He's walking through the shopping center and in one of those kiosks off to the side, he sees a stand selling pearls straight from the shell. But it's not the jewels that caught his eye, it's the girl selling them. And he's reminded of the Chinese poet, Yuen Mei, who wrote:
My beautiful lady goes to see the flowers,
and a flower, she forgets, is she;
Would they not come to blossom in her bowers,
should flowers intelligent be?
But though she's pretty, with sadness shadowing her commercial smile, he continues walking by because his heart belongs to another. He turns, takes one last look then thinks, "now there's something you don't see everyday: a pearl selling pearls."
Monday, July 25, 2005
Saturday, July 23, 2005
52. Thomas Merton and love (cont.)
So if a Trappist monk wasn't able to say for sure that he understood love before being in a relationship with a woman, what does that say about my capacity to know love? These monks spend all their time in a community devoted to contemplating God - and when I say devoted, I mean that in the hard core sense of the word, not in the hopelessly-devoted-to-you kind of way. (For a great book about what it is to live the monastic life, see the excellent Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris.)
I've made the admission before that I don't understand love, and I suppose now I have an excuse. I suppose I always have my imagination, but with something as powerful and complex as love, there will never be a substitute for experience.
Which reminds me of something else I've been meaning to write about. I've been thinking quite a bit about love recently and that's been made evident in a lot of my blogs lately. I mean most of my blogs have been about love in some form (usually complaints about how elusive it is) but look at the dates and you'll see that writing about love (or anything else) used to be a rare event - once every few months, if that. Now I'm still writing about love but now I'm far more prolific - a few blogs per week. And I suppose that's just another part of me that's waking up, making itself known (see blog 49).
Having the romantic (for lack of a better word) part of me reawaken presents somewhat of a conflict/paradox for me. I'm glad to have it back but at the same time it worries me because it's the hopeless romantic part of me that always gets me into the most trouble. Indeed, it's probably responsible for most (if not all) the trouble that started me on the decent into despair that I'm only now emerging from. I'd like to think that age and experience has made me better able to deal with the danger but really, I only have age to rely on since I'm still woefully lacking in experience.
But what can I do? It's not like I'm a component stereo system where I can selectively turn parts of me on or off. It's a holistic thing that I have no control over. And though I'm fearful, I'm also glad because even though it brought me a lot of grief, this (hopeless) romantic side of me also brought me a lot of inspiration, some good songs (if I do say so myself), and when it wasn't getting me into trouble, it often brought out the best in me.
Oh, and there is something else that I have on my side - great friends. One thing that experience has taught me is to rely on the advice of friends in matters of love. I've learned that love can rob you of all reason, reducing you to village idiot status. Love also makes you feel invincible which makes for a deadly combination (sounds a lot like alcohol, only a lot more expensive). In the turbulent throes of love, I know that I have to rely on advice from friends. In the past, I discounted such advice thinking, in my romantic fervor, that I would gallantly prove them wrong and write a grand new chapter in the Book of Love only to wind up crying on their doorstep, heart splattered all over my sleeve.
Love, love, love. What on earth was God thinking, entrusting us with so powerful an emotion? Might the world have been a safer, saner, more peaceful place without it? I suppose, but it would also be a far more staid, bland reality. If I opt for the safety of a world without love it's only because I've yet to master its intricacies and experience it's true power. I'm like some martial arts novice learning to use nunchucks. I flail away, bruising my balls and looking the fool but once I've worked out the kinks, watch out because I'll be kicking some romatic ass (wait, that didn't come out right, but you know what I mean).
I've made the admission before that I don't understand love, and I suppose now I have an excuse. I suppose I always have my imagination, but with something as powerful and complex as love, there will never be a substitute for experience.
Which reminds me of something else I've been meaning to write about. I've been thinking quite a bit about love recently and that's been made evident in a lot of my blogs lately. I mean most of my blogs have been about love in some form (usually complaints about how elusive it is) but look at the dates and you'll see that writing about love (or anything else) used to be a rare event - once every few months, if that. Now I'm still writing about love but now I'm far more prolific - a few blogs per week. And I suppose that's just another part of me that's waking up, making itself known (see blog 49).
Having the romantic (for lack of a better word) part of me reawaken presents somewhat of a conflict/paradox for me. I'm glad to have it back but at the same time it worries me because it's the hopeless romantic part of me that always gets me into the most trouble. Indeed, it's probably responsible for most (if not all) the trouble that started me on the decent into despair that I'm only now emerging from. I'd like to think that age and experience has made me better able to deal with the danger but really, I only have age to rely on since I'm still woefully lacking in experience.
But what can I do? It's not like I'm a component stereo system where I can selectively turn parts of me on or off. It's a holistic thing that I have no control over. And though I'm fearful, I'm also glad because even though it brought me a lot of grief, this (hopeless) romantic side of me also brought me a lot of inspiration, some good songs (if I do say so myself), and when it wasn't getting me into trouble, it often brought out the best in me.
Oh, and there is something else that I have on my side - great friends. One thing that experience has taught me is to rely on the advice of friends in matters of love. I've learned that love can rob you of all reason, reducing you to village idiot status. Love also makes you feel invincible which makes for a deadly combination (sounds a lot like alcohol, only a lot more expensive). In the turbulent throes of love, I know that I have to rely on advice from friends. In the past, I discounted such advice thinking, in my romantic fervor, that I would gallantly prove them wrong and write a grand new chapter in the Book of Love only to wind up crying on their doorstep, heart splattered all over my sleeve.
Love, love, love. What on earth was God thinking, entrusting us with so powerful an emotion? Might the world have been a safer, saner, more peaceful place without it? I suppose, but it would also be a far more staid, bland reality. If I opt for the safety of a world without love it's only because I've yet to master its intricacies and experience it's true power. I'm like some martial arts novice learning to use nunchucks. I flail away, bruising my balls and looking the fool but once I've worked out the kinks, watch out because I'll be kicking some romatic ass (wait, that didn't come out right, but you know what I mean).
Friday, July 22, 2005
51. Thomas Merton and love
So I'm reading this article about Thomas Merton (see how much fun my life is?) and part of the article talks about this Trapist monk falling in love. After he renews his vows (which, I would imagine, include not being in love with a woman) he said that being in that relationship taught him that he was lovable and was himself able to love.
See now I read that and I think, well if a guy who spends his time in silence contemplating the wonders and truths of God can't understand love without having been in a relationship, what chance do I have of understanding love?
(to be continued)
See now I read that and I think, well if a guy who spends his time in silence contemplating the wonders and truths of God can't understand love without having been in a relationship, what chance do I have of understanding love?
(to be continued)
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
50. randall as writer...
I've been writing a lot more lately because...well, frankly because I've just had a lot more to write about. What I mean is, this whole new attitude, new outlook thing that's emerging in my life - one of the benefits is just this newfound wealth of ideas. It's like there was no sun on the soil of my subconscious so nothing grew but now that the sky is clearing, molecules of carbon dioxide are combining with water and forming sugars and oxygen - energy and life.
Anyway, I wanted to take a moment and talk about myself as a writer. I am the writer who wishes he was writing songs instead of short stories because when's the last time you heard a short story blazing it's way up the Billboard Top 40? Or when's the last time you heard someone humming the words to a short story while walking down the street? And compared to a singer/songwriter on a stage (no matter how big or small), a short story reading just isn't as sexy or cool.
But I just play the dice that God rolls for me. I wanna sing but I sit and type instead. I want screaming fans but I get silent, anonymous readers instead. But that's okay, I suppose. I love what I do when I write (even when I know it's crap) and as any artist will tell you, that can be enough.
See, the part of me that writes is separate somehow from the rest of me. That's how it feels sometimes (especially when the juices are really flowing and words are falling from the sky). Sentences form themselves, and the thing I'm writing is just willing itself into existence through my fingertips. It's a real fucking rush.
And that's another thing - the language I use. I feel completely free when I write. The English language is my playground and words are my playthings - and they're fun to play with. I love how you can grab two words, put them together in a way that no one has ever thought of before, all in the effort to communicate what doesn't want to be put down on paper. And I imagine that's what it's like with any kind of art. Artists are just trying to squeeze their world through whatever medium they work with. And some parts don't want to fit, and some parts want to lie and appear as something else, and it's always so tempting to do the easy thing and resort to the trite, the cliche, the obvious.
I like the voice that emerges when I write. It's eloquent and sturdy in a way that my speech never is. When I'm writing, I feel ten feet tall and tan and handsome and able to woo women with a wink and a nod. No one tells me how to write. I bend the rules of grammar as I want and I follow them when I choose (which is actually most of the time because the rules are there for a reason). I exercise blatant disregard for spelling (though I try to clean up the typos afterwards because spelling errors are just embarrassing). In short, when I'm writing I just don't give a shit. I run through the world with my balls flapping in the wind for all to see (in real life, this is NOT a pretty picture but when I'm writing, it's Playgirl centerfold material).
All that to say, it's a rush...at least when things are flowing and the words are falling from the sky. When the words don't come? I read. And in case you're wondering (and still reading), here are a couple of my favorite (fiction) writers:
Raymond Carver
Douglas Coupland
Barry Yourgrau
and Michael Chrichton (no, really)
Well, I have to run now. This was entirely indulgent of me but, that's my write (yuk, yuk, yuk).
See you again soon.
Anyway, I wanted to take a moment and talk about myself as a writer. I am the writer who wishes he was writing songs instead of short stories because when's the last time you heard a short story blazing it's way up the Billboard Top 40? Or when's the last time you heard someone humming the words to a short story while walking down the street? And compared to a singer/songwriter on a stage (no matter how big or small), a short story reading just isn't as sexy or cool.
But I just play the dice that God rolls for me. I wanna sing but I sit and type instead. I want screaming fans but I get silent, anonymous readers instead. But that's okay, I suppose. I love what I do when I write (even when I know it's crap) and as any artist will tell you, that can be enough.
See, the part of me that writes is separate somehow from the rest of me. That's how it feels sometimes (especially when the juices are really flowing and words are falling from the sky). Sentences form themselves, and the thing I'm writing is just willing itself into existence through my fingertips. It's a real fucking rush.
And that's another thing - the language I use. I feel completely free when I write. The English language is my playground and words are my playthings - and they're fun to play with. I love how you can grab two words, put them together in a way that no one has ever thought of before, all in the effort to communicate what doesn't want to be put down on paper. And I imagine that's what it's like with any kind of art. Artists are just trying to squeeze their world through whatever medium they work with. And some parts don't want to fit, and some parts want to lie and appear as something else, and it's always so tempting to do the easy thing and resort to the trite, the cliche, the obvious.
I like the voice that emerges when I write. It's eloquent and sturdy in a way that my speech never is. When I'm writing, I feel ten feet tall and tan and handsome and able to woo women with a wink and a nod. No one tells me how to write. I bend the rules of grammar as I want and I follow them when I choose (which is actually most of the time because the rules are there for a reason). I exercise blatant disregard for spelling (though I try to clean up the typos afterwards because spelling errors are just embarrassing). In short, when I'm writing I just don't give a shit. I run through the world with my balls flapping in the wind for all to see (in real life, this is NOT a pretty picture but when I'm writing, it's Playgirl centerfold material).
All that to say, it's a rush...at least when things are flowing and the words are falling from the sky. When the words don't come? I read. And in case you're wondering (and still reading), here are a couple of my favorite (fiction) writers:
Raymond Carver
Douglas Coupland
Barry Yourgrau
and Michael Chrichton (no, really)
Well, I have to run now. This was entirely indulgent of me but, that's my write (yuk, yuk, yuk).
See you again soon.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
49. I asked for love...
I asked for love and I thought I was going to get a girlfriend but instead, God gave me a band.
I know nothing can really prepare me for pursuing a significant other but in the meantime, God has given me a band as a kind of trial run. Especially on the West Coast Tour, hanging with the band put me through trials that seemed similar to what I've heard my friends who are in relationships go through.
For example? Well, I'd rather not go into specifics (mostly because I can't remember) but the big thing was learning how to communicate. I was watching some professor on some public access channel (yeah, I was bored) and he was talking about how thoght is parallel whereas speech is serial - in other words, the mind can work on multiple ideas at the same time but we can only talk about one idea at a time (actually, the professor was talking about stuff that was WAY over my head, but I kind of got the edges of it and this is one thing I took from it). This makes communication difficult because the mind can be thinking about three or four things, all of which pertain to the same issue, but we can only speak of one thing at a time.
He also talked about how amazing it is that we can communicate at all. I mean, if you think about it, when you're talking to someone, what you're really doing is taking a idea/image/narrative (a thought, for lack of a better term) that exists only in your mind and using these clumsy things called words to build that same thought in someone else's mind. We take it for granted because we do it everday but communication is a truly remarkable process.
As with anything this complicated, it can be pretty easy to screw up. Add emotion to the mix and you've got a volatile combination. Which brings us back, finally, to me and the band. Learning how to understand what another person is saying while simultaneously trying to get them to understand what you're saying can feel like punching yourself in the face.
Anyway, being in this band has taught me a lot about how to get along with people who are very different from myself. It's not easy, and sometimes it's no fun, but at the end of the day it's more than worth the struggle. And now I find myself in love with these people in the band. I care about them. When they hurt, I hurt and want to heal. I'll go to any lengths (within my resources) to help. When they struggle, I cheer them along. And even though I'm investing in another, I grow at the same time.
...now if only there was a way to make out every once in a while...
I know nothing can really prepare me for pursuing a significant other but in the meantime, God has given me a band as a kind of trial run. Especially on the West Coast Tour, hanging with the band put me through trials that seemed similar to what I've heard my friends who are in relationships go through.
For example? Well, I'd rather not go into specifics (mostly because I can't remember) but the big thing was learning how to communicate. I was watching some professor on some public access channel (yeah, I was bored) and he was talking about how thoght is parallel whereas speech is serial - in other words, the mind can work on multiple ideas at the same time but we can only talk about one idea at a time (actually, the professor was talking about stuff that was WAY over my head, but I kind of got the edges of it and this is one thing I took from it). This makes communication difficult because the mind can be thinking about three or four things, all of which pertain to the same issue, but we can only speak of one thing at a time.
He also talked about how amazing it is that we can communicate at all. I mean, if you think about it, when you're talking to someone, what you're really doing is taking a idea/image/narrative (a thought, for lack of a better term) that exists only in your mind and using these clumsy things called words to build that same thought in someone else's mind. We take it for granted because we do it everday but communication is a truly remarkable process.
As with anything this complicated, it can be pretty easy to screw up. Add emotion to the mix and you've got a volatile combination. Which brings us back, finally, to me and the band. Learning how to understand what another person is saying while simultaneously trying to get them to understand what you're saying can feel like punching yourself in the face.
Anyway, being in this band has taught me a lot about how to get along with people who are very different from myself. It's not easy, and sometimes it's no fun, but at the end of the day it's more than worth the struggle. And now I find myself in love with these people in the band. I care about them. When they hurt, I hurt and want to heal. I'll go to any lengths (within my resources) to help. When they struggle, I cheer them along. And even though I'm investing in another, I grow at the same time.
...now if only there was a way to make out every once in a while...
Sunday, July 17, 2005
48. feed a starving artist's ego
(blogger note...this entry came from my mirror blog site at MySpace. Some of the features I wrote about don't apply here at blogger.com.)
When I click on my blog, I see this table letting me know how many people have viewed my blog. Last week, according to this table, this humble blog of mine was viewed upwards of sixty times (I don't know if it counts repeat visits to the same blog). Which makes me really curious (and kind of humbled too) - who are all these people?
Just FYI, if you like this blog and would like updates as to when new posts are made, you can subscribe to the blog (just look on the left-hand side of the page under my little eye-glasses-in-the-sun picture and click on the link marked, "subscribe" - you can "unsubscribe" if I start pissing you off or start writing crazy-talk).
Also, here's an open invitation to message me (or leave a comment on this entry) with any thoughts about...anything - topics you'd like to see me tackle, editorial suggestions (like clean up your fucking language, asshole!), or any other forms of constructive (or destructive) criticism (like stop using so many parenthetical asides).
Lastly, thank you all for reading. Writing is one of God's many gifts given to me to be shared with others. Anything useful comes through his grace. Anything self-serving or superfluous (uh...kind of like this entry) comes from my fallen nature.
When I click on my blog, I see this table letting me know how many people have viewed my blog. Last week, according to this table, this humble blog of mine was viewed upwards of sixty times (I don't know if it counts repeat visits to the same blog). Which makes me really curious (and kind of humbled too) - who are all these people?
Just FYI, if you like this blog and would like updates as to when new posts are made, you can subscribe to the blog (just look on the left-hand side of the page under my little eye-glasses-in-the-sun picture and click on the link marked, "subscribe" - you can "unsubscribe" if I start pissing you off or start writing crazy-talk).
Also, here's an open invitation to message me (or leave a comment on this entry) with any thoughts about...anything - topics you'd like to see me tackle, editorial suggestions (like clean up your fucking language, asshole!), or any other forms of constructive (or destructive) criticism (like stop using so many parenthetical asides).
Lastly, thank you all for reading. Writing is one of God's many gifts given to me to be shared with others. Anything useful comes through his grace. Anything self-serving or superfluous (uh...kind of like this entry) comes from my fallen nature.
47. i'm in love...
with a book. And it's not Harry Potter.
It's a strange, strangely beautiful (my favorite kind) book called The History of Love by Nicole Krauss. I'd tell you what it's about but I'm not entirely sure yet. I could tell you what's happened so far but that's not what the book is about.
I knew the book was cool from the moment I pulled it off the New Releases shelf at Borders. I do that from time to time. I look for interesting titles or cool cover art (you can't judge a book by its cover? you can). I flip right to the first page and scan. If the language doesn't grab me by the end of the second sentence (usually I never get past the first phrase) I close the book and choose another, usually with the same results. Every once in a while I'll find a book that has me to the end of the page but no further. Sometimes I make it to the end of a chapter.
I needed a book for the trip I took a few weeks ago with the band, Harrison, and I (thought) I need a book to read on the airplane. The History was the last book that held my attention to the end of the first chapter so that was to be my trip book. Turns out I did far more sleeping than reading on all three plane rides (two there, one back). I re-read the first chapter, but not much more than that. Back in Hawaii it became my bed stand book, something to settle me into sleep. And night by night, bit by bit, it grabbed my attention and then my heart.
Here's a sample sentence:
Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.
Here's a couple paragraphs from further in the book:
"And though you were grown up by then, you felt as lost as a child. And though your pride was broken, you felt as vast as your love for her. She was gone, and all that was left was the space where you'd grown around her, like a tree that grows around a fence."
"For a long time, it remained hollow. Years, maybe. And when at last it was filled again, you knew that the new love you felt for a woman would have been impossible without Alma. If it weren't for her, there would never have been an empty space, or the need to fill it."
Amazing, amazing writing...and like good writing does, it got me thinking.
My love for this book. That little short story thing I wrote a few blogs back (titled Heroics but I'm thinking about going back to the old title, "and she was tired of talking so he told her a story"). The long drive I took back home from Rocky's house on the North Shore (I took the long way back). All these little things - tiny and otherwise insignificant - are signs of life for me.
It feels like I'm waking up from a long, deep sleep - a sleep that lasted for over ten years. After the Last Great Relationship (which wasn't really that great or much of a relationship but as single as I've been for all my life, it's huge) ended, bits of me fell asleep. The ability to feel joy went first. I also lost my inspiration - I was an aspiring songwriter then and there was a time when I was trying to finish two or three songs at a time, but after the LGR, they stopped coming. And then my ability to love not just people, but also things like books and songs and art and the purple glow of twilight. And then most recently, the part of me where hope is made and maintained turned out the lights, said it's prayers, then went to sleep. After that, I was nothing more than an organ transportation unit, because what more can a man be without hope?
But I'm waking up now. Bit by bit, pieces of me are opening their eyes, stretching their legs, brushing their teeth. Feelings I'd forgotten about are surprising me. My love for this book, that short story. A few weeks ago while cleaning my studio I looked over at the piano, opened it up, and wrote the first few lines of a song. And best of all, I have a new hunger to hear from God - and, wonder of wonders, he's speaking.
I've been wrong about a lot of things but I'm starting to make them right again and I'm finding that right thinking leads to right living and that pleases God and when God is pleased, anything, anything, ANYTHING can happen.
It's a strange, strangely beautiful (my favorite kind) book called The History of Love by Nicole Krauss. I'd tell you what it's about but I'm not entirely sure yet. I could tell you what's happened so far but that's not what the book is about.
I knew the book was cool from the moment I pulled it off the New Releases shelf at Borders. I do that from time to time. I look for interesting titles or cool cover art (you can't judge a book by its cover? you can). I flip right to the first page and scan. If the language doesn't grab me by the end of the second sentence (usually I never get past the first phrase) I close the book and choose another, usually with the same results. Every once in a while I'll find a book that has me to the end of the page but no further. Sometimes I make it to the end of a chapter.
I needed a book for the trip I took a few weeks ago with the band, Harrison, and I (thought) I need a book to read on the airplane. The History was the last book that held my attention to the end of the first chapter so that was to be my trip book. Turns out I did far more sleeping than reading on all three plane rides (two there, one back). I re-read the first chapter, but not much more than that. Back in Hawaii it became my bed stand book, something to settle me into sleep. And night by night, bit by bit, it grabbed my attention and then my heart.
Here's a sample sentence:
Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.
Here's a couple paragraphs from further in the book:
"And though you were grown up by then, you felt as lost as a child. And though your pride was broken, you felt as vast as your love for her. She was gone, and all that was left was the space where you'd grown around her, like a tree that grows around a fence."
"For a long time, it remained hollow. Years, maybe. And when at last it was filled again, you knew that the new love you felt for a woman would have been impossible without Alma. If it weren't for her, there would never have been an empty space, or the need to fill it."
Amazing, amazing writing...and like good writing does, it got me thinking.
My love for this book. That little short story thing I wrote a few blogs back (titled Heroics but I'm thinking about going back to the old title, "and she was tired of talking so he told her a story"). The long drive I took back home from Rocky's house on the North Shore (I took the long way back). All these little things - tiny and otherwise insignificant - are signs of life for me.
It feels like I'm waking up from a long, deep sleep - a sleep that lasted for over ten years. After the Last Great Relationship (which wasn't really that great or much of a relationship but as single as I've been for all my life, it's huge) ended, bits of me fell asleep. The ability to feel joy went first. I also lost my inspiration - I was an aspiring songwriter then and there was a time when I was trying to finish two or three songs at a time, but after the LGR, they stopped coming. And then my ability to love not just people, but also things like books and songs and art and the purple glow of twilight. And then most recently, the part of me where hope is made and maintained turned out the lights, said it's prayers, then went to sleep. After that, I was nothing more than an organ transportation unit, because what more can a man be without hope?
But I'm waking up now. Bit by bit, pieces of me are opening their eyes, stretching their legs, brushing their teeth. Feelings I'd forgotten about are surprising me. My love for this book, that short story. A few weeks ago while cleaning my studio I looked over at the piano, opened it up, and wrote the first few lines of a song. And best of all, I have a new hunger to hear from God - and, wonder of wonders, he's speaking.
I've been wrong about a lot of things but I'm starting to make them right again and I'm finding that right thinking leads to right living and that pleases God and when God is pleased, anything, anything, ANYTHING can happen.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
46. pessimism/optimism/realism
About a month ago, a friend and I were talking about optimism and pessimism and where between the two reality resided. Which is an interesting question because life isn't all bad and life isn't all good. So then, should one be an optimist and always expect the best of life only to be disappointed time and time again or should one be a pessimist who always expects the worst but is occasionally surprised when things turn out well?
Put that way, it seems like pessimism is the way to go but the problem with being a pessimist is that it's like bad BO - people may not say anything for fear of hurting your feelings but it sucks to be around you. I suppose Buddah-mind would say to not have any expectations and to take things as they come, but I don't know, that seems like kind of a cop out...and that's just too hippie/granola for my city-bred mind.
So I've been kind of working through this optimism/pessimism problem in the back of my mind and here's what I've come up with. You need to be both. Oh, thank you very much. I'll be waiting for my philosophy award nomination from the International Society for Neoplatonic Studies in the mail...should be arriving any day now.
No, really. You need to be both in order to have a reasonably accurate view of life...because life is both joy and pain, hope and dread, sun and rain. But it's not that simple (and here's where my brilliance really kicks in). Are you going to be a pessimistic optimist or an optimistic pessimist?
Here's the difference. A pessimistic optimist (p/o) believes that things will normally turn out for the worse but is open to the possibility that things may turn out for the better every now and then. An optimistic pessimist (o/p) believes the opposite - that things will normally turn out for the best although sometimes, shit happens.
I like to think that I've become a o/p after years of being a p/o. And even though the switch took place recently, I can already say with confidence that being an o/p is light years better than being a p/o.
That's all. A short blog for a change. Just food for thought - bite sized.
Put that way, it seems like pessimism is the way to go but the problem with being a pessimist is that it's like bad BO - people may not say anything for fear of hurting your feelings but it sucks to be around you. I suppose Buddah-mind would say to not have any expectations and to take things as they come, but I don't know, that seems like kind of a cop out...and that's just too hippie/granola for my city-bred mind.
So I've been kind of working through this optimism/pessimism problem in the back of my mind and here's what I've come up with. You need to be both. Oh, thank you very much. I'll be waiting for my philosophy award nomination from the International Society for Neoplatonic Studies in the mail...should be arriving any day now.
No, really. You need to be both in order to have a reasonably accurate view of life...because life is both joy and pain, hope and dread, sun and rain. But it's not that simple (and here's where my brilliance really kicks in). Are you going to be a pessimistic optimist or an optimistic pessimist?
Here's the difference. A pessimistic optimist (p/o) believes that things will normally turn out for the worse but is open to the possibility that things may turn out for the better every now and then. An optimistic pessimist (o/p) believes the opposite - that things will normally turn out for the best although sometimes, shit happens.
I like to think that I've become a o/p after years of being a p/o. And even though the switch took place recently, I can already say with confidence that being an o/p is light years better than being a p/o.
That's all. A short blog for a change. Just food for thought - bite sized.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
45. why nice guys are single...(part 2)
Let's recap. Nice guys are single...
1. Because they're safe.
2. Because they tell the truth.
3. Because they care for the girl more than themselves.
4. Because they're more selective.
5. Because they're dorks.
6. Because they think too much.
7. Because they try too hard.
Not a bad list but I can't believe I forgot to mention the most important, and the most obvious reason:
8. Because girls only want them as friends.
I don't know how I could have missed that fact when it's the one thing above all others that has kept me single all these years. This drives me fucking nuts! I mean, what is it about a guy who's a good friend that keeps him from being boyfriend material? What kind of antimatter-logic is that? Girls are always complaining about how men don't listen, how they don't care about them, how they're just using them, how they leave the toilet seat up. And do you know who they sometimes complain about these things to? Their guy friend who they keep on the side. And do you know how that makes the guy feel? Like a dead bird in the middle of the freeway during rush hour traffic, getting mushed over and over and over again until he's just another dark brown stain.
"He can't be my boyfriend because we're too good as friends."
I'd eat my fingers off of my hand with mustard and relish if someone could explain that to me. Here's how I hear that statement: "He can't be my boyfriend because I wouldn't have to stay up late at night wondering if he's cheating on me and because I wouldn't have to pull my hair out trying to get him to appreciate me and because it would just be too easy and simple to fall for someone who I know really cares about me."
I've heard some say, "I want to marry my best friend." That may be true but you only want to date lesser men.
What is it about nice guys? I mean is dating a nice guy like wearing a muumuu - comfortable and functional for wearing around the house but not stylish enough to be seen in public with? Or maybe they're like a Swiss Army knife - kept in the glove box or in your purse for repairs but quickly put away once the party starts.
Reason number three says, "nice guys care for the girl more than themselves." This means that when the girl gets her heart broken by another guy and comes crying back to them, the nice guy will refrain from telling her what a selfish idiot she is, choosing, instead, to provide her with solace and the warm shoulder that she needs. And he'll continue to be there for her, nursing her back to emotional health until she's ready to crash her heart into another brick wall at eighty miles per hour...again.
"...but he doesn't want to be my boyfriend, he's just a friend." Now in some cases that may be true. And in some cases, pigs have been known to fly out of my ass. 10.5 times out of 10, what's really happening is the nice guy is just too nice to tell you how he feels about you. Or he's too scared to. Or (and pay special attention to this one) he thinks that you want adventure man, or tall-dark-and-mysterious man, or bungee-jumping-extreme-excitement man. He thinks this because these are the guys you talk about and end up chasing and/or going out with. He thinks those are the kinds of guys you want and he's not that kind of guy so he figures he's not right for you and never does anything because he only wants what you want.
If you've made it this far down, I suppose you deserve to hear the truth. Yeah, I was checking someone out recently. Someone amazing. Someone who calls me her friend...but these last two blogs haven't been about her (I'll get to that three paragraphs down).
No, I didn't say anything to her about how I felt...and I suppose that's my bad but...but a couple things. I don't think I'm the kind of guy she'd be interested in and I don't want to mess up what little we do have because she inspires me - she renews my sense of wonder at what the world has to offer, what can still emerge from this decaying, crumbling civilization.
And so you see, after all this ranting and raving, sometimes nice guys are single simply because they're shy and scared - scared to lose what they have but even more scared of hurting the very one they care for and so they watch from a distance, ready to catch them should they fall...kind of like spider man.
I know I've been pretty hard on girls in these last couple of blogs but I wasn't talking about her. Like most of my blogs, it was a way for me to vent some steam and generally figure things out for myself - writing helps me understand, and that blog was about understanding why I didn't want to pursue this relationship (number three and six helped a lot). All those women I complained about? Those are from things I heard firsthand or stories I heard secondhand or things I saw on TV or in the movies or in a book somewhere. But weren't about her.
Maybe I should say/do something...but I don't know how or what. And if you're tempted to leave a comment with a suggestion, I ask instead that you would pray because if anything is done in this matter it will have to be with God's strength and guidance.
See here's the other thing. I'm having a change of heart/mind/attitude. I'm finally emerging from the dark pit of pessimism that I was drowning in for far, far, far too long. I'm on my way out and there's light at the end of the tunnel and it's getting closer but I've learned that optimism is a fragile bird, especially at this infant stage. I'm afraid that a bad turn (and this could certainly turn out to be a bad turn) will topple all the progress I've made.
And here's another thing. I've learned that optimism is hard work...at least it is for me, right now. It takes constant care and vigilance, pulling the weeds of cynicism out by the root as they spring up before they grow into something unmanageable. It's like getting over an addiction - you want to return to what's familiar, what's brought you comfort in the past, what seems so enticing at the moment but you have to keep looking forward towards a future free from those old chains. And I've been pretty good so far - I can see the change in my general attitude and outlook. I like where I'm going and I'm afraid of risking anything that might derail this train.
So there's more at stake here than just this girl.
Maybe in this small way, it's my turn to be selfish.
And so I ask, not for advice but for prayer.
...although comments are always fun, regardless.
1. Because they're safe.
2. Because they tell the truth.
3. Because they care for the girl more than themselves.
4. Because they're more selective.
5. Because they're dorks.
6. Because they think too much.
7. Because they try too hard.
Not a bad list but I can't believe I forgot to mention the most important, and the most obvious reason:
8. Because girls only want them as friends.
I don't know how I could have missed that fact when it's the one thing above all others that has kept me single all these years. This drives me fucking nuts! I mean, what is it about a guy who's a good friend that keeps him from being boyfriend material? What kind of antimatter-logic is that? Girls are always complaining about how men don't listen, how they don't care about them, how they're just using them, how they leave the toilet seat up. And do you know who they sometimes complain about these things to? Their guy friend who they keep on the side. And do you know how that makes the guy feel? Like a dead bird in the middle of the freeway during rush hour traffic, getting mushed over and over and over again until he's just another dark brown stain.
"He can't be my boyfriend because we're too good as friends."
I'd eat my fingers off of my hand with mustard and relish if someone could explain that to me. Here's how I hear that statement: "He can't be my boyfriend because I wouldn't have to stay up late at night wondering if he's cheating on me and because I wouldn't have to pull my hair out trying to get him to appreciate me and because it would just be too easy and simple to fall for someone who I know really cares about me."
I've heard some say, "I want to marry my best friend." That may be true but you only want to date lesser men.
What is it about nice guys? I mean is dating a nice guy like wearing a muumuu - comfortable and functional for wearing around the house but not stylish enough to be seen in public with? Or maybe they're like a Swiss Army knife - kept in the glove box or in your purse for repairs but quickly put away once the party starts.
Reason number three says, "nice guys care for the girl more than themselves." This means that when the girl gets her heart broken by another guy and comes crying back to them, the nice guy will refrain from telling her what a selfish idiot she is, choosing, instead, to provide her with solace and the warm shoulder that she needs. And he'll continue to be there for her, nursing her back to emotional health until she's ready to crash her heart into another brick wall at eighty miles per hour...again.
"...but he doesn't want to be my boyfriend, he's just a friend." Now in some cases that may be true. And in some cases, pigs have been known to fly out of my ass. 10.5 times out of 10, what's really happening is the nice guy is just too nice to tell you how he feels about you. Or he's too scared to. Or (and pay special attention to this one) he thinks that you want adventure man, or tall-dark-and-mysterious man, or bungee-jumping-extreme-excitement man. He thinks this because these are the guys you talk about and end up chasing and/or going out with. He thinks those are the kinds of guys you want and he's not that kind of guy so he figures he's not right for you and never does anything because he only wants what you want.
If you've made it this far down, I suppose you deserve to hear the truth. Yeah, I was checking someone out recently. Someone amazing. Someone who calls me her friend...but these last two blogs haven't been about her (I'll get to that three paragraphs down).
No, I didn't say anything to her about how I felt...and I suppose that's my bad but...but a couple things. I don't think I'm the kind of guy she'd be interested in and I don't want to mess up what little we do have because she inspires me - she renews my sense of wonder at what the world has to offer, what can still emerge from this decaying, crumbling civilization.
And so you see, after all this ranting and raving, sometimes nice guys are single simply because they're shy and scared - scared to lose what they have but even more scared of hurting the very one they care for and so they watch from a distance, ready to catch them should they fall...kind of like spider man.
I know I've been pretty hard on girls in these last couple of blogs but I wasn't talking about her. Like most of my blogs, it was a way for me to vent some steam and generally figure things out for myself - writing helps me understand, and that blog was about understanding why I didn't want to pursue this relationship (number three and six helped a lot). All those women I complained about? Those are from things I heard firsthand or stories I heard secondhand or things I saw on TV or in the movies or in a book somewhere. But weren't about her.
Maybe I should say/do something...but I don't know how or what. And if you're tempted to leave a comment with a suggestion, I ask instead that you would pray because if anything is done in this matter it will have to be with God's strength and guidance.
See here's the other thing. I'm having a change of heart/mind/attitude. I'm finally emerging from the dark pit of pessimism that I was drowning in for far, far, far too long. I'm on my way out and there's light at the end of the tunnel and it's getting closer but I've learned that optimism is a fragile bird, especially at this infant stage. I'm afraid that a bad turn (and this could certainly turn out to be a bad turn) will topple all the progress I've made.
And here's another thing. I've learned that optimism is hard work...at least it is for me, right now. It takes constant care and vigilance, pulling the weeds of cynicism out by the root as they spring up before they grow into something unmanageable. It's like getting over an addiction - you want to return to what's familiar, what's brought you comfort in the past, what seems so enticing at the moment but you have to keep looking forward towards a future free from those old chains. And I've been pretty good so far - I can see the change in my general attitude and outlook. I like where I'm going and I'm afraid of risking anything that might derail this train.
So there's more at stake here than just this girl.
Maybe in this small way, it's my turn to be selfish.
And so I ask, not for advice but for prayer.
...although comments are always fun, regardless.
Monday, July 11, 2005
44. why nice guys are single...
1. Because they're safe and girls don't want safe. They want the cowboy who's going to ride out into the night killing evil men with bad mustaches and dark hats. They want to look longingly, fearfully out the top window, waiting for their pirate to return from the seas with chests full of stolen gold. The want a man who knows how to make a weapon out of a broken bottle - the man who drank that bottle dry. They want the Harlequin adventure, not the guy who can quote Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. They want the man who's going to break their heart because they want to believe that their beauty and their kindness will be enough to keep them from doing so.
2. Because they tell the truth, even if it means not getting the girl.
(and closely related)
3. Because they care for the girl more than themselves.
2 & 3 explained: A nice guy will bow out of chasing a girl if he knows that he's not right for her. He will also tell the truth about himself, because he cares for this girl more than himself. He will not hide distasteful truths about himself or his past - he may not volunteer them, but if asked he will spill the beans (even the lima beans...blah).
In contrast, a bad guy wants what he wants and will do/say/be anything he has to in order to get the girl he wants. What's right for the girl has no weight. He's free to play whatever mind/heart games he wishes and even if, on some level, he really cares for the girl, he will still shade the truth and hide his warts, figuring that once he's gotten the girl, he can just explain it all away even if he's found out. He wants what he wants first and if he has some explaining to do later on, he'll deal with it when (although he will try to make it, "if") it comes up
Now how is a nice guy supposed to compete with that?
4. Because they're more selective in who they pursue. They're usually more choosy because they only pursue girls they really care for. They're not just out to find a hot body or a pretty face. They want someone they can champion. And so they wait, and watch, and sigh longingly into their pillow at night.
5. Because they're usually dorks. Let's face it, nice guys are usually dorks - not nerds, because nerds have a certain kind of geeky charm. If they're skinny, it's in a way that makes them look weak, not stylish or emo. If they're fat, it's in a way that says, "lard-butt," not in a way that's buff or imposing. They have little to no sense of style
6. Because they think too much. If you're a guy and you're not sure what this means...watch out, you may be an asshole.
7. Because they try too hard (usually because they're thinking too much...see above). Should a nice guy find a girl he's interested in and should he actually believe that he would be good for her, he will (despite himself) throw caution to the wind and try to sweep the girl off her feet. This may take the form of letters, flowers, quoted or original poetry (stick to the quoted stuff unless you REALLY know what you're doing). They may even believe what they've seen on TV and think that singing a song for your lady is actually something that's attractive, becomming, and romantic. In reality it's usually awkward, embarasing, and painful (or best-case-scenario, laughable). Trust me guys, the singing thing is NOT easy to do well and it is far too easy to do poorly. I actually tried it once and not only did it not go well, it turned out to be the turning point where our once promising future became the never ending path of fire ants...instead of describing hell as a place "where their worm does not die and the fire is not quenched" (Mark 9:48 KJV), God should have just said, "hell is a place where it's always the day after your boyfriend/girlfriend broke up with you." I bet we'd have a lot more Christians if it read that way.
Let's see, what do we have so far:
1. Because they're safe.
2. Because they tell the truth.
3. Because they care for the girl more than themselves.
4. Because they're more selective.
5. Because they're dorks.
6. Because they think too much.
7. Because they try too hard.
Yeah, that's a pretty good list. Not comprehensive, to be sure, but along the right lines, I think.
Not all of them apply to me...not really...at least not completely...(insert pregnant pause here)...oh hell, who am I kidding - it's not like I've been summarizing an article out of Anthropological Studies of the Well Mannered Male. But you know what? I don't give a shit. I'm a hella-fucking good catch and I feel sorry for the girls that spruned my advances (succumbing to some playah's smooth lines instead).
Anyway, girls, give a nice guy a chance. And if he buys you three dozen roses and sends them to you at work after the first date, don't go all apeshit and file for a TRO. Just understand that nice guys operate differently than other guys because they're not just another guy...they're a nice guy.
2. Because they tell the truth, even if it means not getting the girl.
(and closely related)
3. Because they care for the girl more than themselves.
2 & 3 explained: A nice guy will bow out of chasing a girl if he knows that he's not right for her. He will also tell the truth about himself, because he cares for this girl more than himself. He will not hide distasteful truths about himself or his past - he may not volunteer them, but if asked he will spill the beans (even the lima beans...blah).
In contrast, a bad guy wants what he wants and will do/say/be anything he has to in order to get the girl he wants. What's right for the girl has no weight. He's free to play whatever mind/heart games he wishes and even if, on some level, he really cares for the girl, he will still shade the truth and hide his warts, figuring that once he's gotten the girl, he can just explain it all away even if he's found out. He wants what he wants first and if he has some explaining to do later on, he'll deal with it when (although he will try to make it, "if") it comes up
Now how is a nice guy supposed to compete with that?
4. Because they're more selective in who they pursue. They're usually more choosy because they only pursue girls they really care for. They're not just out to find a hot body or a pretty face. They want someone they can champion. And so they wait, and watch, and sigh longingly into their pillow at night.
5. Because they're usually dorks. Let's face it, nice guys are usually dorks - not nerds, because nerds have a certain kind of geeky charm. If they're skinny, it's in a way that makes them look weak, not stylish or emo. If they're fat, it's in a way that says, "lard-butt," not in a way that's buff or imposing. They have little to no sense of style
6. Because they think too much. If you're a guy and you're not sure what this means...watch out, you may be an asshole.
7. Because they try too hard (usually because they're thinking too much...see above). Should a nice guy find a girl he's interested in and should he actually believe that he would be good for her, he will (despite himself) throw caution to the wind and try to sweep the girl off her feet. This may take the form of letters, flowers, quoted or original poetry (stick to the quoted stuff unless you REALLY know what you're doing). They may even believe what they've seen on TV and think that singing a song for your lady is actually something that's attractive, becomming, and romantic. In reality it's usually awkward, embarasing, and painful (or best-case-scenario, laughable). Trust me guys, the singing thing is NOT easy to do well and it is far too easy to do poorly. I actually tried it once and not only did it not go well, it turned out to be the turning point where our once promising future became the never ending path of fire ants...instead of describing hell as a place "where their worm does not die and the fire is not quenched" (Mark 9:48 KJV), God should have just said, "hell is a place where it's always the day after your boyfriend/girlfriend broke up with you." I bet we'd have a lot more Christians if it read that way.
Let's see, what do we have so far:
1. Because they're safe.
2. Because they tell the truth.
3. Because they care for the girl more than themselves.
4. Because they're more selective.
5. Because they're dorks.
6. Because they think too much.
7. Because they try too hard.
Yeah, that's a pretty good list. Not comprehensive, to be sure, but along the right lines, I think.
Not all of them apply to me...not really...at least not completely...(insert pregnant pause here)...oh hell, who am I kidding - it's not like I've been summarizing an article out of Anthropological Studies of the Well Mannered Male. But you know what? I don't give a shit. I'm a hella-fucking good catch and I feel sorry for the girls that spruned my advances (succumbing to some playah's smooth lines instead).
Anyway, girls, give a nice guy a chance. And if he buys you three dozen roses and sends them to you at work after the first date, don't go all apeshit and file for a TRO. Just understand that nice guys operate differently than other guys because they're not just another guy...they're a nice guy.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
43. and she was tired of talking so he told her a story...
And she was tired of talking so he told her a story. . .
. . . about a prince in gilded armor who stormed a mighty castle and fought his way to the top of a high tower. All along the way he traded bits of gold (a shield, a breastplate) for his life, leaving a trail of blood and amber in his wake. After he had vanquished the last of his foes, he opened the door to the room atop the spire only to find a frog who forgot how to turn back into a princess no matter how many times he kissed her.
. . . about a boy who gathered pebbles in his pockets along the long and windy path to an orphanage where the ungrateful cared for the unwanted. At night under his linen sheet he would care for his little stones, giving them names and histories and legacies. Stone nations clashed and warred - epic tales complete with subplots where topaz Romeos wooed pyrite Juliets. The boy grew into a man who manufactured the first marble and his son was the first to throw a taw, collecting a grand army of ducks, starting a fad along the way. The man died a millionaire and was burried under opals, glimmers, and rubies.
. . . about a chimpanzee who, by feigning animal ignorance, tricked NASA into letting him man the first spacecraft launched into orbit. Once airborne he dismantled the computers, took control of the ship and flew to a planet populated by hamsters. He leveraged his superior intellect (and opposible thumbs) to organize the rodents and ruled over them. He used his power to teach them to grow and harvest bananas, but he was a benevolent anthropoid and didn't tax them too heavily.
"So, what do you think?" he asks.
She smiles, thanks him and places a kiss on his cheek before getting back into her car and driving away, leaving him with these stories in his hands, barely able to contain them. Chapters, characters, and footnotes fall through the cracks between his fingers. They hit the ground and fragment into a meaningless jumble of words and letters and apostrophes before dissolving back into the ground.
. . . about a prince in gilded armor who stormed a mighty castle and fought his way to the top of a high tower. All along the way he traded bits of gold (a shield, a breastplate) for his life, leaving a trail of blood and amber in his wake. After he had vanquished the last of his foes, he opened the door to the room atop the spire only to find a frog who forgot how to turn back into a princess no matter how many times he kissed her.
. . . about a boy who gathered pebbles in his pockets along the long and windy path to an orphanage where the ungrateful cared for the unwanted. At night under his linen sheet he would care for his little stones, giving them names and histories and legacies. Stone nations clashed and warred - epic tales complete with subplots where topaz Romeos wooed pyrite Juliets. The boy grew into a man who manufactured the first marble and his son was the first to throw a taw, collecting a grand army of ducks, starting a fad along the way. The man died a millionaire and was burried under opals, glimmers, and rubies.
. . . about a chimpanzee who, by feigning animal ignorance, tricked NASA into letting him man the first spacecraft launched into orbit. Once airborne he dismantled the computers, took control of the ship and flew to a planet populated by hamsters. He leveraged his superior intellect (and opposible thumbs) to organize the rodents and ruled over them. He used his power to teach them to grow and harvest bananas, but he was a benevolent anthropoid and didn't tax them too heavily.
"So, what do you think?" he asks.
She smiles, thanks him and places a kiss on his cheek before getting back into her car and driving away, leaving him with these stories in his hands, barely able to contain them. Chapters, characters, and footnotes fall through the cracks between his fingers. They hit the ground and fragment into a meaningless jumble of words and letters and apostrophes before dissolving back into the ground.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
42. 5 things i learned while on tour
1. I need time alone.
2. Living with others makes me feel more whole.
3. I need to cure my snoring problem.
4. I can be an asshole.
5. I'm relatively good with maps.
Now one by one:
1. I need time alone.
I didn't know this about me until this trip. I mean I always knew I was one who didn't mind being alone but I didn't know that I NEEDED to be alone. It hit me Thursday night (our 5th day together), driving into LA. Marty was at the wheel and I was reading the map and I was getting really short with him - barking directions at him and criticizing his driving and generally being an asshole (see point number four). He was good enough to put up with it although he did the right thing and told me how uncomfortable I made him feel the next day.
This surprised me because normally, I'm one who can put up with anything. I pride myself on having both a long fuse and a short, controlled explosion should you make it to the end of the fuse (not many do). But that night I was really being a jerk. Marty had enough stress dealing with LA traffic (take Hawaii traffic, remove all the aloha, and speed all the cars up 30 percent and you get the idea) and we had been on the road for hours surviving on nothing but lame radio stations and even lamer road games. Marty was heroically dealing with it all and didn't need me giving him heat but he got us to where we needed to go with a cool head.
The next day, the first thing on the schedule was meeting up with Miles' aunt in LA. I asked the other guys if it would be okay for me to pull out of that meeting so I could be alone for a while. I told them I usually spend a lot of time by myself and hanging out with three other people for five days straight was turning me into something I didn't like. They all understood and as it turns out, we thought it would be a good idea for all of us to kind of disband for a few hours and unwind by ourselves.
The next morning, I ended up at The Grove where I spent most of my time at Starbucks (which was actually at the Farmer's Market next door) and at Barnes and Noble. I felt a bit odd because normally when I'm by myself, it's because nothing else came up that I wanted to do. This was the first time I was by myself just to be by myself. In other words, this was the first time being alone was a purposed activity, something I wanted to do. I wasn't sure how to go about it so I ended up at Starbucks smoking a clove and watching the people walk and later, when I ended up at Barnes and Noble, I spent most of that time talking to Steph back in Hawaii (not exactly time alone but it was time away from the band nevertheless and it did me good).
Once I was back with the band, I felt a lot more myself again. From then on, everything was pretty groovy. There were moments where I felt the same kind of social claustrophobia but whether by design or by chance, there were other times where I was able to get away and be by myself so I could keep the asshole side of me at bay.
2. Living with others makes me feel more whole.
Now this sounds like a contradiction to number one and in a way it is. Being with three other people, even for just a week, gave me a kind of confidence and assurance in who I am. I mean, sure there were times when all I wanted to do was get away but by the end of the week, I noticed a subtle but sure kind of ease with myself that I don't think I've ever felt before.
It's hard to put into words because it's something that kind of crept up on me slowly, something that I could have easily missed. Even now I'm having a hard time explaining it. Okay, maybe this works. Have you ever been to camp? I mean those church camps where high schoolers or singles or couples or men or women or some other social sub-group of people get together and spend time away from the world to learn about God. You know how by the end of those camps, you feel like everyone is your best friend and you're able to share your deepest, darkest, holy-shit-you-did-that kinds of secrets around the campfire? That's kind of how I felt, only not as intense and not as smokey (and no smores which is fine with me because I think they're overrated).
Donald Miller, in his books Blue Like Jazz and Searching For God Knows What talks about the importance of living in community - something society seems to be moving away from. I can't help but wonder if my feeling-more-comfortable-in-my-own-skin thing was the result of living in a kind of mini-community for a week. I suppose I'll have to find some kind of balance between community time and alone time once we make the move up here but I'm not too worried about that. If we didn't kill each other and break up the band after one long week of ALWAYS being together, I doubt there's anything we won't be able to work out once we make the move.
3. I need to cure my snoring problem.
Yeah, I snore like a tornado. With all of my charming, lovable qualities, there had to be some kind of downside to knowing me and snoring is one of them. Luckily I have at least six months to lick the problem. In fact, I went to get a dental check-up this morning (my first one in at least four or five years) and once I got into the fancy dental chair (complete with arm and leg restraints), there was a poster for a anti-snoring mouth guard type device.
While on the trip, I tried a couple of mouth spray things that seemed to do no good. For all I know, they were filled with snake oil. From what I've been told, I have an industrial-strength snore. Spraying something on the back of my throat is kind of like fighting a forest fire with an atomizer. I'll be asking my dentist and my doctor about options. Hopefully I'll have the problem taken care of before I make the move.
4. I can be an asshole.
Who knew? See number one for more details.
5. I'm relatively good with maps.
I was able to get the band from point A to point B without too much trouble. I mean sure at one point I had us driving through the heart of Inglewood and through a couple other dicey looking neighborhoods (make that 'hoods, nobody's your neighbor in some of these places) but we never got jacked or shot at so what's the big deal? Besides, we even got to see the legendary West Coast Choppers shop because of one of my map-reading mistakes.
It's not like I have a natural sense of direction. I don't. I spent a lot of money on maps. I hate the feeling of not knowing what's going on and nothing tweaks that nerve more than being lost. The few times we had to go completely off map and rely on someone else's directions, I was NOT at ease.
6. Summary
So there you have it. Five things I learned about myself while on tour with Harrison. Of course, there were other things I learned (like the fact that bears don't like paintballs) but these are five things that came immediately to mind...which may or may not mean they're significant. All this to say that if you get a chance to drive down the West Coast with your band mates, I'd say go for it. You're likely to learn as much (if not more) about yourself as you do about them along the way...and it's a lot more fun than therapy.
2. Living with others makes me feel more whole.
3. I need to cure my snoring problem.
4. I can be an asshole.
5. I'm relatively good with maps.
Now one by one:
1. I need time alone.
I didn't know this about me until this trip. I mean I always knew I was one who didn't mind being alone but I didn't know that I NEEDED to be alone. It hit me Thursday night (our 5th day together), driving into LA. Marty was at the wheel and I was reading the map and I was getting really short with him - barking directions at him and criticizing his driving and generally being an asshole (see point number four). He was good enough to put up with it although he did the right thing and told me how uncomfortable I made him feel the next day.
This surprised me because normally, I'm one who can put up with anything. I pride myself on having both a long fuse and a short, controlled explosion should you make it to the end of the fuse (not many do). But that night I was really being a jerk. Marty had enough stress dealing with LA traffic (take Hawaii traffic, remove all the aloha, and speed all the cars up 30 percent and you get the idea) and we had been on the road for hours surviving on nothing but lame radio stations and even lamer road games. Marty was heroically dealing with it all and didn't need me giving him heat but he got us to where we needed to go with a cool head.
The next day, the first thing on the schedule was meeting up with Miles' aunt in LA. I asked the other guys if it would be okay for me to pull out of that meeting so I could be alone for a while. I told them I usually spend a lot of time by myself and hanging out with three other people for five days straight was turning me into something I didn't like. They all understood and as it turns out, we thought it would be a good idea for all of us to kind of disband for a few hours and unwind by ourselves.
The next morning, I ended up at The Grove where I spent most of my time at Starbucks (which was actually at the Farmer's Market next door) and at Barnes and Noble. I felt a bit odd because normally when I'm by myself, it's because nothing else came up that I wanted to do. This was the first time I was by myself just to be by myself. In other words, this was the first time being alone was a purposed activity, something I wanted to do. I wasn't sure how to go about it so I ended up at Starbucks smoking a clove and watching the people walk and later, when I ended up at Barnes and Noble, I spent most of that time talking to Steph back in Hawaii (not exactly time alone but it was time away from the band nevertheless and it did me good).
Once I was back with the band, I felt a lot more myself again. From then on, everything was pretty groovy. There were moments where I felt the same kind of social claustrophobia but whether by design or by chance, there were other times where I was able to get away and be by myself so I could keep the asshole side of me at bay.
2. Living with others makes me feel more whole.
Now this sounds like a contradiction to number one and in a way it is. Being with three other people, even for just a week, gave me a kind of confidence and assurance in who I am. I mean, sure there were times when all I wanted to do was get away but by the end of the week, I noticed a subtle but sure kind of ease with myself that I don't think I've ever felt before.
It's hard to put into words because it's something that kind of crept up on me slowly, something that I could have easily missed. Even now I'm having a hard time explaining it. Okay, maybe this works. Have you ever been to camp? I mean those church camps where high schoolers or singles or couples or men or women or some other social sub-group of people get together and spend time away from the world to learn about God. You know how by the end of those camps, you feel like everyone is your best friend and you're able to share your deepest, darkest, holy-shit-you-did-that kinds of secrets around the campfire? That's kind of how I felt, only not as intense and not as smokey (and no smores which is fine with me because I think they're overrated).
Donald Miller, in his books Blue Like Jazz and Searching For God Knows What talks about the importance of living in community - something society seems to be moving away from. I can't help but wonder if my feeling-more-comfortable-in-my-own-skin thing was the result of living in a kind of mini-community for a week. I suppose I'll have to find some kind of balance between community time and alone time once we make the move up here but I'm not too worried about that. If we didn't kill each other and break up the band after one long week of ALWAYS being together, I doubt there's anything we won't be able to work out once we make the move.
3. I need to cure my snoring problem.
Yeah, I snore like a tornado. With all of my charming, lovable qualities, there had to be some kind of downside to knowing me and snoring is one of them. Luckily I have at least six months to lick the problem. In fact, I went to get a dental check-up this morning (my first one in at least four or five years) and once I got into the fancy dental chair (complete with arm and leg restraints), there was a poster for a anti-snoring mouth guard type device.
While on the trip, I tried a couple of mouth spray things that seemed to do no good. For all I know, they were filled with snake oil. From what I've been told, I have an industrial-strength snore. Spraying something on the back of my throat is kind of like fighting a forest fire with an atomizer. I'll be asking my dentist and my doctor about options. Hopefully I'll have the problem taken care of before I make the move.
4. I can be an asshole.
Who knew? See number one for more details.
5. I'm relatively good with maps.
I was able to get the band from point A to point B without too much trouble. I mean sure at one point I had us driving through the heart of Inglewood and through a couple other dicey looking neighborhoods (make that 'hoods, nobody's your neighbor in some of these places) but we never got jacked or shot at so what's the big deal? Besides, we even got to see the legendary West Coast Choppers shop because of one of my map-reading mistakes.
It's not like I have a natural sense of direction. I don't. I spent a lot of money on maps. I hate the feeling of not knowing what's going on and nothing tweaks that nerve more than being lost. The few times we had to go completely off map and rely on someone else's directions, I was NOT at ease.
6. Summary
So there you have it. Five things I learned about myself while on tour with Harrison. Of course, there were other things I learned (like the fact that bears don't like paintballs) but these are five things that came immediately to mind...which may or may not mean they're significant. All this to say that if you get a chance to drive down the West Coast with your band mates, I'd say go for it. You're likely to learn as much (if not more) about yourself as you do about them along the way...and it's a lot more fun than therapy.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
41. echos of love
love runs through the corridors of our lives
it fills the once empty spaces
with a kind of chaos of light and sound,
beautiful sound.
there is no substance to love
yet it saturates us, fills us,
makes us more than whole.
and when love is gone the hallways echo
echo away
the background radiation does not decay
completely
it remains as the memorial reminder
of what once was there
but is there no more
it fills the once empty spaces
with a kind of chaos of light and sound,
beautiful sound.
there is no substance to love
yet it saturates us, fills us,
makes us more than whole.
and when love is gone the hallways echo
echo away
the background radiation does not decay
completely
it remains as the memorial reminder
of what once was there
but is there no more
Sunday, July 03, 2005
40. lessons from the road...thoughts on community
Wow, I'm on my last full day with my band, on "tour" in LA. We've been here on the West Coast for about one week now and it's been an intense experience.
I'm generally a solitary person. I like to keep to myself. If I'm not cruising somewhere by myself, I like to hang with just a few good friends rather than being in a big, crowded place. Meeting new people stresses me out and this trip has been nothing but meeting new people. We've been staying at band members' family/friends' houses/apartments on this trip and so in addition to meeting new people, I've had to live with them as well...which is stress on top of stress because I don't dig staying in other people's homes. (Staying at the Clone-Twins apartment was an exception...that was supah cool, thanks guys.)
On top of this, whenever we've played shows, we've gotten to meet lots of new people. Playing in the mainland has been a trip in that the crowd response has been totally different from Hawaii. People just come up to you after the show (even while you're trying to pack up) and start pelting you with questions and comments. We've also been selling CDs at our shows and we've been selling out! As we speak, I'm furiously burning new copies. Again, new people equals stress for me so selling CDs and having people ask me to autograph them is cool but at the same time, not my favorite thing in the world.
I've lived at home all my life. I've got really cool parents. We're not close by any means but they give me a lot of freedom and they've always supported me in whatever I've put my hands to. I know we're going to be moving to Cali sometime next year and as much as I've learned about myself on this trip, I know I'll have to learn so much more then but over all, it's been a good thing.
Donald Miller, Lauren F. Winner, and other postmodern Christian writers have said that living as part of a community (not just a family, but as a part of a larger social structure including but not limited to the church) is an essential part of what it is to be a human being. This is something that we've lost today.
Even as the internet connects people, it also isolates them. The ease of e-mail makes communication effortless but something is lost when pen and paper fail to meet (I almost miss the process of deciphering difficult handwriting...almost). We try to make up for this by using ALL CAPS and italics but not being able to see someone's handwriting is just one more level of depersonalization between you and the other. And these blogs. What is it about writing what basically amounts to a public diary that's so attractive? How is it that as we're winning the battle for privacy and personal space we're posting our personal thoughts and struggles where everyone can see?
If God has indeed created us in such a way that we require community, then despite our efforts to live otherwise, we will find a way to fulfill that requirement...even as we struggle against it. I think of the movie, Jurassic Park. The scientists designed the dinosaurs on the island to need a certain kind of hormone or chemical to survive - the thought being that if the dinosaurs found a way to escape the island, they would not be out for long. I can't remember if this was in the movie version but I remember in the book by Michael Crichton, escaped dinosaurs start feeding on a certain kind of plant that allows them to get the chemical/hormone they need.
"Life will find a way," was one of the ideas of the book. In this case, you could say that, "design will find a way." In other words, the way that we've been designed by God will manifest itself regardless of our efforts to reverse engineer and modify it. As we draw in our social circles closer and closer to ourselves, we find new ways to connect. I mean, geeze, you're reading this blog on an on-line social networking website! How many people do you know who've been bitten by the MySpace bug and need their daily fix?
In the end, once I move up to the mainland with my band and live with them I'm hoping that living in such close contact to other people (a mini-community) will make me more whole of a person. Maybe this is what I've been missing all these years. I don't know, I'll just have to wait and see.
I'm generally a solitary person. I like to keep to myself. If I'm not cruising somewhere by myself, I like to hang with just a few good friends rather than being in a big, crowded place. Meeting new people stresses me out and this trip has been nothing but meeting new people. We've been staying at band members' family/friends' houses/apartments on this trip and so in addition to meeting new people, I've had to live with them as well...which is stress on top of stress because I don't dig staying in other people's homes. (Staying at the Clone-Twins apartment was an exception...that was supah cool, thanks guys.)
On top of this, whenever we've played shows, we've gotten to meet lots of new people. Playing in the mainland has been a trip in that the crowd response has been totally different from Hawaii. People just come up to you after the show (even while you're trying to pack up) and start pelting you with questions and comments. We've also been selling CDs at our shows and we've been selling out! As we speak, I'm furiously burning new copies. Again, new people equals stress for me so selling CDs and having people ask me to autograph them is cool but at the same time, not my favorite thing in the world.
I've lived at home all my life. I've got really cool parents. We're not close by any means but they give me a lot of freedom and they've always supported me in whatever I've put my hands to. I know we're going to be moving to Cali sometime next year and as much as I've learned about myself on this trip, I know I'll have to learn so much more then but over all, it's been a good thing.
Donald Miller, Lauren F. Winner, and other postmodern Christian writers have said that living as part of a community (not just a family, but as a part of a larger social structure including but not limited to the church) is an essential part of what it is to be a human being. This is something that we've lost today.
Even as the internet connects people, it also isolates them. The ease of e-mail makes communication effortless but something is lost when pen and paper fail to meet (I almost miss the process of deciphering difficult handwriting...almost). We try to make up for this by using ALL CAPS and italics but not being able to see someone's handwriting is just one more level of depersonalization between you and the other. And these blogs. What is it about writing what basically amounts to a public diary that's so attractive? How is it that as we're winning the battle for privacy and personal space we're posting our personal thoughts and struggles where everyone can see?
If God has indeed created us in such a way that we require community, then despite our efforts to live otherwise, we will find a way to fulfill that requirement...even as we struggle against it. I think of the movie, Jurassic Park. The scientists designed the dinosaurs on the island to need a certain kind of hormone or chemical to survive - the thought being that if the dinosaurs found a way to escape the island, they would not be out for long. I can't remember if this was in the movie version but I remember in the book by Michael Crichton, escaped dinosaurs start feeding on a certain kind of plant that allows them to get the chemical/hormone they need.
"Life will find a way," was one of the ideas of the book. In this case, you could say that, "design will find a way." In other words, the way that we've been designed by God will manifest itself regardless of our efforts to reverse engineer and modify it. As we draw in our social circles closer and closer to ourselves, we find new ways to connect. I mean, geeze, you're reading this blog on an on-line social networking website! How many people do you know who've been bitten by the MySpace bug and need their daily fix?
In the end, once I move up to the mainland with my band and live with them I'm hoping that living in such close contact to other people (a mini-community) will make me more whole of a person. Maybe this is what I've been missing all these years. I don't know, I'll just have to wait and see.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
39. dealing with Haight
So I'm hanging in the (in)famous Haight Ashbury section of San Francisco...and I don't know why or what it was but I had this tremendous feeling of inadequacy - as if while I was there I was only three feet tall (rather than my towering 5'5").
I think partly it had to do with the variety of people who were there (if you've ever been, you know what a cast of characters you'll find there). But it wasn't just that. It was also how sure they seemed of themselves. They all seemed to have this invisible shield around them that protected them from the brutally prejudiced eye of society and because they had that protection, they were free to be who/whatever they wanted to be. I felt I lacked this force field and so I felt a kind of nakedness.
Now I know that as a child of Christ, I am to put on the armor of God which protects me from slings and arrows and such, but what about these people? I don't mean to judge but judging (oops) from the buttons, shirts, posters, graffiti, and bumper stickers that abounded, I'd say that most of the people there weren't Christians. Where do they get their armor, their confidence, their freedom to express themselves in such counter-cultural ways?
In part, I suppose it has to do with the fact that they're all counter-culturing together and so there's a kind of strength-in-numbers voodoo happening. I mean wearing a hyper-conservative suit or an anti Che Guevara shirt would be just as counter to their culture as them wearing their patches, tatoos, and piericings in the heart of San Fran's business district.
But it's not just that. Take the Suit in the Haight-Ashbury section guy. He's probably going to feel uncomfortable in that setting because he's not used to dealing with being dressed out of his element - in the world he's familiar with, everyone dresses as he does and to a certain extent, he builds his wardrobe around the unspoken assumptions of those around him. All that to say that he dresses to fit in.
In contrast, the H/A guy dresses in such a way that he will NOT fit in. I mean, in their own element, they all kind of blend together and fit in but because they dress in such a way that they expect to be disliked and disrespected, put them in the heart of the aforementioned business district and they're not uncomfortable with being out of place. Instead, they get a kind of affirmation of the style choices they've made precisely through that reaction. They want to make a statement by the way they dress and so disdain is a kind of affirmation of their style choices.
So then, the Suit dresses to fit in and so is uncomfortable when he stands out. On the other hand, the H/A guy dresses so as to not fit in and so rejection is the very reaction he wants. And in the end, maybe the reason I felt uncomfortable/naked/vulnerable there was because being around a bunch of very counter-cultural people made me question my own personality via style choices (because as much as we want to say/believe it doesn't matter, that we don't think about it, it DOES matter). I mean, how much of who I am is just a product of living primarily in polite society and how much of it is really who I am.
I suppose to a degree, the two are inextricable. Tony Campolo tells a story where a student came into his office. He said that he wanted to move away and camp out alone (a la Thoreau's Walden) to strip away all of the layers that society's expectations had deposited upon him.
Campolo countered with the onion analogy. Take an onion, he explained, and one by one, peel away the layers. Remove one and you'll find one underneath. Remove that one and there's another. Keep going, layer by layer. Do you know what you'll find in the center, he asked? Nothing. An onion is a product of its layers. In the same way, outside/environmental forces are a necessary part of who we are. "No man is an island," wrote John Donne, "entire of itself / every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main..."
It's kind of like the nature/nuture debate (do our genes determine who we are or are we a product of our upbringing). People argue for one side or another but (as with most things) the truth is somewhere in the middle. Who we are is a product of BOTH how we were raised and what we were born with.
I'm not sure where all of this leaves me in regards to how I was feeling in the Haight/Ashbury district. I feel like I've circled around and grabbed by own rhetorical tail...but I feel better. Writing does that for me.
Can't wait to see what the rest of the Harrison tour has in store for me.
I think partly it had to do with the variety of people who were there (if you've ever been, you know what a cast of characters you'll find there). But it wasn't just that. It was also how sure they seemed of themselves. They all seemed to have this invisible shield around them that protected them from the brutally prejudiced eye of society and because they had that protection, they were free to be who/whatever they wanted to be. I felt I lacked this force field and so I felt a kind of nakedness.
Now I know that as a child of Christ, I am to put on the armor of God which protects me from slings and arrows and such, but what about these people? I don't mean to judge but judging (oops) from the buttons, shirts, posters, graffiti, and bumper stickers that abounded, I'd say that most of the people there weren't Christians. Where do they get their armor, their confidence, their freedom to express themselves in such counter-cultural ways?
In part, I suppose it has to do with the fact that they're all counter-culturing together and so there's a kind of strength-in-numbers voodoo happening. I mean wearing a hyper-conservative suit or an anti Che Guevara shirt would be just as counter to their culture as them wearing their patches, tatoos, and piericings in the heart of San Fran's business district.
But it's not just that. Take the Suit in the Haight-Ashbury section guy. He's probably going to feel uncomfortable in that setting because he's not used to dealing with being dressed out of his element - in the world he's familiar with, everyone dresses as he does and to a certain extent, he builds his wardrobe around the unspoken assumptions of those around him. All that to say that he dresses to fit in.
In contrast, the H/A guy dresses in such a way that he will NOT fit in. I mean, in their own element, they all kind of blend together and fit in but because they dress in such a way that they expect to be disliked and disrespected, put them in the heart of the aforementioned business district and they're not uncomfortable with being out of place. Instead, they get a kind of affirmation of the style choices they've made precisely through that reaction. They want to make a statement by the way they dress and so disdain is a kind of affirmation of their style choices.
So then, the Suit dresses to fit in and so is uncomfortable when he stands out. On the other hand, the H/A guy dresses so as to not fit in and so rejection is the very reaction he wants. And in the end, maybe the reason I felt uncomfortable/naked/vulnerable there was because being around a bunch of very counter-cultural people made me question my own personality via style choices (because as much as we want to say/believe it doesn't matter, that we don't think about it, it DOES matter). I mean, how much of who I am is just a product of living primarily in polite society and how much of it is really who I am.
I suppose to a degree, the two are inextricable. Tony Campolo tells a story where a student came into his office. He said that he wanted to move away and camp out alone (a la Thoreau's Walden) to strip away all of the layers that society's expectations had deposited upon him.
Campolo countered with the onion analogy. Take an onion, he explained, and one by one, peel away the layers. Remove one and you'll find one underneath. Remove that one and there's another. Keep going, layer by layer. Do you know what you'll find in the center, he asked? Nothing. An onion is a product of its layers. In the same way, outside/environmental forces are a necessary part of who we are. "No man is an island," wrote John Donne, "entire of itself / every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main..."
It's kind of like the nature/nuture debate (do our genes determine who we are or are we a product of our upbringing). People argue for one side or another but (as with most things) the truth is somewhere in the middle. Who we are is a product of BOTH how we were raised and what we were born with.
I'm not sure where all of this leaves me in regards to how I was feeling in the Haight/Ashbury district. I feel like I've circled around and grabbed by own rhetorical tail...but I feel better. Writing does that for me.
Can't wait to see what the rest of the Harrison tour has in store for me.
Monday, June 20, 2005
37. shedding the body condom
Here's what happened to me last week:
Monday morning, find my right rear tire almost completely flat. Pump it up again.
Tuesday morning, find my right rear tire almost flat again - I have a slow leak that must be looked at. Tuesday night my antenna breaks off my cell phone (for like the third time).
Wednesday, plagued by poor cell phone reception. Wednesday night my car gets broken into. Now this isn't like picking or pulling the lock kind of break in, this is the kind of break in where they smash the passenger side window out. If it weren't for the shards of leftover glass around the edges, it looks like I forgot to roll my windows back up. Luckily nothing was stolen. Still having tire problems.
Thursday morning, realize that something was stolen - my backpack - but there was nothing but paperwork from work in there. Thursday, early afternoon, realize that my checkbook was in there and that I need to get to the bank and close out the account before someone starts furnishing their living room, so I borrow my mother's car to run some erands. Thursday late afternoon, find out it's going to cost $170 to fix my window. Then mom's car overheats so that I have to pull on the side of the road. Because of poor cell phone reception I can't call anyone to come and help. I just have to sit and wait for the engine to cool off and pray that I can make it back home without a meltdown (I do).
Friday, got my window fixed but still having tire problems. Can't go to Firestone to get it fixed until Sunday. Cell phone reception still sub-par.
Sunday, something happens (can't go into detail...involves friends and assumptions on my part) that really knocks me off balance, mentally and emotionally. Well, at least I got my tire problem taken care of...and w/o charge (thanks, Firestone).
Fuck, it's like I just can't get a break. I mean the whole trying-to-think-positive thing was working up until Sunday, despite all the crap that happened this week. But I can only take so much and it's like on Sunday, I reached the tipping point. And I'm scared shitless because I recognize the state it put me in - it's the very state that I want to leave behind. I'm feeling the old bullshit paranoia - where I get to thinking that I'm a bad-luck magnet, that the twin moons that orbit my heart are named despair and frustration.
Life isn't making it very easy, but I have to remember my new credo: optimism as a revolutionary concept.
Optimism truly is a revolutionary, subversive thing. There's so much bullshit and cynicism and apathy out there - it's like this thick, invisible fog that we're saturated with. We breathe it in, it seeps in through our pores, it coats and clings to us like a slimy latex body condom. It's getting to the point where seeing a genuine smile is like spotting the real Elvis (amid the many impersonators). The pessimistic view of life is an assumption. A genuinely positive outlook (not a blindly sunny or naive one) is a shiny, pastel colored middle finger in the face of all the nastiness out there.
You know what? Here's one theory of why so many bad things happened this week. "Everyone has their own personal velocity," writes Rebecca Miller. And it's true. We all live life with certain assumptions and habits and comfort zones. Our lifestyle becomes a kind of vector by which our choices (and by extension, our future) can be predicted. It also develops a kind of wake around us that affects the things that surround us. Draw your hand through a still pool and you create a current. In the same way, our personal velocity exerts a pull on the life around us. Any change in direction will initially disrupt this flow.
I've made a decision to think more positively about life and this change grates against the momentum that all my years of negative thinking had developed. It's no wonder that I'm running head on into these disturbances. I need to push past this initial resistance, put my head down and power through.
The world defaults to negativity and I'm issuing an open challenge to that assumption. It's not easy but I must continue. I'm tired of thinking like everybody else. I'm tired of wallowing in the mud. There's lots of fresh air and freedom to be found above the fog - I've just got to keep flapping my wings, flailing away while I pray for updrafts.
And the sky's not the limit, it's the only the beginning.
Monday morning, find my right rear tire almost completely flat. Pump it up again.
Tuesday morning, find my right rear tire almost flat again - I have a slow leak that must be looked at. Tuesday night my antenna breaks off my cell phone (for like the third time).
Wednesday, plagued by poor cell phone reception. Wednesday night my car gets broken into. Now this isn't like picking or pulling the lock kind of break in, this is the kind of break in where they smash the passenger side window out. If it weren't for the shards of leftover glass around the edges, it looks like I forgot to roll my windows back up. Luckily nothing was stolen. Still having tire problems.
Thursday morning, realize that something was stolen - my backpack - but there was nothing but paperwork from work in there. Thursday, early afternoon, realize that my checkbook was in there and that I need to get to the bank and close out the account before someone starts furnishing their living room, so I borrow my mother's car to run some erands. Thursday late afternoon, find out it's going to cost $170 to fix my window. Then mom's car overheats so that I have to pull on the side of the road. Because of poor cell phone reception I can't call anyone to come and help. I just have to sit and wait for the engine to cool off and pray that I can make it back home without a meltdown (I do).
Friday, got my window fixed but still having tire problems. Can't go to Firestone to get it fixed until Sunday. Cell phone reception still sub-par.
Sunday, something happens (can't go into detail...involves friends and assumptions on my part) that really knocks me off balance, mentally and emotionally. Well, at least I got my tire problem taken care of...and w/o charge (thanks, Firestone).
Fuck, it's like I just can't get a break. I mean the whole trying-to-think-positive thing was working up until Sunday, despite all the crap that happened this week. But I can only take so much and it's like on Sunday, I reached the tipping point. And I'm scared shitless because I recognize the state it put me in - it's the very state that I want to leave behind. I'm feeling the old bullshit paranoia - where I get to thinking that I'm a bad-luck magnet, that the twin moons that orbit my heart are named despair and frustration.
Life isn't making it very easy, but I have to remember my new credo: optimism as a revolutionary concept.
Optimism truly is a revolutionary, subversive thing. There's so much bullshit and cynicism and apathy out there - it's like this thick, invisible fog that we're saturated with. We breathe it in, it seeps in through our pores, it coats and clings to us like a slimy latex body condom. It's getting to the point where seeing a genuine smile is like spotting the real Elvis (amid the many impersonators). The pessimistic view of life is an assumption. A genuinely positive outlook (not a blindly sunny or naive one) is a shiny, pastel colored middle finger in the face of all the nastiness out there.
You know what? Here's one theory of why so many bad things happened this week. "Everyone has their own personal velocity," writes Rebecca Miller. And it's true. We all live life with certain assumptions and habits and comfort zones. Our lifestyle becomes a kind of vector by which our choices (and by extension, our future) can be predicted. It also develops a kind of wake around us that affects the things that surround us. Draw your hand through a still pool and you create a current. In the same way, our personal velocity exerts a pull on the life around us. Any change in direction will initially disrupt this flow.
I've made a decision to think more positively about life and this change grates against the momentum that all my years of negative thinking had developed. It's no wonder that I'm running head on into these disturbances. I need to push past this initial resistance, put my head down and power through.
The world defaults to negativity and I'm issuing an open challenge to that assumption. It's not easy but I must continue. I'm tired of thinking like everybody else. I'm tired of wallowing in the mud. There's lots of fresh air and freedom to be found above the fog - I've just got to keep flapping my wings, flailing away while I pray for updrafts.
And the sky's not the limit, it's the only the beginning.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
36. the arc or change (part 2)...aka Cusack vs Giamatti
Current mood: rejuvenated
Victimhood. Everybody's a victim. I used to look down on people who pointed to problems in their youth as an excuse for their present inability to play well with society. And then I realized that I had been doing the same thing in my own life. Instead of using past problems as an excuse for behaving badly towards others, I used it as an excuse to beat myself up.
Here's an example. I've had very (make that VERY) bad luck when it comes to women. More accurately, I had very bad luck with one woman in particular (long, ugly story...I think I may have touched upon it in one of my older blogs). That episode (along with something else that happened at the same time...but she was the worse of the two) affected me so deeply that it became a kind of turning point. Before the Episode, life was wide open and the possibilities were endless. After the Episode, life was a closed circle with the cool, happy people on the inside and the sad, lonely losers on the outside. And I wasn't inside.
From then on, bad luck with women was a given. I accepted the thought that for whatever reason, I was chronically unappealing to women. I thought that perhaps through some genetic defect, instead of releasing come-hither pheromones when attracted to a female, my body released a subtle, toxic go-yonder scent that made it impossible to hold the attention of anyone I was remotely attracted to.
It sounds silly but I was convinced that I was doomed with women I was attracted to. I mean, there have been women who I knew liked me so I know I gots skills, but I just didn't feel the same way in return. I just thought I didn't have a chance with women I wanted to have a chance with. In my mind, Randall-attracted-to equalled Randall-doomed-with.
Here's how stupid I became. Let's say there's this woman...let's call her Kim. Kim and I got to hang out in social settings. She seems to be really smart, funny, and cool. Maybe she even has short hair and glasses (big points in my book). We seem to get along and so later in the week I start thinking maybe I should call Kim and ask her out. The instant that synapse fires, it triggers another one called the synapse of pain and humiliation. Once that happens, any chance I thought I might have had becomes overrun by predictions of doom and gloom of the worst sort. I mean I was so mental that in my head, I'd actually go through a scenario where Kim and I start going out, things work out well at first but eventually we discover an impossible to overcome conflict and we break up in the cruelest way possible...so I change my mind and don't call her.
All this because I haven't been able to free myself from being the victim of one bad relationship. Writing it now, it seems as retarted as it must read but at the time it made more sense to me than peanutbutter jelly = sandwich.
A few weeks ago I saw the movie, Unleashed, starring Jet Li. Li plays a character who, from a very young age, has been trained to kill at the whim of his mob boss master. He's a human attack dog and his master treats him that way, keeping him shelved away in a cage under the floor of his office.
Li gets away and after meeting up with a blind piano tuner and his daugher who take him into their home, he learns humanity, acceptance and the value of home - all without the benefit of therapy or psychotropic drugs, just love.
I can't remember what line or situation in the movie did it for me but I realized something that showed me how wrong-minded I'd been about hypothetical Kim and I. I realized that for the most part, past has nothing to do with the present - at least it didn't in my case. Mistakes and mishaps are meant to teach us lessons, not to serve as a template for the future.
I wrote mainly about relationships but the same holds true for other areas in my life. In so many cases, I used one bad episode after another to define the outcome of all future situations and so I shut down the dream machine, parked it in the basement of my mind and walked away because what use are dreams that will never come true?
No more. Every day, the sun rises on a new day. God designed it like this because he wants to drill into us the idea that as soon as we're ready we can pick our sorry selves off our ass and get back at living the life extraordinary.
However, patters once ingrained do not release their grip so readily. I still catch myself responding with the familiar (and comfortable) pessimism. It's a habit and a crutch but I've begun the hard work of weaning myself. It takes discipline (catching myself every time) but it's kind of fun. I mean it's so much nicer trying to stive towards hope than to wallow in self-pity.
One of my favorite movies is Say Anything (John Cusack and Ione Skye). I was listening to the director and cast commentary and they talked about how they wanted the main character, Lloyd Dobler, to be someone who embrased optimism as a revolutionary concept. I love that idea. There's so much bullshit and negativity in this world that optimism CAN be a kind of act of defiance.
Funny side note. I told a friend of mine that I used to want to be Lloyd Dobler when I grew up. He commented that I reminded him more of the Paul Giamatti character from Sideways. I had to laugh because it was true. Well I say from now on, fuck that. Giamatti's character was a whiny, pushover bitch. Once again, I want to be Lloyd Dobler when I grow up (and I'm 33 so I'd better get to it).
Victimhood. Everybody's a victim. I used to look down on people who pointed to problems in their youth as an excuse for their present inability to play well with society. And then I realized that I had been doing the same thing in my own life. Instead of using past problems as an excuse for behaving badly towards others, I used it as an excuse to beat myself up.
Here's an example. I've had very (make that VERY) bad luck when it comes to women. More accurately, I had very bad luck with one woman in particular (long, ugly story...I think I may have touched upon it in one of my older blogs). That episode (along with something else that happened at the same time...but she was the worse of the two) affected me so deeply that it became a kind of turning point. Before the Episode, life was wide open and the possibilities were endless. After the Episode, life was a closed circle with the cool, happy people on the inside and the sad, lonely losers on the outside. And I wasn't inside.
From then on, bad luck with women was a given. I accepted the thought that for whatever reason, I was chronically unappealing to women. I thought that perhaps through some genetic defect, instead of releasing come-hither pheromones when attracted to a female, my body released a subtle, toxic go-yonder scent that made it impossible to hold the attention of anyone I was remotely attracted to.
It sounds silly but I was convinced that I was doomed with women I was attracted to. I mean, there have been women who I knew liked me so I know I gots skills, but I just didn't feel the same way in return. I just thought I didn't have a chance with women I wanted to have a chance with. In my mind, Randall-attracted-to equalled Randall-doomed-with.
Here's how stupid I became. Let's say there's this woman...let's call her Kim. Kim and I got to hang out in social settings. She seems to be really smart, funny, and cool. Maybe she even has short hair and glasses (big points in my book). We seem to get along and so later in the week I start thinking maybe I should call Kim and ask her out. The instant that synapse fires, it triggers another one called the synapse of pain and humiliation. Once that happens, any chance I thought I might have had becomes overrun by predictions of doom and gloom of the worst sort. I mean I was so mental that in my head, I'd actually go through a scenario where Kim and I start going out, things work out well at first but eventually we discover an impossible to overcome conflict and we break up in the cruelest way possible...so I change my mind and don't call her.
All this because I haven't been able to free myself from being the victim of one bad relationship. Writing it now, it seems as retarted as it must read but at the time it made more sense to me than peanutbutter jelly = sandwich.
A few weeks ago I saw the movie, Unleashed, starring Jet Li. Li plays a character who, from a very young age, has been trained to kill at the whim of his mob boss master. He's a human attack dog and his master treats him that way, keeping him shelved away in a cage under the floor of his office.
Li gets away and after meeting up with a blind piano tuner and his daugher who take him into their home, he learns humanity, acceptance and the value of home - all without the benefit of therapy or psychotropic drugs, just love.
I can't remember what line or situation in the movie did it for me but I realized something that showed me how wrong-minded I'd been about hypothetical Kim and I. I realized that for the most part, past has nothing to do with the present - at least it didn't in my case. Mistakes and mishaps are meant to teach us lessons, not to serve as a template for the future.
I wrote mainly about relationships but the same holds true for other areas in my life. In so many cases, I used one bad episode after another to define the outcome of all future situations and so I shut down the dream machine, parked it in the basement of my mind and walked away because what use are dreams that will never come true?
No more. Every day, the sun rises on a new day. God designed it like this because he wants to drill into us the idea that as soon as we're ready we can pick our sorry selves off our ass and get back at living the life extraordinary.
However, patters once ingrained do not release their grip so readily. I still catch myself responding with the familiar (and comfortable) pessimism. It's a habit and a crutch but I've begun the hard work of weaning myself. It takes discipline (catching myself every time) but it's kind of fun. I mean it's so much nicer trying to stive towards hope than to wallow in self-pity.
One of my favorite movies is Say Anything (John Cusack and Ione Skye). I was listening to the director and cast commentary and they talked about how they wanted the main character, Lloyd Dobler, to be someone who embrased optimism as a revolutionary concept. I love that idea. There's so much bullshit and negativity in this world that optimism CAN be a kind of act of defiance.
Funny side note. I told a friend of mine that I used to want to be Lloyd Dobler when I grew up. He commented that I reminded him more of the Paul Giamatti character from Sideways. I had to laugh because it was true. Well I say from now on, fuck that. Giamatti's character was a whiny, pushover bitch. Once again, I want to be Lloyd Dobler when I grow up (and I'm 33 so I'd better get to it).
Monday, June 06, 2005
35. ...throwing around an idea...(fiction, sort of)
He realizes that he's been going through life with the wrong lenses on. But he's an analyical sort so rather than just blindly disbarking towards a new view of life, he begins formulating a kind of calcus of life. Unfortunately, he's never been very good at math.
He calls it a calcus of life because he wants a kind of formula for how to take in and analyze life. He uses the word calcus because he knows that any system that attemps to encapsulate life will be more complex than algebra or geometry (the extent of his math education). He knows nothing about calculus except that it's hard and it's a language spoken with geeky-cool looking symbols.
He knows that there are different ways of looking at life. Some take on life with an unswerving optimism or pessimism, but for him, that's not enough. Seeing life that way is just packaging - a bright wrapper or a dark one. Not enough.
Some think that the universe conforms itself to their perception of it. This is a tempting way to think about life and to a degree it's true. All we do as individuals is take in the world and the conclusions we draw from that input becomes our reality. It's not a great leap to think that you could reverse the process - begin with a version of reality that you want to see and believe in that vision so powerfully that it influences, bends, compells the universe to confirm to it.
But he doesn't buy this. Not after he read the story of Rachel, the author who wrote and spoke about just such universe altering ways of thinking. All her powers of thought could not change the reality of the hungry, sweaty, animal of a man forcing himself upon her after breaking into her home.
---BREAK---
This is just an idea I'm throwing around. I know it has something to do with this new outlook on life that I'm formulating. Like the character I was writing about, I know it's something new, something made up of bits and pieces of the ways I used to try to order the world but put back together as a kind of composite, a matrix where the individual elements are interactive.
It's very unfocused, unformed, random. I'm going to use any kind of writing I can to try to figure it out. There may be some odd blogs (and some mundane ones) still to come.
He calls it a calcus of life because he wants a kind of formula for how to take in and analyze life. He uses the word calcus because he knows that any system that attemps to encapsulate life will be more complex than algebra or geometry (the extent of his math education). He knows nothing about calculus except that it's hard and it's a language spoken with geeky-cool looking symbols.
He knows that there are different ways of looking at life. Some take on life with an unswerving optimism or pessimism, but for him, that's not enough. Seeing life that way is just packaging - a bright wrapper or a dark one. Not enough.
Some think that the universe conforms itself to their perception of it. This is a tempting way to think about life and to a degree it's true. All we do as individuals is take in the world and the conclusions we draw from that input becomes our reality. It's not a great leap to think that you could reverse the process - begin with a version of reality that you want to see and believe in that vision so powerfully that it influences, bends, compells the universe to confirm to it.
But he doesn't buy this. Not after he read the story of Rachel, the author who wrote and spoke about just such universe altering ways of thinking. All her powers of thought could not change the reality of the hungry, sweaty, animal of a man forcing himself upon her after breaking into her home.
---BREAK---
This is just an idea I'm throwing around. I know it has something to do with this new outlook on life that I'm formulating. Like the character I was writing about, I know it's something new, something made up of bits and pieces of the ways I used to try to order the world but put back together as a kind of composite, a matrix where the individual elements are interactive.
It's very unfocused, unformed, random. I'm going to use any kind of writing I can to try to figure it out. There may be some odd blogs (and some mundane ones) still to come.
34. the arc of change - part 1
I was going to title this entry "the turning point," but I realized that there's no such thing. Changes in life generally follow an arc, not a point. There may be pivotal points along this arc or a focal point around which the arc circles but the process of change is a continuum, gradually moving from one direction towards another.
I feel like my life has begun to bend, bending towards a more positive direction. See, I've been thinking about a lot of stuff lately, it's all been kind of simmering in my mind and finally, some clarity and understanding is emerging.
Put in the simplest terms, I've been wrong about a couple of key things and I want to make things right...because being wrong about these things has led me to a pretty dreary place in life. All my blogs lately have been rants of frustration and loneliness and I'm tired of it. I've been thinking about how I ended up there and I guess that's why I haven't been writing much lately.
Anyway, the first thing I was wrong about was God. I don't think I ever admitted it even to myself but if I followed the logical progression of my thoughts on God, I would have to admit that I believed that God was working against me - that the opposite of Jeremiah 29:11 ("For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future") was in effect. Randall's translation of that verse read something like, "...plans to harm you and not to prosper you, plans to rob you of hope and your future." Although I would not admit it (not even to myself), I lived with the assumption that God was working to make my life miserable and every setback, every disapointment served as confirmation of this belief.
I guess I ended up thinking this way because I was taught (or at least this is the thought I took from church which isn't exactly the same thing) in church that God was this sugardaddy, raining bling from the sky down to his faithful followers whom he loves. I kept waiting for my windfall and when it never came I slowly (the arc, remember?) came to the conclusion that God had no blessings for me and therefore God didn't love me and was working against me. Actually, I never really believed that God didn't love me, it was more like I believed that out of all God's children, I just wasn't one of the favored ones - I had to settle for leftovers and hand-me-downs - I identified with the faithful son and his frustrations more than the prodigal one.
So a couple weeks ago, it finally hits me. The understanding that I had of God was not the God that's described in the Bible (unfortunately lots of churches have that same problem but I'll save that for another time - see _Searching For God Knows What_ by Donald Miller). At this point I figured I only had two choices. Either my view of God was wrong or the Bible was wrong. With the weight of history and divinity against me, I folded.
But this is only the beginning of the arc. On the other side of the curve is a thriving, vibrant faith that fills my life with joy and light. On this side of the arc is a lot of chaos and uncertainty. I realize that I've been building a warped view of God - the model doesn't work and I've got to start dismantling it, finding the good bits, discarding the bad. It's going to be a lot of work but I'm betting that God wants to be known even more than I want to know him. "For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened." (Luke 11:10) God will help me build an understanding that confirms to his reality. In contrast, my screwed up version of God took YEARS to develop because it was contrary to what God wanted me to believe.
Well, so ends part one. I was going to try to fit everything into one entry but this is WAY too long already. Stay tuned for part two - there's lots more Randall-was-oh-so-wrong still to come.
I feel like my life has begun to bend, bending towards a more positive direction. See, I've been thinking about a lot of stuff lately, it's all been kind of simmering in my mind and finally, some clarity and understanding is emerging.
Put in the simplest terms, I've been wrong about a couple of key things and I want to make things right...because being wrong about these things has led me to a pretty dreary place in life. All my blogs lately have been rants of frustration and loneliness and I'm tired of it. I've been thinking about how I ended up there and I guess that's why I haven't been writing much lately.
Anyway, the first thing I was wrong about was God. I don't think I ever admitted it even to myself but if I followed the logical progression of my thoughts on God, I would have to admit that I believed that God was working against me - that the opposite of Jeremiah 29:11 ("For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future") was in effect. Randall's translation of that verse read something like, "...plans to harm you and not to prosper you, plans to rob you of hope and your future." Although I would not admit it (not even to myself), I lived with the assumption that God was working to make my life miserable and every setback, every disapointment served as confirmation of this belief.
I guess I ended up thinking this way because I was taught (or at least this is the thought I took from church which isn't exactly the same thing) in church that God was this sugardaddy, raining bling from the sky down to his faithful followers whom he loves. I kept waiting for my windfall and when it never came I slowly (the arc, remember?) came to the conclusion that God had no blessings for me and therefore God didn't love me and was working against me. Actually, I never really believed that God didn't love me, it was more like I believed that out of all God's children, I just wasn't one of the favored ones - I had to settle for leftovers and hand-me-downs - I identified with the faithful son and his frustrations more than the prodigal one.
So a couple weeks ago, it finally hits me. The understanding that I had of God was not the God that's described in the Bible (unfortunately lots of churches have that same problem but I'll save that for another time - see _Searching For God Knows What_ by Donald Miller). At this point I figured I only had two choices. Either my view of God was wrong or the Bible was wrong. With the weight of history and divinity against me, I folded.
But this is only the beginning of the arc. On the other side of the curve is a thriving, vibrant faith that fills my life with joy and light. On this side of the arc is a lot of chaos and uncertainty. I realize that I've been building a warped view of God - the model doesn't work and I've got to start dismantling it, finding the good bits, discarding the bad. It's going to be a lot of work but I'm betting that God wants to be known even more than I want to know him. "For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened." (Luke 11:10) God will help me build an understanding that confirms to his reality. In contrast, my screwed up version of God took YEARS to develop because it was contrary to what God wanted me to believe.
Well, so ends part one. I was going to try to fit everything into one entry but this is WAY too long already. Stay tuned for part two - there's lots more Randall-was-oh-so-wrong still to come.
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