What exactly is a monster? Is he (or she?) an ogre that drools and slobbers all over his victim? Does he speak in garbled mouthfuls like the Tasmanian Devil on Bugs Bunny cartoons? He is a molester that looks like your Average Joe, not monstrous at all but a horror to those who've experienced his filthy thoughts, advances, and touches? Is he a rabid dog, frothing at the mouth ready to rip your throat apart? Is it a garden spider whose web you've just walked into and now, from a distance, we see you doing that universally common 'spider web on the face-neck-and-head' swipe-dance? Is she an evil teacher who scared the bejesus out of you day after day in grammar school?
Mine was my cousin. A monster. A schizophrenic psychotic monster who lived in our house with our family. A child-monster who was not medicated for his mental disease probably because it was not an option as it is today. He lived with us and his two younger brothers under our roof mostly because our grandparents couldn't handle him and his own mother was incapable at the time.
This occurred eons ago, during the Viet Nam war. This was years before psychiatric medicine made clearer determinations that many schizophrenics begin experiencing their 'break' when they hit adolescence or early teens. He was 12. I was three and a half. Everyone else was in-between those ages.
When he arrived, rather, dropped off with his two brothers at our beach house, I felt uneasy. Not one to shy away from most events, I actually watched him with my head gently turned as if to gaze peripherally, like a full-on frontal view was impossible; side-view must've indicated the truth. I stood near my mom who was equally as surprised at my grandparents unexpected visit to our beach house and the arrival of the three boys -- and their suitcases.
Immediately, they hollered and begged to go down the stairs to the beach where my brothers and sister were busy busting waves or digging tunnel cities in the sand. From the ocean front window, I watched them run down to the water's edge. My chin rested on the sill, finger tips tucked over the edge as if gripping onto the situation: not a movie, but real life. All three ran through the ankle deep waves near my brothers, stopped, hurled their shoes up the beach toward the house, rolled their pant cuffs up, then went deeper. Stomping, splashing; the middle one backed out when the Monster scooped up water in his hand and hurled it towards him.
My mom turned to my Grandparents and inquired of their visit. It was their beach house, after all. Grandpa built it thirty feet back from the sea wall in the 1930s at a time when only flowing strands of long sea grass reached to the ocean. Now this same multi-mile, west-facing stretch was lined with weathered houses and motels, all faded from the salty air and wretched Pacific storms and blinding western sunlight.
Grammy and Grandpa thought it would be good for the boys to get some fresh air. I loved my grandparents and stood near them; they warmed me. Grammy protectively, instinctively put her hands on my shoulders. Over the crashing waves, we all heard a whoop and yell out on the beach. Back to the window we directed our attention stared out and saw the source of the cacophony: in his hands like a rodeo cowboy, the Monster whirled a long lariat strand of kelp towards his middle brother and my second-eldest brother. The Monster held in his hands the golden yellow bulb and with a clean whip of his arm, he snapped the kelp back in a quick S-shape then zinged it at my brother. He made contact and whether it smarted or not my brother retaliated and charged at the monster who leap-frogged over the knee-high waves while howling with laughter and snapping his whip into the water as he attempted to escape.
This was only the beginning. Before Mom could ask them to take him back home, Grammy and Grandpa had already zoomed out of the driveway in their white Ford station wagon leaving a sandy skid mark and the three boys under my Mom's parentage, as if taking care of five children wasn't already enough.
The Monster's perspective was appropriately skewed. The next morning, she awoke to the scraping sound of match sticks on rock. The beach house's fireplace was built of various melon-sized river rocks. The house's interior was a sheen of shellacked knotty pine walls and a more modern addition with walls of unfinished plywood. It was built of wood inside and out, even the garage floor was oil-stained wood plank.
The Monster was busily lighting wooden matches then tossing them into the wood bin, another shellacked cupboard alongside the hearth that contained inches and inches of twigs and sawdust and dried firewood. He would ignite a match, stare at it as its flame burned down the stick's fueled shaft, then drop it into the wood bin and watch it burn, catch a few errant wood bits, and fortunately, die.
Over and over he did this, his eyes wide with irrational excitement showing my Mom how incredible it was that sometimes the sawdust or tinder caught fire and lit other little pieces.
Thanks in part to her working on her Master's degree and a recent psychiatric disorders class, Mom quickly realized he was obsessed with fire and, immediately applying some semblance of educational application, gave him a box of matches and reinforced his pyromania by sending him down the beach. "Go make as many fires as you want on the beach! Come back when you're done.' Hours later, he returned, 11 fires he showed her. 11 bonfires, some large, some small.
His obsessions continued once we arrived at home: with a bus pass, he rode the bus all over the city, taking one, then another, then another. Somehow, he returned home. He picked and picked on his middle brother to the point that the latter began to tug out little clumps of his hair: a half-dollar bald spot formed above his right forehead that made his hair stick up like a frontal cowlick.
He tormented my father, his biological uncle until Dad exploded and chased him like an Olympic hurdler over the front laurel hedge. He ripped off Santa Claus's spirit gummed-beard after berating him and pestering him with machine gun questions. He hammered interrogations at our live-in babysitter about money, her boyfriend, her breasts, and her promiscuity.
At some point, he directed his obsession on me. The worst of the monstrous behavior caustically seeped out and contaminated our home, endangered our lives.
Because I was so young, it was expected that I'd take a nap each day. I was never really fond of naps already, since it seemed that all the best parts of the day -- swing set time, kickball, pill bug searching -- occurred during that hour. No matter, it was expected. And, as a result, the Monster learned of this daily standard.
It happened unexpectedly. Because it was still summer, Mom was home. She happened to our live-in sitter, a heavily mascaraed, black-bouffanted nineteen year old where the Monster was. A shoulder shrug indicated he was not favored nor someone she opted to keep an eye on. Mom began the search, noticing in part that our neighborhood was far too quiet for him to be around. He was a whooper, his questions poured out in repetitious, staccato, slightly-tenored rapid fire. Nothing was subtle. He badgered the Special Needs boy who lived up the street with the same animosity and non-sequitor, breathless questioning as he did my father.
Mom scoured the house from dark basement to back yard to main floor then to the upstairs. It was there that she saw the beginnings of an unusual scene: my bedroom door was closed. My sister's and my bedroom door was never closed. None of us ever closed our bedroom doors.
She turned the loose glass knob, swung the door open wide, and there, sitting on the edge of my baby blue framed bed, she found the Monster leaning over my prone body with a pillow across my face. My legs and feet kicked from underneath my Winnie-the-Pooh blanket. "What are you doing?!" she screamed. "Geoff! What?! Are?! You?! Doing?!" Despite my Mom's horrored yell, he didn't look up, he didn't pause, he maintained his suffocating position.
The Sitter rushed into the room just behind Mom, perhaps because she heard her shriek. The two of them wrestled and peeled the monster and the pillow clutched in his hands off of me and spun him out of the room. The door slammed. He stood in the hallway, pillow in-hand.
Mom scooped me into her arms but I didn't want to be held. I just wanted to be away. She kissed my sweaty, reddened forehead and clutched me as I hyperventilated. She rocked me back and forth, then turned to the Sitter. "Go get him. Put him in the t.v. room and shut the door. Do not let him out. Take the pillow away from him."
Our t.v. room was a bare-bones room adjacent to the kitchen. It was decorated with a wavering bookshelf, brown davenport, a wall-sized print of painted subway scene, a simple, one-drawered maple desk that held our massive black and white television, and a rolling crate that held wood blocks. One door, two windows that were 12 feet above ground.
Mom interrogated him. Reamed him for his actions. Livid. Scared. She yelled at him. He was unemotional. Unattached. Unfazed by her outrage, her explosion. He did not understand. He'd already moved on to the next thought process in his mind -- the birds outside, life beyond our house. 'Do you think they make all that noise when they go to other neighborhoods? How old is Mrs. Pritchard? She looks old. Where's Uncle Wayne?'
He tried again the next day and the next and for weeks to follow. Obviously, he either got caught or outsmarted. He failed to satisfy this homicidal need in his psyche.
During the week, when all of us were playing outside, he tried to grab me and pull me down. I squirmed away numerous times. I learned how and where to run in the woods behind our house if he was following me. When Mom took us to the public pool for swimming, he'd find me in the shallow end and hold my head under water. I learned to pinch his pudgy gut as my only defense. I quickly learned how to swim and if I saw his blurry face or body headed in my directions, I went in the other.
Once, when all of us were with Dad at our family grocery store on a Sunday, the day it was closed, the Monster followed me downstairs to the basement where all of us were playing hide-and-go-seek among the dim-bulbed aisles and aisles of crates and boxes.
He grabbed me and shoved me down the aisle that towered with cases of ice cream cones, Halloween candy, and school supplies and pushed me into the deep freezer. This was a sub-zero freezer an eight inch wooden door sealed it with a palm-sized steel plunger opening. He slammed the door shut and held the lever on the other side: the plunger wouldn't depress from my side. My voice melted into the frost.
Doug, the freezer guy, always kept a pair of gloves inside and I put them on, rubbed my ears, and jumped up and down. I repeatedly hurled my body against the door, leaned my back against the plunger pushing the toes of my blue Keds into a stack of gallon ice cream tubs for resistance. At some point, I gave up and stared at the door, not knowing what to do.
I never thought the worst, whatever that could have been. I only thought that I hated the Monster. That he was incredibly mean.
During nap time, Mom began to scan my room before putting me down. She opened the closet I shared with my sister and, occasionally found the Monster hiding behind skirts and dresses, his dirty PF Flyers squashing my sister's fancy shoes. She found him under my bed, his head resting on top of his hands as if he was taking a nap himself. She found him in the next room, leaning against the wall like a cat burglar ready to pounce. Every ten minutes, she would send someone up to check on me. The Sitter discovered him holding a pair of my socks over my eyes and mouth and nose.
Outside our house one Autumn day, he again tried to grab me. Fortunately, all of us neighborhood kids had been playing whiffle ball that day and, per usual, left our equipment out on the sidewalk and grassy strip. Again, I squirted out of his clutches, spun around and grabbed the yellow plastic bat we'd used earlier then took a home run swing at his head. I clobbered him with full power as best I could, then said, "Yea! I got him!" He was stunned and didn't move. I ran away, bat in hand. For once, he didn't follow.
The Monster and my cousins lived with us for two plus years.
When I was about nine, at my Grandparents 50th Wedding Anniversary party, all of us headed down the block to the our store to pick up more party supplies. The Monster tried again to shove me into the cooler upstairs in an attempt to suffocate or freeze me to death once more. Fortunately, I knew enough about this one -- it was the soda and dairy cooler. On the other - internal - side of the cooler's plunger door that he leaned upon, a thick wall and inner door separated the back stock portion from the shelf or retail portion, the stood a wall of glass doors where customers grabbed their six-packs and sodas. I crawled out over the Pepsi and Coke bottles, pushed the heavy glass door open and found warm air and safety. I left the store through the basement door and jogged back up to Grammy and Grandpa's.
When the Monster died a few years ago from a combination of prescription narcotics, alcohol and asphyxiation from his own spit, I was finally relieved. For years, I've not napped. I've slept on my stomach. I have nightmares. I don't wear turtlenecks. At times, as much of a swimmer I've always been, I've hesitated getting into a pool. I never stepped into the deep freeze at our store even if I was asked to retrieve something for a customer.
A Monster was hidden behind a boy's face, within a 12 year old's mind. He was academically brilliant therefore coveted. Yet he was diabolical and evil. He felt no morality, no shame, no sense of right and wrong. He attempted murder on numerous occasions that I know of and was never held accountable other than admonishment or a sentry on guard.
A Monster lived in our house, under our roof. Worse, a Monster was in my family.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Mom - May 22.
Today is Mom's birthday. She would've been 86. She died in 2005, age 80. She had a brilliant mind and huge heart. Although we had some differences of opinion, I think of her daily and miss her still. A bouquet of yellow roses rests beneath some redwoods on a trail she and I hiked together in the East Bay Regional Parks. Some tears mark my presence but I felt her there, too; she often is.
It never gets easier.
Recently, I was given a prompt for writing -- "Tell me where you will never be again" -- and the following is what poured out, unedited, unrevised.
I will never be in Portland in the fall after returning from a fantastic ten-day trip to Paris with my partner. I will never be there, in Portland, in September, after that trip watching my mother die in her bed. I will never visit her every day and hold her hand and caress her thin graying hair. nor smell that acrid scent of age and life that's slipping away. I will never be in that dimly lit room in Portland, during the first week of September, covering up my Mom's frail body as she does uncontrollable, brain-forced abdominal crunches in her bed.
These are half-crunches she relentlessly does that I could never do for the prolonged up-and-hold pauses. I tried in my hotel room the first day after returning to Portland and returning to my Mom's bedside, just a few days from my Paris trip. I collapsed into a sobbing puddle of loss and departure.
I will never be in Portland during those beautiful end-of-summer days rushing over to spend the final barren minutes with my Mom, recalling, even briefly that just days before I was surrounded by lush flower shops swarming with colorful, fresh-cut flowers. Where we and other people around us leaned on round, marble-topped tables, sipped luscious, frothy cafe au laits, nibbled on delicate, buttery croissants, and the Parisians endlessly smoked French cigarettes, the deathly trail of blue smoke weaving through their V'd Franco fingers. Mom loved Paris; she loved the history of Van Gogh's life there and followed it backwards, per se, to The Netherlands. I will never have those thoughts of Paris, of Mom, with Mom as her life slipped away beside me in that room again.
I know that I will never again be in Portland during those sweltering days, holding my mother's chilled hand and watching her squint and grimace at something high over the foot of her bed, when I felt the chill of death's scythe above me. I know that I will never be there in that place in Portland, sensing a final goodbye and the reality that her birthday will never be celebrated again.
It never gets easier.
Recently, I was given a prompt for writing -- "Tell me where you will never be again" -- and the following is what poured out, unedited, unrevised.
I will never be in Portland in the fall after returning from a fantastic ten-day trip to Paris with my partner. I will never be there, in Portland, in September, after that trip watching my mother die in her bed. I will never visit her every day and hold her hand and caress her thin graying hair. nor smell that acrid scent of age and life that's slipping away. I will never be in that dimly lit room in Portland, during the first week of September, covering up my Mom's frail body as she does uncontrollable, brain-forced abdominal crunches in her bed.
These are half-crunches she relentlessly does that I could never do for the prolonged up-and-hold pauses. I tried in my hotel room the first day after returning to Portland and returning to my Mom's bedside, just a few days from my Paris trip. I collapsed into a sobbing puddle of loss and departure.
I will never be in Portland during those beautiful end-of-summer days rushing over to spend the final barren minutes with my Mom, recalling, even briefly that just days before I was surrounded by lush flower shops swarming with colorful, fresh-cut flowers. Where we and other people around us leaned on round, marble-topped tables, sipped luscious, frothy cafe au laits, nibbled on delicate, buttery croissants, and the Parisians endlessly smoked French cigarettes, the deathly trail of blue smoke weaving through their V'd Franco fingers. Mom loved Paris; she loved the history of Van Gogh's life there and followed it backwards, per se, to The Netherlands. I will never have those thoughts of Paris, of Mom, with Mom as her life slipped away beside me in that room again.
I know that I will never again be in Portland during those sweltering days, holding my mother's chilled hand and watching her squint and grimace at something high over the foot of her bed, when I felt the chill of death's scythe above me. I know that I will never be there in that place in Portland, sensing a final goodbye and the reality that her birthday will never be celebrated again.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Enlightenment
Rather than post this as a "status" on fb, I thought I'd write it here. Reasoning, that it's quasi-permanent, and worthy of returning to.
"No matter how plain a woman may be, if truth and loyalty are stamped on her face all will be attracted to her." --Eleanor Roosevelt
I have a certain affection for the First Lady, niece of Teddy, and fifth cousin, once removed of her husband, FDR. She was stolid, not a 'looker,' per se, but definitely had presence, largely because of her personality, her viewpoint towards human rights, equality, and her goodness. Of course, she was born into loads of dough, but her character spurred her to look and support those who weren't.
This comment struck me as something to which I aspire. Loyalty comes without hesitation, even in the face of adversity and unkindness. I believe in my friends, in my family, and those I love and have loved. Unwavering.
The truth part is an element that I recently diminished and now must rebuild and reestablish. This isn't as easy as my words indicate. No mortar and brick, no boards and nails. It's a time-tested lifestyle and belief that can be pummeled and toppled into a crumbled pile and scaffolded together with the twigs and branches of consistency, hope, love, and belief.
"In the long run, we shape our lives and we shape ourselves. The process never ends until we die. And the choices we make are ultimately our own responsibility." -ER
I've seen and experienced deception, lies, the whole smoke-and-mirrors aspect has emerged on many fronts, not just from me but from those around me and, of course in society as a whole. Boy oh boy is it ever ugly, worth retching over -- painful on the inside and out. It, this or these character flaws are hideous on anyone, including me. They leave and/or create a mottled, potholed trail of bruises, defeat, misunderstandings, doubt, and sadness where once joy, awareness, appreciation, love, and openness thrived and blushed.
It's my job to demonstrate, yes, my loyalty, and my commitment to the restructuring process, to the love that created the sincerity in the first place and, over each day, each hour, create a muddy, albeit slightly stronger sense of truth, forgiveness, and honesty that will, ideally, become a bridge a reconnection, an embrace on one level or another. At some point, mud and straw will give way to a stronger bond.
I am not the most attractive person in the world, but in my simplicity, my plainness, my love for others, I strive for Ms. Roosevelt's statement: truth and loyalty.
"The giving of love is an education in itself." - ER
"No matter how plain a woman may be, if truth and loyalty are stamped on her face all will be attracted to her." --Eleanor Roosevelt
I have a certain affection for the First Lady, niece of Teddy, and fifth cousin, once removed of her husband, FDR. She was stolid, not a 'looker,' per se, but definitely had presence, largely because of her personality, her viewpoint towards human rights, equality, and her goodness. Of course, she was born into loads of dough, but her character spurred her to look and support those who weren't.
This comment struck me as something to which I aspire. Loyalty comes without hesitation, even in the face of adversity and unkindness. I believe in my friends, in my family, and those I love and have loved. Unwavering.
The truth part is an element that I recently diminished and now must rebuild and reestablish. This isn't as easy as my words indicate. No mortar and brick, no boards and nails. It's a time-tested lifestyle and belief that can be pummeled and toppled into a crumbled pile and scaffolded together with the twigs and branches of consistency, hope, love, and belief.
"In the long run, we shape our lives and we shape ourselves. The process never ends until we die. And the choices we make are ultimately our own responsibility." -ER
I've seen and experienced deception, lies, the whole smoke-and-mirrors aspect has emerged on many fronts, not just from me but from those around me and, of course in society as a whole. Boy oh boy is it ever ugly, worth retching over -- painful on the inside and out. It, this or these character flaws are hideous on anyone, including me. They leave and/or create a mottled, potholed trail of bruises, defeat, misunderstandings, doubt, and sadness where once joy, awareness, appreciation, love, and openness thrived and blushed.
It's my job to demonstrate, yes, my loyalty, and my commitment to the restructuring process, to the love that created the sincerity in the first place and, over each day, each hour, create a muddy, albeit slightly stronger sense of truth, forgiveness, and honesty that will, ideally, become a bridge a reconnection, an embrace on one level or another. At some point, mud and straw will give way to a stronger bond.
I am not the most attractive person in the world, but in my simplicity, my plainness, my love for others, I strive for Ms. Roosevelt's statement: truth and loyalty.
"The giving of love is an education in itself." - ER
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Finality
When the choice is made, the papers are signed, and the check endorsed, the final step is to turn it all in and get it verified.
By mail. Via FedEx. Through e-mail. In person.
A couple months ago, I made the decision to run a half marathon. I'd thought about this for a while, a bunch of years, actually, but never took the proverbial steps beyond picking up a brochure. An opportunity arose, I slipped a brochure in my pocket, then later received a company-wide announcement. A second reinforcement. I thought about it, not having trained before and, with only a month prior to this event, not feeling ready.
However, I decided I had nothing to lose. So what, if I had to walk it? So what, if I finished in 4 hours after the street cleaners have passed by? So what, if I ran part and walked part? It was the end result, the committment to the next step, the accomplishment, or, rather, to the turned page: done. I filled out the papers, signed my name, wrote the check, then, at last, mailed it. That final step sealed the deal.
Yea, I finished the half, not by the time I'd hoped for, rather 13 minutes slower, but hey, that's okay.
Recently, I took the steps towards another paper-signing venture. Downloaded everything from the internet, read it through, consulted with someone, read more, consulted again, then, after a bit of urging, I filled them out. Yes, them. Multiple pages.
This took about three hours -- disturbed my sleep that night and for nights to follow until I could take the next steps: copying and filing.
It's a weird process all of this. Making a decision then following through with it, then following through with it on an entirely objective level. It's a committment of a different kind: committing to a major turn in life, a drastic change, a road untraveled and, yea, a bit bumpy.
I took the multiple pages to one place then was told to take them elsewhere, miles from where I stood. Place number one no longer accepted them even though the website says otherwise. Aaargh. A major hurdle in my efforts to trepidatiously take this step.
When I arrived at Place #2, I had less than 15 minutes until closing and there was a short line before me. I rationalized that I'd have to return the following week, not enough time, a pause beyond my control settled in. A clock slowly ticked, the minute hand swung upward to the top of the hour with a slow thud. I could hear every sound, each footstep on the shiny floor, each whining door that opened and closed with an echo. The conversation between the security folks behind me regarding days off and whose day today was his 'Friday.'
The people in front of me stepped forward, presented their documents then tsked when the receiver asked for supplementary information. The male paper-hander justified his presence there and why he didn't have further information; the woman beside him shuffled papers in a thick, plasticine folder and tsked again.
"Next."
I stepped forward and stated my reason for being here in front of her, Diana. I handed her my packet of papers which she sorted through like a disordered deck of cards. No casino bow tie, though, she wore a flower patterned t-shirt and jeans. Her black hair hung unremarkably around her ears to her shoulders. She tucked the right strand behind her ear as she looked at me, then back down at the papers.
"Do you have the ...?"
'No,' I said, 'I wasn't sure if I needed that. I thought it had to do with...' She sighed, explained to me its purpose, then sighed again. She glanced at the clock on the wall to her left. We both spied it was five minutes until the hour.
'Can you duplicate it? I mean, don't you have a copy of that here? Or do I have to come back another time and do all this?'
She said nothing in response. Instead, she typed away at her computer keyboard, scribbled something on one of my papers, then stepped away. When she returned, she picked up a massive stamper, not unlike the type a librarian uses, or, in the old days, that a grocer might use to punch purple-inked prices onto cans of soup or jars of pickles.
She flipped it over,slid the cage down, stared at her computer monitor, spun some dials on the stamper, checked the monitor again, looked at the stamper's reverse image, then released the shiny metal cage. She gave it a practice stamp on a blank notepad, checked the notation, then slid my papers over.
Ker-chunk, ker-chunk, ker-chunk, heavy, ancient processing that verified my presence, that demonstrated the seriousness of this bundle of papers. Ker-chunk, ker-chunk. Page after page, corner after corner was emblazoned in a square of purple block print and a number.
At last, she finished stamping. Put device aside on her counter where purple markings from unintended stamping occured. The area looked like a dried up grape lake. She picked up a yellow highlighter, squeaked it across certain areas, then spun these sheets around to me. "Fill out here, here, here, and here. Sign here." Her finger jabbed at each yellow spot. This was the forgotten sheet.
I did so and spun it back to her. My hand was shaking as I tucked my pen back into my pocket. I was slipping into that zone of final-stepness.
"The fee is... dollars."
'Okay. Can I use my debit card?'
She reached her hand out and took my card with only a nod, no comment, and stepped away from her counter, my papers in hand.
The clock ticked upward. Behind me, I heard the security gentlemen's heavy gait as they secured with a bang the glass doors. It was 30 seconds until closing. I sighed.
Diana returned and handed me my card. She stapled my receipt to the top left corner, reached again for her tool, ker-chunk, ker-chunk: an original and a copy. Her cuticles were unintended purple half moons. She snapped a black paper clip around the originals, half-tossed them into a box marked, "To File, Room 151, April 6, 2011 then slid the copies across the sheened countertop towards me.
It was finalized.
'Do I need to mail these or ...?'
"You'll need to use ... or if you want, at the US Post Office you'll need to pay for Certified Delivery. That's cheaper." She gave me a broken smile.
'Thank you.'
As I walked out, I looked down at the packet. The purple ink fluttered in the bay's wind, unhelped by my shaky hands. A weird hole formed within me. As I crammed the papers into my bag, it felt just the opposite: rather than tucking something in, I was letting something go.
It's an interesting process, decision making. Well-thought out, the end result should be positive, or so we hope. Right now, smack in the middle of the post-decision process, it's difficlt to sense the end-of-tunnel light. However, these steps would not have been taken if some aspect of betterment, some tiny essence that there will be something positive was not thought to be on the road ahead.
A fork in the road and neither turn leads to a Dead End. However taking one route over the other is Final. Taking the alternative is Not an Option. There's no turning back.
By mail. Via FedEx. Through e-mail. In person.
A couple months ago, I made the decision to run a half marathon. I'd thought about this for a while, a bunch of years, actually, but never took the proverbial steps beyond picking up a brochure. An opportunity arose, I slipped a brochure in my pocket, then later received a company-wide announcement. A second reinforcement. I thought about it, not having trained before and, with only a month prior to this event, not feeling ready.
However, I decided I had nothing to lose. So what, if I had to walk it? So what, if I finished in 4 hours after the street cleaners have passed by? So what, if I ran part and walked part? It was the end result, the committment to the next step, the accomplishment, or, rather, to the turned page: done. I filled out the papers, signed my name, wrote the check, then, at last, mailed it. That final step sealed the deal.
Yea, I finished the half, not by the time I'd hoped for, rather 13 minutes slower, but hey, that's okay.
Recently, I took the steps towards another paper-signing venture. Downloaded everything from the internet, read it through, consulted with someone, read more, consulted again, then, after a bit of urging, I filled them out. Yes, them. Multiple pages.
This took about three hours -- disturbed my sleep that night and for nights to follow until I could take the next steps: copying and filing.
It's a weird process all of this. Making a decision then following through with it, then following through with it on an entirely objective level. It's a committment of a different kind: committing to a major turn in life, a drastic change, a road untraveled and, yea, a bit bumpy.
I took the multiple pages to one place then was told to take them elsewhere, miles from where I stood. Place number one no longer accepted them even though the website says otherwise. Aaargh. A major hurdle in my efforts to trepidatiously take this step.
When I arrived at Place #2, I had less than 15 minutes until closing and there was a short line before me. I rationalized that I'd have to return the following week, not enough time, a pause beyond my control settled in. A clock slowly ticked, the minute hand swung upward to the top of the hour with a slow thud. I could hear every sound, each footstep on the shiny floor, each whining door that opened and closed with an echo. The conversation between the security folks behind me regarding days off and whose day today was his 'Friday.'
The people in front of me stepped forward, presented their documents then tsked when the receiver asked for supplementary information. The male paper-hander justified his presence there and why he didn't have further information; the woman beside him shuffled papers in a thick, plasticine folder and tsked again.
"Next."
I stepped forward and stated my reason for being here in front of her, Diana. I handed her my packet of papers which she sorted through like a disordered deck of cards. No casino bow tie, though, she wore a flower patterned t-shirt and jeans. Her black hair hung unremarkably around her ears to her shoulders. She tucked the right strand behind her ear as she looked at me, then back down at the papers.
"Do you have the ...?"
'No,' I said, 'I wasn't sure if I needed that. I thought it had to do with...' She sighed, explained to me its purpose, then sighed again. She glanced at the clock on the wall to her left. We both spied it was five minutes until the hour.
'Can you duplicate it? I mean, don't you have a copy of that here? Or do I have to come back another time and do all this?'
She said nothing in response. Instead, she typed away at her computer keyboard, scribbled something on one of my papers, then stepped away. When she returned, she picked up a massive stamper, not unlike the type a librarian uses, or, in the old days, that a grocer might use to punch purple-inked prices onto cans of soup or jars of pickles.
She flipped it over,slid the cage down, stared at her computer monitor, spun some dials on the stamper, checked the monitor again, looked at the stamper's reverse image, then released the shiny metal cage. She gave it a practice stamp on a blank notepad, checked the notation, then slid my papers over.
Ker-chunk, ker-chunk, ker-chunk, heavy, ancient processing that verified my presence, that demonstrated the seriousness of this bundle of papers. Ker-chunk, ker-chunk. Page after page, corner after corner was emblazoned in a square of purple block print and a number.
At last, she finished stamping. Put device aside on her counter where purple markings from unintended stamping occured. The area looked like a dried up grape lake. She picked up a yellow highlighter, squeaked it across certain areas, then spun these sheets around to me. "Fill out here, here, here, and here. Sign here." Her finger jabbed at each yellow spot. This was the forgotten sheet.
I did so and spun it back to her. My hand was shaking as I tucked my pen back into my pocket. I was slipping into that zone of final-stepness.
"The fee is... dollars."
'Okay. Can I use my debit card?'
She reached her hand out and took my card with only a nod, no comment, and stepped away from her counter, my papers in hand.
The clock ticked upward. Behind me, I heard the security gentlemen's heavy gait as they secured with a bang the glass doors. It was 30 seconds until closing. I sighed.
Diana returned and handed me my card. She stapled my receipt to the top left corner, reached again for her tool, ker-chunk, ker-chunk: an original and a copy. Her cuticles were unintended purple half moons. She snapped a black paper clip around the originals, half-tossed them into a box marked, "To File, Room 151, April 6, 2011 then slid the copies across the sheened countertop towards me.
It was finalized.
'Do I need to mail these or ...?'
"You'll need to use ... or if you want, at the US Post Office you'll need to pay for Certified Delivery. That's cheaper." She gave me a broken smile.
'Thank you.'
As I walked out, I looked down at the packet. The purple ink fluttered in the bay's wind, unhelped by my shaky hands. A weird hole formed within me. As I crammed the papers into my bag, it felt just the opposite: rather than tucking something in, I was letting something go.
It's an interesting process, decision making. Well-thought out, the end result should be positive, or so we hope. Right now, smack in the middle of the post-decision process, it's difficlt to sense the end-of-tunnel light. However, these steps would not have been taken if some aspect of betterment, some tiny essence that there will be something positive was not thought to be on the road ahead.
A fork in the road and neither turn leads to a Dead End. However taking one route over the other is Final. Taking the alternative is Not an Option. There's no turning back.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
See Through
To look into the eye, straight into the eye, what does one see?
The iris, that multi-hued perimeter that tells us, 'Oh, she's got sky blue eyes!' Or, do we notice the white with the veiny redness that demonstrates dry eye or fatigue or allergies, or, in some cases, a blown vessel? How about those lashes, long like spider legs or short serving a minimal purpose of keeping crud out? Are they dark and mysterious or lighter and accentuating to the brow, mascara'd or plain?
What about the pupil all roundish, black, peppercorn or marble-sized?
Or, do we not notice the physical structure at all and simply go for the metaphysical aspect? For example, the 'I can tell by your eyes you're lying.' Or, 'You look straight into my soul when you look at me.' Or, 'When our eyes meet, I feel loved.'
It's interesting to ponder -- the physical versus the emotional and impalpable sensory.
I've a bit of focus, no pun intended, on this right now. Just got off the phone with my ophthalmologist/surgeon who suggested that I exist nearly a month without my contacts prior to the first, upcoming surgery. This is due, in part, to my contact lenses and how they tend to misshape the eyes. Also, since I'm prone to constant retinal disease -- even post-surgically -- my eyes are constantly altering themselves. Yea, despite two full days of measurements and drops, I get to have one more pleasurable day of dark rooms and funky machinery! Yea for me!!
The irony is profound: I'm rather smart. That is, I know a lot of stuff and can appropriately apply most of the arbitrary information to something, be it Jeopardy!, cocktail party conversation, or just random spewing among friends. However, when I was recently in the situation of wearing my thick, Coke-bottley glasses for a week, people not only treated and looked at me differently, they spoke to me differently. Yes, truly as if I were, say a Special Olympics candidate. Kind of cracked me up, actually, especially after I was given the slow, albeit slightly louder (because when there's one impairment, then deafness MUST also be a factor, too) commentary or offer.
"DO YOU NEED HELP CARRYING THIS OUT TO THE BUS STOP?!!" Yes, in nearly yelling tone, hence the uppercase lettering.
"IT'S NICE THAT YOU HAVE A JOB. WHAT DO THEY LET YOU DO THERE?" Someone actually asked if I help with copying or stuffing envelopes. No lie.
So, as I've said before, I am special. Very special, indeed.
The surg. is fast coming down the pipe. There's a bit of concern by my surgeon because of my severe myopia, but she's confident that, given no complications, a new lens will work out well for me. Again, even today, no promises on the double vision. "Let's just cross one bridge at a time," she said today. Hmmm. Okay.
I have to admit, as I've said before, I have a strange nervousness about this. It's not that eye surgeries aren't done all the time. I know that. And I know that most have no complications. Criminy Sakes, I'm rather healthy so, if you ask me, I'm a good candidate for any sort of procedure. It's just an irrational unease, not quite worry, just ill-at-ease.
Yes, I know the odds are in my favor. Yea yea yea. It's hard to explain and paradoxically, despite all the words in my head, I've very few here on this sensation: Somewhere between a tightrope and an imbalanced stair step. That is, very unsettling and not quite well-footed. Wearing my glasses for a month doesn't help me feel better about any of it either. Don't ask why, it just doesn't.
Trust, I suppose is a major key. When entering such an unknown territory - no matter what it involves (new job, conversation, a date, an exam, a confrontation, a food that many enjoy but looks like vomit) - there's always a bit of dis-ease, uneasiness, an ill-at-ease feeling. To assuage this, there needs to be a release of the guard and a flow of trust. Back to the ole, Breathe and Release. Not unlike Superman, but slightly skewed I beleve we, or I must see through the walls and Trust.
So, when I look into my eye, when I look at my contact lens floating around, what do I see? Do I see nervousness or plastic? Do I see four eyes or hope? Is there a window in or a reflection out?
When I look deep or when you look deep - far beyond just the sleepy bags and the allergy soreness, what do you see? What do you want to see? What do we see in and through the lens of our mind's eye or the eye that leads to and from our heart soul?
Clarity? Hope. Trust.
The iris, that multi-hued perimeter that tells us, 'Oh, she's got sky blue eyes!' Or, do we notice the white with the veiny redness that demonstrates dry eye or fatigue or allergies, or, in some cases, a blown vessel? How about those lashes, long like spider legs or short serving a minimal purpose of keeping crud out? Are they dark and mysterious or lighter and accentuating to the brow, mascara'd or plain?
What about the pupil all roundish, black, peppercorn or marble-sized?
Or, do we not notice the physical structure at all and simply go for the metaphysical aspect? For example, the 'I can tell by your eyes you're lying.' Or, 'You look straight into my soul when you look at me.' Or, 'When our eyes meet, I feel loved.'
It's interesting to ponder -- the physical versus the emotional and impalpable sensory.
I've a bit of focus, no pun intended, on this right now. Just got off the phone with my ophthalmologist/surgeon who suggested that I exist nearly a month without my contacts prior to the first, upcoming surgery. This is due, in part, to my contact lenses and how they tend to misshape the eyes. Also, since I'm prone to constant retinal disease -- even post-surgically -- my eyes are constantly altering themselves. Yea, despite two full days of measurements and drops, I get to have one more pleasurable day of dark rooms and funky machinery! Yea for me!!
The irony is profound: I'm rather smart. That is, I know a lot of stuff and can appropriately apply most of the arbitrary information to something, be it Jeopardy!, cocktail party conversation, or just random spewing among friends. However, when I was recently in the situation of wearing my thick, Coke-bottley glasses for a week, people not only treated and looked at me differently, they spoke to me differently. Yes, truly as if I were, say a Special Olympics candidate. Kind of cracked me up, actually, especially after I was given the slow, albeit slightly louder (because when there's one impairment, then deafness MUST also be a factor, too) commentary or offer.
"DO YOU NEED HELP CARRYING THIS OUT TO THE BUS STOP?!!" Yes, in nearly yelling tone, hence the uppercase lettering.
"IT'S NICE THAT YOU HAVE A JOB. WHAT DO THEY LET YOU DO THERE?" Someone actually asked if I help with copying or stuffing envelopes. No lie.
So, as I've said before, I am special. Very special, indeed.
The surg. is fast coming down the pipe. There's a bit of concern by my surgeon because of my severe myopia, but she's confident that, given no complications, a new lens will work out well for me. Again, even today, no promises on the double vision. "Let's just cross one bridge at a time," she said today. Hmmm. Okay.
I have to admit, as I've said before, I have a strange nervousness about this. It's not that eye surgeries aren't done all the time. I know that. And I know that most have no complications. Criminy Sakes, I'm rather healthy so, if you ask me, I'm a good candidate for any sort of procedure. It's just an irrational unease, not quite worry, just ill-at-ease.
Yes, I know the odds are in my favor. Yea yea yea. It's hard to explain and paradoxically, despite all the words in my head, I've very few here on this sensation: Somewhere between a tightrope and an imbalanced stair step. That is, very unsettling and not quite well-footed. Wearing my glasses for a month doesn't help me feel better about any of it either. Don't ask why, it just doesn't.
Trust, I suppose is a major key. When entering such an unknown territory - no matter what it involves (new job, conversation, a date, an exam, a confrontation, a food that many enjoy but looks like vomit) - there's always a bit of dis-ease, uneasiness, an ill-at-ease feeling. To assuage this, there needs to be a release of the guard and a flow of trust. Back to the ole, Breathe and Release. Not unlike Superman, but slightly skewed I beleve we, or I must see through the walls and Trust.
So, when I look into my eye, when I look at my contact lens floating around, what do I see? Do I see nervousness or plastic? Do I see four eyes or hope? Is there a window in or a reflection out?
When I look deep or when you look deep - far beyond just the sleepy bags and the allergy soreness, what do you see? What do you want to see? What do we see in and through the lens of our mind's eye or the eye that leads to and from our heart soul?
Clarity? Hope. Trust.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Fear or Relief?
The dates are set and the eyes are apprehensively ready. It's a funny thing - a sense of relief melded into a wad of fear about the repairs.
One thing's for certain - I will either continue to see double or I will not. How absolute is that? Medicine and the human body are interesting in what's predicted and known by repetitive procedure and what this variable, this completely adaptable, ever-changing dynamic system we call our body is capable of doing. It's like algebra: the integer + the X variable = some sort of outcome, hopefully the one that is supposed and known.
I thought it ironic that the day after I return from a writing retreat I will have my left eye sliced open. I'm hoping that this first surgery will give me a bit of fodder from which to grow my writing brain. As it stands, the sigh imbued with the angst is enough for me to scrawl something here.
Right eye will be three and a half weeks later: plenty of time to adjust, get rid of my left eye patch and resume the right eye pirated look for Gay Pride! Now that's a look most people won't have! Aaaarr!
It's scary, though, just thinking about having my eyes operated on. I know it's for the better, and I know that I'll garner relief at some point, but, honestly, I have some fear of these procedures. No, not that a mistake will be made and I'll end up blind in one eye. For some reason, I've made amends with this option, or so I think; my rational mind knows that all will be okay, my not-so-rational mind keeps jerking those thoughts around not unlike when we jolt a pinball machine to thwart the gravitied roll of the ball. It's difficult to explain. And it exists probably, in part, because I've no one with whom to share this gelatinous sense of stability. Despite the likelihood of a positive outcome, the jitters remain.
Ideally, my headaches will subside. Ideally, the double vision will ease up. Ideally, the dizziness and lightheadedness will fade into the sunset. Ideally, my vision will improve to the level of the average person and I will, at last, release my clutches on my severe myopia, although still have to wear some sort of lenses for clear vision. Ideally, all will sail through under the laser's incision, the opthalmologists hands, and the new lens(es) with the same ease and swiftness that the average senior citizen receives when they have a simpler, shaved-down cataract surgery. Ideally, all will be better.
I think I need to reflect upon a blog I posted a while back and truly partake: breathe and release. Breathe and release. I have had to let go of so much that I believed in and hoped for this past year, I suppose that I need to let go of some of this unstable uncertainty, too.
Breathe in relief, release the fear. Breathe and release.
One thing's for certain - I will either continue to see double or I will not. How absolute is that? Medicine and the human body are interesting in what's predicted and known by repetitive procedure and what this variable, this completely adaptable, ever-changing dynamic system we call our body is capable of doing. It's like algebra: the integer + the X variable = some sort of outcome, hopefully the one that is supposed and known.
I thought it ironic that the day after I return from a writing retreat I will have my left eye sliced open. I'm hoping that this first surgery will give me a bit of fodder from which to grow my writing brain. As it stands, the sigh imbued with the angst is enough for me to scrawl something here.
Right eye will be three and a half weeks later: plenty of time to adjust, get rid of my left eye patch and resume the right eye pirated look for Gay Pride! Now that's a look most people won't have! Aaaarr!
It's scary, though, just thinking about having my eyes operated on. I know it's for the better, and I know that I'll garner relief at some point, but, honestly, I have some fear of these procedures. No, not that a mistake will be made and I'll end up blind in one eye. For some reason, I've made amends with this option, or so I think; my rational mind knows that all will be okay, my not-so-rational mind keeps jerking those thoughts around not unlike when we jolt a pinball machine to thwart the gravitied roll of the ball. It's difficult to explain. And it exists probably, in part, because I've no one with whom to share this gelatinous sense of stability. Despite the likelihood of a positive outcome, the jitters remain.
Ideally, my headaches will subside. Ideally, the double vision will ease up. Ideally, the dizziness and lightheadedness will fade into the sunset. Ideally, my vision will improve to the level of the average person and I will, at last, release my clutches on my severe myopia, although still have to wear some sort of lenses for clear vision. Ideally, all will sail through under the laser's incision, the opthalmologists hands, and the new lens(es) with the same ease and swiftness that the average senior citizen receives when they have a simpler, shaved-down cataract surgery. Ideally, all will be better.
I think I need to reflect upon a blog I posted a while back and truly partake: breathe and release. Breathe and release. I have had to let go of so much that I believed in and hoped for this past year, I suppose that I need to let go of some of this unstable uncertainty, too.
Breathe in relief, release the fear. Breathe and release.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Why Be Nice?
In light of so much loss, so much back-biting, so many dismissive comments and acts of divisiveness in our society, I began to wonder why be nice?
Here, in the Bay Area, I pondered, Why put myself out there time and time again, trusting people, thinking better of people than what [periodical/occasional] circumstances dictate, why constantly be the one who gives the Benefit of Doubt to those around me? Why help out, reach out, give a hand, or a kind word or attentive ear and expect nothing in return? I'm what many would consider to be a kind person, I give of myself, I ask questions, I am loyal to a fault, I have left myself exposed, per se, and attempted to 'show my cards.' And yet, among the many wonderful friends & family who are sincere and supportive, it never ceases to amaze me how frequently I am on the rancid end as recipient (or would it be considered a victim?) of squelchings, snubbings, rumors, lies, and underminings. Do I ask for this? I think not. Who would?
Why, oh why, some might ask, do I not simply look out for me and say 'fuck you' to those around me who step upon or turn their back to me? Why not venture down that scientific path of Survival of the Fittest, Only the Strong Survive, Keep your Friends Close and your Enemies Closer, Be Number One Because Nobody Remembers Number Two, Cooperation is Only for the Weak and all those other signs along the way? Why not follow the Origin of the Species to the nth degree? In living and adaptating to my family, this was the way of survival, sure, but as an adult, it's an entirely different environment.
Hmmm. I proposed this question on my fb status page and discovered that many of those with whom I associate found that niceness is the way to survival. That this, indeed is the way to continue our species in life. Because helping out another altruistically, opening a hand for another, turning a blind eye, letting go of mistakes, accepting forgiveness and all that stuff is what brings our society out from a bunch of egomaniacal self-serving, self-centered, myway/highway, compartmentalized beings to a bonded, reliable, scaffolded community.
Some British scientists proposed the questionable idea in a free lecture, "Why Be Nice? Understanding Co-operative Behaviour in Humans and Other Animals" at the Zoological Society London (ZSL). One lecturer pointed out the basic picnicking friend we're all too familiar with: the ant. Ants share their hoards. When they discover an open soda can or forgotten mound of potato salad, an alert is sent via their funky little ant saliva. If ants didn't share this lovely meal with their million other brethren, their massive ant colony and their beloved queen would die. That's a bit of pressure to play the telephone game, I tell you.
In the primate world, it was pointed out that when monkeys, (the example given), a vervet monkey discovered a food fest, say, a tree or the ground underneath dotted with luscious fruits it was expected that he share and holler out a 'food call,' with his troop. Not unlike a cowpoke's banged-upon triangle for vittles & grits, I suppose. When the troop discovered the monkey hoarding away his sweetened treasure, he received a beating. Wild dogs or wolves tended to share their banquets too. It's for the betterment of the pack; "dogs and monkeys favour co-operation and refuse to participaate in unfair social exchanges."
Redouan Bshary of Neuchatel University in Switzerland discovered that certain fish are cleaners (wrasse) and others are clients (grouper fish). Cleaners eat the parasites off of, crazily, much larger predator fish. Sort of the 'keep your enemies close' notion, I suppose. There's a certain respect from the client fish for the cleaners who could easily bite their own predatory customers, and these predatory clients could easily make a meal of the cleaner, but opt not to especially when there are other cleaners around -- like it's frowned upon in fish society to eat the not-s0-hired help. Of course, there's a bit of misogyny in all this too: male cleaner fish attack female cleaners if the little lady gets fed up with the whole parasitical meal thing and decides to swim away. This keeps the females more cooperative and more likely to give an excellent grooming service. Sounds a bit pimpish to me, but that's just my point of view.
However, when it comes to humans, it's a different level of cooperation. With no chance of punishment to selfish behavior, helpfulness, altruism and all that 'love one another' bizness quickly failed. A Danish scientist deduced that if punishment is wielded upon cheaters and malfeasants, then behavior is likely to change for the better (not always, of course, but more likely). And, what did I draw from this? That humans are not nice unless we're forced to by fear of punishment. Of course, social contracts, location of your home/community and quite a bit of that Nature vs. Nurture stuff plays a heavy role.
A University of Amsterdam scientist found that the impact of a single female in a pack of snarly, drooling males also makes a significant difference in terms of cooperative action; just a single female on a board of directors demonstrates that a company is 20% less likely to go bankrupt.
Yet, I will take this one step further because I can: we will be nice because the impending punishment might be solitude, and not necessarily the good kind that we seek when on a meditative journey. No, we will be isolated, then become curmudgeonly or marmish or mean or simply put aside by our peers and colleagues and, well, our friends. We need each other. We need forgiveness and the ability to accept our misgivings and shortcomings and errors and to rely on one another in ways that draw us into a sense of community rather than arms-length distance of individuals.
I'm not saying that individualism is a bad thing and competition is horrid. Not in the least. I think both are healthy, they bring out the best in who we are and also allow us to see where we can improve: it's in that latter element that we can lean on those around us, and in the former, we become better at what we know. It's in the asking for a hand, taking the risk of exposure and believing that the other will respond in kind. Even the gift of a genuine smile, a passing hello, making a phone call to a friend, an up-nod to someone you see every day but don't know her name, the burying the hatchet, release of an unnecessary grudge, or even offering to carry some groceries to the car for someone who's struggling can is a simple gesture of niceness, cooperation in our society. Doing something that is uncharacteristic, I think is what I'm suggesting here: extend beyond our normed behavior and make a change for the better.
Yea, I know, if we're too nice, people look at us like we're o-d-d or trying to rob them or murder them and steal their organs. It's a fine line, I know. It's because we don't live in a Brady Bunch or Beaver Cleaver world. It's closer to Yosemite Sam's rootin' tootin tarnation town than anything.
Recently, I was standing in line at TJ's, my red basket overloaded with heavy stuff; I was hoisting a jug of juice under my arm and doing the TJ's kick-the-handbasket along the line routine. The couple behind me, utilizing a regular cart said, "Do you want to put your basket on ours? We've got space." I was dumbfounded. Initially, I didn't respond, not believing that they were gesturing towards me. The woman repeated the offer as her male partner tapped my lopsided shoulder. I thanked them graciously and took up the offer. For the next 15 minutes, as we shuffled snail-pace along in the line, we carried on excellent light convo. Very funny all of us were.
When it came time to part, when a check stand opened, that is, I thanked them again for their goodwill and kindness. They looked at me like I was crazy -- it was simply putting my basket under their wheelie basket -- because I expressed so much gratitude. Alas, we wished each other off to a pleasant evening.
Mind you, I'm of the ilk that gratitude and true compliments can never be stated enough in oue under-appreciated, epically condescending and cruel society. One month ago this TJ's event occurred and the impact is still profound -- a tiny act of kindness. It's like the monkey sharing his guavas: it's simply something 'you do' and not think twice about it.
Recently, I had to deal with a rather significant loss. An acquaintance of mine, a woman with whom I work came up and simply hugged me and expressed her sympathy and support. It was so unexpected, so real, genuine and loving. All I could do was tear up and get all weepy-eyed -- partly for what I was already feeling but also because her action was simply that: nice and simple and unexpectedly supportive and kind.
No, I'm not a fan of the bumper sticker that proclaims and demands of us to Commit Random Acts of Kindness, blah blah blah. I roll my eyes every time I see that. It's the unstated, unexpected event that needs no car-rear reminder. It simply is Nice to be Nice. We do it to make a community versus continuing as a bunch of brainwashed, sweaty heathens vying for a betterment of the single self, the survival-of-the-fittest society, essentially like the poke-a-fork-in-my-eye movie, Soylent Green.
I'd offer my cart space to another, a hand to a person who needed a lift up, I'd forgive, honor, and continue to love someone despite some difficulties because that's the kind of person I am. I guess it's what works with me - some CM Strohecker sense of betterment. In my perspective, that to be nice versus contemptible, is easier, more pleasant, and draws in a sense of wellness in our -- or my -- otherwise difficult society.
Also, I think it's simpler in my own psyche to be nice, no matter the W.i.i.F.M. sense of entitlement; I suppose that What's in it For Me is this: I'd rather give back to others because in doing so, I'm giving back -- forgiveness, a warm gesture, a kind word, some love -- to myself. Spreading the wealth without being creepy.
Share your guavas, eat an other's skin-based parasites, or, just reach out to someone you care for and demonstrate an act of niceness and kindness that is true and loving. That's how our fittest will Survive: giving back, making amends, relying on each other, and, quite simply, being gracious and Nice humans. And, as I've said repeatedly here, forgive and remember what draws or drew us together in the first place.
Here, in the Bay Area, I pondered, Why put myself out there time and time again, trusting people, thinking better of people than what [periodical/occasional] circumstances dictate, why constantly be the one who gives the Benefit of Doubt to those around me? Why help out, reach out, give a hand, or a kind word or attentive ear and expect nothing in return? I'm what many would consider to be a kind person, I give of myself, I ask questions, I am loyal to a fault, I have left myself exposed, per se, and attempted to 'show my cards.' And yet, among the many wonderful friends & family who are sincere and supportive, it never ceases to amaze me how frequently I am on the rancid end as recipient (or would it be considered a victim?) of squelchings, snubbings, rumors, lies, and underminings. Do I ask for this? I think not. Who would?
Why, oh why, some might ask, do I not simply look out for me and say 'fuck you' to those around me who step upon or turn their back to me? Why not venture down that scientific path of Survival of the Fittest, Only the Strong Survive, Keep your Friends Close and your Enemies Closer, Be Number One Because Nobody Remembers Number Two, Cooperation is Only for the Weak and all those other signs along the way? Why not follow the Origin of the Species to the nth degree? In living and adaptating to my family, this was the way of survival, sure, but as an adult, it's an entirely different environment.
Hmmm. I proposed this question on my fb status page and discovered that many of those with whom I associate found that niceness is the way to survival. That this, indeed is the way to continue our species in life. Because helping out another altruistically, opening a hand for another, turning a blind eye, letting go of mistakes, accepting forgiveness and all that stuff is what brings our society out from a bunch of egomaniacal self-serving, self-centered, myway/highway, compartmentalized beings to a bonded, reliable, scaffolded community.
Some British scientists proposed the questionable idea in a free lecture, "Why Be Nice? Understanding Co-operative Behaviour in Humans and Other Animals" at the Zoological Society London (ZSL). One lecturer pointed out the basic picnicking friend we're all too familiar with: the ant. Ants share their hoards. When they discover an open soda can or forgotten mound of potato salad, an alert is sent via their funky little ant saliva. If ants didn't share this lovely meal with their million other brethren, their massive ant colony and their beloved queen would die. That's a bit of pressure to play the telephone game, I tell you.
In the primate world, it was pointed out that when monkeys, (the example given), a vervet monkey discovered a food fest, say, a tree or the ground underneath dotted with luscious fruits it was expected that he share and holler out a 'food call,' with his troop. Not unlike a cowpoke's banged-upon triangle for vittles & grits, I suppose. When the troop discovered the monkey hoarding away his sweetened treasure, he received a beating. Wild dogs or wolves tended to share their banquets too. It's for the betterment of the pack; "dogs and monkeys favour co-operation and refuse to participaate in unfair social exchanges."
Redouan Bshary of Neuchatel University in Switzerland discovered that certain fish are cleaners (wrasse) and others are clients (grouper fish). Cleaners eat the parasites off of, crazily, much larger predator fish. Sort of the 'keep your enemies close' notion, I suppose. There's a certain respect from the client fish for the cleaners who could easily bite their own predatory customers, and these predatory clients could easily make a meal of the cleaner, but opt not to especially when there are other cleaners around -- like it's frowned upon in fish society to eat the not-s0-hired help. Of course, there's a bit of misogyny in all this too: male cleaner fish attack female cleaners if the little lady gets fed up with the whole parasitical meal thing and decides to swim away. This keeps the females more cooperative and more likely to give an excellent grooming service. Sounds a bit pimpish to me, but that's just my point of view.
However, when it comes to humans, it's a different level of cooperation. With no chance of punishment to selfish behavior, helpfulness, altruism and all that 'love one another' bizness quickly failed. A Danish scientist deduced that if punishment is wielded upon cheaters and malfeasants, then behavior is likely to change for the better (not always, of course, but more likely). And, what did I draw from this? That humans are not nice unless we're forced to by fear of punishment. Of course, social contracts, location of your home/community and quite a bit of that Nature vs. Nurture stuff plays a heavy role.
A University of Amsterdam scientist found that the impact of a single female in a pack of snarly, drooling males also makes a significant difference in terms of cooperative action; just a single female on a board of directors demonstrates that a company is 20% less likely to go bankrupt.
Yet, I will take this one step further because I can: we will be nice because the impending punishment might be solitude, and not necessarily the good kind that we seek when on a meditative journey. No, we will be isolated, then become curmudgeonly or marmish or mean or simply put aside by our peers and colleagues and, well, our friends. We need each other. We need forgiveness and the ability to accept our misgivings and shortcomings and errors and to rely on one another in ways that draw us into a sense of community rather than arms-length distance of individuals.
I'm not saying that individualism is a bad thing and competition is horrid. Not in the least. I think both are healthy, they bring out the best in who we are and also allow us to see where we can improve: it's in that latter element that we can lean on those around us, and in the former, we become better at what we know. It's in the asking for a hand, taking the risk of exposure and believing that the other will respond in kind. Even the gift of a genuine smile, a passing hello, making a phone call to a friend, an up-nod to someone you see every day but don't know her name, the burying the hatchet, release of an unnecessary grudge, or even offering to carry some groceries to the car for someone who's struggling can is a simple gesture of niceness, cooperation in our society. Doing something that is uncharacteristic, I think is what I'm suggesting here: extend beyond our normed behavior and make a change for the better.
Yea, I know, if we're too nice, people look at us like we're o-d-d or trying to rob them or murder them and steal their organs. It's a fine line, I know. It's because we don't live in a Brady Bunch or Beaver Cleaver world. It's closer to Yosemite Sam's rootin' tootin tarnation town than anything.
Recently, I was standing in line at TJ's, my red basket overloaded with heavy stuff; I was hoisting a jug of juice under my arm and doing the TJ's kick-the-handbasket along the line routine. The couple behind me, utilizing a regular cart said, "Do you want to put your basket on ours? We've got space." I was dumbfounded. Initially, I didn't respond, not believing that they were gesturing towards me. The woman repeated the offer as her male partner tapped my lopsided shoulder. I thanked them graciously and took up the offer. For the next 15 minutes, as we shuffled snail-pace along in the line, we carried on excellent light convo. Very funny all of us were.
When it came time to part, when a check stand opened, that is, I thanked them again for their goodwill and kindness. They looked at me like I was crazy -- it was simply putting my basket under their wheelie basket -- because I expressed so much gratitude. Alas, we wished each other off to a pleasant evening.
Mind you, I'm of the ilk that gratitude and true compliments can never be stated enough in oue under-appreciated, epically condescending and cruel society. One month ago this TJ's event occurred and the impact is still profound -- a tiny act of kindness. It's like the monkey sharing his guavas: it's simply something 'you do' and not think twice about it.
Recently, I had to deal with a rather significant loss. An acquaintance of mine, a woman with whom I work came up and simply hugged me and expressed her sympathy and support. It was so unexpected, so real, genuine and loving. All I could do was tear up and get all weepy-eyed -- partly for what I was already feeling but also because her action was simply that: nice and simple and unexpectedly supportive and kind.
No, I'm not a fan of the bumper sticker that proclaims and demands of us to Commit Random Acts of Kindness, blah blah blah. I roll my eyes every time I see that. It's the unstated, unexpected event that needs no car-rear reminder. It simply is Nice to be Nice. We do it to make a community versus continuing as a bunch of brainwashed, sweaty heathens vying for a betterment of the single self, the survival-of-the-fittest society, essentially like the poke-a-fork-in-my-eye movie, Soylent Green.
I'd offer my cart space to another, a hand to a person who needed a lift up, I'd forgive, honor, and continue to love someone despite some difficulties because that's the kind of person I am. I guess it's what works with me - some CM Strohecker sense of betterment. In my perspective, that to be nice versus contemptible, is easier, more pleasant, and draws in a sense of wellness in our -- or my -- otherwise difficult society.
Also, I think it's simpler in my own psyche to be nice, no matter the W.i.i.F.M. sense of entitlement; I suppose that What's in it For Me is this: I'd rather give back to others because in doing so, I'm giving back -- forgiveness, a warm gesture, a kind word, some love -- to myself. Spreading the wealth without being creepy.
Share your guavas, eat an other's skin-based parasites, or, just reach out to someone you care for and demonstrate an act of niceness and kindness that is true and loving. That's how our fittest will Survive: giving back, making amends, relying on each other, and, quite simply, being gracious and Nice humans. And, as I've said repeatedly here, forgive and remember what draws or drew us together in the first place.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Searching - for a home - where the heart is
Looking for...
Seeking...
Searching out a...
Although these sound like openings to personal ads, these are all beginnings for roommate searches. The housing search is on. Even though the roomates want someone with a good 'feel' the posts indicate otherwise: It's a visual thing, at least this is what the Craigslist ads tell me.
Cozy, quaint, nestled. Indications that the room (shared housing) is tiny, tiny, tiny. Some are cryptic: fully updated. What exactly does that mean? Indoor plumbing? Electricity that's no longer knob & tube?
Dog-friendly. Many I've seen say this yet it's a ploy: there's a $350 dog deposit. $350? Really? Not so friendly "deposit." That is a lot of damage, far beyond the cost of replacing dry wall or some grass. Or, dog must be under 25 pounds, which is kind if funny since I've seen quite a few hefty Dachsunds, Shih tzus, and Poodles at work, not counting the cats who tip the scale above mid-20s and have offered to draw blood from my forearms and face at no extra charge.
Easy going. This is something I look for then discover that the Easy Going roommates have a bunch of rules around community-building and food interests.
Vegan, meat-eater, Ethical hedonist, Green, Conscious, male attorney seeks other professional, no professionals - please! artists only!, dogs, no dogs, no cats, hypoallergenic couple, non-smoker, smoker, drink-okay, no drugs, 420 okay, one day at a time, must like children, day-work schedule works best, no parties, community life and music in the house makes it all come together, section 8 okay, No section 8, descent [sic] credit, "patio overlooks plush court yard where you'll ...enjoy your morning coffee on... plus it has a closet." Yes, that was all one sentence.
I couldn't wrap my brain around the closet on the patio, but that's just me. I haven't had to be in the throes of major shared housing in a while, so I suppose that there are now closets on the patio because the others inside are now little bedrooms? I dunno.
So, I switched to houses or apartments (as a solo and not a shared) and immediately found that my price range set me far beyond the Bay Area's galaxy. I actually considered a place that offered multiple bedrooms, bathrooms, garages (yes, plural), and an enclosed backyard, AND an option to buy this house cheaply. It also came with a complimentary, miniscule one-hour, eight-minute commute to my present abode. One hour ++. That's 68 minutes in good traffic. I get frustrated on my bicycle if I miss a couple stop lights and arrive at work in 20 minutes instead of 15. could I handle sitting on a train and/or bus and/or Bart for 1 1/2 hours? Could I? I'm not so sure. Yet there's a nagging at my brain: the yard, the yard. Big enough for one or two or three furry buddies.
Searching for housing is a pain, no doubt about it. I'm trying to piece-meal my health together and also consider a big ass move .... again. It seems that I have finally received most of my forwarded, non-yellow address mailer postal mail.
Not long ago, I searched for the abode in which I presently reside -- by the way, thankfully, kindly, and graciously made possible by hired movers. It was arduous, to say the least, to finally settle on this place. Fifteen places caught my fancy and all were in varied geographical coordinates. Now, today, I'm looking both at location and price. I've ruled out ground-floor anythings, north-facing buildings, and buildings that appear to have pink as their typical exterior color. This latter descriptor is hard to explain; pink simply doesn't suit me as a building's color. North? Well, it's dark. I lived in a north-facing apartment and we discovered mushrooms growing in our always-damp shag carpeting. 'Nuf said there.
Price, though is tough. The market seems to be jacking up the cost of rentals even though many people are unemployed and unable to pay their skyrocketed rent. The Tenant's Union declared, as per California statute, that a move-in cost can be no more than twice the cost of the first month's rent (that's the deposit), or three times that if the place is furnished. Criminy! That is one chunk o' change. And still, the management company or the owners or the other roommates request the cash bags.
One shared place I perused offered an 'easy-going' space in a 1900s house, complete with a meditation person, a writer, some furniture (dresser, chairs), a bed (eeww, bedbugs) and requested nearly a thousand bucks for rent since the dwelling was located near the Berkeley Bowl and not far from the University. Yep, all for the low low price of $950/month + first, last, And deposit -- a person could have a ROOM! Yes, a Room, oh, with cupboard space (of course, water is included) and two laid-back dudes. I have to admit, I actually Googled-earthed it just to see what the house looked like: not so bad for a bedroom with potential bedbugs (that's my input).
Rentals. I searched beyond my frontiers when I rather recently (6 months ago) settled into my chilled upstairs apartment space. I wonder, after all the address changes I plugged in to my creditors and magazine subscriptions, could my mail locate me, moreso, could my own persona pinpoint me once again if I skedaddled for the fourth time in 11 years, seventh in 15?
I hate moving. Did I say that yet? I hate moving. And yet, I am seriously considering this sojourn of my being once again. I hate moving. I can handle public speaking, let alone the fright of a shortened life, but moving, or losing my vision? No, not so much on my list of favorite things.
Could it, the mail, my inner foundation find me again if I hopscotched to another town, another zipcode, another dwelling shared or unshared, communal or solo, in the woods or out in the burbs, along the water, on the Peninsula, in Sonoma, somewhere in the 925 or in the Presidio in what was once an Officer's housing? Could I handle bonking my head on the Potrero Hill top floor (it's complete with its own, private bathroom!) attic-converted-to slanty ceilinged bedroom/live-in space, or perhaps in a massive 3-story Jingletown loft that reminds me of the one Kevin Bacon rode his bicycle around in that 1980s broker-turned-bike messenger movie, or, perhaps abutting some farmland with acres and acres to roam and grow stuff or throw pinecones and balls for Gracie and Basco and ...?
Uprooting for trees is traumatic at any point. Often kills off part of its cell structure and definitely jerks its growth patterns around, occasionally to the point of death or near-death if not handled correctly. No certainty, though, on its survival even if it does seek and receive ample nourishment, sunlight, and fresh air later. Moving is difficult.
One thing is certain: at this point, I am solid where I am but aware that a foundation can be borne elsewhere. Only downfalls here in this funky apartment are no dogs and the windows are made from rice paper and imaginary glass.
In search of...
Seeking...
Looking for...
I suppose that this, all of the shared-dwelling, solo-resident thing, and/or this search-for-housing bizness is a different way to move forward, move on, or simply move again. Or it's the process of creating a space again where 'the heart' can reside. Find a home where my heart will be. Or, maybe simpler, it's just living in a dwelling where I can have dogs, which, quite frankly, is pretty much the same as the previous sentence.
Seeking...
Searching out a...
Although these sound like openings to personal ads, these are all beginnings for roommate searches. The housing search is on. Even though the roomates want someone with a good 'feel' the posts indicate otherwise: It's a visual thing, at least this is what the Craigslist ads tell me.
Cozy, quaint, nestled. Indications that the room (shared housing) is tiny, tiny, tiny. Some are cryptic: fully updated. What exactly does that mean? Indoor plumbing? Electricity that's no longer knob & tube?
Dog-friendly. Many I've seen say this yet it's a ploy: there's a $350 dog deposit. $350? Really? Not so friendly "deposit." That is a lot of damage, far beyond the cost of replacing dry wall or some grass. Or, dog must be under 25 pounds, which is kind if funny since I've seen quite a few hefty Dachsunds, Shih tzus, and Poodles at work, not counting the cats who tip the scale above mid-20s and have offered to draw blood from my forearms and face at no extra charge.
Easy going. This is something I look for then discover that the Easy Going roommates have a bunch of rules around community-building and food interests.
Vegan, meat-eater, Ethical hedonist, Green, Conscious, male attorney seeks other professional, no professionals - please! artists only!, dogs, no dogs, no cats, hypoallergenic couple, non-smoker, smoker, drink-okay, no drugs, 420 okay, one day at a time, must like children, day-work schedule works best, no parties, community life and music in the house makes it all come together, section 8 okay, No section 8, descent [sic] credit, "patio overlooks plush court yard where you'll ...enjoy your morning coffee on... plus it has a closet." Yes, that was all one sentence.
I couldn't wrap my brain around the closet on the patio, but that's just me. I haven't had to be in the throes of major shared housing in a while, so I suppose that there are now closets on the patio because the others inside are now little bedrooms? I dunno.
So, I switched to houses or apartments (as a solo and not a shared) and immediately found that my price range set me far beyond the Bay Area's galaxy. I actually considered a place that offered multiple bedrooms, bathrooms, garages (yes, plural), and an enclosed backyard, AND an option to buy this house cheaply. It also came with a complimentary, miniscule one-hour, eight-minute commute to my present abode. One hour ++. That's 68 minutes in good traffic. I get frustrated on my bicycle if I miss a couple stop lights and arrive at work in 20 minutes instead of 15. could I handle sitting on a train and/or bus and/or Bart for 1 1/2 hours? Could I? I'm not so sure. Yet there's a nagging at my brain: the yard, the yard. Big enough for one or two or three furry buddies.
Searching for housing is a pain, no doubt about it. I'm trying to piece-meal my health together and also consider a big ass move .... again. It seems that I have finally received most of my forwarded, non-yellow address mailer postal mail.
Not long ago, I searched for the abode in which I presently reside -- by the way, thankfully, kindly, and graciously made possible by hired movers. It was arduous, to say the least, to finally settle on this place. Fifteen places caught my fancy and all were in varied geographical coordinates. Now, today, I'm looking both at location and price. I've ruled out ground-floor anythings, north-facing buildings, and buildings that appear to have pink as their typical exterior color. This latter descriptor is hard to explain; pink simply doesn't suit me as a building's color. North? Well, it's dark. I lived in a north-facing apartment and we discovered mushrooms growing in our always-damp shag carpeting. 'Nuf said there.
Price, though is tough. The market seems to be jacking up the cost of rentals even though many people are unemployed and unable to pay their skyrocketed rent. The Tenant's Union declared, as per California statute, that a move-in cost can be no more than twice the cost of the first month's rent (that's the deposit), or three times that if the place is furnished. Criminy! That is one chunk o' change. And still, the management company or the owners or the other roommates request the cash bags.
One shared place I perused offered an 'easy-going' space in a 1900s house, complete with a meditation person, a writer, some furniture (dresser, chairs), a bed (eeww, bedbugs) and requested nearly a thousand bucks for rent since the dwelling was located near the Berkeley Bowl and not far from the University. Yep, all for the low low price of $950/month + first, last, And deposit -- a person could have a ROOM! Yes, a Room, oh, with cupboard space (of course, water is included) and two laid-back dudes. I have to admit, I actually Googled-earthed it just to see what the house looked like: not so bad for a bedroom with potential bedbugs (that's my input).
Rentals. I searched beyond my frontiers when I rather recently (6 months ago) settled into my chilled upstairs apartment space. I wonder, after all the address changes I plugged in to my creditors and magazine subscriptions, could my mail locate me, moreso, could my own persona pinpoint me once again if I skedaddled for the fourth time in 11 years, seventh in 15?
I hate moving. Did I say that yet? I hate moving. And yet, I am seriously considering this sojourn of my being once again. I hate moving. I can handle public speaking, let alone the fright of a shortened life, but moving, or losing my vision? No, not so much on my list of favorite things.
Could it, the mail, my inner foundation find me again if I hopscotched to another town, another zipcode, another dwelling shared or unshared, communal or solo, in the woods or out in the burbs, along the water, on the Peninsula, in Sonoma, somewhere in the 925 or in the Presidio in what was once an Officer's housing? Could I handle bonking my head on the Potrero Hill top floor (it's complete with its own, private bathroom!) attic-converted-to slanty ceilinged bedroom/live-in space, or perhaps in a massive 3-story Jingletown loft that reminds me of the one Kevin Bacon rode his bicycle around in that 1980s broker-turned-bike messenger movie, or, perhaps abutting some farmland with acres and acres to roam and grow stuff or throw pinecones and balls for Gracie and Basco and ...?
Uprooting for trees is traumatic at any point. Often kills off part of its cell structure and definitely jerks its growth patterns around, occasionally to the point of death or near-death if not handled correctly. No certainty, though, on its survival even if it does seek and receive ample nourishment, sunlight, and fresh air later. Moving is difficult.
One thing is certain: at this point, I am solid where I am but aware that a foundation can be borne elsewhere. Only downfalls here in this funky apartment are no dogs and the windows are made from rice paper and imaginary glass.
In search of...
Seeking...
Looking for...
I suppose that this, all of the shared-dwelling, solo-resident thing, and/or this search-for-housing bizness is a different way to move forward, move on, or simply move again. Or it's the process of creating a space again where 'the heart' can reside. Find a home where my heart will be. Or, maybe simpler, it's just living in a dwelling where I can have dogs, which, quite frankly, is pretty much the same as the previous sentence.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Sideways Glance?
Fear. To be afraid. Dread. Apprehensive.
I don't feel fear too often. I am not afraid of heights, the dark, blood, dentists or dental procedures, or public speaking. Yea, rattlesnakes have me quaking in my boots, no doubt about that; I'll amend this: snakes, in general, make my skin crawl. Yuck.
In less than two days, I will have a few more opthalmic appointments: labs, exams, more eye pictures, and an exam with a Retina Specialist. Apparently my retinas are extremely thin, one is torn and has crud near the tear. If my retinas are too thin, then surgery to repair the rapid vision loss is not an option. Ideally, since I've not been wearing my contacts (apparently they cause the eye or retina to misshape itself) for six days, the specialist will be able to determine if I am a surgical candidate.
So what's with the dread, the fear? I decided to look up the meaning to determine if my trepidation fell, indeed, under fear's meaning. Yes, but I don't have the fright as in terror or scaredy-catishness (yes, this is a word in my book), moreso the dis-ease, tenseness, unquiet within my system.
However, I found, among many definitions, "to eye askance." I thought this ironic, you know, given the exams I have on Tuesday. A sideways view. With my glasses on, I can't see sideways, there's nothing there but blurriness or lens-edge. And, given my freshly wandering eye and double vision, to do so makes my head ache. Eye askance - no can do. I'll settle for pusillanimity (good word, eh? gotta look it up, ya big pussy... which, I believe is from whence this derivation came.).
Still, the dread. I think that when I had the first exam regarding the double vision and was told to return for more tests, I felt afraid, uncertain, a bit off. Startled. I mentioned this before. The second day of exams, consults, labs, surgical consultation teetered and uprooted me from my already shaky foundation. Rather, it threw me: the rapid changes, the funked up eye photos, the failed tests (peripheral, acuity, diplopia) that occurred; the fact that my vision is elderly but my chronological age says otherwise. My head was Linda Blairing, sans the green vomit.
So, why the rabbity sensation? Is it the notion of eye surgery as a possibility, going under the proverbial knife? Seems that I should want this - or these - problem(s) perhaps even a portion of them to be rectified and repaired. I do. There are always risks, but I have faith in the thoroughly educated and practiced KP professionals who do this for a living -- carefully and quite well.
Or, does the skittishness stem from the chance that I won't be a candidate because of the massive alteration in my left eye and because my degenerative retina(s) will not tolerate surgery? That I'll have to live with the two-of-everything perspective and cover my eye, as I did at a comedy show and at the movies last night when I desire only one focal point. Hmmm.
As I've contemplated this uneasiness within me, I've taken on meditation as a means of release and/or acceptance of the situation and other quirky dealings. During those meditative times, my eyes are closed and I see a blue oval film marked with blotches. Can't say if this is actually my lens seeing something or my mind creating something. Either way, when I get into the 'mode,' I feel all the temblor and attempt to push it out of my mind, release it to another space. It creeps back in and I encircle myself again, nudging it away. This mind-over-mind situation recurs. Strange how strong the mind is in its own battles and wills.
I want something to change for the better, no doubt about it. Headaches for months - probably caused by the double vision - are one of the symptoms that this body could do without. At times, I think I look like a Bayer or Excedrin commercial with my furrowed brow and fingertips encircling my temples or frontal lobe in a valiant attempt to assuage the sirened ache. There's only so much Ibu, Tylenol, and migraine Rx that a system can handle. Hate taking pills - hence the meditation. On top of it, I'd like to not think about this any more.
Interestingly, perhaps as a sidebar, often, when I electronically scribble out my fb status, these are visual observations of my surroundings. My mind draws a word picture from what I see. Yea, see with these blurry eyes, not eye askance of course, but eyes forward, body turning, senses alive. I see and write. I see, feel, and write. Given that my vision is the worst of my senses, it's peculiar that my observations are more visual, nearly tactile, than aural or olfactorial.
One and a half days. I'm a bit nervous. Not butterflies - - those are usually good nerves: happily anxious. This is flippy-floppy, Tums-like.
Visualize a beneficial exam with Dr. Lam in KP's Union City Ophthalmology office. Picture. Conjure. See.
I don't feel fear too often. I am not afraid of heights, the dark, blood, dentists or dental procedures, or public speaking. Yea, rattlesnakes have me quaking in my boots, no doubt about that; I'll amend this: snakes, in general, make my skin crawl. Yuck.
In less than two days, I will have a few more opthalmic appointments: labs, exams, more eye pictures, and an exam with a Retina Specialist. Apparently my retinas are extremely thin, one is torn and has crud near the tear. If my retinas are too thin, then surgery to repair the rapid vision loss is not an option. Ideally, since I've not been wearing my contacts (apparently they cause the eye or retina to misshape itself) for six days, the specialist will be able to determine if I am a surgical candidate.
So what's with the dread, the fear? I decided to look up the meaning to determine if my trepidation fell, indeed, under fear's meaning. Yes, but I don't have the fright as in terror or scaredy-catishness (yes, this is a word in my book), moreso the dis-ease, tenseness, unquiet within my system.
However, I found, among many definitions, "to eye askance." I thought this ironic, you know, given the exams I have on Tuesday. A sideways view. With my glasses on, I can't see sideways, there's nothing there but blurriness or lens-edge. And, given my freshly wandering eye and double vision, to do so makes my head ache. Eye askance - no can do. I'll settle for pusillanimity (good word, eh? gotta look it up, ya big pussy... which, I believe is from whence this derivation came.).
Still, the dread. I think that when I had the first exam regarding the double vision and was told to return for more tests, I felt afraid, uncertain, a bit off. Startled. I mentioned this before. The second day of exams, consults, labs, surgical consultation teetered and uprooted me from my already shaky foundation. Rather, it threw me: the rapid changes, the funked up eye photos, the failed tests (peripheral, acuity, diplopia) that occurred; the fact that my vision is elderly but my chronological age says otherwise. My head was Linda Blairing, sans the green vomit.
So, why the rabbity sensation? Is it the notion of eye surgery as a possibility, going under the proverbial knife? Seems that I should want this - or these - problem(s) perhaps even a portion of them to be rectified and repaired. I do. There are always risks, but I have faith in the thoroughly educated and practiced KP professionals who do this for a living -- carefully and quite well.
Or, does the skittishness stem from the chance that I won't be a candidate because of the massive alteration in my left eye and because my degenerative retina(s) will not tolerate surgery? That I'll have to live with the two-of-everything perspective and cover my eye, as I did at a comedy show and at the movies last night when I desire only one focal point. Hmmm.
As I've contemplated this uneasiness within me, I've taken on meditation as a means of release and/or acceptance of the situation and other quirky dealings. During those meditative times, my eyes are closed and I see a blue oval film marked with blotches. Can't say if this is actually my lens seeing something or my mind creating something. Either way, when I get into the 'mode,' I feel all the temblor and attempt to push it out of my mind, release it to another space. It creeps back in and I encircle myself again, nudging it away. This mind-over-mind situation recurs. Strange how strong the mind is in its own battles and wills.
I want something to change for the better, no doubt about it. Headaches for months - probably caused by the double vision - are one of the symptoms that this body could do without. At times, I think I look like a Bayer or Excedrin commercial with my furrowed brow and fingertips encircling my temples or frontal lobe in a valiant attempt to assuage the sirened ache. There's only so much Ibu, Tylenol, and migraine Rx that a system can handle. Hate taking pills - hence the meditation. On top of it, I'd like to not think about this any more.
Interestingly, perhaps as a sidebar, often, when I electronically scribble out my fb status, these are visual observations of my surroundings. My mind draws a word picture from what I see. Yea, see with these blurry eyes, not eye askance of course, but eyes forward, body turning, senses alive. I see and write. I see, feel, and write. Given that my vision is the worst of my senses, it's peculiar that my observations are more visual, nearly tactile, than aural or olfactorial.
One and a half days. I'm a bit nervous. Not butterflies - - those are usually good nerves: happily anxious. This is flippy-floppy, Tums-like.
Visualize a beneficial exam with Dr. Lam in KP's Union City Ophthalmology office. Picture. Conjure. See.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Dog Eared and Possum Eyed
Taking care of Gracie and Basco, my two 65+ pound doggies this weekend. Their other human is away, so, for three wonderful days they are in my care. It's canine contentment.
Even better, I have a buddy visiting me from Portland this weekend. Marykate, or Kate as most call her. I've known her since highschool. She knows me all too well.
At some point between playing with the pups and eating too many Gummi Bears, I commented on a painting hanging in the house. Said it was crooked, hanging with left side way up, right side down. I thought she bumped into it. She looked at me like I had forks growing out of my ears.
"It's not crooked."
"Yes it is. It's all askew. Just lean over and push it up on the right."
"It's not crooked. Do I need to take you to the hospital? Your perception is all off."
"No it's not. Yours is." (Good comeback).
Later this morning, I moved a couch about six inches in one direction. She saw this and asked me why I did so. Repeat above interchange. She grabbed a tape measure to show me how wrong my view was.
I laid down on the floor with Gracie and Basco and sighed. I listened to them gently snore and thought about how soft their ears were. Their hearing and their sense of smell are the core of their perception. Basco is totally blind. Yet he's completely adjusted to a non-visual life: sniffs & smells the cool air more, can hear the snap of a deer's hoof on a twig outside the house at night, feels the vibrations of Gracie's thundering paws racing on the floor as she bounds up to greet him -- he wags and barks at her.
We are not at the hospital nor are we planning on going. This whole visual meltdown is grating on my nerves, obviously. On top of it all, if we go anywhere, MK's insisting on driving my car because my acuity is off. Worried I might drive into something or perceive that a vehicle or object is actually farther than it actually is. I think she may be on to something and I might have to consider this option while she's here.
At least I can see the snow falling outside. Beautiful even if it is mixed with rain and not sticking to the ground. Hard to believe I'm seeing all of this during the day from my Oakland home. At least, with my double vision, I get to see twice as much of it.
Even better, I have a buddy visiting me from Portland this weekend. Marykate, or Kate as most call her. I've known her since highschool. She knows me all too well.
At some point between playing with the pups and eating too many Gummi Bears, I commented on a painting hanging in the house. Said it was crooked, hanging with left side way up, right side down. I thought she bumped into it. She looked at me like I had forks growing out of my ears.
"It's not crooked."
"Yes it is. It's all askew. Just lean over and push it up on the right."
"It's not crooked. Do I need to take you to the hospital? Your perception is all off."
"No it's not. Yours is." (Good comeback).
Later this morning, I moved a couch about six inches in one direction. She saw this and asked me why I did so. Repeat above interchange. She grabbed a tape measure to show me how wrong my view was.
I laid down on the floor with Gracie and Basco and sighed. I listened to them gently snore and thought about how soft their ears were. Their hearing and their sense of smell are the core of their perception. Basco is totally blind. Yet he's completely adjusted to a non-visual life: sniffs & smells the cool air more, can hear the snap of a deer's hoof on a twig outside the house at night, feels the vibrations of Gracie's thundering paws racing on the floor as she bounds up to greet him -- he wags and barks at her.
We are not at the hospital nor are we planning on going. This whole visual meltdown is grating on my nerves, obviously. On top of it all, if we go anywhere, MK's insisting on driving my car because my acuity is off. Worried I might drive into something or perceive that a vehicle or object is actually farther than it actually is. I think she may be on to something and I might have to consider this option while she's here.
At least I can see the snow falling outside. Beautiful even if it is mixed with rain and not sticking to the ground. Hard to believe I'm seeing all of this during the day from my Oakland home. At least, with my double vision, I get to see twice as much of it.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Eye See
Second eye appointment in as many days.
I'm nervous, sad, confused. For the multitude of years I've dealt with my rancid vision, I am a bit distressed that I've had a sudden onset of visual acuity loss (more than I normally felt that is "usual") and double vision -- well, I've had it for about 5 -6 months, but tried to ignore it. At last, four days ago, after struggling with picking up a pen, that is, trying to locate 'which' was the correct implement of the two I saw, I called for an appointment. To give an idea, it's not unlike in the movies when the camera pans into the spy's binoculars and we see two images. However, as 007 adjusts the lens in the center of the field glasses to create one sharp image, I still remain at two, not having been born with a dial resting upon my nose.
It had been about a year since I was last in to see my eye doc so I was due anyway. Because I tend to lose (myopia//nearsightedness) about -.25 to -.75 in my eyes each year, I have to follow up with the optho peops. I love my Kaiser Permanente docs; my sight is awful, not unlike that of, say, an 80 year old, yet I receive full, comprehensive treatment until I can see with finite acuity, or at least to a level that, physiologically, my eyes can manage. Not perfectly with my contacts, but well enough (to what we consider 20/40 or 20/50?).
Now, however, I'm in the waiting area. I'm wearing my glasses. They are thick: Coke bottle thick. I cannot read anything without lenses of any sort unless the text is within a quarter inch of my face. Even then, no promises. I'm dilated. So these words I'm scribbling down are up and down over the line. It's like seeing under water, or so I assume, as I've never had the opportunity to see quasi-clearly underwater like the rest of you folks.
The older couple sitting shoulder-to-shoulder across from me, they're in their 70s, I'd guess, he's a Sikh, and she's in some type of sari. They're staring at me like I'm some sort of car wreck. As if they know it's not right to stare, but they simply cannot peel their eyes away from the young woman with the incredibly bad, bad vision. It's a little peculiar, actually, given that I am in the waiting area of the Ophthamology department. I mean, most people sitting here have some sort of ocular issue. Perhaps it's my age? Am I too young to have these 1/2 centimeter thick glasses? Are the frames not fashionable enough? Is my zipper open? No, just checked. Then I wonder, Who Cares? So, I write.
I've been in and out of this department's doors three times already today: different tests, different exams. On Wednesday, when I first saw my fabulous eye doc, he joked that because of the severity of my eye issues, he truly felt he was earning his salary that day. Today is no different.
When the ophthamology tech called my name for the peripheral test, she looked at the huddle of white-haired people, not me. When the next tech hollered my name for the intra-ocular photos, she too, looked towards the clustered seats filled with seniors. She appeared to be surprised when I popped up and greeted her. "CCCatherine?" Yes, I replied. "Oh, I thought we were going to take some photos for a possible lens replacement." Yes, that's right. "Oh, okay. I figured you were.... please follow me." I understood. I'm younger than the average person with such severe myopia.
My eyes are fully dilated. The Retinal photos of my eyes look similar to a de-shelled and illuminated chicken egg with a vascular embryo still inside. The lens focuses beyond my pupil and shoots images of the macula, nerve, and all parts within, leading to the back side where the retina attaches.
The image is round, not unlike the spherical nature of a standard eye ball. It is glazed in a yellowy hue filled with a mass of interconnected red, spidery vines. There's no real shape, they branch and spread from one tributary to the next. It seems random. the only real form is the photographer's mechanical circumference which is perfect, like a ping pong ball.
Within the right eye -- the still images pop up onto an adjacent computer monitor available for the patients to view -- there is a large messy glob, like gristle or something floating in our soup that we spoon past in order to get to the good stuff below. This whitish dumpling is the macula. It stretches a tiny jet stream finger out to the rear of the eye.
The left eye is not quite the same. It has a similar mushy blob that stretches out into a bumpy jetty towards the rear of the eye as well. However, instead of finding a connection in a thin outer layer, its gnarled line tethers into a granular, peppery pillow.
In the world of clocks and geometry, we would consider the lumpy schmalz - the macula - the central portion, say, from where the hands would pivot. If you imagine looking through the pupil and into the eye, you'd see its girth that spreads out like a fist from approximately eleven to just past five o'clock, or 80 degrees to 260 degrees, (fist-wise, forefinger to pinkie).
The thin white jetty, the ocular nerve, rests on the horizon, or at 180 degrees, and stretches back towards the rear of the eye from the cloudy white mass. In my left eye, it stops abruptly, as if unwilling to collide with this grey boulder - an impendiment to time or movement in my sight; blocking my view of life ahead.
Although both eyes have the bulbous, mashed lump in the center and fairly similar ocular nerves, the left's mirroring of the right's similarity ends there. The left has this alien counter-balance, potentially a cause to my newly formed horrid and double vision. I have lost 25% (-6) vision in the left in one year. Not so good. Viewing this grainy pebble in my eye set me back. I suddenly felt like I was a token in the Parker Bros. game of Sorry: Go Back 6 Paces, back to the ugly gravel that rests near the back row of my eye. Too bad I don't get to start over again all fresh and new.
We're discussing surgery. The opthamology surgeon said that I was "special" -- not as in low I.Q. special, either -- but because of the migraines, severe vision loss, severe myopia, the sudden diplopia (double vision) ,lazy eye (Amblyopia), and bilateral cataracts. (I think the cataracts are the least of my problems.) My eyes are old and rapidly aging. I've been referred to a retinal specialist because of the unknown mass which rests near what she thought was a tiny tear.
Because I wear contact lenses ALL the time, my eyes need to relax, take a natural shape without them. I walked into today's appointment with them on. For the retinal specialist I'll be sans contacts for a week and she will be able to ascertain and determine all the crud within my eye. Yippee!! She may even do the surgery, if need be.
I asked about the lazy eye because I'm vain. Can it be fixed? Yes. Will such a surgery (on the ocular muscles) rectify the double vision? No.
The day threw me off. What I thought would take an hour bled into nearly four. Although I've known that this day would come, I expected it to arrive when I was in my 60s or 70s, not my 40s. I did not anticipate the severity of diplopia, the severe vision loss in a year, the sandy rock near my retina.
And to my friends who know me, do I tell them, 'Hey, you know I can't see, right? Well, it's worse than usual: I can barely see the two of you, and with what I've just learned, I feel like I've just been broad-sided.'
<><>
This weekend I met a man, aged 81, who had ocular muscle surgery to correct his amblyopia. He knew going in that it wouldn't make his vision perfectly aligned, but just two days out, he felt that the two views were closer, not perfect, not one (he knew this would not occur), but closer.
I'd like to say that I feel as if I'm ten times more shaken up than when I learned I'd torn my shoulder apart...again. Most of this, I imagine, is because I have absolutely no control over any of what's happened physiologically. Until I see the retinal specialist (it's funny to say this, since I'll be wearing my glasses which don't give me the best acuity!), most is speculation. My vision has always been my proverbial Achilles Heel and now it's finally kicked my feet out from under my being.
<><>
Today, now five days after my eye appointment, I met again with my doctor in SF and had another battery of lab tests and X-rays to rule out or determine one thing or another. Soon, right? Soon we will find out something. Some thing or cause or reason or idea as to why certain things that I feel shouldn't be happening are. It can only get better from here, right?
I see two sunrises and two sunsets which rise and fall side-by-side. There are two trees budding cherry blossoms, twice as many geese and ducks in the lake, and twice as much rain in my blurry view. But I love the rain, the water, and the sunrises and sunsets really do bring me a lot of peace and joy.
I breathe but one deep breath. It's pouring outside and the wind is gusting cold blasts through my thin windows and blinds. I don't see as much but hear and feel it all. Other senses heightened.
If you can, think positively, visualize, per se, clear vision for me. I'm trying to. Power of positive thinking, right? It can only get better from here. It must. Shoulders down, back straight, Breathe one more breath.
I'm nervous, sad, confused. For the multitude of years I've dealt with my rancid vision, I am a bit distressed that I've had a sudden onset of visual acuity loss (more than I normally felt that is "usual") and double vision -- well, I've had it for about 5 -6 months, but tried to ignore it. At last, four days ago, after struggling with picking up a pen, that is, trying to locate 'which' was the correct implement of the two I saw, I called for an appointment. To give an idea, it's not unlike in the movies when the camera pans into the spy's binoculars and we see two images. However, as 007 adjusts the lens in the center of the field glasses to create one sharp image, I still remain at two, not having been born with a dial resting upon my nose.
It had been about a year since I was last in to see my eye doc so I was due anyway. Because I tend to lose (myopia//nearsightedness) about -.25 to -.75 in my eyes each year, I have to follow up with the optho peops. I love my Kaiser Permanente docs; my sight is awful, not unlike that of, say, an 80 year old, yet I receive full, comprehensive treatment until I can see with finite acuity, or at least to a level that, physiologically, my eyes can manage. Not perfectly with my contacts, but well enough (to what we consider 20/40 or 20/50?).
Now, however, I'm in the waiting area. I'm wearing my glasses. They are thick: Coke bottle thick. I cannot read anything without lenses of any sort unless the text is within a quarter inch of my face. Even then, no promises. I'm dilated. So these words I'm scribbling down are up and down over the line. It's like seeing under water, or so I assume, as I've never had the opportunity to see quasi-clearly underwater like the rest of you folks.
The older couple sitting shoulder-to-shoulder across from me, they're in their 70s, I'd guess, he's a Sikh, and she's in some type of sari. They're staring at me like I'm some sort of car wreck. As if they know it's not right to stare, but they simply cannot peel their eyes away from the young woman with the incredibly bad, bad vision. It's a little peculiar, actually, given that I am in the waiting area of the Ophthamology department. I mean, most people sitting here have some sort of ocular issue. Perhaps it's my age? Am I too young to have these 1/2 centimeter thick glasses? Are the frames not fashionable enough? Is my zipper open? No, just checked. Then I wonder, Who Cares? So, I write.
I've been in and out of this department's doors three times already today: different tests, different exams. On Wednesday, when I first saw my fabulous eye doc, he joked that because of the severity of my eye issues, he truly felt he was earning his salary that day. Today is no different.
When the ophthamology tech called my name for the peripheral test, she looked at the huddle of white-haired people, not me. When the next tech hollered my name for the intra-ocular photos, she too, looked towards the clustered seats filled with seniors. She appeared to be surprised when I popped up and greeted her. "CCCatherine?" Yes, I replied. "Oh, I thought we were going to take some photos for a possible lens replacement." Yes, that's right. "Oh, okay. I figured you were.... please follow me." I understood. I'm younger than the average person with such severe myopia.
My eyes are fully dilated. The Retinal photos of my eyes look similar to a de-shelled and illuminated chicken egg with a vascular embryo still inside. The lens focuses beyond my pupil and shoots images of the macula, nerve, and all parts within, leading to the back side where the retina attaches.
The image is round, not unlike the spherical nature of a standard eye ball. It is glazed in a yellowy hue filled with a mass of interconnected red, spidery vines. There's no real shape, they branch and spread from one tributary to the next. It seems random. the only real form is the photographer's mechanical circumference which is perfect, like a ping pong ball.
Within the right eye -- the still images pop up onto an adjacent computer monitor available for the patients to view -- there is a large messy glob, like gristle or something floating in our soup that we spoon past in order to get to the good stuff below. This whitish dumpling is the macula. It stretches a tiny jet stream finger out to the rear of the eye.
The left eye is not quite the same. It has a similar mushy blob that stretches out into a bumpy jetty towards the rear of the eye as well. However, instead of finding a connection in a thin outer layer, its gnarled line tethers into a granular, peppery pillow.
In the world of clocks and geometry, we would consider the lumpy schmalz - the macula - the central portion, say, from where the hands would pivot. If you imagine looking through the pupil and into the eye, you'd see its girth that spreads out like a fist from approximately eleven to just past five o'clock, or 80 degrees to 260 degrees, (fist-wise, forefinger to pinkie).
The thin white jetty, the ocular nerve, rests on the horizon, or at 180 degrees, and stretches back towards the rear of the eye from the cloudy white mass. In my left eye, it stops abruptly, as if unwilling to collide with this grey boulder - an impendiment to time or movement in my sight; blocking my view of life ahead.
Although both eyes have the bulbous, mashed lump in the center and fairly similar ocular nerves, the left's mirroring of the right's similarity ends there. The left has this alien counter-balance, potentially a cause to my newly formed horrid and double vision. I have lost 25% (-6) vision in the left in one year. Not so good. Viewing this grainy pebble in my eye set me back. I suddenly felt like I was a token in the Parker Bros. game of Sorry: Go Back 6 Paces, back to the ugly gravel that rests near the back row of my eye. Too bad I don't get to start over again all fresh and new.
We're discussing surgery. The opthamology surgeon said that I was "special" -- not as in low I.Q. special, either -- but because of the migraines, severe vision loss, severe myopia, the sudden diplopia (double vision) ,lazy eye (Amblyopia), and bilateral cataracts. (I think the cataracts are the least of my problems.) My eyes are old and rapidly aging. I've been referred to a retinal specialist because of the unknown mass which rests near what she thought was a tiny tear.
Because I wear contact lenses ALL the time, my eyes need to relax, take a natural shape without them. I walked into today's appointment with them on. For the retinal specialist I'll be sans contacts for a week and she will be able to ascertain and determine all the crud within my eye. Yippee!! She may even do the surgery, if need be.
I asked about the lazy eye because I'm vain. Can it be fixed? Yes. Will such a surgery (on the ocular muscles) rectify the double vision? No.
The day threw me off. What I thought would take an hour bled into nearly four. Although I've known that this day would come, I expected it to arrive when I was in my 60s or 70s, not my 40s. I did not anticipate the severity of diplopia, the severe vision loss in a year, the sandy rock near my retina.
And to my friends who know me, do I tell them, 'Hey, you know I can't see, right? Well, it's worse than usual: I can barely see the two of you, and with what I've just learned, I feel like I've just been broad-sided.'
<><>
This weekend I met a man, aged 81, who had ocular muscle surgery to correct his amblyopia. He knew going in that it wouldn't make his vision perfectly aligned, but just two days out, he felt that the two views were closer, not perfect, not one (he knew this would not occur), but closer.
I'd like to say that I feel as if I'm ten times more shaken up than when I learned I'd torn my shoulder apart...again. Most of this, I imagine, is because I have absolutely no control over any of what's happened physiologically. Until I see the retinal specialist (it's funny to say this, since I'll be wearing my glasses which don't give me the best acuity!), most is speculation. My vision has always been my proverbial Achilles Heel and now it's finally kicked my feet out from under my being.
<><>
Today, now five days after my eye appointment, I met again with my doctor in SF and had another battery of lab tests and X-rays to rule out or determine one thing or another. Soon, right? Soon we will find out something. Some thing or cause or reason or idea as to why certain things that I feel shouldn't be happening are. It can only get better from here, right?
I see two sunrises and two sunsets which rise and fall side-by-side. There are two trees budding cherry blossoms, twice as many geese and ducks in the lake, and twice as much rain in my blurry view. But I love the rain, the water, and the sunrises and sunsets really do bring me a lot of peace and joy.
I breathe but one deep breath. It's pouring outside and the wind is gusting cold blasts through my thin windows and blinds. I don't see as much but hear and feel it all. Other senses heightened.
If you can, think positively, visualize, per se, clear vision for me. I'm trying to. Power of positive thinking, right? It can only get better from here. It must. Shoulders down, back straight, Breathe one more breath.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Breathe and Release
Breathe and Release.
Seems easy but the diaphragm struggles.
The Cure is time.
Yet how can time be a cure when we talk about Time in a Bottle? Aren't bottles a bit confining?
Breathe and Release. Even the best of everything will settle where it's meant to be.
Sew up the heart, stitch by stitch, breathe, gently, release slowly. Grieve, breathe, release, believe.
Seems easy but the diaphragm struggles.
The Cure is time.
Yet how can time be a cure when we talk about Time in a Bottle? Aren't bottles a bit confining?
Breathe and Release. Even the best of everything will settle where it's meant to be.
Sew up the heart, stitch by stitch, breathe, gently, release slowly. Grieve, breathe, release, believe.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Stars and the General Masses
Stars. I love stars. I enjoy watching clouds, big masses of nothingness floating by in my view. They move, change shape, stretch out into elongated fingers that stretch into other white masses. With the right climate, those wispy fingers form into other shapes, stretching far beyond the eye can see. A bird, running dog, bull's head, or Wile E. Coyote in hot pursuit of the ever-changing Road Runner. Comical in the moment, a delight to see and feel the release from within as the imagination releases, the tension melts away.
I saw such clouds the other day. Outside the sun shone brightly, blue sky. It was a sunglasses day.
Inside, the clouds had already formed - unmoving, they were blobby but not, with stringy hairs poking out, reaching out towards other whitishy, hairy brethren. This was white on black, a still image. A side view. Hardly noticeable, no Mickey Mouse or Flintstone character. A mossy looking cloud resting deep, hiding, actually below the breast close to my chest. Like a coveted treasure - it looked like a spoonful of yogurt that was sliding apart, gravity or centrifugal force drawing it away from its core. Just the one, about a quarter's breadth, maybe a little thicker, but wide enough for a thumb to rest upon.
What is this, this cloud, this deviant from my imagination? Why is this not shape-shifting into something I like, a tree, a moon, or a heart that denotes the love I feel for someone? It's stretching alright, but into what? More of itself or, worse, is it reaching out into other areas , creating toxic clouds that don't belong?
I don't want this here. I don't want to know that my right side has this misplaced postage stamp of unwelcomness that hides beneath my breast tissue like some sort of evil nymph or ogre under a mass of morning glory or outstretched fern.
I am healthy. I have no risk factors. I have nothing that calls attention to this cloudiness that has decided to stay with me rather than move on to the next environment. It does not enlighten my imagination nor release my stressors.
This cloud, this stellate cluster, this little mass, its presence is not welcome.
I saw such clouds the other day. Outside the sun shone brightly, blue sky. It was a sunglasses day.
Inside, the clouds had already formed - unmoving, they were blobby but not, with stringy hairs poking out, reaching out towards other whitishy, hairy brethren. This was white on black, a still image. A side view. Hardly noticeable, no Mickey Mouse or Flintstone character. A mossy looking cloud resting deep, hiding, actually below the breast close to my chest. Like a coveted treasure - it looked like a spoonful of yogurt that was sliding apart, gravity or centrifugal force drawing it away from its core. Just the one, about a quarter's breadth, maybe a little thicker, but wide enough for a thumb to rest upon.
What is this, this cloud, this deviant from my imagination? Why is this not shape-shifting into something I like, a tree, a moon, or a heart that denotes the love I feel for someone? It's stretching alright, but into what? More of itself or, worse, is it reaching out into other areas , creating toxic clouds that don't belong?
I don't want this here. I don't want to know that my right side has this misplaced postage stamp of unwelcomness that hides beneath my breast tissue like some sort of evil nymph or ogre under a mass of morning glory or outstretched fern.
I am healthy. I have no risk factors. I have nothing that calls attention to this cloudiness that has decided to stay with me rather than move on to the next environment. It does not enlighten my imagination nor release my stressors.
This cloud, this stellate cluster, this little mass, its presence is not welcome.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
The Windblown Rental
Life in a rental.
Not unlike life in a rental car, I might add: restrictions, limitations and, in the case of a Plymouth Neon I once rented (purple, at that), drafty and somewhat leaky. The car's trunk leaked, only discovered after two days of driving through a massive Washington rainstorm. Fortunately, a dryer was near the destination, otherwise it would've been a miserable trip.
This rental unit, though, aka, my 1935-era apartment defintiely has charm. It's an upstairs unit in a four-apartment building located in a very quiet neighborhood. Rooms are square, well-painted, and southeastern light pours in, which I love. This is quite obvious by my multitude of sunrise phone pix I've posted on facebook. Can't get enough of those colors.
All door handles are original glass, and crazily, all doors close with ease, no stickiness over the shiny hardwood floors. The selling feature, other than the upstairs location was not the view of the Mormon Temple in the distance as pointed out by my landlord. I controlled my commentary and chortle in that unexpected closing deal point. I'd like to point out that despite their 10 million holiday bulb and display this year, not a single red, blue, or orange light could be seen from where I stand right now. Sad. I had to drive by and get blinded by the massive electrical display the Temple is widely known for. If you've not seen it, hurry and swing by: in Oakland, just off Highway 13. You'll see the sky lit up like a fireworks display just over its peaked tower. Can't miss it; I think airline pilots use it as a guide in heavy fog.
No, the selling feature was the closet hidden behind a flush wall. Very Batman, if you ask me. The wall swivels out; in its prime, it once held a Murphy bed and built-in dressers were tucked in behind. Now, it's just a virtually unnoticeable walk-in closet with a swing-out single paned window for daytime illumination. Love it!
Besides these fine features and the olive green gas stove, circa 1971 of which it's four burners are either on High or Off (makes for some very interesting cooking, I tell you), the downside is where the rental becomes a true rental. I'm sitting here at my desk, facing south a window nary 12 inches from me. As I type these very letters, a cold draft sweeps down over the Levoloar slats and chills my fingers. The string that's used to draw up these blinds sways not from my fast typing but from the wind that's gusting through the 75 year-old, single-paned windows. I hear wind whistling here.
I have a heater, oh yes, of course I do. However it's a single wall unit located two rooms away. It effectively heats that space dirctly in front of it, which is where I often stand to scald my skin and warm up.
My landlord maintains that the windows add character, not unlike the ancient galvanized pipes with little to no water pressure do too. I think he's got stock options with PG & E, as my gas bill has been climbing steadily since moving in: showers take an extra 20 minutes since a trickle makes for some slow shampoo rinsing. Yes, I'm bound up in a hat, extra sweater, down booties and finger-cut gloves. Finger tips are bluish ice cubes. Ear lobes are rounded icicles.
For charm, I freeze. Could I move? I'm bound by a lease for another 10 months. I suppose I could plasticize my windows with that funky clear insulation, aka, dry cleaner packaging. Dare I? Then my lovely rental would lose some of the charm that makes it so inviting. That devine secret closet wouldn't have its clear, southerly light casting a pale glow upon my clothes - they'd be shrouded by an opaque plastique hue.
Life in a rental. We must accept so many of the benefits in the face of the pitfalls. Like that Dodge Neon, I got great mileage but paid a ton for extra trash bags and laundromat usage. Here, I'm in an optimal locale, but feel like I'd get a different kind of trash bag on my windows that might chip away at that convenience discount significantly. I heard the windchime tinkle outside and noticed that the blinds just clacked against each other as another gust blew through.
I need to go stand in front of my heater and defrost.
Not unlike life in a rental car, I might add: restrictions, limitations and, in the case of a Plymouth Neon I once rented (purple, at that), drafty and somewhat leaky. The car's trunk leaked, only discovered after two days of driving through a massive Washington rainstorm. Fortunately, a dryer was near the destination, otherwise it would've been a miserable trip.
This rental unit, though, aka, my 1935-era apartment defintiely has charm. It's an upstairs unit in a four-apartment building located in a very quiet neighborhood. Rooms are square, well-painted, and southeastern light pours in, which I love. This is quite obvious by my multitude of sunrise phone pix I've posted on facebook. Can't get enough of those colors.
All door handles are original glass, and crazily, all doors close with ease, no stickiness over the shiny hardwood floors. The selling feature, other than the upstairs location was not the view of the Mormon Temple in the distance as pointed out by my landlord. I controlled my commentary and chortle in that unexpected closing deal point. I'd like to point out that despite their 10 million holiday bulb and display this year, not a single red, blue, or orange light could be seen from where I stand right now. Sad. I had to drive by and get blinded by the massive electrical display the Temple is widely known for. If you've not seen it, hurry and swing by: in Oakland, just off Highway 13. You'll see the sky lit up like a fireworks display just over its peaked tower. Can't miss it; I think airline pilots use it as a guide in heavy fog.
No, the selling feature was the closet hidden behind a flush wall. Very Batman, if you ask me. The wall swivels out; in its prime, it once held a Murphy bed and built-in dressers were tucked in behind. Now, it's just a virtually unnoticeable walk-in closet with a swing-out single paned window for daytime illumination. Love it!
Besides these fine features and the olive green gas stove, circa 1971 of which it's four burners are either on High or Off (makes for some very interesting cooking, I tell you), the downside is where the rental becomes a true rental. I'm sitting here at my desk, facing south a window nary 12 inches from me. As I type these very letters, a cold draft sweeps down over the Levoloar slats and chills my fingers. The string that's used to draw up these blinds sways not from my fast typing but from the wind that's gusting through the 75 year-old, single-paned windows. I hear wind whistling here.
I have a heater, oh yes, of course I do. However it's a single wall unit located two rooms away. It effectively heats that space dirctly in front of it, which is where I often stand to scald my skin and warm up.
My landlord maintains that the windows add character, not unlike the ancient galvanized pipes with little to no water pressure do too. I think he's got stock options with PG & E, as my gas bill has been climbing steadily since moving in: showers take an extra 20 minutes since a trickle makes for some slow shampoo rinsing. Yes, I'm bound up in a hat, extra sweater, down booties and finger-cut gloves. Finger tips are bluish ice cubes. Ear lobes are rounded icicles.
For charm, I freeze. Could I move? I'm bound by a lease for another 10 months. I suppose I could plasticize my windows with that funky clear insulation, aka, dry cleaner packaging. Dare I? Then my lovely rental would lose some of the charm that makes it so inviting. That devine secret closet wouldn't have its clear, southerly light casting a pale glow upon my clothes - they'd be shrouded by an opaque plastique hue.
Life in a rental. We must accept so many of the benefits in the face of the pitfalls. Like that Dodge Neon, I got great mileage but paid a ton for extra trash bags and laundromat usage. Here, I'm in an optimal locale, but feel like I'd get a different kind of trash bag on my windows that might chip away at that convenience discount significantly. I heard the windchime tinkle outside and noticed that the blinds just clacked against each other as another gust blew through.
I need to go stand in front of my heater and defrost.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Love & Life Drifts Upon an Open Sea
We give. We take. It's often a school of hard knocks because it seems that we're experiencing the take more than the give part.
If I look at the big picture, I'd have to say that I'm a giver. Not like a giver in the sense that I'm one of the Chosen. Rather, that I give of myself, my assistance, or my generosity, my heart, or an ear, or a present or two or three or four for a holiday or birthday. I probably 'shouldn't' as it often makes the receiver uncomfortable to receive a pile of gifts. Yet, when it comes down to it, I'm really thinking of her and what she actually gives to me without really knowing it.
Life is a gift and it seems we take so much for granted -- or is it that we take love, affection, interaction, patience, kindness, thoughtfulness, time, effort, desire to overcome adversity, peace to such an extent -- that we often only see what doesn't occur or the difficulty in the moment. We let go of the fact that more often it is laughable, engaging and simple such that when the hard shit arises, that's all we hold onto: the impenetrability and extremity of it all.
A ship sails the sea. Days and days it glides over the ripples. The sun shines, fish and dolphins leap and dive. Clouds form and dissipate, wind blows and fades. All is gentle, manageable, we are flowing over time, taking in all the rays, the moon, the clear and opaque life and beauty that surrounds as it should be.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, high seas wall up, water pounds and plunges the deck, sails flap and tear. The rudder trips port, then starboard, then port, then starboard, completely out of control. Fore and aft we lose ballast. We try to right ourselves, yet minimally, only seeing the darkness in that moment ahead instead of the placidity that preceded. The moments become hours, darkness overtakes and we lose our way -- stars, our once coveted guiding lights are obscured or forgotten.
We let go, fall to this temporary force by feigning ignorance, inability to guide through, or lack of desire to bond and labor a bit through this unseemly power. It's too much. It's too vast, overwhelming (because of its newness or distant familiarity from storms past?), as it seemingly instigated and pushed us to a level of instability that's determined to be too far; we cannot come back, recover, settle down. This surge is too foreign; it is scary.
When the squall moves on, all we see is the destruction, the bent floorboards, the lack of direction, the loss of movement, the tattered sails, the difficulty. The thrashing. The absolute defeat. Nothing is what it was before. What's worse, though, is that we see only this - the pummeling, the lack of forward movement. We don't see that we can suture taut the canvas, that we can counterbalance this temporary disruption. Overlook the pummeling as what it was: a transitory incident. It is deduced that more will come thus it is better to abandon ship altogether. No sense in learning during the calm, during the blue sky moments.
We take for granted what such natural phenoma can offer: the struggle that presents us with the gift of growth, awareness, the ability to come together, fresher, more alive, more connected . We disengage because it's easier. Let go of the rope, don't bail its water that might appreciate its strength. Just leave it adrift and never look back or reflect on what happened.
I've lost a lot this year. More than I could ever say here. Much is my own doing (or undoing?), my own unraveling and allowing for an unsteered course. However I've discovered that 50% of which I'm responsible and for which I've repeatedly apologized has been countered by an even stronger 50% to abandon ship. And though my confidence wavered in these hammering storms, not having had any experience from which to draw any skill over these tides, I'm willing to find an emotional sextant and learn and try to locate a path, something that charts us towards tranquility and not torrent.
Sadly, this simple, yet ancient tool is seen as beyond difficult to comprehend as it is far too new or different to conquer another possible rough sea ahead. It is tossed overboard, and again, that which housed so much life and potential is abandoned without any regard. We took for granted all that we learned, the stillness and harmony and only give this life, this experience a half-hearted nod and headshake; no sense of bailing out water (overlooking the fact that it's worth the effort especially as time and sun will dry out that which remains).
Gave some, took a lot. Unwilling to give more and take less.
I gave a lot, received even more. I am willing and already do provide an open heart and hand so that part of the ballast is restored, strength in the steerage is coordinated such that a passageway is sought but needs another's sail, another's hand and heart to see us through.
Instead, love remains adrift, floating and abandoned.
Given this, I wished that the other would recall and believe and embrace what Maya Angelou wrote, "Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope."
A rather rare, albeit workable, rough sea - even those which may seem unexpectantly horrid - should not be a barrier or wall or reason to walk away from love. Truth, patience, willingness to examine and change and hope are reasons to sail through. There have always been other rough seas, but now there's something better, a port to which we may reach and find safety and comfort: love. There is always hope.
If I look at the big picture, I'd have to say that I'm a giver. Not like a giver in the sense that I'm one of the Chosen. Rather, that I give of myself, my assistance, or my generosity, my heart, or an ear, or a present or two or three or four for a holiday or birthday. I probably 'shouldn't' as it often makes the receiver uncomfortable to receive a pile of gifts. Yet, when it comes down to it, I'm really thinking of her and what she actually gives to me without really knowing it.
Life is a gift and it seems we take so much for granted -- or is it that we take love, affection, interaction, patience, kindness, thoughtfulness, time, effort, desire to overcome adversity, peace to such an extent -- that we often only see what doesn't occur or the difficulty in the moment. We let go of the fact that more often it is laughable, engaging and simple such that when the hard shit arises, that's all we hold onto: the impenetrability and extremity of it all.
A ship sails the sea. Days and days it glides over the ripples. The sun shines, fish and dolphins leap and dive. Clouds form and dissipate, wind blows and fades. All is gentle, manageable, we are flowing over time, taking in all the rays, the moon, the clear and opaque life and beauty that surrounds as it should be.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, high seas wall up, water pounds and plunges the deck, sails flap and tear. The rudder trips port, then starboard, then port, then starboard, completely out of control. Fore and aft we lose ballast. We try to right ourselves, yet minimally, only seeing the darkness in that moment ahead instead of the placidity that preceded. The moments become hours, darkness overtakes and we lose our way -- stars, our once coveted guiding lights are obscured or forgotten.
We let go, fall to this temporary force by feigning ignorance, inability to guide through, or lack of desire to bond and labor a bit through this unseemly power. It's too much. It's too vast, overwhelming (because of its newness or distant familiarity from storms past?), as it seemingly instigated and pushed us to a level of instability that's determined to be too far; we cannot come back, recover, settle down. This surge is too foreign; it is scary.
When the squall moves on, all we see is the destruction, the bent floorboards, the lack of direction, the loss of movement, the tattered sails, the difficulty. The thrashing. The absolute defeat. Nothing is what it was before. What's worse, though, is that we see only this - the pummeling, the lack of forward movement. We don't see that we can suture taut the canvas, that we can counterbalance this temporary disruption. Overlook the pummeling as what it was: a transitory incident. It is deduced that more will come thus it is better to abandon ship altogether. No sense in learning during the calm, during the blue sky moments.
We take for granted what such natural phenoma can offer: the struggle that presents us with the gift of growth, awareness, the ability to come together, fresher, more alive, more connected . We disengage because it's easier. Let go of the rope, don't bail its water that might appreciate its strength. Just leave it adrift and never look back or reflect on what happened.
I've lost a lot this year. More than I could ever say here. Much is my own doing (or undoing?), my own unraveling and allowing for an unsteered course. However I've discovered that 50% of which I'm responsible and for which I've repeatedly apologized has been countered by an even stronger 50% to abandon ship. And though my confidence wavered in these hammering storms, not having had any experience from which to draw any skill over these tides, I'm willing to find an emotional sextant and learn and try to locate a path, something that charts us towards tranquility and not torrent.
Sadly, this simple, yet ancient tool is seen as beyond difficult to comprehend as it is far too new or different to conquer another possible rough sea ahead. It is tossed overboard, and again, that which housed so much life and potential is abandoned without any regard. We took for granted all that we learned, the stillness and harmony and only give this life, this experience a half-hearted nod and headshake; no sense of bailing out water (overlooking the fact that it's worth the effort especially as time and sun will dry out that which remains).
Gave some, took a lot. Unwilling to give more and take less.
I gave a lot, received even more. I am willing and already do provide an open heart and hand so that part of the ballast is restored, strength in the steerage is coordinated such that a passageway is sought but needs another's sail, another's hand and heart to see us through.
Instead, love remains adrift, floating and abandoned.
Given this, I wished that the other would recall and believe and embrace what Maya Angelou wrote, "Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope."
A rather rare, albeit workable, rough sea - even those which may seem unexpectantly horrid - should not be a barrier or wall or reason to walk away from love. Truth, patience, willingness to examine and change and hope are reasons to sail through. There have always been other rough seas, but now there's something better, a port to which we may reach and find safety and comfort: love. There is always hope.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
