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
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
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.
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