Author Archives: oinsketta

The Internalized Victimizer

He drew himself a line in the sand and dared himself to cross it.  “Do it, this time, you fucking loser,” he snarled as his toe dug the line.  He couldn’t cross the line he dared himself to cross.  He stared at it, finally drew himself back and cried.  “The same old story,” he said to himself, “the eternal fucking loser…” and he struck himself about the face and head, and cried some more.

That voice was not his voice, not the voice he hears paddling his kayak or gliding on the back of Lew’s glider at 5,000 feet, or even rolling on his bike, the autumn night damp against his face.  The voice he hears when he is soaring is not that punishing, unremitting voice.  That sour voice belongs to the internalized victimizer.  Spit that shit out, man, it’s no good for you.  

Heed the words of your favorite preacher, for God’s sake.

Calmness

Easier to be totally calm during a crisis, sometimes, than in the course of the average day.    Might be helpful to think of the churning of the average day as the Chinese character for “crisis” which translates to “opportunity”.  

This sleight of hand offers the opportunity to change the way we see the challenge and then, seeing it differently, to treat it with more creativity.  

Yah, best to create yourself out of uncalm moments, it seems to me.  Going to go do that right now, in fact, after stretching my creaky body a bit.

Bitterness vs. Generativity

According to Erik Erikson the final stage of human life is marked by stagnation and bitterness or continued growth and a giving back that brings a kind of fulfillment.   As I have entered this last quarter of my life I opt for continuing to grow and become a force for hope, compassion and creativity, rather than a bitter old bastard.

I am, however, at the moment, one bitter old bastard.  It is a surprisingly bitter battle not to become bitter.  If friends toast my “success” without even asking how things went the other day in the first actual workshop, it is merely the way of the world and I should not linger on any darker feelings it may raise.

So I take this moment to express my gratitude for the hope I possess, in spite of myself, in the face of almost unanimous indifference, that I will continue to learn and grow and help others do the same.  

These tiny steps I take with the candle, cupping my hand around its small flame as the bitter winds whip the darkness all around, I am very grateful for them.  Each heavy-legged step is a step away from bitterness and toward the light.

Even Dreams are Telling Me The Same Thing

It is horrible to find yourself judging your friends.  The world is cold enough without doubting those nearest and dearest to you.   America believes in the myth of the Rugged Individualist, the one who creates an empire out of a single apple and who doesn’t need anything but guts and relentless hard work.  It just never occurred to me that I might someday have to become that mythical figure (one that never truly existed, by the way) to succeed in the alternate form of success I am pursuing.

The painful truth is that I may have reached the crossroads in my life where the friends I have truly cannot understand what I am trying to do, can relate to it only intellectually, if at all.  If I was pursuing monetary success it would make much more sense to them than this odd mission I seem to be on, a man too lazy to acquire any kind of material wealth or comfort, a little scornful to boot, smugly superior in his quixotic charitable pursuit.   I find myself alone in the ways that matter most and it may be that I’ll have to find my new way with a new group of companions, people I’ve yet to meet.  The odd phrase from the New Testament rings in my head “let the dead bury themselves”.  My dreams are telling me the same thing.

In the dream last night I was literally left stranded by the highway, far from home in the darkness of a rural night.  Three cars filled with several of my oldest friends had taken off without me.  I’d been left because, without explanation, I’d stolen two or three minutes to pop into the rental car of a friend from out of state who, in real life, I have started consulting with about the nonprofit.  His car was last in a line of three or four cars that all did u-turns to take off up the nearby highway ramp without me, a moment before my friend said goodnight and drove off to his hotel in the rent-a-car.  

In the dream I called one friend driving off who cooly told me his coordinates on the map and his merciless wake up hour for work the next day, by way of answering my “where are you?”.  In the dream I exploded in a way I have not in waking life in many years “dick move, asshole!” I yelled into the phone before hanging up and trying to figure out how to get home from this distant town in the middle of the night, or at least find shelter until morning. 

This kind of hilarious practical joke by close friends reminded me of the day several of us biked the Five Borough Bike Tour with tens of thousands of others and the two friends I was separated from didn’t stop at any one of the four or five obvious places to wait for me.  I rode about ten miles in the throng of pedaling strangers and eventually found them at the next rest stop.   They had all rested and were ready to move on by the time I caught up.  I was trying to get sunscreen that stung like mace out of my eyes with bottled water.  Another guy from the group and I wound up racing on the Belt Parkway to try to catch up to the other three an hour or two later.  This was the first year a macho friend rode with us, and evidently she was intent on competing in this leisurely ride.

Twenty miles later, after riding hard most of the day to catch up to friends who seemingly didn’t take a moment to think of me behind them, struggling to catch up, I finally decided to call it quits.   I took a nap under a shady tree in a park by the Verrazano Bridge, rolled over in the cool grass and crushed the screen of my new Motorola Razr.  I biked to the nearest subway and went home.  The next day I flew to Florida again.  Two weeks later my mother was dead.

Note to the Directors

I thank you for agreeing to be on the initial board of directors and signing the papers so that we could become a bona fide charitable institution.   I could not have done it without you and will be forever grateful that you were on board for the first leg of what I hope will be a long and fruitful journey.

Now, as the organization moves forward, we need to recruit people to carry out the important jobs that must be done to make any business successful.  If you can help in recruitment, fundraising, business planning, marketing, with your creativity and smarts, now is the time to act.

While I greatly appreciate the help you’ve already rendered, going forward a commitment of some kind is needed:  a commitment to the principles of the organization– listening and responding when asked; a commitment to bringing something of practical value to the business of the organization; a financial commitment.

Absent at least one of those forms of commitment, the time to part as friends is approaching an end.  I am staking my life on this program, and, of course, I don’t expect that from anyone else.   I expect much less from the rest of the board, but much more than nothing.  Any of you would expect the same.

An Interview with My Biggest Fears

Oinsketta, a beautiful cat who often came when I called her, conducts the interview.   Seated on the couch by her talk show host’s desk are a couple of my fears.  They are enormous.

Oinsketta:  Please introduce yourself to the blind and deaf audience.  For those blind viewers at home, we have signers interpreting this for the hard of hearing.  

Fear:  I don’t think this interview’s going to work, first of all.  It’s hard to imagine how a blind and deaf audience is going to get any of this.

O:  Try to imagine it (canned laughs, deaf signer with wry expression as she interprets).

F:  Sure, but it’s not going to work.  You want me to introduce myself, I am the worst thing you can imagine.

O:  Oh, dear (long pause as Oinsketta holds expression, then she cocks her head.  canned laughs)

F:  Look, I didn’t come here to take shit from a cat.

O:  Nobody does, dear.  But please continue.

F:  Sprinkle your canned laughter where you please, cat, it doesn’t change the fact that I am here because your pet boy, Sherman, is too chicken-shit to face me himself.

O: Facts are facts.

F:  Here’s another one, me and my colleagues are only stand-ins for the real fear– Death. (other fears smirk and nod in agreement).

O:  Hmmm.  I’ve been dead for eleven years now and it doesn’t bother me.

F:  That’s because you’re already dead, cat.

O:  Oh, dear (she does various poses of dread and despair until… canned laughter)

A viewer interrupts.  “This is bullshit, man.  A dead cat can’t interview anyone and fears don’t sit on a couch.  It doesn’t even work as a metaphor, or a simile, or  semaphore, semiotics, whatever you want to call it.  It’s bullshit, man.  Fear doesn’t sit around waiting to answer questions, it lurks, and stalks and strikes at the worst possible time, cripples you from the blindside.  Fear is a sneaky, treacherous stealth attacker.  You can wait for your fears, anticipate them, rationalize them, but it wouldn’t be fear if it didn’t have a way to get past all your defenses and cripple you at the least opportune moment.  So this interview format, complete bullshit.  It’s like watching a presidential debate.”

sustained audience applause

O:  You are an articulate young disgruntled bastard, I’ll give you that.  (more applause)  Security!

Critical audience member is tasered and removed by six burly guards.

O:  I’m sorry.  Before we continue, are there any other comments from the audience?   We welcome them.

(absolute silence in studio)

F:  Whoa, that shit was treacherous, cat!

O:  (smiling cat smile) well, you know, cute as we are, we’re trained killers. 

F:  You’re a badass.  Want to go hunting with us?

O:  (rising from her chair, brandishing a fist full of razor sharp claws)  Why not?

fade to black

Audience member:  what?  WTF?  What the F?  W the Fuck?  He’s not allowed to do that.   Is there no referee, no umpire, no arbiter of what some anonymous idiot can do here in cyberspace?

Authoritative basso profundo Voice:   You ask a good question, now answer it yourself, bee-yatch.

THIS is the Great Communicator

Like most great modern communicators he keeps his message simple and to the point, and he stays on point.  

His primary message is “food, give it to me”.  

He also communicates “clean this mess up, now” while indicating his litter box and “I am irresistable and you will do as I say”.

Image

Addiction to the Internet

A friend correctly pointed out that it’s actually an addiction to hope for a response.   In a world of sensory overload it is not easy, at times, to get even a one word text back from people who are juggling many things while balancing with one foot on a large rolling ball, with a cake balanced on their tall hat and a rake, clutched in their tail, struggling to hold the fish bowl aloft while the fish quakes in terror.

While it annoys me not to hear back from busy friends, I don’t judge or condemn them.  Fuck them, is my attitude.  Only they won’t slow down long enough.  Perpetual motion machines, sharks moving endlessly, if they ever stopped it would be bad for them.

So I tap here for two or three people who read these words and once in a while tap back a comment or flick the “like” button.  When the like button is flicked I get an automated email telling me so and so thought my post, say, Addiction to the Internet, was awesome and inviting me to their website.  Awe.  I don’t know that awe is always the feeling inspired when people click “like” but I prefer it to the silence.

One of the people who sometimes likes these posts is a witty woman who seemingly started her blahg around the same time this one went up.  She has, I think, 2,500 followers, maybe 25,000.  It could be 25,000,000 for purposes of declaring war on her.  Me and my 7 followers wouldn’t get very far attacking that horde.  Good thing we all come in peace here.

May peace be wit ch’all.

A Novel I’d like to write

The protagonist would be a man who, though gentle, truly did not give a rat’s ass.  One of the many annoyances that did not trouble him at all would be the silence of those who knew of his sensitivity to silence.  

This would be most vividly seen in the memorable vignette where he blissfully goes about his gentle business while, all around, those closest to him, intractably attracted to their own mothers, are busily having enthusiastic sex with them.

Blessed Are the Meek

And so much fun to slap the shit out of, too.

It may be because I heard the presidential debate on the radio last night, as much as I heard of it, anyway.   To me the president sounded calm, measured, had fairly intelligent answers to the vague generalities his opponent kept forcefully expressing.  It sounded to me like a mismatch, like the flailing challenger taking a slow-motion fall in a desperate attempt to be a contender.

Then I hear them talking, the pundents, and all these geniuses had watched with eagle eyes and seen what I could not imagine.  The calm, measured tones were coming from a man who apparently looked like he had no fight in him, a listless, eye contact avoiding stiff.  The stream of seemingly inane generalities coming from his opponent were delivered with a confidently thrust out chin, with an engaging half-smile that showed he, not the president, really wanted the job.  He showed he wanted it more!  And America relates to that, especially in these hard times.

Maybe that’s part of my sour mood today, the realization that Americans are more impressed with body language coaching, facial expression coaching and debate style point coaching (how to do it while the moderator dozes) than with the substance of the respective arguments.  You know what, I thought to nobody and everybody, you deserve the most wooden-headed store mannequin the cynical sales team have the termerity to foist on you and may you keep all the splinters too when he’s done having his way with you.  Of course, I deserve him too.  Let the least meek man win, I say.

Maybe it’s the iPod that seems to have been lost or, more likely, boosted, as I was working with a group of nine kids in a public school on the Lower East Side this afternoon.   On that old iPod were many tracks I recorded over  the years that exist nowhere else anymore, tracks I’d been meaning to download and copy for a long time.  Gone now, so it goes.

Maybe it’s not being careful enough what I wish for, combined with my dad’s lesson from beyond the grave.  Dad:  those feelings you had when you were two, when I used to mistreat you in that way that filled me with self-loathing as I was dying?  Those will never go away, no matter how much you come to admire Gandhi or change your outward behavior.  You see, the world’s not black and white, but it’s black enough and white enough, if you see what I’m saying.

Maybe it’s how much of our relentless and all-consuming culture I have placed myself up against in seeking to start a program where the model is community and group-work.  These kids have no model for that– none.  Here it’s competition or get your ass kicked, pussy, I’m not here to help your weak ass.  Yes, the meek shall inherit the earth, when the rest of us are through with it (as a wit once styled it to me, on a bad day when I felt even meeker than him).  Maybe the irony of trying to do this on my own, not as part of any community at all, even on-line, is finally becoming too much for me.  It certainly feels like it as I pound these keys.

And maybe it’s listening, in a moment of not thinking, to a friend urging me to upgrade the operating system on my brand-new iPad, which I’ve bought with funds desperately begged from supporters of my exciting and mostly imaginary non-profit.   I was able to download the first recording program I need, garageband, and everything seemed to be working fine.  Until there was a message to upgrade the brand new iPad to the latest version of the operating system.  

I was thinking it better to leave well enough alone, and truly there was no reason to do it, certainly not hours after I bought it and had finally got it working, but I yielded to a forceful argument and “upgraded”.  

The upgrade rendered the iPad largely inoperable, the tunes I recorded in garageband and sent to iTunes are invisible.  iTunes on the iPad, as it appears so far, is only a store to sell you things, there is no apparent way to use it as a library for music you record on the iPad and share with yourself in iTunes.  And the store will only sell you things if the user ID they force you to change for the new operating system matches up to the password you’ve reset and they can find your matching credit card information so you can use the machine.   The tech support I paid $100 for?  Only open until 9 pm, they don’t work cheap enough in Shanghai or Bangalore, I guess.  So as I struggled at 10 and 11 pm to use this obscenely expensive device I was on my own, as it should be, as it is written, as it has been ordained.  And in his grave the grim, driven, demanding, unreasonable genius of marketing Steve Jobs grins his gruesome grin, just like when he was alive.

“You’ll play in my sandbox, bitch, and don’t worry about the cat turds,” I can hear him laughing his hideous dry cackle as he sleeps the long sleep.