinds and grinds. It wears me out.

And what happened was: I started to drink and the alcohol...for brief periods of time...would change the way my thoughts felt. I'd drink and those old, repetitive thoughts would spark up, really come to life. Suddenly they felt newer, more vibrant and magnetic. Topics I already obsessed over, they gained a fresh intensity. My head...it still churned, but like an engine, it felt charged up, electric.

On an average day, I walk around feeling sort of uncomfortable in my body, disconnected. But alcohol pieced me all together for a bit. My thoughts raced and pulled everything in, every sensation. I felt cohesive for a change, it was pleasant. And when I say "for a bit", I mean maybe 30 minutes. An hour tops. Not long. I'd drink more and the thoughts would turn fuzzy, difficult to follow. I'd forget what I was thinking about, trail off into one tangent after another. The intensity that I'd felt, it dissipated, yet my thoughts continued to spin...outward, rambling, frayed.

Behaviorally, me drinking was a problem. I'd turn manic. I'd really get into my head and end up talking for hours, non-stop. I'd go and go, reeling off words and ideas. Bulk, endless monologues would ensue and I'd drive people out of the room. Obnoxious. People couldn't take it.

I couldn't see it in the moment, the way people reacted, I was too smitten with the feel of it all, the way my body and thoughts were all wrapped up in these bright, steep ideas. I was too busy generating words to step outside of myself and notice the context.

Hours and hours, talking, endlessly...increasingly tangential.

Then nauseous, then hung over. Awful stuff. I paid for the hour of joy with a full day of misery. And even more social awkwardness than I usually elicit. It was no good.

Sometimes, when I began to lose my train of thought, I found it hard to manage the energy I felt. Drinking usually ramped up my obsessive thoughts, but once I became too drunk to articulate those, the energy no longer had an outlet. I'd feel wired, restless...out of words. So for awhile (this happened a lot during my last semester in college), I'd go running. I'd take off, bolt the party...run until my lungs and legs couldn't take it.

It was a weird scene, to be on a couch for a few hours, talking about the Marx Brothers non-stop...and to then just stand up. Bloop! And take off running, right out the door. Circle the neighborhood, cut through fields, end up nowhere.

Drinking like that, it didn't continue much past college. One night, about six months after graduating, I went to a bar with my roommate. Drank. My thoughts sparked up, took off. I talked and talked, a nuisance. And then I decided that I'd crash this elite bar up the street, where you needed a reservation to get in. It was posh, hyper-expensive...a place for the executives. And what bothered me was that, in back, it had this tall, wooden fence. That fence, it drove me crazy. The way it allowed these rich people to sit outside, yet not have to see or be seen by the public...the elitism of it, it irritated me.

So I thought it would be pretty funny to hop over that fence and scare the shit out of some rich people. I wanted to drop down, growl, pull my hair...give 'em a good scare. The thought of it cracked me up. I assumed some bouncer...some behemoth in a suit...would pitch me out onto the street and that would be the end of it. All in good fun.

My roommate couldn't talk me out of it. I walked up the street. Climbed the fence. I climbed and climbed, it was a tall one. At the top, I ran into some trouble. I couldn't get my leg up and over. I gave it several tries, kicking my leg up a few times. I was too rubbery, though...too drunk. I struggled, kicked. Lost my footing. I fell backwards, cracked my head on the concrete.

I was shipped off to the hospital over that one. Concussion, stitches, bruised ribs, swollen knee. A real mess.

The binge drinking stopped then. It became too obvious that I wasn't drinking in order to capture some brief moment of joy or physical cohesion. I was drinking because I was pathetic. I was lonely and self-destructive and pathetic.

After the fall, I could see it all pretty clearly.

II.

I don't think I was depressed as a kid, clinically speaking. Whenever I was sad, it was usually in reaction to something. Bullies knocking me around, lack of friends or whatever. I'd get sad about it and that's not really the same thing as depression. That's just a reaction to events.

It all ramped up in junior high because my hormones kicked in and I went girl-crazy. That's all I could think about. Girls! Exciting! I was all needful and curious. The problem was: I'd never even made a friend by the time I was in junior high, so when the girl interest kicked into high gear, I felt lonely in an all new way. In a terrible way.

I was too awkward, socially, to get anywhere with girls and I'd get furious with myself. Angry that I couldn't overcome all my...whatever it was. Whatever was in the way. I just know I turned all sweaty and clumsy-headed around girls. And goofy. You know? I tried too hard. I pushed people away without meaning to.

So that threw me off the deep end with sadness. It still wasn't depression...I was still reacting to events, sad for specific reasons...but by high school it was like some sort of rut had formed in my mind, a permanent groove. I'd been sad for so long about so many things that it finally took on a life of it's own; it began to originate internally instead of externally.

I could feel it happening, in high school, the change. I didn't know it was depression, but I could feel something new in my veins...black fumes, thick, rolling around inside of me, choking everything out. Blanketing my feelings, my thoughts. Turning everything vile, toxic.

Independent of specific events, I now felt this bleakness. Inside. A new thing. I'd put my hand over my heart some days and feel a little scared. It was beating different, pumping extinction, killing me.

High school continued to suck on it's own, though, it was a real nightmare, at least socially. Girls, all these cuties, were still confusing the shit out of me. I wasn't getting anywhere with the loneliness. So I was depressed, but I didn't think about getting help, because I thought it made sense that I was depressed. I continued to believe I was having a reasonable response to my circumstances. Why get help?

In college: progress. I had friends, I was more social. No girlfriends, no dates...still too awkward, clumsy-headed. But I was doing well academically and having some fun socially. And that's when I decided to try for some help. Even though things were ostensibly going well, I continued to struggle with depression. I was having trouble leaving bed most days...trouble managing my emotions. My mind fixated on dark ideas. Bridges, cancer, guns, tall buildings. Death, death death.

I went to this family doctor, just some generic physician. I told him I was depressed. I left out everything else...my lack of body language, the sensory issues...I just told him I felt down and couldn't shake it. He played along, he gave me some pills. An anti-depressant.

I took those for 6 months. They had no effect. He raised the dosage a little. No effect. I stopped taking them, didn't go back.

A year or so later I deteriorated, began to isolate socially, cut ties with people. That was around 1997. In 2005, I climbed out of the isolation and started therapy. And the first therapist I saw talked me into visiting a psychiatrist. And I was desperate, I'd try anything. I went. (This psychiatrist was in the same set of offices as The Doctor...so I liked these people, was more inclined to participate, engage.)

I was receptive to the psychiatrist's ideas because she had fairly low expectations. I liked that about her. During the first visit, she said, "Look, anti-depressants can provide a real boost to people experiencing transient depression...depression that's a fairly new thing for them. If someone comes in and says, 'I'm a little down, don't know why, I've just been struggling with this sadness lately', I think there's an excellent chance that they will respond to medication. With severe, chronic depression, however...the situation is a little different. Studies suggest that severe depression is less responsive to meds. And in my personal experience, that holds true, it's more difficult to get a handle on."

She told me that therapy had to be the focus (she's the one who talked me into meeting with The Doctor)...and the meds would just be a sort of support, a back ground player. Because she was straight with me like that, downplaying what meds could accomplish, I trusted her. I was willing to try whatever she suggested. If she had tried to sell me some line about meds being great, little miracle pills, I would have left.

Over a two year period she suggested a total of five different medications, at very high dosages. She made of point of that: "If we're tackling major depression, let's go for it. Let's push it if we can."

When I told her I had tried an anti-depressant in college with no luck, she said, "Meh. You took the recommended dosage. We're going way past that. I'm going to dose you."

With all five meds, I started on a small amount and slowly ramped up, way past the recommended amount. The results?

Pill number 1: nothing!

Pill number 2: nothing!

Pill number 3: dizzy! All the time! But kind of pleasantly. The higher the dosage, the more woozy I felt. At the end, I told her the depression was the same, but I felt all floaty and soft. She said, "It sounds like you're high. Stop taking that one."

Pill number 4: back to nothing. And this one is known for being addictive, it's hard to get off of. When she felt like it was a no go, I went to smaller and smaller dosages, trying to get it out of my system, and I struggled with withdrawal symptoms for months. I was fidgety all day and would experience random moments of disorientation. Eventually I stopped taking it and we waited a long time to try anything else.

Pill number 5: amphetamine-esque. Woo! Another druggy drug, like pill 3. Peppy and stupid. I didn't like it. I felt jazzy, but it was like having too much caffeine, it sort of fried my system a little too much. And it didn't touch the depression. I told her, "It's another one that makes me feel sort of high. It's not what I'm looking for. I'm not able to manage my emotions any more easily with it."

Pills, pills. We were on the same page. Pills weren't the way to go. We parted ways.

(Next post: i meet deborah and amy...two baristas who are roomates. and drug addicts. i drink weird teas with them and watch many episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. also: my roommate brings home a giant bag of mushrooms; i hallucinate and stare at doorknobs.)

[the doctor, reading these posts, will be mortified. mortified! and it's almost autism awareness month, maybe i should find better material to be putting up. something constructive. i will! i'm capable of that. i am.]

moderate. frequent. drug. experimentation.

2011-03-28T11:39:00.001-07:00

(part 1 of 3)

We're locked into our subjectivity, trapped there. I get pretty miserable thinking about it. You sort of spring up in this one body, this one brain...and your sense of self is pinned to it, fixed there, like some dead butterfly in a display case. I get miserable about it.

It got to Hamlet, he was bummed out for the same reason. "I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have dreams." (I don't think it was necessary to add anything to that sentiment, Existentialism became a redundancy.)

I'd love to know what it feels like to be someone else. I'm curious! Physically, what would it feel like? I think about that a lot, try to puzzle it out. It's impossible.

Just going into someone's house tends to blow me away. I'm thrilled by it. I see things that are very similar to the things I own, but slightly different. Objects are familiar and altered at the same time, and that's interesting, my mind goes for that sort of thing. I'll see lamps that are very lamp-like, but not the lamp that I'm most familiar with. Carpets of a different texture. Very doorknobby doorknobs...I have to look at those, take note of their differences.

The way I react to an unfamiliar house, it makes me more interested in knowing what it would feel like to inhabit a different self. All the senses and thoughts and internal knick-knacks that roll around inside of people, what are those like? How would they feel to a different mind?

The bad dreams of a different nutshell, I'm curious about those.

So, I've taken steps to alter my sense of self. I've played around with that. I can't step into another mind...but I can redefine my own mental topography, stretch it out different ways, see what happens; see how it feels.

Moderate, frequent, drug experimentation. I try that every now and then. Not much! I try something a few times, then stop. But I'm curious. I get tired of being in here, pinned to the same fucking cork-board, day in, day out. I need a little...I don't know. Something else.

In addition to the curiosity factor, there's a more primary reason for the drug experiments. This isn't a rationalization, it's just a big motivating factor: I have issues with proprioception. My brain is out of whack.

Proprioception is the brain's ability to know how the body is oriented in space...and to know where all of the body parts are relative to one another.

That's where I get into trouble, that last bit. My body doesn't...mesh. I'd hard to describe. My limbs have always felt a little disconnected, a little off. They've felt that way for as long as I can remember, and it's a sensation that only recedes when I sleep. Every waking moment of every day, I'm off-kilter, my limbs in free-fall. It's uncomfortable.

This is the part that's most difficult to relate. I can say "my body feels uncomfortable", and that probably makes sense. What I have a trickier time articulating is the impact this discomfort has on my sense of self; on my ability to form a self-image. My body doesn't feel "set", it's sort of a nebulous, disconnected thing. Consequently, I'm unable to form a self-image. From one moment to the next, my body feels fluid, it can shift in small, subtle ways.

Put differently: I forget what I look like. I'm unable to retain an image of myself.

The discomfort, being immediate, constant...it seems to override any coherent picture I may form about my appearance. What I can do, for fleeting moments of time, is remember myself...I can think back to the last time I looked in a mirror and pull an image together. But that fades quickly. The sensations of each moment paint a different and stronger picture: they paint a picture of abstractions, of shifting forms. I can never quite puzzle it out, what I look like. I forget.

As a kid, I would stare in mirrors for hours, trying to stamp a picture into my mind. I looked and made mental sketches, and traced over those sketches and re-inked them and pleaded with myself to remember. Then I walked away and forgot. My limbs stretched and seethed, like incense. They drifted away.

It's an anguished body that does that, unwilled.

So later, beginning in college, I willed the differences. Strange was my default sense of self, I couldn't change it, so I could at least be the one creating the abstract sensations. Mostly, I just developed a need to feel something different, something coherent. Something other than the bodily dissonance. But I also wanted a little say in how I felt.

A modicum of control, I suppose that's what I was going for.

From that point on...frequently, in moderation: drug experimentation. Drugs, legal and otherwise.

Pills, leaves, teas, booze.

My proprioceptive iniquity.

things passing by

2011-03-25T13:06:00.000-07:00

i'm one of those people, i see things passing by and it makes me think of death.

birds going by, dead leaves shooting past. people (anonymous to me) driving by in shapeless cars. me (anonymous to them) drifting into the distance behind them. stars rolling around at night. the computer fan whirring all day, stopping at night.

that one really gets to me, the fan sound dying. those droning, empty sounds are the most rich, for me, i get sad when they stop. computer fans, distant traffic, the motor in a fridge. noises without codes, i need those to live, i can steep for hours in those.

things passing by. i liked touching this one brick when i was a kid. it was in a classroom and it had this rough texture, a wonderful thing to touch. it never moved...it was never going to pass, but i knew the school year would end and i'd eventually change classes. so i thought about it a lot, the brick, the way it felt. i wondered how i would handle it, being in another classroom, i tried to anticipate what life would be like in a new space. i'd touch the brick, try to imagine my hand over a different terrain...but i couldn't conjure an image or feel. all i could think about was that brick, that moment, and it's absence. i couldn't push my mind anywhere new or different. there was there and it's inevitable loss.

i don't know when kids, generally, start thinking about death, but i started then. the need for sameness encountered the impossibility of sameness. loss became a reality.

it made me curious. when will i die? when will mom and dad die? every time we got a new pet, i'd look at it and wonder, how long? and when the pet died, i'd think back to the first moment i saw it...my memory spooling out like a tape measure, stretching backwards in time...and i'd dwell on that: it's duration, it's life, it's impermanence.

fans, motors, traffic in the distance.

the lack of meaning is nice. the codeless noises.

i don't know what i'm talking about really. just typing. i read this in a book today, and it got me thinking; this is from 'death on the installment plan' (and the elipses are not mine, this is straight from the book):

"Ah, it's an awful thing...and being young doesn't help any...when you notice for the first time...the way you lose people as you go along...buddies you'll never see again...never again...when you notice that they've disappeared like dreams...that it's all over...finished...that you too will get lost someday...a long way off but inevitably...in the awful torrent of things and people...of the days and shapes...that pass...that never stop...All these assholes, these pests...all these bystanders and extras strolling under the arcades, with their glasses, their umbrellas, and their little mutts on the leash...you'll never see them again...Already they're passing...they're in a dream with the others...they're in cahoots...soon they'll be gone...It's really sad...it's rotten...A wild desire took hold of me...I was trembling with panic...I wanted to jump out on them...to plant myself in front of them...and make them stop where they were...Grab them by their coats...a dumb idea...and make them stop...and not move anymore...stay where they were, once and for all...and not see them going away anymore."

because i haven't posted this in awhile...

2011-03-24T09:18:00.000-07:00

my favorite passage from the proust novels (second volume, Treharne translation.)

The narrator is drinking champagne after joining friends in a private room at a bar:

"Not only every kind of intoxication, from that which we get from the sun or travel to that which is brought on by exhaustion or wine, but every degree of intoxication- and each should have a different grading mark, like sea depths on a map- lays bare in us, at the exact level affected, a particular sort of man.

Robert's private dining room was small, but the single mirror that hung in it was such that it seemed to reflect some thirty others, in an endless progression; and when it was lit at night and followed by the procession of thirty or more reflections of itself, the lightbulb placed at the top of the mirror frame must have given the drinker, even when alone, the impression that the surrounding space was multiplying itself along with his own sensations, heightened by drink, and that, shut up by himself in this tiny room, he was nevertheless reigning over something far more extensive in its indefinite, luminous curve than just a walkway in Paris.

And at that moment, I was the drinker in question: suddenly, as I looked for him in the mirror, I saw him, a hideous stranger, staring back at me. The joy of intoxication was stronger than my disgust; out of gaiety or bravado, I smiled at him and found that my smile was simultaneously returned. And I felt myself to be so much under the ephemeral and powerful sway of this minute's intense sensation that it is not clear to me whether the only disquieting element of the experience was not the thought that the hideous self I had just glimpsed was perhaps about to breathe his last, and that I should never meet this stranger again in my lifetime."

my mom thinks i'm normal. she's just sure of it.

2011-03-22T11:41:00.000-07:00

Here's a conversation I have every year around my birthday. It's nowhere near my birthday, but this conversation sticks in my head since it happens every year, without fail. It sort of crystallizes our whole relationship.

I.

Mom: What do you want for your birthday this year?

Me: Nothing.

Mom: What do you want for your birthday?

Me: Nothing.

Mom: You probably need shirts. Everyone needs shirts.

Me: I want nothing.

Mom: Hmm...what about a new lamp?

Me: I want nothing.

Mom: And your shoes are so scuffed. I'll get shoes.

Me: Ahhh! You know what? I'm not getting you anything for your birthday.

Mom: That's perfectly all right. I'll get you a magazine subscription. Sports Illustrated?

Me: Mom, the whole point of saying "I'm not getting you anything" was to antagonize you. So that you won't buy me anything.

Mom: Oh, I'm not antagonized. You save your money, I think that's a good idea. Curtains?

Me: Plan B is that I go crazy. I'm gonna flip out and stab a homeless guy if you keep this up.

Mom: I saw a very cute sweater the other day.

Me: Well, there we go. A cute sweater. That's secretly what I've been wanting. I'll treasure that. Cuddle with it at night.

Mom: It was covered in little blue snowflakes.

Me: Gun. Buy me a gun.

And so on

night shift (part 3)

2011-03-11T10:13:00.000-08:00

part one, part two.

(for the privacy of those involved, names and details have been changed.)

I.

a few years ago...

I'm in the common area of a psychiatric facility (recliners, pool table, TV). I'm sitting, reading a book. All the lights are off, except for the lamp next to me. The facility is dark and quiet. It's just after midnight.

Walter walks by, going from his bedroom to the front door of the facility. He opens the door and leaves.

I put the book down...sigh, rub my eyes. I walk out to the front porch and sit on a bench there. Walter is pacing the lawn. I sip coffee. I watch Walter. I wait.

He's going to start yelling, but I don't say anything for a bit. It's better if he's allowed to vent. If he can vent, he's more likely to sleep.

And this is his midnight routine:

He stands in the middle of the lawn. He looks up at the moon. He raises his hand to his mouth and speaks into it, like it's a communication device. He says, "Heaven 3...this is Walter. Heaven 3, now speak."

He waits, then continues, this time yelling.

"Heaven 3 now speak, this is Walter! I need a transport and a medic! I need a transport and a medic!"

He waits, continues.

"I've been alive for N years and four score ages, so see it, my eye, and respond. I need a transport and a medic. Ah ha ha, did you hear that? See it, my eye, and respond."

There's a rhythm to the way he says it all, a flow. It's the same script, every single time and he runs through it like a chant. After a few minutes of this, I walk over to him, do an interruption cough. He pauses, looks at me and says, "Hold on, M. I'm in the middle of this."

He yells into his hand a bit more. I tell him, "Sir, it's late, we have to go in. If you don't sleep, you'll feel bad tomorrow." He ignores me and yells into his hand. He's not being difficult...he's just too distracted to have heard me. He often has trouble responding to the people around him. The hallucinations and delusions are foremost in his thoughts; they drown out everything else.

I laugh and say, "Sir! Someone is gonna call the cops if you keep yelling! Let's go in quick!"

He stares at his hand. I walk towards the house. He follows. As he heads back to his bedroom, he mumbles, over and over, "N years and four score ages. I need a medic. N years and four score ages."

I asked him one time why he goes into the yard at night and he said he wanted to call down the moon. He thought he could talk it into lowering and that he could climb into it through a hidden door. He said, of the moon, "That's where I'm supposed to be. I'm not supposed to be here."

And I felt sad when he said that, I felt bad about it.

II.

Walter was the first client I met when I started at the facility. He was the last client I said goodbye to when I left. He was there the entire 12 years I was on staff. It was supposed to be a transitional facility...clients were supposed to come in, learn to better manage their psychiatric symptoms, then leave...but Walter never left. There was never anywhere for him to go. He was too functional for a nursing home, too rowdy for a hospital, too psychotic to stay with family. Every place he went, they sent him someplace else, so he eventually wound up in our transitional facility. No one had the heart to kick him out. He was nice, not an angry bone in his body...he was just filled to the brim with hallucinations. He couldn't contain them. He spent nearly every hour of every day overflowing with words...yelling, chanting, going through his word-routines.

There was a tea-kettle rhythm to the whole thing: he'd wake up around 5a.m. and start mumbling to himself. Then he'd drink coffee, and by 7 or so he'd be talking in a conversational voice. By 9a.m. he was loud and by noon he was at a full volume yell. Staff would get on to him...he'd lower his voice. An hour later he'd be yelling again. There was no way of stopping it really. Once he had his steam going, that was it. He'd yell till midnight.

III.

When he yelled, he was usually conversing with unseen figures at the other end of his communication device, his hand. He would bark orders into his hand, ask questions, launch into tirades, tell nonsensical jokes. The content of his statements would change depending on the mindset he was operating with.

Walter had three delusional belief systems that he would alternate between.

One: Walter believed he was the leader of an organization called Heaven 3. This was basically a combination of the afterlife and the CIA. It was staffed by omniscient angel-like beings, who would carry out his orders. It was staffed by figures from the bible (Noah and Abraham, for example). And it was staffed by real-life political figures (Nixon, Reagan and Clinton were just a few he would regularly speak with).

For months at a time, he would manage the affairs of the world, fight against attempts to unseat him from power and argue, endlessly, with former political leaders. Nixon was a favorite go-to conversation for him. He would argue with Nixon, bitterly, for hours, and then converse as if they were having a drink, shooting the breeze. He'd say, "Let me pour you another one. One more. I mean to tell you, he is. That McNamara is a son of a bitch." Then he'd laugh and say, "A real son of a bitch."

When talking to biblical figures, his conversation became more cryptic, difficult to follow. He often repeated strange medical incantations that somehow involved Noah. He'd sit in his room for hours, repeating into his hand, "Noah, my eye is yours to follow. Fix to it your heart and rye. I have injections to absorb, injections. My eye is yours to follow."

Over and over.

Two: Walter believed he was a medical doctor

When the Heaven 3 discussions had gone on for awhile, they would slowly turn into doctor conversations. He believed he had a PhD and he would give both himself and any random passerby his medical opinion. He would walk up to you and, out blue, act out a typical visit to the doctor. He'd look into your eyes, pantomime giving you a shot, ask if you'd like an x-ray taken.

As staff, I'd just try to redirect his attention to something else. I didn't know what else to do. I never developed a very effective reaction to his doctor phase. He'd walk up and start looking into my eyes. Before he could pantomime giving me a shot, I'd say, "Walter! Guess what I read in the newspaper today?"

"What?"

"The price of milk is going up. Way up! And I also read..."

I'd ramble for a bit, keep his mind away from the delusions, but it never really made a difference. He'd walk away, try his doctor routine on someone else.

Three: when the doctor phase ended, he'd believe he was a pitcher for the St. Louis Cardinals. He would continue to talk into his hand, only now it was banter between he and his catcher. "Coming inside now, coming inside. There we go. See him jump back? Ah ha ha, that son of a bitch. That corner is mine. Okay, coming back inside, let's show the guy who's in charge here."

Sometimes he would argue with his catcher. "You can't be serious. A 1-2 count and that's what you want? Oh, lord, here we go. That's the stupidest call I've ever heard, oh lord. Anything but that, give me anything but that."

Eventually the argument would evolve. It would start with the catcher, but drift into a disagreement with Nixon. That meant he was transitioning back into his Heaven 3 phase.

Each delusion would last at least 3 months, but they could go on for 6 to 8 months at a time.

Leader, doctor, baseball player. Every communication channeled through his hand. Five in the morning till midnight, every day of his adult life.

IV.

In the early 70's Walter was young and he went to Vietnam.

I don't know the specifics of the story. His mom told us about it. She met with the staff one time, to describe his history, and she told us that no one really knows what happened.

He was on patrol, in the jungle, with a group of guys. And somehow he and one other soldier got separated from the group. The two of them went missing.

The group they were with searched for them, couldn't find them. They searched the next day, then the next, and throughout the days that followed.

Walter went missing for a little over two weeks. He was eventually found wandering the jungle, alone. He was starving, severely dehydrated and psychotic. No one knows what happened to him in that time or how he survived. The soldier he was with was never found.

He had a family history of mental illness. A psychiatrist told us once that the trauma he experienced took potential symptoms...symptoms that might otherwise have remained dormant...and brought them out into the open. Transformed them into a severe, life-long mental illness. A few years after leaving Vietnam, he was diagnosed with Paranoid Schizophrenia.

I just remember that Walter was hard to manage, he yelled a lot, disrupted the setting. And after that meeting with his mother...when she told us what had happened...none of the staff minded anymore. We didn't care that he was loud. He wasn't angry or violent, so who cared if he yelled a bit? We kind of looked the other way. When other clients complained, we just said, "Well, that's Walter. That's his nature. It's okay."

V.

One night, I was reading in the common area. Walter came out, sat across from me. He asked, "M, do you work for the FBI?" He asks everyone that, it's his favorite question.

I replied, "No sir. I just work here."

He stared at me. He raised his hand and whispered, "He denies it."

Then he walked outside. He sat on the porch and chain-smoked for about ten minutes. Then he walked into the yard and yelled into his hand for awhile. He yelled about transports and medics. He yelled about living N years and four score ages. He yelled about Heaven 3 and Noah.

He paused for a bit to catch his breath, then continued the script in a more subdued voice.

"Noah, my eye is yours to follow. Fix to it your heart and rye. I have injections to absorb, injections. My eye is yours to follow."

I interrupted, asked if he'd follow me inside. He looked disappointed. He went to his room, slept a few hours.

At 5a.m., I heard him pacing his room, mumbling.

Beginning the routine.

Fairy Tales for Depressives

2011-03-04T17:36:00.000-08:00

I.

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe. She had so many kids she didn't know what to do. Eventually, due to these poor living conditions, she hung herself.

II.

A little girl strolls through a forest, walking to her grandmother's house. A wolf eats her. A hunter later kills the wolf to make a trophy of it's fur. Later, the hunter is hit by a bus. The brakes on the bus go out and it careens off a cliff. The cliff, over the course of hundreds of thousands of years, erodes into nothing.

III.

A lion gets a thorn in his paw. It's very painful and very stuck, the lion cannot remove it.

The lion sees a mouse passing by and considers asking it for help. Instead, he eats it. The lion's paw gets infected. He dies.

IV.

God creates the first two humans. He tells them, "You have the run of this place, but don't eat fruit from the magic tree. That's the only rule." And they're all like, "We're cool with that." Then a talking snake convinces the stupid, stupid woman to try some of the magic fruit. She, in turn, talks her idiot, fat loaf of a boyfriend into trying some as well. Anyway, God gets pissed, the world turns to shit, the end.

V.

These two fat German kids find a cottage made of gingerbread and candy. They predictably flip out and eat the whole thing. They later die from symptoms relating to juvenile diabetes.

VI.

This Arab kid finds an old oil lamp that someone has discarded. He rubs it, waiting for the genie to appear. He thinks carefully about what his three wishes will be.

No genie appears, it's a regular oil lamp. The kid resumes his shitty life.

VII.

This Queen is captured by an evil troll and imprisoned in a tower. The King, in response, does nothing. He's in the throes of a prolonged mid-life crisis: his hair is thinning, he's getting pudgy, etc. So instead of rescuing the queen, he lets her die...hooks up with a younger, more attractive noble lady. And...to follow through on his mid-life crisis...he offs his old horse and buys a sleek, black stallion to ride around on. Fucking idiot.

VIII.

A gentleman old and brittle
Tripped as he danced to the fiddle
He rarely fell
To very well
But only died a little

IX.

This old guy, to cope with his loneliness, created a little wooden puppet. But the old guy's arthritis prevented him from pulling the puppet's strings. The puppet sat there, on a cluttered work table, lifeless.

The old guy began to drink. First a little, then a lot. He died a few years later (partly from a broken heart, but mostly from liver cancer).

The End

people-sketch: little one, bakery

2011-03-02T17:49:00.000-08:00

last week

I go to the grocery store. Once I get inside, I forget what I'm there for.

I roam around for awhile, aimless.

I feel the shape of soup cans. I read hyperbolic adjectives on cereal boxes. I gaze at cryptic bar codes; those interest me.

There's a bench next to the bakery section, beside the glass case. It looks like a park bench, so I sit there and think and wait. I listen to the fluorescent lights, the electronic beeps, the stray bits of conversation.

A mom walks up to the glass case with her little girl. The girl is around five or so. The mom looks at cakes, talks to one of the employees for a bit.

The girl walks over to me and says, "Oh, it was so funny. Ha!"

I look at the mom to make sure it's okay...she just smiles and rolls her eyes. So I ask the girl, "What was so funny?"

She says, "That part where he coughed and he looked at his hand and he said 'Hairball!' Oh you should have seen it."

She has a DVD case tucked beneath her arm. She's squeezing it tight, like it's important. I read the title: The Cat in the Hat. The case is scuffed, the corners scratched...it's been around for awhile. I ask her, "Is that your favorite movie?"

She says, "Yes. The hairball part. I think it's..."

She loses focus, pauses for a bit. She rubs her nose. She asks, "What's your favorite movie?"

I say, "My favorite movie...hmm. I haven't seen it yet."

That throws her. She has to think that one over. Then she asks, "Can the hairball part be your favorite movie?"

And I say, "Maybe. I'll think about it."

The mom picks out a cake. She takes the little girls hand and they walk away.

I sit, listen. I roam around again. Up and down aisles.

I go back to the soup cans.

Adjective, bar codes. I can't remember what I need.

visual roaming

2011-02-24T15:15:00.000-08:00

i've had this habit since high school, where i go to the movie theater and buy a ticket for whatever is starting soonest. i don't have a particular film in mind, i just look at the times, say "That one," and go in.

then i'll go into a random room, watch maybe 20, 30 minutes of a film...leave, go into another room, watch a bit of that film, and so on.

for about 2, 3 hours, i'll just roam around, catching bits and pieces of different films. i don't know why i do this, but i enjoy it immensely. there's a dissonance to it that is pleasant somehow. seeing visual styles that differ so much from film to film...hearing different characters, interacting in scenes that, for me, lack context...something about it really clicks for me.

and i used to be able to do that without any problem, but yesterday something happened that represented a change. a sign of the times.

i went to the theater, bought a ticket for a film that was starting soon. then i began the roaming thing. i went into one room, sat for a bit, switched to another room. sat, stared, switched rooms.

the fourth room: i walked into it, took a seat. i looked at the screen. and i had a little trouble seeing the images. i rubbed my eyes...the way the screen looked, it was like my eyes were watery or something. but everything stayed blurry. and it took a second, but it hit me that this was a 3D film. unless you have the glasses, the images are blurry.

so that was a new one. i didn't know what to do. i could still make out what was happening, but it was visually disconcerting. i decided to stay.

it was an adventure film apparently. for 20 minutes i watched fuzzy people swim, indistinctly, around a smudgy cave.

then i left the room and the clarity of the real world was striking. the indistinct visuals of the film had temporarily become my real world...my brain had adapted to it. now, i was in the non-blurry, very clearly defined real world and my eyes were just blown away by the sharpness and clarity of everything. i could see individual carpet fibers, streaks of grain in the fake wood doors...just all sorts of lines and solid shapes. i wanted to touch! everything was so clear all of the sudden! i wanted to go on an exploratory tactile frenzy.

instead, i watched 20 minutes of a shitty romantic comedy and my eyes numbed out again. the world retracted back into itself, resumed it's muted indifference.

anyway, now i have to pay more attention. if a 3D movie is showing, it's a little harder to just show up, roam around. it's almost a requirement now that you strap a visual utensil to your face. it's irritating.

(i think it's funny, though, that a 3D film...watched the wrong way...can temporarily enhance your experience of the real 3D world. it makes me want to watch more blurry films, then run out and stare at doorknobs.)

Session 73

2011-02-21T17:34:00.000-08:00

my personality is such that i tend to learn more from the low times.

so...instead of never posting about therapy again, i wanted to put up one last doctor conversation. i'm needing to focus on different material, but i think this session is a good example of...well, how unpleasant things could be. and by unpleasant i mean educational. my life...it improved immensely because of the doctor's feedback...therefore i'm always inclined to put up sessions involving the more difficult discussions. also, just the fact that she was able to weather this nonsense and push me into a better set of circumstances...i don't know, i think it's a good post to have as a final doctor conversation.

not the happier times, but the low times. they give a better sense of how much distance you can traverse.

in spite of yourself.

May 1st, 2007

Doctor: How was your week?

M: Bluh. Quiet.

She pauses for a bit, watches.

D: You look more fatigued than usual. Maybe agitated.

I look down at myself.

M: This is my usual disarray.

D: Maybe. Tell me about your week though.

M: Well, I'm just tired I think. My grandmother passed away early in the week...the funeral was yesterday...so everything has kind of been non-stop for awhile; I haven't had a chance to sleep or anything. And, you know, it's mentally exhausting, the funeral scene. Everyone is bummed out. All of these strangers want to hug you. It's no good.

(the funeral post, written the same week as this session...fun! just fun, good times)

D: I'm sorry to hear about your grandmother. Were you close?

M: More historically than emotionally close. She's always been a fixture in my life, so it's weird knowing that she's gone. That's a strange absence to feel. But I haven't seen her as much since college, we haven't really been close in a long time.

D: I'm just...I guess I'm struck by the fact that you weren't going to tell me about that. How was the week? "Quiet". And in addition to losing a family member...you know? You've been socially isolated for a long time now, so just the stress of being around so many people, all week...I can't imagine how difficult that must have been.

M: It wasn't so bad really. The social rules are all easy to discern around funerals. People say the same thing over and over, you respond the same way. Everything is so structured that it's not too hard to navigate all of the hoops.

She smiles.

D: M...I'm not talking about social rules and regulations. Is that what you focused on throughout the week?

M: Um...mostly.

D: Okay. That's understandable. But I was asking about your feelings. You must have had a lot of those this week. Sadness, anxiety...

M: Oh. I don't know yet. I guess I was anxious, but only because...you know, people stress me the fuck out. But, I guess...I don't know. My feelings haven't really caught up with me yet.

D: Do you mind if I ask how she died?

M: They don't really know. She's just had a variety of health problems for awhile now, she's had a long line of ailments. It was just age, basically. Maybe that's why I'm not as sad as I should be. She was spectacularly old. At some point, you know? You gotta clear out. It's stating the obvious, but old age can't feel very good...and I just imagine that at some point you have to feel exasperated with the whole thing.

D: The whole thing? As in...

M: Life. Living. I would make for a terrible old person. I would be looking at my watch every two minutes, thinking, "Come on! Let's get this over with!"

D: Okay. I just think this is a lot to absorb. Anything in particular from the week you'd like to discuss?

M: No. I'm actually tired of thinking about it.

D: Fair enough. That makes sense.

It's quiet for a bit.

D: Have you thought any more about the things we discussed last week?

She provided an IQ assessment and asked me to write out a list of personal strengths. I responded with irritation to the assessment and refused to write a list.

M: I heard what you were saying, if that's what you mean. I have...strengths? That was the lesson, I think. I should feel peppy, emboldened.

D: No. We focus on your social deficits a lot in here and I wanted to emphasize the other side of the coin. And look, I know you hate it when I talk about your strengths. That wasn't what I was doing last week. I wanted to put together a list of personal traits that are consistent. I want you to start keeping in mind that you do have...

M: Strengths?

Doctor: Traits! Traits you can rely on over time. Things you can turn to and build on. We know that with your AS certain barriers will persist. However, certain personal traits of yours will also persist. Intelligence, for example. That doesn't go away. That's a tool that will remain available to you as we work through all of this. It's something you can utilize and benefit from.

M: But none of the traits you mentioned are new.

She thinks.

D: I don't follow.

M: None of those traits are new. If they were capable of making things better, they would have done so by now. And not one thing you mentioned has anything to do with forming social connections. People don't form connections because they have a collection of really great qualities. Right?

She doesn't say anything.

M: Positive qualities are irrelevant when it comes to relationships. Morons make friends. Abusers have relationships. Independent of good or bad qualities, people just respond to one another in a way that I can't. That ability is a part of one's neurological make up.

D: So your strengths...they're just useless. Of no value.

M: What I mean is that they don't replace...er...I don't know. I don't know what to call it. They don't replace whatever it is that I don't have. It's something I noticed when I first started using the marionette. I've described this before: I learned to mimic people when I was in high school and that is when I first started to make friends.

I become too upset to talk for a bit. I pause.

M: And it was disconcerting because, for the first time, people were responding positively to me...but they were responding to things that were false. I would think of a joke in advance, something funny to say, and then at a carefully chosen moment I would say it...and I would move my head in a pre-planned way, inflect my voice in a pre-planned way...and people would laugh at the joke. So I started to carry around this anxiety, wondering whether or not people would ever catch on. I kept asking myself, "Is it not obvious that these things are artificial?"

D: Did you want them to notice? To call you on it?

M: I don't think I did at first. My body...

I laugh.

M: I talk about the marionette a lot, but I think a more apt metaphor would be the Trojan horse. My body was this Trojan horse. So at first, I didn't want people to see past the appearance. The mimicry was how I planned on infiltrating the social scene. But it was very painful to realize that the mimicry could be so effective.

D: Because it meant you were still alone.

M: Yes. Which even now, doesn't make sense to me. It shouldn't have worked. There should have been something about me that remained visible...to anyone. Friends, parents, anyone. It hurt to look out, to see people looking at me, and to know that they saw...I don't know. Props. Behind the muscle contractions and noise, they saw nothing.

I breathe in, pull my hair.

M: So, what do you call that? How do you make sense of it?

She thinks. I continue.

M: My brain is off-kilter, it's missing a piece. That's why I'm talking about high school. That's when I started to see something in others that I knew I didn't have. I could see people looking at one another and reacting to...you know, something. It was obvious that everyone was using their own marionette, but there was more going on. People used the marionette to form connections, it was a means to an end; whereas for me, it never led anywhere. Either the means were endless or the end was meaningless, I can't tell which.

She stares.

M: So. That might have been my joke for the day.

D: I don't feel like laughing.

M: Anyway. The marionette, it didn't work. I just stayed in this artificial place or whatever. I'm really not saying this right, I don't think I'm making sense. But it's just obvious to me: there is a recognition people have around one another that is shared and necessary. And I don't have it. Your list of strengths, it doesn't include what I need the most.

D: But things can be different. That's what this is all about: not changing the past- we can't change that- but building a future. The detachment you have struggled with can be different.

M: I don't believe that. What I know is that I can act differently- I can leave here and practice the things we talk about- but I know from experience that moving differently, acting differently, that gets you nothing. You can do all of that and still remain lost inside of yourself.

D: I can only hope that this experience in here has been different for you. I know you. You've opened up with me. I've been so fortunate. Over the past year and a half...

M: Christ. Please tell me you're not suggesting that talking with you is "different" from the past.

D: Oh. I hope that it is, M. I really do.

M: I don't know you. What I know is that you are a doctor and we have a constructive discussion each week and that's it. And I just really hope you're not going to make this an example of something going right. "M is less anonymous because he's in a controlled environment with a stranger." I mean, if our roles were reversed, how would you feel?

She doesn't say anything.

M: The fact that I'm in my 30's...and I'm having to pay someone to listen to me, it's a fucking embarrassment. It's more pathetic than I can articulate.

For a long stretch of time, it's quiet.

D: I'm sorry.

M: Why?

Again, she doesn't respond.

M: We're going to go back to the same thing in here, over and over. There is something fundamental that I lack. You know it and I know it. Whatever that thing is- whatever you call it- I'm not going to gain it here or anywhere else.

D: First of all, I don't know it. I disagree with you. Second of all, you have to stop this. You are paralyzing yourself. You are completely paralyzing yourself. What you feel right now is this enormous disappointment...

M: Yes.

Doctor: ...and that is understandable. To still feel alone and detached after all of this time, yes M, that is a painful thing. But if you constantly evoke that pain, you get nowhere.

She throws her hands up.

D: Just...the things you are saying today, there is no utility in this.

I laugh.

M: What does utility have to do with it? Because you're right, none of this is helpful. But it is true.

D: Parts of it. But it's not the entire truth. It's only the negative. If you are going to move forward, you have to let go of some of this negativity. You are just...brutal towards yourself. You can't keep doing that. You have to give yourself a chance to work on these things. You have to give yourself the time necessary to build a different set of circumstances. And you can't do that if you keep this laser focus on the negatives.

M: Maybe, but what you are talking about is "moving on" and that is a meaningless concept. There is nothing real in that concept, at least not for me. The things that make my life difficult...they're waiting for me, right outside that door. In about 15 minutes, I'll be right back in the middle of it all, with the social confusion and the detachment. I can set aside thoughts, but I cannot set aside...

I point at the door.

M: That.

D: Putting one foot in front of the other...I need you to do that. We're at that point.

M: I am tired of doing that.

D: I have to ask if you'll be here next week.

M: Yup.

D: I know you're tired of thinking about the funeral, but I want you to try something.

M: Okay.

D: I want you to tell me what you saw this week. In detail. What I want is to see things through your eyes. So, if you get a chance, write about it. Sketch it out in words for me and bring that next week, okay?

M: I'll try.

*

2011-02-11T11:59:00.001-08:00

for a long while now, i've had a hard time posting about asperger's because i'm mostly just feeling bitter about the whole thing. i think getting the diagnosis in my 30's really hurt, because it felt like i lost a lot of years due to a misunderstanding; going through a lot of unpleasantness, just because there was no way to really categorize the issues and develop coping strategies...it's hard to take. getting a diagnosis that late can suck. anyway, for me it all goes back to AS...i've just never been able to feel at peace with it.

i've put up sessions with the doctor because she was a voice of reason...able to be more objective about it. but i've put up quite a few of those, i think i'm done posting that type of material. and it doesn't feel very constructive to post about AS purely from my point of view...again, i feel sort of bitter and angry towards it. maybe at a later time i can post about the diagnosis in a way that's okay...helpful, or at the very least not unhelpful.

so, the plan is to just make this blog entirely about...i don't know what. AS is now off the table. i'm going to focus on observations about people...or personal stories, unrelated to AS. for the most part, that's what i've been posting for awhile now, so i'll continue in that vein.

special treat haw

2011-02-02T11:10:00.000-08:00

i like going to a nearby asian grocery store so that i can look at the japanese candy. i'm fascinated by the packaging. vibrant! bright! strange cartoons! i can't get over them. i stand in the candy aisle and stare at all of the wrappers and boxes. and in the seafood section there are a dozen fish tanks with all sorts of soon-to-be-eaten fish. i like to see those. i look at them for a bit, watch them swim around and plead for help with their eyes...then i go back to the candy aisle. at some point i buy ramen noodles and leave.

one time there was this large bag and it read, "Authentic Hong Kong Candy!" and in tiny letters it continued, "with a special treat inside!" so i couldn't resist. i wondered, what is hong kong candy like? and what is the treat?! i took it to a friend. we opened it up. it was a bag full of individually wrapped candy...each one round, about the size of a golf ball. and it was a fruit preserve kind of deal. there was a strawberry ball, a peach one. a ginger ball. each one hyper-sweet and unpalatable. it reminded me of grandma candy. you couldn't eat them. we each tried a few and spat them out. it's not that they were terrible...they just weren't compatible with my tongue's current frame of reference.

one candy in the bag had a wrapper that was unlike all of the others. it had a shimmery white wrapper...and across it, in red letters, three words: Special Treat Haw.

so that was the special treat, haw. which i had never heard of. we cut the ball in half and took a bite and each spat it out. again, not terrible, just very sweet and kind of sticky and...well, i don't know what happened. i just wasn't ready for haw. if haw wants some sort of relationship with me, it needs to give me a little space first. let me come to you, haw, okay?

i googled it and wikipedia has an entry. Haw flakes. what i had was different...kind of dense, held together in a sticky syrup.

this post isn't going anywhere, by the way. that's just something that happens...i go to the asian store and buy random items and mostly i like the candy. hong kong candy not so much, but the little chocolates with insane cartoon characters on the package, those are okay. package-wise, japanese candy is by far the best. it's like someone in japan decided, "think i'll take a huge hit of acid and design me some candy wrappers. woo!"

so i go and i look. i peek at the fish and leave.

the last semester (part 2 of 2)

2011-01-27T05:42:00.000-08:00

(Part 1)

Spring, 1998

I.

I missed a lot of class that last semester. I made half-hearted efforts to steer my grades in a passing direction and otherwise avoided class as much as possible. I spent most days just walking. I would stay on campus, roaming all over, going from one end to the other, or circling the big library for hours. It was hard to go home, I just liked being outside, so I would walk in the evenings as well.

Sometimes I would walk miles to a friend’s house so that we could drink scotch and watch old episodes of Doctor Who. Then I would head back, walk off the scotch, and I’d sit in my car and try to make sense of where to go. I had trouble sleeping then, so I never liked being at home, I felt worse there.

Sometimes I would go to a midnight movie, then a diner. Other times I gave up, went home… watched infomercials till morning. Infomercials, endlessly, about real estate and psychic predictions and collectible dinner plates.

II.

Jen-ling also liked to walk, so sometimes we would do joint roamings. Our favorite thing in the world was going out for lunch together, but we were both broke, constantly, so that rarely happened. Mostly we just walked around, stomachs grumbling, talking about how much we hated people. I hated people generally, while she hated specific things about people (like greed, arrogance, etc.), so I thought I had the upper hand in our misanthrope competition. I thought my hate encompassed the things she hated, making mine a better, more pure hate. She, on the other hand, felt my views were too broad to address the real core of what made people awful, making hers a more incisive and grounded hate. We tried to hash that out, that last semester. We walked, grumbled, debated.

II.

I took a class on the French writer Bataille. We read both his philosophical material and his pornographic novels. I liked the former, but found the latter to be unintentionally funny. He wrote a lot about bondage, degradation, and the stories were so desperately outlandish that I couldn't take them seriously.

I particularly liked it when the professor would read out loud from a passage. He would put on a very serious expression...clear his throat...and begin reading. Given his demeanor, I always thought something profound and meaningful was on the way. But with a grave, serious voice, he would intone, "Page 34. Second paragraph. 'Bob peed on Jane.'" And I would crack up. The professor hated me. I laughed a lot, so he hated me.

I made friends with a female student in the class. She was pursuing a philosophy degree with an emphasis on erotic studies. It's really not the case that we were friends. It's more the case that she talked to me a lot and I politely listened. And she talked a lot because she was palpably not attracted to me. Most men triggered a very intense reaction in her...she went into high-end sexual politics. But I was shy and that negated her usual reaction. Around me she just felt comfortable, i.e. sexually indifferent.

(Shyness is weird that way, it's almost like there is a chemical component to it. All throughout college I seemed to emit anti-pheromones. And the opposite sex responded accordingly: I wound up with a lot of chatty, boring, female friends. It was a nightmare.)

So anyway, I met her and we would hang out in the student center for lunch and she would talk about festishes and Bataille and her S and M parties.

One time we went to her house to study. I drank wine. She smoked out. She showed me her collection of antique sex manuals. Then she walked me to her closet, pointed to different groups of clothes and said, "These clothes are for seducing professors. These are for seducing frats...you just slut it up, basically. These are for corporate guys." She went on for a bit. Then she pointed to a pair of tiny red jeans and said, "These are the Man Killers. They work any time, any place."

We studied for a bit, watched part of a film. I went to the bathroom and saw a framed photograph on the wall. She was in it, wearing a bird mask and lingerie. There were five naked men on each side of her, facing the other way, on their hands and knees. She was looking at the camera and holding a small sign that said, 'Bill's Bucks'.

I almost inquired about the photo, but didn't.

III.

I read a lot of books that semester about various psychological disorders. After finally kissing someone for the first time and feeling nauseous, I was more frantic to understand what was happening. I had tried for years to make sense of my physical awkwardness, the disconnected sensations that plague me; but it became very clear that semester that I was not going to meet a lot of basic, basic social milestones. I was feeling unsettled and angry and desperate.

I read a lot about anxiety disorders and personality disorders, in particular. I kept a journal at the time. In it, I wrote out the specifics of what I felt internally…and symptoms of the various disorders. I tried to mix and match and see if I could find a diagnosis that made sense.

I still have the journal. On one page, written during the last two weeks of the semester, I wrote out a list of the four mostly likely diagnoses. Asperger’s Syndrome was one of them. Ultimately, I scratched it out, feeling it was the least plausible of the four. This was only a few years after it was included in the DSM, and at that time the word autism meant one thing: Rain Man. I ruled it out, moved on.

I never reached a decision, even though I desperately wanted to. A diagnosis would put a box around things, contain them. It would offset what I felt in my heart: that no diagnosis actually fit; that I was, at the core of my being, incoherent. My fear was that I lacked a true personality, that I was just an accumulation of habit and need and mimicry.

That fear…unlike any diagnostic description…fit the facts completely. And I think that’s what happened that semester. I became too afraid to function. I reached a point where the presence of others just pulled too much at my sense of self…I could see, too well, that my conversation was scripted, that my body language was rehearsed.

Life as a marionette began to scare me. Every day, during every interaction, my identity formed…lightened…and evaporated, like breath on a mirror.

III.

Classes ended.

My family wanted to have a party before the graduation ceremony. I told them I had a lot of school business to attend to, paperwork stuff relating to graduation. It wasn’t true, but I couldn’t handle seeing family, pretending to celebrate.

I just walked around campus in the few hours before the ceremony. I sat on benches and people-watched. Moms and dads and aunts and uncles strolled through campus, snapping pictures. Students posed in front of the bell tower. Friends and their families came around and small talked. Everyone asked what my plans were. I prevaricated, muttered bland, scripted things.

I went and sat on my favorite bench by the library. I drank coffee and threw acorns at squirrels. Finally, I went to the big gym, put the robe on and stood in line.

We waited in a hallway, shoulder to shoulder, a thousand students. People laughing, smoking pot, drinking from flasks.

Jen-ling walked up.

(I wasn't able to find her after the ceremony. This is our last conversation.)

She waved her hand in front of her face and said, “Good God these people stink. Who smokes at graduation?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

She sighed. “They will mispronounce my last name during the ceremony.”

“Probably.”

“Not probably. They will say it very wrong.”

“You should talk to them beforehand, tell them how to pronounce it. They might be relieved, I’m sure they hate having to guess.”

“It would not work. I have tried many times. You tell an American how to pronounce a name and they do the same thing every time. They mispronounce it anyway…laugh...and say, ‘Close enough!’ I stopped trying years ago.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

We stand there, uncomfortable in the crowd. She says, “I am in another line. I will go and see you afterward.” She leaves.

The ceremony started, and I received my diploma before she did, went back to my seat. Later, I saw Jen-ling on the edge of the stage. She looked blank, stiff. They mispronounced her name. She walked across robotically, took her diploma and exited the stage. I never saw her again.

When graduation was over, I declined offers to parties. I told friends that I had family obligations. My family did insist on a get together, but I told them I had friend obligations. My mom said, "You're moving away tomorrow. Please just spend a little time with us tonight." I apologized and told her I couldn't.

I sat in my car for an hour and watched the crowd drift. The campus emptied out.

I listened to music. I drove around for awhile, aimless. I pulled into a movie theater known for showing older films. I didn't know what was showing, I just bought a ticket for the movie with the closest start time. Black room, flickering lights: Sylvester Stallone fought bad guys. I don't remember what happened, I just remember snow and mountains and a helicopter exploded.

I went home at midnight, slept a little, then loaded my things into a truck and moved away.

Nightshift (part 2)

2011-01-12T06:58:00.000-08:00

(part one. stories from work, from a few years ago. for the privacy of those involved, names and details have been changed.)

A psychiatric ward.

L-shaped hallway, lined with 8 client bedrooms. Kitchen area. The community room, with old, beat-up recliners, a pool-table, a television. A cluttered staff room: desk, green couch, coffee station, bulletin boards, filing cabinets.

One morning, Frank walks into the staff room. It's 5a.m. and I'm asleep on the couch. Staff aren't supposed to sleep during shift, but everyone does. Frank clears his throat. I wake up and say, "Ugh. Sorry Frank. What's up?"

He twists his hands together and shuffles his feet. He's about to speak, but then he falls back into his thoughts and loses focus. It's quiet for a bit, so to bring him back I say, "You look nervous."

He says, "A little. I guess I just wanted to ask if we're on camera."

"No. We're not on camera."

"I was watching television last night and the news started showing video of me. It was video of me in my bedroom."

"No cameras. This facility isn't set up for that sort of thing."

Frank...46-years old...has paranoid schizophrenia. He is often aloof, lost in his head, but his demeanor is unfailingly shy and deferential. He is polite in conversation, calling everyone ma'am or sir, regardless of age. He likes to hold doors for staff and other clients. Any time there is a pause is conversation, he smiles out of context. He doesn't know what else to do, so he smiles.

In addition to the TV thing, Frank also believes that beams of light can enter his brain and damage his memory. He hallucinates these beams of light, they are all around him. They are sentient, can crawl like worms and are constantly attempting to enter through his eyes. To deal with it, he shakes his head a lot. He frequently mumbles, "Get off, get off." Years before, using a piece of yarn, he strung together two lenses from a pair of broken sunglasses. He keeps this yarn tied to his head...with the lenses firmly pressed against his eyes...at all times. He sleeps with it on, showers with it on. He only takes it off when the lenses irritate his skin to the point of infection, and staff need to apply ointment.

However, this morning, the camera paranoia is more on his mind. I repeat to him, "No cameras."

He looks skeptical and asks, "You don't think I was on television?"

"You don't have anything to worry about. On television, they play shows and news and sports. They would never put up video of clients. And like I said, there are no cameras here anyway, so it's all good."

He presses his fingers to his temples and thinks. He says, "Maybe. I know they used to show me on television. They had cameras all over my house and in my car and at night I would watch news and they would show all of this video of me..."

I interrupt. "I'll tell you the good news."

"What's that?"

"I need a massive amount of coffee right now. Gallons. So, if you're wanting to stay up, I'll have that going in just a few minutes. I'll bring you a cup.

He says, "Oh, okay. Man, I could use that. I'm tired this morning."

"Coffee it is."

A few minutes later, we're sitting around a table in the kitchen, saying nothing. No else is up yet, so the ward is intensely quiet. I just rotate a coffee cup around in my hands. I watch the steam from it rise like incense. Frank periodically shakes his head, hallucinating. He drinks coffee and slowly works through a bagel.

The Boutique (part 3 of 4)

2011-01-05T07:52:00.000-08:00

(Staff sketches for a bit, then client sketches. For the privacy of those involved, names and details have been changed.)

The cancer resource center offered dozens of free services...but was staffed by only three women. Their job descriptions included everything imaginable. To juggle all of these services, keep them running, to meet the needs of so many clients, it required a huge amount of devotion and...I don't even know what. There are just those selfless people who excel at improving the lives of others, and I have no idea what makes them tick. They're just...different.

Three staff.

1. Debra. She had the best job title in the world: breast navigator. The first time I met her, I looked at her ID badge and read, "Debra. Breast Navigator." She saw me looking and said, "Yup. My actual job title." She was a sort of case worker/therapist who worked directly with clients, one-on-one, addressing their specific needs and requests.

2. Samantha was the in-house manager. She made sure all of the services were on track, running smoothly. She managed funds, office supplies, volunteers and so on.

3. Catherine was the program director...she was the administrator/big-picture person. She applied for grants, set up the fundraisers, managed the corporate donations...and distributed the money to the various programs. She was basically responsible for crafting and sustaining the infrastructure of the center.

I.

It's hard to pin down Debra's job description. It was basically: whatever the client needs. Her services were free to any woman who had received a diagnosis of breast cancer. Debra would basically take a client through each stage of the cancer process...identifying what they needed most and providing them with it.

If a client needed education about their cancer...about the physical changes they could expect or the medical procedures they would be going through...Debra would educate them. She would not only answer questions...she would teach clients to ask questions, which is so important. With a cancer diagnosis, you wake up in a new world. Your body...once familiar...is new. The language surrounding you...now made up of dense medical jargon...is new. Your sense of self, and the way your family and friends perceive you: new. It's a large quantity of data to process, and Debra...to the extent that she could...tried to put women in the drivers seat of all these changes. And she did this by teaching women to ask questions...to prioritize their needs and voice them...to family, friends, medical staff. She tried to help them bring some kind of order to all of the newness.

So, she talked and educated. She would meet clients in her office, or at their homes. She would offer to drive clients to their doctors appointments so that she could sit in and talk to them afterward, make sure they understood everything that was said. She spent the bulk of her time at the local hospital's cancer ward, doing the same thing: talking to clients, educating them, answering their questions.

I was fascinated by her body language. I'm always interested in the way people move, and it was very apparent that she had an absolute gift for non-verbal communication. I would talk to her about absolutely nothing at all...we could sit and talk about the weather...and I would think, "Wow, for whatever reason I feel...optimistic. I feel good about myself and hopeful. What's happening?!" Then Debra would leave the room and I would once again feel sad and awful about everything. I would realize, "Oh. She was the cause of that."

It was her body language. She wasn't just a good listener, she was a listening weapon. When anyone spoke, she would immediately go into this hyper-attentive mode of Intense Listening. I could say, "Hey Debra, I bought new shoelaces this week" and she would genuinely seem to give a shit.

I think a lot of it had to do with her eye contact. She didn't just make it and sustain it; anyone can do that, anyone can hold eye contact and pretend to listen. Her eyes absorbed words. If someone was talking to her, she would lower her chin a little bit and do this gaze thing where you just knew the mental tape recorder was on.

The effect this had on clients was wonderful to see. She would zero in on people with obvious care and attentiveness...and clients who desperately needed to feel validated and present, they would visibly respond to her. Clients would often walk into the center nervous, dreading the prospect of trying on a wig or prosthetic breast. And Debra would quietly, confidently talk them up, fill them with reassurances and heart-felt compliments. You could see the relief she instilled in people, the sense of "I can get through this."

The nature of her work meant that a significant number of her clients were not going to survive. She tended to work more with terminally ill clients, because their needs were greater, and I never understood how she managed this. She was not a stoic person. She felt things intensely and tended to develop a vibrant, constructive bond with her clients. It was her job to dig into their struggles and prop up their sense of self, so it's difficult to imagine how she managed so much death.

All three staff posted their daily schedules on a bulletin board, so that volunteers would know where to find them. That way, calls could be forwarded to the right place, be it offices or cell phones or off-site locations. And Debra often put up a grim schedule. It would read, "Oncology unit 9a.m. to 11a.m. Funeral from 11 to 12. Lunch. Funeral from 1p.m. to 2. Oncology Unit from 2 to 4". And so on.

Debra's mood was generally positive, upbeat, but some days she would return from the hospital in a state of despair. She wasn't much of a cryer, but she would tear up and you could hear the hurt in her voice. The other staff would usually hang out with her for a bit, talk. Debra would say, "Margaret didn't make it. I was with her husband and her two little ones when she passed, and they just took it so hard. Her little girl in particular...it was just hard to see." So she would feel that, sit with it for a bit...then compose herself and leave for her next appointment. I don't know how she did it.

Anyway. Debra. The client person.

II.

Samantha, the in-house manager, was youthful and energetic and basically kept the place running. She organized the volunteers, delegated tasks, made sure the house was stocked with wigs and prosthetics and pamphlets. She managed the various health screenings and financial assistance programs that were available to clients, and worked on promoting these services to the public. Debra worked with clients, Samantha got them in the door and pointed them in the right direction, depending on which program they needed.

Samantha's husband owned a popular restaurant/bar in town, so she knew everyone and used those connections to drum up support for the center. She was one of those community leader sorts...insanely extroverted, a networker. The center benefited enormously from it.

Because of her, many local businesses were aware of the center and kicked in whatever they could. Clients driving into town for treatment and staying in one of the rooms: they didn't have to worry about food. They could stay for weeks and every meal would be covered...various restaurants and stores kept the kitchen fully stocked. A local cafe hooked up every support group meeting with a nice spread of sweets and coffee. All of the furniture was donated by local business, and so on. Samantha's networking: impressive.

She talked a lot about her facebook page and facebook gossip in general. She had eighteen bajillion friends on facebook and she read their pages the same way some people read salacious romance novels. For example, one day I heard:

"Oh...my...god. You would not believe what I read on facebook this morning. Dave, he's a friend, and the thing is? He's married. So you would think the relationship status on his profile would say 'married', right? No. He has it listed as, 'It's Complicated'. And I'm like, how exactly is that complicated? Married is married. So obviously he's shopping around, trying to cheat on his wife. 'It's complicated', what else can that mean? He's just trying to signal, hey, there's a little wiggle room here! Honestly: yuck."

Samantha was chatty and charismatic...two traits I generally loathe in humans. Usually if a charming person is around, being all warm and likable, I want to spray bug repellent at them until they go away. But Samantha wasn't just an operator. She was kind and good and her chattiness often made clients laugh. The way she would just wrap people up in her banter, I saw the way it impacted people and I developed an enormous admiration for her social talents. What became clear over time is that a lot of the clients felt very alone in their situation, very alienated from their family and friends. And Samantha, with her chattiness...she was an instant best friend. Her full-volume personality made clients feel connected...she engaged them and became a very welcome point of contact with the outside world. So I respected that about her, it was a nice thing to see.

And it made for a fun dynamic between her and Catherine, the program director. Catherine had a dignified, professorial demeanor...she was all calmness and carefully chosen words. When Samantha was going on about facebook, or friend drama, Catherine would just stare at her like she was an alien from another planet.

And it worked, their dynamic, it was a functional thing. I heard Samantha repeat to dozens of people, "Catherine and I, we're opposites, but we so need one another. I'm her caffeine. She's my ritalin."

III.

Catherine's workload would wax and wane depending on the timing of her grant deadlines and fundraising events. She would either be overloaded for weeks straight, or completely bored out of her mind.

During the slow periods, she would often kill time by hanging out in the kitchen, drinking coffee. I would make several pots of it each shift and we would sit there...at a large conference table...and watch squirrels run around in the yard. The kitchen had large floor-to-ceiling windows, so it was a perfect set up for observing the drama. Squirrels chasing birds out of trees; birds screeching, diving in counter-attack; Catherine and I picking favorites, rooting for them. Much fun.

I was very nervous around Catherine for the first few months that I knew her because she was so composed and well-spoken. In any social situation, I have to act a part...run through a script...which is to say that I feel very artificial generally, but completely out of place around the poised and articulate. I develop this irrational fear that people like this will point at me and scream, "Impostor!" the second I open my mouth. I'm so intensely aware of their poise that I just assume they are equally aware of my deficits. Irrational, but that's how it feels.

But this strange thing happened: my discomfort around Catherine slowly receded...and on the other side of it, I found out that we were friends. Very strange. I am glacially slow to warm up to people, and usually the warming never actually happens. Making friends has always been a struggle for me. So the rapidity with which Catherine and I fell into the habit of long conversation, it was a nice surprise.

It was a polite, but distant friendship. There was a significant age difference between us and she had a boyfriend of several years, so we seemed to mutually limit the discussion to harmless, impersonal topics. Not that we needed to, it's just that: I was overtly available and lonely, so it probably seemed safer to hold back to some extent. Even when we talked for hours, it was always about books, that was our topic. She was a reader, I was a reader, discussion ensued.

It wasn't practical to hold these discussions at the cancer center. We were supposed to be...you know, busy. So we agreed to meet for coffee once every week or two (coffee: big part of the friendship), and it worked out well. We would take turns recommending books, reading them, and then we would just hang out for a few hours and talk about them.

Her boyfriend came along to the first few meetings. She told me he was also an avid reader and would enjoy being there; I suspected he just wanted to check me out, which was fine, understandable. He was polite, a nice guy, but quickly confirmed my suspicion: he admitted to only reading sports magazines and looked bored once the actual discussion began. After three meetings, he stopped coming. He presumably lost interest once I was deemed sufficiently bookish and non-threatening.

Catherine had posture so perfect that it was irritating. Even when she was slouching in a chair, she managed to sit up straight. I, on the other hand, could stand up straight and still look crooked. Samantha was her personality opposite; I was her posture opposite.

She was the public face of the center. Samantha did all of the networking, but Catherine spoke at all of the fundraisers and luncheons, and regularly gave interviews to the local media. For whatever reason, she thought that I should attend the fundraisers. She pushed and pushed, told me I would enjoy them, said people dress up and have a good time. It took months, but I finally convinced her that I wasn't interested. I told her, "I'm not fundraising material, Catherine. It'll turn into a fundloser if I'm around, I promise."

She had a deep respect for the elderly. She was in awe of anyone who lived past seventy, she saw them as a reservoir of experience and practical knowledge. Any time elderly clients came in, I would immediately notify Catherine so that she could be the one to help them. Samantha's personality didn't go over as well with the elderly...she was a little too casual and off-the-cuff. Catherine, on the other hand, was a perfect fit with her composure and politeness.

And it was nice, because the elderly women who came in, losing their hair from treatment...they seemed to struggle with self-image issues more than any other client. A lot of the younger women who came in took their hair loss as a challenge, as a problem to be fixed. They came in angry and ready to fight. They weren't going to let cancer fuck with their sense of self. The elderly clients, though, seemed more deflated, heart-broken about the prospect of wearing a wig. I realized pretty quickly that the hurt they were feeling was deep...the wounded pride was intensely painful, so I would just page Catherine and watch her console them and talk them into a better place.

One day an older woman came in. She had streaks of gray hair remaining, but most of it was gone due to treatment. In a bitter voice she said, "Show me the damn wigs." I took her into the Boutique. She looked around and cried a little bit and said, "No. I just don't think I can do this."

I paged Catherine. She came down and asked the client if she knew what style of wig she wanted. The women just shook her head no, she was too upset to respond. Catherine...I don't know how she knew what to say, but she zeroed in on it. She said, "I know what hurts the most."

The woman looked at her suspiciously.

Catherine continued. "Sunday mornings, right?"

The woman nodded yes. I had no idea what they were talking about. Catherine said, "It's important to you to look your best at church and cancer is taking that away from you."

The woman broke into tears and said, "I used to have such thick hair. I went to church Sunday past and I just felt...I even wore a hat, but I felt bald."

Catherine put an arm around her and said, "You just have a seat right here. I'll have you fixed up in no time. You're not leaving here until you look like your old self, okay? You're going to look nice this Sunday."

I left the room. They laughed and cried and tried on wigs. When she settled on one, I heard the client say, "I might can do this."

The Boutique (part 2 of 3)

2010-12-17T07:34:00.001-08:00

I'm adding one more post, it was originally going to be two.

For the privacy of those involved, names and details have been changed.

I.

The Cancer Resource Center: a large house, beautiful. Three-stories tall, it's one those sprawling, hundred-year-old homes that exudes a tremendous amount of personality and character. The inside is all hard-wood and low-lighting...a quiet, pleasant atmosphere. The decor is straight-up Southern Girly. Everywhere you look it's just paintings of cottages and frilly throw pillows...awful, but context appropriate.

The top floor: offices. Middle floor: bedrooms. Ground floor: kitchen, resource library, front desk and The Boutique, where the wigs and breast prosthetics are kept.

II.

On my first day, I trained with a volunteer who had worked there for years. We sat on a couch in the library and she explained the set up. "The center offers more services than I can name, but off the top of my head..."

She took a deep breath.

"We sign clients up for financial assistance programs. We offer five different support groups throughout the month. We set up mammogram clinics, where women can receive free cancer screenings. We offer free wigs and breast prosthetics to women undergoing treatment. And...what else? Health fairs. Fundraisers. All that. Oh! Four bedrooms are available on the second floor; some people have long drives into town for their treatment and can't afford hotel expenses, so they can stay in one of the rooms for as long as they need...there's no time restriction. The rooms are free, of course. Let's see. Resource library. Free snacks! I brew a mean pot of coffee for clients, staff. And...that's all I got."

I learn the phone system, the various forms clients may need, all the day-to-day stuff. Before she leaves, she hands me a volunteer pamphlet that explains in more detail the duties involved. She says, "This is just the standard overview they give to new volunteers."

She gathers her things, leaves. I sit at the front desk and open the pamphlet. The first chapter is titled, "Volunteering: body language is the key."

My heart sinks.

The chapter describes the importance of making clients feel comfortable...the way that listening gestures, strong eye contact, can convey that they are being attended to, that their needs are being taken seriously.

I look down at my still, awkward form and wonder if I've made a mistake.

Later, Samantha, the in-house manager, comes downstairs and asks how I'm liking the place. We sit at the kitchen table, drink coffee, and talk for a bit. She describes how long she's worked there, I describe my impressions of the center, how nice of a facility it is.

I express my concerns. I tell her, "The orientation pamphlet really stresses the importance of body language. And I'm worried because...you know, I'm not one of those body language people. My nature is that I'm kind of still. The listening gestures and all that, I can't really turn those on."

She waves a hand. "No worries. Catherine thought you were great."

Catherine is the program director whom I had met with the week before.

"She interviews all of our volunteer candidates, decides who we pick. Technically? That's my job. But she has a gift for picking the right people, and I am very comfortable letting her choose. Catherine is very, very protective of the environment here, so if she wants you on the front desk, I wouldn't worry about the pamphlet.

I mumble, "Okay," unconvinced.

"You don't believe me!" Samantha says. "Body language...you know, 'soft skills', that sort of thing...it's definitely important, but there are ways around it. Catherine thought you were funny. And if you can make the clients laugh, we'll take that over body language any day."

I think back. "I don't remember saying anything funny. It was an interview and those can be kind of nerve-wracking."

"It was your...how do I put this? Your language selection. I know because she's been repeating some of your phrases all week. She said that when she showed you the boutique, you referred to the wigs as 'supplemental plumage'. I think that sealed the deal. We always need some levity around here. And the way you speak...believe me, you're in."

"Okay."

I'm assigned a shift. The following week I begin.

I will remain there for the next year and a half. Hands down one of the best experiences of my life.

And body language? A problem. Every single week. Despite Samantha's assurances, it remained a persistent issue.

(next post: that, as well as client, staff interactions)

The Boutique (part 1 of 2)

2010-12-07T07:59:00.000-08:00

In the summer of 2008, I was putting a lot of effort into meeting people. I had socially isolated for around a decade and began to work on making friends, as well as a girlfriend.

Since I was in my early thirties and had had very few friends (and no relationships) it was a tough process. Figuring out where M should go to meet people, it was honestly just a complete nightmare.

The Doctor encouraged me to try everything, but she was very clear: she only wanted me in reasonable, constructive settings. Book clubs for example, language classes, any sort of bland public event where New Humans would be gathering, she was all for that.

I saw the whole thing as a fraudulent endeavor, especially when it came to attraction. Attraction seemed like a bullshit reindeer game, where guys expressed certain pre-determined traits...women did the same...all according to stereotyped cultural norms. Adept game-players succeeded while the rest of us stood on the side-lines, failures. The attraction game, I argued, basically turns people into mindless sociopaths, where we put on false personas and manipulate people into giving us what we want (e.g. sex, attention and so on). In other words: I had been on the losing side of the attraction game long enough to develop...shall we say...a negative view of the whole thing.

This post isn't about attraction: the point is that I didn't care where I went to meet people. Wherever I go, I'm just trying to trick people into thinking I'm charming...so what difference does the setting make? I argued that bars would be an easier setting since people are often there to meet others...and their brains are likely impaired. A win/win for me. I need all the help I can get.

The Doctor argued strongly against this. She did not want me viewing attraction as a game...and she did not want me in settings likely to reinforce my bleak view of people. So she pushed for constructive, benign activities that would allow me to do something useful, as well as meet people.

This was the debate we had. Over and over, for years. This was the therapy process. How do I meet people? Where do I go? How do I manage the pessimism and depression that being around people elicits?

Balancing companionship needs and social aversion: the debate. Over and over. Years.

Ultimately, we never saw eye to eye on that topic. Wherever I'm at, I see the same manipulative games at work. Individuals can be okay, but they tend to gather, clump...and then it's over. People, once they're in a group, suck. They are the same, and equally awful, everywhere. No context changes or improves that, ever.

What kept the therapy process going: the fact that 1. I trusted The Doctor and 2. I had made a complete mess of my life. It was a train wreck. I felt strongly that my views on people were correct...but obviously this had taken me nowhere. My best efforts to understand and navigate the world were a disaster, so I was willing to listen to what The Doctor had to say.

Her advice: don't go somewhere purely for the sake of meeting women. "I won't help you be that guy," she would repeat. Go out and engage in something constructive. "Let people see the M I know...let them see that mind of yours, not a game, not a persona."

I went to bars anyway. Drank. Listened to inane conversation. Never met anyone.

But I also tried her suggestions. Book clubs, public lectures, language classes. These were all quick, brief events. It wasn't until the summer of 2008, after we had been talking for three years, that I threw myself into a more involved commitment.

After she pushed and pushed for it, I signed up to volunteer at a cancer resource center.

I went, learned that it was almost exclusively focused on helping women with breast cancer. I interviewed, met the staff. They explained that for the most part I would be answering phones, signing people up for various financial assistance programs, and putting stamps on envelopes.

They also said I had the option of working in The Boutique.

It was the resource center's primary service and it's most popular feature. It was a large dressing room, filled with wigs and breast prosthetics. The wigs and prosthetics were free. Every day, women undergoing cancer treatment would visit The Boutique and try on wigs, or get fitted for prosthetics.

But: they said that most male volunteers chose not to work in The Boutique. They were generally uncomfortable dealing with the wigs. The staff couldn't remember the last time a male volunteer had helped clients in that area.

So I thought about it and I realized that the idea of working with wigs, of helping women try them on...it did seem strange to me. And I hated that I felt this way. It was a petty reaction...I didn't like that...so I told them I would do it.

My name went on the schedule. I trained, read information packets about cancer, and started as a volunteer.

(next part: the staff, the wigs, the clients.)

friend glitch

2010-11-25T08:49:00.000-08:00

I've been trying to tidy up the blog a bit. I have a ton of material that I've never organized or even put into a vague semblance of order. For a long time, I just typed up conversations right after they happened and kept them in draft form, never posted them or shaped them up in any way. So, as I organize, I'm coming across a lot of stuff that I've forgotten about. Most of it: painfully dull. Me talking to people at the grocery store. Me eavesdropping while in line at the post office. Uninteresting stuff that goes nowhere. (an elderly couple discussing bread, for example: i posted that, so you can imagine what the ones i didn't post are like.)

I did find one bit of conversation that doesn't go anywhere, but it at least fits the theme of the blog, so I thought I would post it.

When I made these friends, I started to meet people they knew and formed a small number of vague, distant social connections. I hung out a little bit with random people. It mostly sucked. Anyway, it's me talking to The Friend about a co-worker of his.

July, 2008

Friend: I talked with her between shifts, and she said you came in a few weeks ago.

M: Right. She invited me to one of her lunches. She's all about those, having a huge group of people meet at a restaurant. She was the only person I knew.

F: She was kind of upset. She said that you didn't remember her dogs name.

M: Yeah. She caught me off guard with the dog thing. It's a tiny dog. I can't remember details about dogs that small.

F: She's still talking about it. She's like, 'I've been showing him pictures for months now, telling him stories. And he didn't even remember his name!' That's like, the rule with her. Gotta remember the dog's name.

M: It was actually worse than forgetting. I called it by the wrong name.

F: That's what she said.

M: We were talking and out of the blue she brandishes a photo of this...you know, awful, small lump of hair...and I was like, 'Oh, hey. It's Paco.' And she was visibly unhappy. She's like, 'You mean Pavel?' And I tried to recover, act interested, but it was too late.

F: She doesn't show Pavel photos to just anyone. It means you've gained acceptance.

M: I thought I deserved points for getting close. I used a two-syllable p-name. Come on.

F: Yeah, but Paco?

M: Er. Maybe I should have paused and considered that more carefully. She just confused me because she was talking and there was no transition. She was going on about work stuff...work drama...and all of the sudden there's this dog picture in my face. If I'm expected to keep up, I need smoother transitions than that. I mean, if you and I are talking about politics or books and, without warning, I shove a horse photo at you...I don't think you'll be ready to blurt out accurate names. 'Jeff!' It's just...I can't work that way.

F: I've never understood the appeal of small dogs.

M: They're difficult to take seriously. The new rule is that I will only remember a dogs name on the condition that it's larger than my toaster. Otherwise, I don't care. I will overtly fail to take notice of your dog.

F: Don't tell her that.

M: I am. I'm telling her, 'Pavel: smaller than my toaster. He fails the Relevance Test.' Anyway. It doesn't seem right. Maybe I'll keep photos around of things I like and start administering memory tests on them, see how she likes it. Next time she's discussing work, I'll just randomly hold up a photo. 'Can you name this dead, Dutch theologian?'

F: A practical solution. That'll go well.

M: Yes. I'm doing it. I'm printing off photos of boring dead people as soon as I get home.

More Selections from the Encyclopedia of M

2010-11-20T06:06:00.000-08:00

Socks-

Socks are foot-encircling stink-curtains. According to scientists (from Sweden) they are driven to enslave feet out of a blind need for aromatic suppression. Socks are inert when frozen. They are made from cotton and hate.

Rabbits-

Rabbits are toothy, sex-mongering vegetarians. They live in holes and screech horribly. Rabbits are currently ranked #47 on the list of "Animals That Will Not Eat Pencil Erasers". They hop, not from glee, but from humorously deformed legs. That's all we know about rabbits.

Trends-

Trends are wayward happenings, things we do. People arise in them and despair accordingly. Trends, like naps, steal thoughts and guide us to quiet automation. The trend of studying trends led scientists (from Sweden) to discover that science itself is a trend. "People arise in them and despair accordingly," concluded the scientists, a fact recorded here previously.

Saturn-

Saturn is an idiot-ball suspended nowhere. It is gigantic and irrelevant. Probes and comets crash into it out of spite. Future astronauts will fly past Saturn, point at it and say, "Worst planet ever." Scientists speculate that the famous "rings" of Saturn are merely stains and connote poor hygiene.

Selections from the Encyclopedia of M

2010-11-16T18:59:00.000-08:00

Spoon-

A spoon is for the careful holding. It can bring, to your lips, a soup. Invented in 1377 by deranged milk maids, it is now common. As a utensil, it is often viewed more favorably than the knife (particularly after the Norwegian Stab Riot of 1657).

Magma-

Magma is important. It is the bones for planets. It holds together what's inside, but we don't know what that is yet. It might be lava. Lava is what happens when the magma cries. You can touch magma and it's okay, but you can't touch lava.

George Washington-

George Washington is important. He is famous for inventing the Optional Axe Handle. You could use it, but you could also not, a concept which revolutionized the hacking and the chopping. Washington had the speaking voice of a dead ox but sang like a bag-pipe. He died in his pajamas.

Shapes-

Shapes are what makes things stop. They are the edge of them. Shapes that are different are called "something else". Shapes that are the same are called "another one". The smallest shape ever is a lady bug.

(that's it. that's most of what i know.)

push/pull

2010-11-10T12:55:00.000-08:00

This took place just over one year after starting sessions with The Doctor.

January 2007

Doctor: Good morning.

M: How are things?

Doctor: Excellent. It's been a good week. I passed my licensing exam.

M: Congratulations.

D: Thank you.

When I met her last year, The Doctor was a newly minted psychologist. She was practicing with a provisional license and had to go through a one year supervisory period.

D: I am now fully licensed and independent.

M: Very nice. I'm happy for you.

D: Thanks. I'm excited.

M: I don't see the new license.

D: It takes them a little while to make it up, ship it out.

M: Where are you going to put it?

D: Right there behind you, next to the window.

M: Fun.

D: Anyway. Just wanted to mention that. What's been on your mind?

M: I don't know.

D: We need to discuss the weight loss. When I see depressed clients going through weight changes, up or down, it's a concern. And there's been a visible change from week to week. What's going on?

M: I don't know what's happening. I've been eating the same way.

D: No changes with your appetite?

M: No. I guess it caught me off guard, I haven't really thought about it much. Just all of the sudden...

D: Have you been more physically active, anything like that?

M: No, less active. I used to walk when I couldn't sleep, but now I stay in bed. I'm just not dealing with the depression very effectively, I'm in bed a lot now. And I don't know if that's what is happening with the weight loss. My body just feels completely numb. I don't know if it's some kind of physical thing that is happening. I definitely feel more shut down than I've ever felt.

D: Are you keeping track of the change at all? Weighing yourself?

M: No.

I'm lying. I've kept track. It's been a rapid change.

D: I would talk with a physician. Just to rule things out. It might be the depression, it might not. It's something to monitor and it would help having a physician look into it.

I don't say anything. I never see a physician about it.

D: Tell me about your week.

M: I've basically covered it. Numb. In bed. That's the week. It's hard to...

I pause and rub my eyes.

D: How long are you in bed on an average day?

M: Ten, twelve hours during the week. A little more if it's a weekend.

(this is a conversation where that's starting to improve; it's one year after this session.)

M: I basically...I mean, I think about you and this conversation and I basically feel like I'm done. I don't like saying that, because you've been so helpful, but my sense is that I started the therapy process too late. That's what it feels like, anyway. Like I'm...I don't know. Done.

D: A few weeks ago we talked about how much progress you are making and your reaction was...what?

M: I became angry. You mentioned progress...and that didn't make any sense to me, so I was upset.

D: And my intention was not to sugar coat anything, that was just my genuine impression. I mentioned that I was seeing progress...and your reaction, it really threw me. And later I was thinking it over and I realized: you react to something else in a similar fashion. Every now and then I will say to you: "I will not help you pursue a goal of normalcy". If you're being very hard on yourself and idealizing "normalcy", I feel that I need to say that. And you become upset. You always look so hurt when I say that. So I've been thinking about these reactions and your depression and what I realize is: you have absolutely no idea who you are. We've referenced that briefly in the past, but I'm only just now seeing how anonymous you've become to yourself.

I think about it. I don't say anything.

D: The marionette. You taught yourself to mimic social cues. And I think you lost the ability to incorporate your self into your own life.

M: But after college I started isolating, so I haven't really been doing the marionette for a long time.

D: Exactly. You never learned to incorporate your self into the social world...and then you stopped participating in the social world altogether. Both reactions...mimicry and isolation...are about hiding. And when I say hiding, you know what I mean, right?

M: I don't know.

D: Survival. Hiding is self-preservation. You had an undiagnosed condition, no way of developing constructive coping strategies. So mimicry and isolation have consistently allowed you to address the things that cause you pain. And what's happened, I think, is that you've been so focused on masking your self that you've lost any baseline sense of identity.

M: That part makes sense, the loss of identity. I guess I don't understand how it relates to the way I react in here, when I'm upset.

D: Hiding is survival. Over and over, throughout your life, hiding has been the absence of pain. Hiding has been comfort. This process...you and I talking: it's a threat. It's the opposite of hiding. When I say, "I will not help you pursue a goal of normalcy", I realize now that you are hearing: "I will remove your survival skill." It's threatening. And when I've talked about progress...I'm talking about the fact that you're participating, engaging in the discussion. In other words, I'm getting to know you. And that means the hiding isn't in effect here. A threatening thing. The thing that has helped you survive, it's challenged when I indicate that I'm getting to know you.

It's quiet for a long time.

M: That makes sense.

D: Several times now you've reacted with anger and I was caught off guard. I didn't know where it was coming from. But now, I can see it. I was inadvertently threatening the coping strategies that you've relied on for so long. Lack of identity: that's important to you. And as we talk, we're going to see consistent traits, gain a baseline sense of who you are. Without the hiding. And that's going to be incredibly painful. Necessary: establishing that baseline sense of self is a big part of what we have to work on. I'm only just now seeing that, but to me, that's what has to happen, that's going to be our project for the time being. But it will hurt, and I have to do a better job of anticipating how you will feel about certain things. I want to be more careful with my words.

M: The problem is that I have been getting some sense of who I am and it's been a shock. I used to be able to ignore the severity of my social difficulties, and downplay the sensory issues. I did the marionette thing and I was able to wall off large portions of my self. And now there's a diagnosis and it's like I have to accept that this is who I am. I can't wall it off any more. Which to an extent is a good thing. I guess. I need to come to terms with this diagnosis or whatever. But the point is that developing a "baseline sense of self" like you're saying...I don't know that I see a bright side to it. To me, it's just painful and that's it. I guess I'm questioning the value of "knowing yourself".

I breathe out and pull my hair.

M: Therapy...this really is not the process described by most psychologists. Like Maslow and Rogers; all of those "self-actualization" morons. You know? They peddled the idea that there's a "real" self sitting there inside of you. You just have to...I don't know, get in touch with it or something. It's empowering, that "real" you, making self-awareness a positive thing. And I'm thinking, "Um, no. This is fucking painful. This is not fair."

Doctor: What do you mean, "It's not fair"?

M: I already hated myself before I even started therapy. I did this precisely because I loathe who I am and suicide began to look really appealing. And as this process goes on, I'm finding out...guess what, here's some more info about yourself: and it's bad news.

I start to get angry.

M: Everything I've hated about my life...now I know it's permanent, that I'm always going to be this way. And everything that made life bearable...these various defense mechanisms, all of these lies I told myself...well, they're starting to recede now. And I'm just left with this fucked up person. Here's what I want you to tell me Doctor: at what point do I stop learning new painful shit? I don't even want improvement at this point, I'd be happy just to plateau. I keep waiting to plateau so that I can hold steady for five minutes, but it's not happening. I mean, when you hate yourself and your only protection is an absence of identity...that's not right. Self-acceptance becomes a form of torture.

I'm crying and laughing.

M: I climbed my own little miniature version of Maslow's Hierarchy and I got fucked. There was Hate at the top.

D: Well, all I can do here is agree with you that this has been rough. What you are going through right now is enormously difficult. I won't even try to sugar-coat it.

M: That's what the psychiatrist is for. The meds I'm taking, those are the sugar coating. Any day now, I'm sure that placebo magic will kick in.

D: The meds won't help with what you're discussing. No one has ever suggested that. I mean, you know this, but what you're taking is to help manage the depression and that's it. But to be struggling with depression and then receive a diagnosis like AS at this point in your life, there is no medicine for that.

It's quiet for awhile. I drink coffee, rub my eyes.

M: You must get sick of listening to me talk this way. It's been, like, a year and all I've done is drag my feet and go nowhere.

D: No. I never get "sick" of talking with you. You say that sometimes and I'm always worried that you'll put certain reactions on me as a way to justify leaving therapy.

M: Doctor, it's been a year. If there are no doubts in your mind, that's great. But it would be understandable if...I guess the question is, at what point do you accept the possibility that this may not work? One year, you're still hopeful. Two years then?

D: At what point will you accept that this might work?

M: I accept it now. That's why I'm here. I just think at some point it's okay to acknowledge: I started therapy too late. It's not a viable option. It can work, yes, but I'm just wondering: would you go through the motions forever, just because that's what you're supposed to do as a psychologist?

D: I have no desire to just go through motions. This is all about defining goals, working towards them. And we're doing that.

M: But if nothing changes over time...and Doctor, don't talk to me about goals, just answer this "yes" or "no": is there a point where you would accept that progress isn't happening? That this just isn't working?

D: Look at me, just for a second.

I look.

D: No.

I look at my shoes.

D: If nothing else, fix this in your mind: your negativity has no effect on me whatsoever. The way you are feeling right now is understandable, but you need to know: I have all the patience in the world.

I drink coffee.

D: Took me a few months, but I realized early on that I cannot convince you to feel hopeful. I can't talk you into it. You're too good at rationalizing your pessimism. You'll take a point of view and if I point out why it's flawed, you'll just develop a new reason to feel hopeless. So I understand now: I can't out-argue you. But I promise you, M...I give you my word on this: I will outlast you. I will sit right here and wait out your negativity every single time. It just doesn't effect me.

She pauses. I think for a bit.

M: Whoa. You're being all direct today.

D: Yes.

M: I don't know how to feel the way you feel. That's just a very foreign mindset to me.

D: Which is good. That's exactly what you're needing.

M: Ugh. I am thinking a lot about what you said, I think it makes sense...about the way I've lost track of my identity. I guess it's why the glimpses I've been getting lately have been painful, it's just kind of a shock.

Doctor: Right. It's painful because you're beginning to see a person who can't achieve the goals you had established for yourself. The goals of hiding, mimicry: survival skills that you're having to slowly let go of. Definitely painful. What's important right now is that we slow things down a bit. We have to figure out a way to establish that baseline sense of self.

M: Yup

D: Say something about yourself. Right now.

I stare at the wall. I think.

D: No thinking. Just say something.

M: What do most people say? I'm not asking so that I can borrow an answer. I just don't know how to start.

D: Umm...I'm a dentist. Have a wife and kids. Spend my free time fishing. That sort of thing.

M: Okay. Stuff they do. Things they're involved in.

Doctor: Right.

M: I don't do anything though. The few activities I do engage in are all geared towards hiding myself. My job for example. I don't associate my identity with it because I work there precisely to hide from the world. Something most people would use to identify themselves is a lack of identity for me.

D: Say something about yourself.

M: If I can't even answer a simple question, what exactly are we supposed to do in here? What if I can't participate from this point on?

D: To participate, all you need to do is show up. The rest of it is on me. Now stop stalling and say something about yourself.

M: I am...currently talking to a person. I am the owner of shoelaces. I'm...

I crack up.

M: That's all I got.

D: Okay. We'll work on that. Because this is exactly what we need to be focusing on. We have to find a way for you to begin establishing a sense of identity. And as that starts to happen? It's going to hurt. This is going to be painful. And, at the same time...it's going to be nice. I'm hoping you'll begin to see some of what I see, some of your qualities that are so wonderful.

M: Ugh.

D: I know, you hate hearing that sort of thing. That's why I'm saying it.

M: And not because you're nice or kind. I'm on to you. You're just a contrarian.

D: Oh yes. With you, absolutely.

the edge of it, sinking

2010-11-09T18:00:00.001-08:00

i think the phrase "musty potato" is really hard to work into a sentence. if you don't have any old potatoes lying around, that is. it's a challenge.

also, i think it's really hard to read the phone book straight through. it's fucking impossible. i tried one time, i'm not kidding about that. i was probably drinking or something, i don't know, but one night I just thought, "wow, i bet no one reads the phone book straight through. I should totally do that." the next day I woke up and sipped coffee and started with chapter 1: the A people. it was another failed project, I bailed out mid-way through the C people. i don't know. i don't remember what i was thinking.

i'm trying to write new posts, about recent events (which will happen, the posts will materialize). but i keep going back and tinkering with old posts, with sessions that i've never put up. so this week, i'll probably post a few of those. more doctor conversations (which i've done repeatedly here, it's time for a change) but maybe after a few more i can resume the more recent stuff.

i saw this sliver of moon last night, just the tiniest bit of it illuminated in the sky. a simple white line in the shape of a smile. it grew at the horizon, increasingly pleased with something. i couldn't figure out why it was smiling. maybe it saw something, maybe it remembered something.

anyway.

the moon.

just the edge of it, sinking.

sketching blind

2010-10-21T08:26:00.000-07:00

This is a quote about writers, but I think it could apply to mind-blindness, to anyone who struggles to connect with people. To me, this describes what it's like to learn about people through the collection and computation of social data. It's a quote from...well, the usual place. (It's a striking quote to me because I used to feel guilty about the extent to which I people-watch and form broad sketches of others. I always felt like I was reducing people, removing them, instead of finding them. Then I read Proust and realized: for some of us, mentally sketching people is a necessity. It's a means, not an end. That's the lesson of Proust: you can discover a lot of humanity in the sparse lines of a sketch.)

Anyway, the quote.

"In the end the writer realises that if his dream of being a sort of painter was not in a conscious and intentional manner capable of fulfilment, it has nevertheless been fulfilled and that he too, for his work as a writer, has unconsciously made use of a sketch-book.

For, impelled by the instinct that was in him, the writer regularly omitted to look at a great many things which other people notice, with the result that he was accused by others of being absent-minded and by himself of not knowing how to listen or look.

But all this time he was instructing his eyes and his ears to retain for ever what seemed to others mere trivialities: the tone of voice in which a certain remark had been made, or the facial expression and the movement of the shoulders which he had seen at a certain moment, many years ago, in somebody of whom perhaps he knows nothing else whatsoever.

There is a feeling for generality which, in the future writer, itself picks out what is general. And this has made him listen to people only when, stupid or absurd though they may have been, they have turned themselves, by repeating like parrots what other people of similar character are in the habit of saying, into mouthpieces of a psychological law. He remembers only things that are general.

By such tones of voice, such variations in the physiognomy, seen perhaps in his earliest childhood, has the life of other people been represented for him. And it is from these observations that he composes his human figures."

- from 'In Search of Lost Time', vol. 5