Category Archives: muttering to myself

A More Rational World Would Be Nice

I was directed to a right wing website just now to read about some legislation considered insane and outrageous by Rush Limbaugh.   When I was done reading about three sickening bills a liberal governor had just signed, one involving illegal aliens, another promoting homosexual parenting and a third making early-term abortions easier to obtain and more affordable, I was invited to participate in this poll.   Rather than participate in that exercise in democracy by knee jerk I copied the invite and share it here.

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Our world is not run on a strictly rational basis.   Still, I was struck by the subtle thumb on the scale of this VOTE NOW! popup.   Without knowing anything about who these two are or what they represent, are you going to vote for the stubborn looking guy on the left, mouth drawn tightly into a hard line, who can’t even look at the camera?  He’s in a pose everybody knows means he’s hiding something, probably because he’s so damned wrong and knows it.  He’s been caught in a lie, and not for the first time either, by the looks of that closed face.  I think most Americans, even minorities, would have to side with the forthright man on the right.  He’s firm, and ready for a fight over important values.  You can tell by looking at him.

That black guy, or South American, or Pacific Islander or whatever he is, is clearly wrong on this issue.  I mean, just look at the two of them and decide for yourself.

Your vote is important, the exclamation point tells us, because that’s the cornerstone of democracy, people thinking for themselves, making the right choices, casting their votes and living with the laws that are duly passed.  Although, sometimes millions vote, laws are debated and passed, challenged in the Supreme Court and left standing, and other means become necessary for forthright men like the fighter on the right side of the screen to stop a particular law from going into effect.  You know, if some sweeping law like, say, the Civil Rights Act, really, really offends you, you need to take steps to make sure it can’t be forced on you or anyone else.  Don’t rule out closing down the entire government, if that’s what it takes to stop it.

This is the hard business of having a vision, I suppose, and the kind of deep seated, firmly held belief that kept American heroes like Martin Luther King, Jr. going– just because something is the law doesn’t make it right.

Or maybe we need two other photos to help us decide which man is the embodiment of intransigent flagrantly anti-democratic assholes in this equation.

Get Walkin’

Sekhnet bought me a brilliant device that clips on a pocket, smaller than a pinkie.  It measures steps, calculates miles walked, has an altimeter that ticks off how many flights of steps, or their uphill equivalent, you walk.  It’s pretty motivational, I have to say.  We playfully compete against each other and can see each other’s stats on-line.   I cling to the slightest of leads over her in steps this week, and I see, to my chagrin, that pacing around the hovel today only netted me 1,747 steps, less than a mile.  I climbed no stairs.

Now the clock is counting down, it’s after midnight.  I’ve been nursing a bad cold all day, holding it to my breast, suckling it on hot soup when it was not gurgling out my nose, rattling in my chest.   Feeling a tiny bit better after all that and then I see my time to walk has passed.   And 29 steps on the device.   29 friggin’ steps.  0.01 miles.   So I have to go for a walk, just up the Avenue, around the hill at the corner, down to Broadway, back up the hill, down the Avenue.   3,000 steps, get me started for tomorrow.

“What are you prattling about, man, with 7:01 leering on the timer?”

Hmmmm.  Yes.   What, indeed.  I am trying to get this heavier than air aircraft to fly.  It’s said to be theoretically possible.  People tell me I’m insane.  Maybe they’re right.   Then I notice the clothes of one of their children, spattered with blood, a certain haste to kick them behind the chair.  A guilty look, picking the teeth, wiping the mouth then hiding the napkin, eyes flashing wildly from side to side, laughing too loud.  

“Cannibal,” I think to myself, swallowing hard, “and, yes, I’m insane.”

“You hang out with people who eat their children, man,” points out a shrewd one, as though it were obvious what kind of person that makes me.

Perhaps, yes, they eat their children.  But they certainly don’t mean to eat them.  For God’s sake, man, you’re not saying they eat them because they want to eat them?!

“Of course not,” man says soothingly, falsely, “nobody wants to eat their own children, surely not.  But it would seem they are irresistibly delicious, wouldn’t it?”

I hasten neither to agree nor disagree, the walls of the cabin are sweating feverishly and there is less than three minutes on the timer.   I don’t like the way this cat’s looking at me.

“What?” he asks, innocent and evil at once, “I’m not a vegetarian.  Not a vegetarian like you, Hilter of the sea.”

“I don’t feel so good about eating fish,” I tell him, but he’s already one step ahead, the fork and knife glinting in his hands, napkin tucked smartly under his chin, ready.

I’ve got to get the hell out of here, I say to myself, trying not to look the obvious in the face.  I’ve got to get the hell out of here.

41 seconds on the clock, I see, and it feels like a year.  A year in prison, I’m telling you.  20 seconds now, like a month.  And now, counting the last ten and…. ah, the buzzer.

I’m headed out to the Avenue.

Choose Yer Poison

“Look at this place,” says the adult in the room.  “You should spend a few days clearing out 80% of this crap and then hire a maid.  You’d feel much better about things.”   

No argument here, although should is a tricky word, in our experience.

” ‘in our experience?’  Who are we, Hugh Hefner?”

“Building an organization, yo,” says I.

“Says you?” you say.

I can complain about the feeling of the walls closing in, but who am I actually complaining to?  And how would they be able to stop this process?

It’s clearly a matter of remaining healthy and staying positive.  Two good things.  

You’re better off laughing with friends than rattling a keyboard, unless you’re getting paid to rattle the keys and your friends are laughing at you instead of with you.

“They’re not laughing with you, they’re laughing AT YOU,” more than one clever teacher has told the class clown, in an adult version of “I know you are but what am I?”

Suppose there was something you could take that would lift the veil of care from your brow, let you relax and be creative?   You know, half of the magic of creativity is relaxing, getting lost in play.   I feel a trick coming on here….  

No, really, it’s a matter of choosing your poison.

“Oh, what’s the matter?  A friend thoughtlessly hurt your feelings and now acts like nothing happened?”

I’m not worried about that.  Any one of my friends can be counted on to attack any other of my friends.  “What do you expect from X?   He/she has no empathy, ridiculous to expect it.  I mean, really…” complete with full-color illustrations.  It’s uncanny how helpful most of them are in that particular situation.  Each one can so clearly see the monstrousness of the others, it’s really cool.

“Where does that leave us?” we ask, not anywhere near convinced that it is really cool.

“Who should I say is asking?” you ask.

The Opposite of Love

It has been observed that the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference.   This sounds right to me.   Hatred, like love, is a powerful emotion, and powerful emotions are subject to change — indifference is the complete absence of any feeling about it one way or the other, there’s nothing to work with there, no redemptive moment possible when one party absolutely doesn’t care.  

Don’t kick the person when she’s down, step over as though you haven’t even seen them lying there.  It may seem an academic distinction, hatred vs. indifference and which is the opposite of love, but come for a short stroll, please.

Tell a joke, around the table people either laugh, laugh politely, groan, or shake their heads.  One person looks you dead in the eye, with the dead fish expression.  And afterwards doesn’t break character by winking, smiling, saying anything.  You make yourself vulnerable, to some extent, telling a joke and the dead fish reaction sticks a skewer in that willingness to open yourself.

Not the best example, perhaps.  My father was a master of this technique, I should be able to describe it better.   It requires, more than anything, knowing when to apply a good cold dose of strategic silence.   When you open yourself up to express a concern, speak directly about your feelings and ask for a reply– silence.  When you complain of the lack of reaction, you become a whiner and the silent party can now focus on what an asshole you are.  

It’s a foolproof system.   Mildly provoke somebody (“just kidding!!”) up the ante a bit (“for your own good!!! I love you!”) wait for the reaction and then — silence.   Beautiful, to a certain type of angry person, what a nice dose of silence will do.  Who needs the rack or a water board? 

“When you ask my opinion you just want me to tell you what you want to hear!” protests someone giving you the hard truth and dismissing the feelings you express as paranoia, over-sensitivity, lack of epidermis.  You can point out how many times you have sought and used contrary opinions to make changes in your life, your projects, your ideas, but in the case at hand– “you only want me to tell you you’re right” serves to end the conversation.   So be it.

Be direct, we are told.  In marketing, as in life, honesty, directness, integrity– these things rule (although countless exceptions apply).   The cure for directness?   Silence.

And of course, one person’s directness is another person’s double-barreled shotgun blast to the kisser.   C’est la guerre, I suppose. 

Mindfulness

Each of us is the one who must remain mindful.  Picture the gentle voice droning soothingly in your ear– you are here, you are taking a step, you enjoy the coolness and taste of a ripe strawberry, music plays, your head moves, eyes look.  Take a breath, life itself, draw it in slowly, deeply.  Savor for a moment the life force it sustains.

Watch out for that maniac driving 70 mph on the sidewalk.

Do not be distracted by the look of terror in the doctor’s eyes, genuine alarm, the cuff still around your bicep.  That look was on August 6th.   Medication for high blood pressure indicated, but phone tag didn’t work out and now, two weeks later, the doctor is on vacation.   Kind of him to leave that voice mail yesterday before he left for his canoe trip, his meditation retreat, taking his pregnant wife and their three year-old to Disney World.

Relax the arteries, release the pressure that is building, forget about the ticking time bomb, the silent killer, the stroke sneer (thanks Stephen King).  The world is not a burden unless you make it so.  The world is a miracle and it is a kindness to the self to remember that just because someone like Hitler is most likely to run things, he really believes he’s doing the right thing.  That’s the important thing to keep in mind.  It’s hard making the tough decisions about who shall live and who shall die and who shall eat shit and who shall eat strawberries.   Be grateful you do not have to make such decisions.  Think of the young child’s tenacious commitment to fairness.  Be encouraged, have courage.

Breathe mindfully.

Fan Mail from A Troll

(Pardon the formatting, wordpress is having some fun with me)
Got this email about a month back:
I saw  your site and was filled with wonder. Do you need an event planner and fundraiser? As I am both I also have experience with volunteers. I currently work with homeless families as well as homeless individuals suffering with the HIV virus.

I would love to work with you as your are doing amazing things with small ones!

Sincerely,

Ed Snowden

Although I felt like somebody might be sadistically playing with me, sending exactly the kind of email I’ve been waiting for, signed with a famous and controversial name, I wrote:
Thanks for your kind words.  We could certainly use an event planner and fundraiser.  Where are you located, Ed? 
Then these two: 
On Sun, Aug 4, 2013 at 1:59 PM, Ed Snowden  wrote:
Hi  I am in NYC.
Thanks for getting back to me.
All the best,
Ed Snowden
On Mon, Aug 5, 2013 at 2:06 PM, Ed Snowden wrote:
Hi I am in NYC.

Thanks for getting back to me.

All the best,

Ed Snowden

A few days later I took another step into the troll’s trap:
The coincidence of your name being the same as the young man’s who revealed the NSA data-harvesting and surveillance program has given some at our organization pause.  I’ve been told this coincidence has to be some kind of prank by a friend, a misguided attempt to poke a little fun at an organization with a successful program that is currently hanging on by a thread.

 
I prefer to think that you are experienced in event planning and fundraising and have some kind of links you can send showing some of your work.  If you send me some samples of your work I will be glad to have a look at them.
Troll:
 
Never mind. This has been my name for eons I am named for my dad and grand dad  and the fact that it bothers you means I should keep looking for work, I am an excellent fund raiser and event planner but I have no time for what my grandmum would call “foolishness” I wish you well.  
Still acting with characteristic (and foolish) good faith, I wrote:
No offense intended, Ed, though clearly it seems to have been taken.  I didn’t say the coincidence of your name bothered me, in fact, I think the other ES did a brave and important thing.  I merely passed on a concern and asked you for some examples of your work.  If you read the second paragraph you will see my hope, and good faith, expressed quite clearly.  
To which the troll replied:
Thank you for your response. I am not offended merely annoyed. 
I think your program sounds amazing but I think I should keep looking for an organization that will allow me to make a difference as that is what is most important to me!
 NYC is a big town with oodles of places that need skilled volunteer and event managers so I shall keep looking.    Again thank you for your kind reply.

(Ms.) Ed Snowden 

As I am out of kind replies, and the (Ms.) before its name would make me hesitate to offer a well-intended bitch slap, I leave this up here, for whatever grotesque value it may have to someone.

Take A Break, it’s Broken

The dilemma’s got sharp horns.   I’m desperate for a break, a week off, not to worry, not think about the toils of the immediate future.   Everyone I know is on vacation (except for my sister, back in her stalag in South Florida where the six year-olds return early).

Push a rock this big and heavy up a hill, how does one take a break, exactly?  

My resting pulse is 59, lulling me to think the bike riding is helping heart and lungs.  The blood pressure monitor lights up with the rictus, snake eyes, silent killer, smiling that deadly smile.

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Do the math

Intelligent
Strong sense of fairness
Sense of humor
Musical inventiveness
Conscious gentleness
Ability to express self
Decent listener
Love of spontaneity
Fairly robust constitution
Decent people skills
Good coordination
Patience

Generosity 
Talent for presenting ideas
Introspective
Conscientious
Considerate                       
_____________________
Tragic fucking case

Moving the chains

Football as a metaphor for life– smash mouth, knee to groin refs don’t see, rain, mud, sleet, hail, hostile or indifferent crowd.  Moving the chains, trying for the first down, fourth and four, a ridiculous gamble if it backfires.   Now the wet grass is ice, now it’s quicksand.  Slowed down footage of the run, the hit, water flying in a shower of frozen droplets at jaw shuddering contact.  Broken rib, the knees hitting the frozen field, we have…. they’re trotting on with the chains to measure and… short by two feet.   Better luck next time.

Grit

I heard a recent TED talk about grit being the key to success.   The speaker defined it as passion and perseverance for very long-term goals.  Talent is no substitute for dogged determination when undertaking something as ambitious as changing the world.  A person with grit is prepared to fail over and over again to get to the place they are trying to arrive at.

“Aren’t you afraid of burn-out?” asks a well-meaning friend, after I described the many facets of the work ahead of me.   I am not afraid of burn-out, I think, letting the wall in front of me go out of focus.

“Isn’t the fact that you haven’t been able to recruit anybody passionate about what you are doing depressing to you?  I mean, people should realize by now that your theory works.  You’ve shown the great potential of the program over and over, I mean, shouldn’t you have at least one trustworthy ally by now?  Isn’t this depressing to you?”  I am asked.   No more depressing than the fact that I am asking this myself, the well-meaning friend long gone from the phone.

In America we have the myth of the Rugged Individual.   This person has grit, true grit. This person is tough, with endless inner resources, prepared to do whatever it takes to succeed, undeterred about the necessity of doing huge things alone.  This person will kill you, if it comes to that.

“Would you kill for this idea of yours?” asks an abstract, distracted, watch checker.

“Only you, baby,” I think, out of the box.

The idea is to become like the psychopaths who prevail at any cost, only without forgetting that I am here to be part of a supportive community, not a rugged individual.  That I am here to model patience, and humor, and the optimism necessary for all learning.

“Well,” says the skeleton of the DU from his grave on top of the hill, “it’s no wonder you struggle with this.   I had no role models for showing love, and you had none for showing grit.  As I apologized for– I put great obstacles in front of you and your sister.  Instead of nurturing either of you I was busy competing with you, trying to crush you in a senseless war of survival I had no insight into.   I did apologize for that, didn’t I?”

You did, old man, and it was good of you.  Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.