Month: July 2007

Yesterday I was walking through my neighborhood listening to my iPod (System of a Down’s “Mesmerize”) and feeling friendless and alone. I heard a dog barking and two little girls shouting, and I looked up from gazing at my navel to see a large-ish black German Sheppard running towards me, a leash dragging along the sidewalk behind him.

The two little girls were about 10 (I’m a bad judge of age) and were chasing after the dog, but they were far, far behind him and the dog showed no signs of slowing down. Dog’s tongue was hanging out, his tail was wagging, he looked like he was just playing, actually. The girls were shouting and laughing for the dog to stop.

The dog got to me and, since I was a stranger, ignored me and tried to run past. I looked at the girls and then put my foot out and stepped on the handle and the leash started to pull from the spool (it was the kind that winds up into the handle). The dog felt the pull, and slowed to a stop, panting hard from his run.

The girls ran up and fell over the dog, laughing hard and telling him he was a bad dog (but from the tone of voice they weren’t mad – they were likely glad that the dog hadn’t gotten away). They thanked me, briefly, but mostly paid attention to the dog, as they caught up his leash and led him back home.

That was the last time I did something nice for someone, I think. At least more than just holding the door or something small. It felt good. It made me smile.

I’m so desperate for intellectual stimulation, I just watched all 10 “The Office: Accountant” webisodes.

Heh. “Webisodes” is a funny word. Webisodes, webisodes, web episodes, webisodes.

Cary Tennis is a genius. And compassionate as well, when he says:

“Our wishes, after all, are very close to feelings. Like feelings, they are not always rational. But they deserve respect.”

I sat on the sidewalk, pulled my new sexy thing out of my bag, and tried to find some free wireless to connect to. Had another 75 minutes, at least, to wait until “Firefly” at the Mission Theater started. Got here early and the line was already around the corner. I was alone. Again.

In spite of there being several signals, including one called “Mission”, I was unable to connect. Damn. Should’ve brought a book to read. I put my laptop away and stood up. Three 20-year-olds were bragging to each other about voting only to piss other people off. The guy ahead of me was playing Tetris on his cell phone. The girl behind me had called someone “Sweetie” on her cell phone. Time passed.

The girl behind me was slowly joined by several other people. She’d been holding a place in line for them. I wondered which one was “Sweetie” but she didn’t seem particularly close to any of them.

More time passed. The line compressed forward in such a way that I moved around the corner to the front of the building. I watched people walk by. The group directly behind me grew a bit larger.

The girl who had held the line tapped me on the shoulder.

I turned around, smiled politely.

“Is your Mac one of the new ones? With the LED screen? I saw you had it out earlier.”

No, I explained, it’s the first Intel model. I’d had it 2 years.

She said that she’d recently switched from Windows to Mac and she had one of the new, LED-backlit screen models. She loved it but had some occasional problems. We chatted about that for a bit, but my conversational energy slowly ran out.

A lull ensued.

The girl didn’t seem interested in talking to the rest of her group.

She turned back to me and asked me about the chickenbutt button on my messenger bag. I laughed and told her the reply: “Guess why? Chickenthigh.” We talked a bit more about other things, like “Firefly” and Buffy the Vampire Slayer and movies in general. I introduced myself; she told me her name was Sherry.

She would have been here with her husband but he was home, sick and asleep. She was originally going to hold a space in line for her husbands friend, Mike, but somehow it had expanded and she didn’t even know some of the folks in her group. She’d moved here from Florida, married and divorced and married again. I told her that most of what I know about Florida I’d read in Carl Hiassen books; she laughed and said it was pretty accurate.

And, after a bit, she asked me if I was there alone.

I said yes, started to say more, stopped.

She said, “Would you like to sit with us?”

I could not have been more touched. A stranger in a line, out of simple friendliness, invited me to join her group.

Of course I said yes. I thanked her. I wanted to thank her profusely but was able to stop myself.

It was exactly the gesture I needed.

I sat with their group. The last time I was here, I was alone and on the outside. Tonight, I was with friends. New friends, but friends nonetheless. When I bought a brownie to snack on, I offered some to the rest of the group. They saved me a seat while I stood in line for beer. And when laughter and conversation caused us to miss a line or two, we asked each other what we had missed.

And when Mike, sitting behind me, did a spit-take at a particularly funny scene, and I felt a gentle rain of beer droplets on my head, call me crazy but I laughed. Mike was mortified that he’d spit on me, but for that one night, I didn’t care. I told him he was fine. Mentally I made a note that if I sat with this group next week, I would use this as leverage to get him to buy me a beer… but it wasn’t that big a deal.

After the show, as we wandered out of the theater, I spoke to Sherry. We had discussed just how early a group would have to show up in order to have a good place in line, and I’d offered to get there very early next week to save a spot. Sherry gave me her card – she was a professional pet-sitter.

Of course she’d invited me to join her group. She takes in strays. How perfect! I smiled. And then I left.

I smiled all the way home. And next week I’m going to make Mike buy me a beer. It’s all good.

At Backspace surfing. Tall thin guy on a couch across from me is approached by a tall (hard to judge but she’s wearing flats and seems 6′ tall from where I sit) short-haired brunette, thin and muscular, in a skintight black T and jeans, with tats up and down her arms and peeking out from various bits of flesh here and there. They start talking about programming – the guy mentions something about Ruby Cocoa, which pegs him as a Mac OS X programmer.

The girl hadn’t heard of Ruby Cocoa but she was aware of the implications. She’s a programmer, too. Or at least hardcore geek. They’re apparently waiting for more people so they chat.

The guy gets a phone call and takes it on his generic non-smart non-PDA phone.

However, my already burning curiosity gets some kerosene tossed on it when the girl pulls out an iPhone. She plays with it for a bit while the boy is on his call.

I lean over the top of my laptop. “I’m trying not to covet your iPhone,” I say.

“Oh, no, that’s perfectly understandable,” she says, almost embarrassed.

“So if you feel waves of attention from over here, it’s me,” I say, along with waving my hands in her direction to indicate said waves.

She chuckles. “It’s the only thing I have going for me, lately.”

I hope that the look on my face reflects my complete astonishment at this ludicrous statement, but knowing how well I hide my feelings it probably didn’t. Let’s see: she’s brainy, geeky, tall, hot, and she loves amazing design and ease of use and sexy sexy technology, and yet still modest enough to apologize for it all. I don’t remember what I said, exactly, but I think I just nodded.

She talks about how it’s the most amazing thing she’s ever owned and that she’s completely OK with how much it costs. She must get asked that a lot, but doesn’t she see that I’m surfing on a MacBook Pro? Don’t worry, milady, I get it.

I mention that I’m waiting for my T-Mobile contract to expire so I can get one; she counters with the fact that she paid the early termination fee to T-Mobile to get the iPhone. I ask her how the EDGE service is in Portland and she says it’s great.

I go back to surfing while the boy finishes his phone call and plays with the iPhone.

They’re joined by another girl, also cute, but obviously lacking an iPhone. They leave for some other venue.

At least I said something. Maybe I’ll post this in Missed Connections…

I’ve had things happen to me this week, and I wanted to write about them, but after the things happen, and before I get the chance to write about them, I either needed lots of sleep to recuperate, or more things happened that I wanted to write about, and now, at the end of the week, I’ve got a mind full of great ideas for blog posts, waaaaaaaaaay more than I have time and energy to actually sit down and write.

And now I’m off to participate in yet another thing I’d love to write about… but can’t.

Sad that strangers can sometimes be more welcoming than a friend I’ve known for years. It’s a mixed-up world.

On the other hand, it’s sad to learn that I can hurt someone by relying too much on them. This ol’ life gets you coming and going, don’t it?

PS: I was right about the true thought pissing off my friends, no matter how I phrased it or tried to soften its impact.

Being right doesn’t make me feel any better, though.

Smacky has been missing since Wednesday morning. Those of you who follow my twitters already are aware; I think this is my first mention here, though. It’s very sad. I woke up Wednesday morning to find a hole chewed in one of the front room screens, and no sign of my grumpy black cat. No sign now for four days. Thursday night, when I went out for a run, I looped around the streets close to me to scout out and see if I could find him. In a way I hoped I wouldn’t because I feared he would be dead. But I didn’t find him at all. It’s not impossible that he may still return; last time he got out, he was missing for a week.

I haven’t put up posters; I waited a few days to see if he would return right away, and now I haven’t really got the energy. It’s just one more thing on top of the other feelings of depression.

And about those feelings… My apologies to the many who sang of love’s hurt, but I think it’s truth that hurts more.

I’ve had a true thought bouncing around my brain for weeks, since before my road trip. And it hurts. It’s undeniably true; it’s not a matter of perspective or only true sometimes or something one has to take on faith or based on a feeling that may or may not be true; even though the thought is about human interactions, it’s still about as true as such a statement can be.

Since the true thought causes me pain, of course, what I want most is to make it stop. My first impulse is to spit it out. Type it out here, bluntly. Maybe by speaking it aloud I can stunt its ability to cause me pain. I can try to unload it from my brain, or split it in half, lessen its power.

However, the thought is about my friends, and I know that if I were to type it out here, or even say it in person, no matter how I phrased it or tried to minimize its impact, that my friends would be hurt, too, and would likely react in anger. I believe that’s because of the truth of the statement; they wouldn’t be able to deny that it’s true at all, and yet would still feel a need to try to justify the thought, and what conclusions one can extend from the thought.

And that’s part of the problem; I already know the justifications and explanations that surround this thought. And, what’s more, I agree with them. I know that the situation is exactly as it is for many good valid reasons, reasons that make sense to me, to my friends, to society as a whole. In fact, for what the true thought says about my friends, it shows them in their best light, at least as far as society sees things. But it still hurts.

The flip side of that, though, is that the true thought can then be used as a kind of rhetorical lever against me, and my position, and my values and my value to society. This is the logical bomb that lurks inside the true statement; for while the statement may be 100% absolutely without fail true, about many things… still it may hide an untruthful thought about me. Maybe mask is a better choice of verb: it may mask a truth about me.

Because that’s the lesson I need to learn right now, I believe. The universe is as it is; it exists independently whether I’m observing it or not. And the events and objects and people and interactions all undeniably happen and exist. That’s what’s real.

What I think about that universe, those events, those objects and the people who live, act, use and interact with it all… that’s entirely up to me. Once again, the universe is unable to be changed; I’m the one who must change to accommodate its truth. In this case, the change is one of a point of view; the true statement continues to be true, about everyone but me, and I need to re-evaluate my relationship to the statement and therefore my value as a person. Because meaning doesn’t exist separately from consciousness; no, we conscious beings create meaning in our brains and then assign it to the universe.

I’m in control of the meaning of my life. That’s scary, but also empowering.

If only I can accept that power…

You’re hurt? You think you’re in pain?

Yeah, you probably are. Welcome to the human race. Just like the man said, everybody hurts.

You’ve got pain. I’ve got pain. Everybody’s soaking in it. Into every life a little rain must fall.

I’d apologize for it, this pain you’re feeling, but that’s almost like taking responsibility for it. It’s not my fault, man. I’ve got my own shit to deal with. I won’t bore you with the list. Not that you’d likely be able to hear me, anyway, what with you being in your head and me being in mine.

Wait, maybe if we figure out what it all means, that will make it better. Sounds good, right? Finding a meaning, or a purpose, for our pain is a tradition with a long and storied past.

The eastern tradition is that pain is basically an illusion. For some reason, that’s supposed to comfort you. “Hey, it’s all in your head! Buck up, pal, if you were a better person you wouldn’t feel hurt.” I must be missing something but that seems like cold comfort to me. Maybe it’s tough love or somethin’.

The western tradition isn’t much better. Pain is somehow noble. Suffering is good for the soul. Hey, look at what Jesus of Nazareth went through, and he was the son of God. Nobody gets out of life alive, and in fact, the worse off you are, the more important you must be. Again… this seems backwards to me.

But both traditions come to the same conclusion about the ultimate goal. Getting rid of pain is what we’re put here to do. Unfortunately, getting rid of pain means dying. Either in reaching samsara, nirvana, or heaven… basically, you’re gone. Not of this world anymore. Pushing up daisies. Worm food. Buh-bye.

The modern, scientific conception of pain is that it’s an alarm going off. “Hey, buddy! Wake up! Something needs changing!” Now this is more like it. I can get behind this meaning. No, it’s not a fucking trick of my mind; it’s really happening. And no, feeling this hurt isn’t going to make me a better person; I am who I am already.

The downside to this idea of pain-as-alarm is that it suggests that pain is transitory, and that we can do something about it. It doesn’t really address the concerns of the older traditions, that, like I said, everybody hurts.

It’s also a pain in the ass if the source of the pain isn’t obvious. If my arm is gone and blood is pouring out of the stump, the solution to ridding myself of the associated pain is clear; tourniquet, motherfucker, and 9-1-1, stat! But if I’m just fucking sad and lonely, and I’m lashing out in anger at anyone who comes close, and I’m eating too much or not enough and I’m closing myself up in my apartment and not doing a fucking thing at all… well, that is pain, too. But what’s the course of action? Where’s the source of the pain? It’s not like I’ve got shrapnel in me that I can remove. I’m the source of my pain.

Let me repeat that, for emphasis: I am the source of my pain.

Applying the model I’m most comfortable with, if I’m in pain, then something needs to change. If I’m the source of my own pain, then I need to change myself.

I’ve been here before. I thought I’d figured it out. I was in pain, and, worse, I was causing my family pain. But I got it worked out. I kept on in what seemed like the right direction, and got some support, and things started to break my way.

But there was always a nagging reminder of suffering. I hadn’t completely healed. And truth to tell, I’m fucking tired of changing. Changing my job, changing my habits, changing the food I eat and the clothes I wear and the friends I hang around… it seemed to help for a while, but the pain always comes back, so either I’ll never be rid of it, or I haven’t changed the right things, and I’ve reached the point where I don’t really know what I need to change to fix this.

Sorry if this is maddeningly vague, but, again, I’m not going to bore you with the details, and I’m not going to ask you to put up with them. It’s enough that you’re reading this right now.

My point is simply this: Look, I understand that you’re hurting. I’m not trying to be callous, or unsympathetic. I’m sure it hurts, and I’m sure it hurts a lot, and even if the solution looks obvious to me, I’m likely wrong, and even if the solution looks obvious to you, it may still be difficult to actually do.

But I’m in pain, too. It might not be obvious, and you may or may not think that the reasons for my suffering is somehow worth it, and the solution may be obvious to you or it may not… but, fuck it, this is my pain. As much as I wish someone could just take it away from me, as much as I wish I could just somehow wish it into receding, ain’t gonna happen. Not today, anyway.

Fucking pain. It might, in the end, just be a reminder that we’re here.