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.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
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.
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