Category Archives: personal

Experience

Deeply experienced things remain, even years later.  The moment, the light, how things smelled, facial expressions, every tiny unverifiable detail is contained in the memory.

I remember sitting on a stone bench on a cool evening, watching a gangly puppy’s uncontrollable excitement as he discovered the delights of eating deer shit.  “Let’s not mention this to her,” my friend says, laughing, raising a shot of excellent scotch.

Painful experiences are also in there, no doubt.  The blessing is that the beautiful experiences, though sometimes more subtle, more elusive, are just as strong as the other kind.

 

My Father’s Wit

My Father’s Wit

 

My father, may he rest in peace, was one of the fastest people on his feet I ever knew.  At least as far as a clever rejoinder, he was very quick on the draw.  He wasn’t always good at responding to other situations in real time, few are.  Those quick on their feet in every situation are the stuff of Hollywood movies, there aren’t many of them.  But in conversation my father was as quick as anyone in the witty comeback department.

I’m reminded of this because I was just lamenting to myself that I need to get more chores done, crucial unpleasant appointments made, business taken care of, in addition to daydreaming and planning all the time.  Granted, my daydreams and plans seem to be budding and I can almost see the flowers that will be the fruits of this long labor of dreaming and planning, but still, I need to do chores.  I also recognize that I’m fortunate, at the moment, that I am not lashed to the wheel of having to work to pay my rent  today, or tomorrow, although that day is looming.  So while I was bothered by my reluctance to take care of needed chores, and reflecting on my good fortune not to have to report to some hideous job every day, my father’s voice came into my head.

“You’d complain if you were hanged with a new rope,” said the old man.

What Would Gandhi Do?

Let’s say someone made multiple derogatory comments about your religious group, asked you to do favors under a tight deadline that you delivered and that they then ignored, made a promise to you they then violated and informed you of in a cc in an unrelated email?  Let’s say the success of your fledgling nonprofit organization was in some way dependent on this person and that the broken promise related to the very existence of that outfit.

Few would probably blame you for being upset, hurt, angry or all of the above.  The question is, what would Gandhi do?  The other question is: what would Bruce Lee do?

I wrestled with these questions for almost a week.  It was not an easy wrestling match.  In the end I decided that Gandhi and Bruce Lee would do the same thing.  Take a minimalist approach that deflects action back on the other party.  Responding to the cc’d email that informed me he had no intention of keeping his promise to the organization I wrote: don’t worry about it.

It didn’t take long for him to put on his clown costume and begin capering.  But I’m not worried about it.

Styles of Rage

As a child I was treated to several styles of rage as part of my regular diet.  I’m just thinking about a few of them now and thought I’d try to make a concise list.

There was screaming, of course, that loud venting that would leap into flame after the aggravations had mounted sufficiently.   What must the neighbors have thought of this pleasant, bright young family who went into their house to scream at each other?

There’s physical violence, of course.  My parents were both survivors of it and had inhibitions about inflicting it on their own children.   As a result my sister and I saw little of this in our house.  My mother hit me two or three times, a remarkable feat of restraint if you consider all the provocation she had.   Each time she had cause to weep afterwards.  

Once she swung at me wildly, knocked a hanging lamp off the wall over my bed, where I was ducking, and sent the rickety appliance flying, hot light-bulb down, to burn my cheek and the corner of an eye lid.   You can bet she cried after that.   The only other time I remember her lashing out with her hands her wedding ring turned the wrong way on her hand and the diamond wound up cutting me right next to an eye.  Oh, boy, was she upset after that.  You know, it’s funny til someone loses an eye.

My father, who my sister accurately dubbed the Dreaded Unit, was not much of a hitter either.  The DU’d grab you, sometimes, reach back from the driver’s seat to squeeze a wrist with anaconda-like force, but he didn’t hit much.   He didn’t need to, really, his verbal violence, while probably embarrassing to him if he’d ever heard it played back later, was exceptionally powerful.

Of course, the most eloquent of all is perfectly placed silence.

To a fellow blogger and my cousin J

There are two ways people go after being abused as children.  Both are difficult, but one is much better than the other.

Some people grow up to abuse others, become nightmare spouses, parents, friends, colleagues, bosses and leaders.  They feel they have the right to act like pricks, since life was cruel to them.

Others grow up to defend their loved ones from abuse.  They feel obliged to model caring behavior, to protect others.   They become beacons of hope in an often indifferent world.  

Deep feelings can change our hearts, for better or for worse.  But better is better.

I Did It, I Can’t Believe It

I saw a well-done Hollywood biography of the Notorious B.I.G., Biggie Smalls, the talented fat kid from Brooklyn.  I saw this movie on TV not long before my mother finished dying her long, lonely death.  I was often sad in those days but I couldn’t cry, even though my mother was in the last weeks of her life  — this movie made the tears flow.  I sobbed because this kid had seen the light, and was, in the screenwriter’s convincing story, making peace when he was shot in revenge for a killing he tried to stop.

I must have cried for ten minutes after the credits rolled, as Angela Bassett wipes her eyes as half of Brooklyn comes out to line the streets where Biggie lived, larger than life, rapping, rhyming, styling like TJ, the Master and mf.

In the Hollywood version he was played by a charming, charismatic actor, a quick witted mostly jovial young man, also quite fat.  He’s mean to his women, breaks his mother Angela Bassett’s heart, and he is a criminal and a thug.   A friend takes the rap for him and goes to prison telling Biggie “if I do this for you you can’t waste your talent, you’ve got to succeed– for all of us”.   By the time the friend gets out of prison  Biggie is a huge star, has an accident and is recuperating in the hospital.   The friend goes straight to the hospital bed and is disappointed in Biggie.   Biggie realizes he’s gained fame, and success, but he’s still  an unredeemed asshole.

And, in the movie, he’s moved by this realization and  he begins to change.  He wants to make amends, seeks forgiveness.  He doesn’t want to hate anybody anymore, and he doesn’t want anybody to hate him.  He makes peace with his ex-wife, his ex girlfriend, starts spending time with his daughter.  He wants to be a positive model for the people he loves.

When he goes back to the studio he doesn’t want to record another  violent, incendiary album, what his fans are hungry for.  He regrets the bad influence he’s had on millions.  He wants to make a tender album, rapping from the heart instead of his killer persona, but he’s afraid people will think he’s weak.

He’s terrified, as he begins to record, with no street bluster to hide behind.  He’s scared  of how weak he must look and afraid to listen to the playback.  But when he hears it a smile comes across his face as soon as the first vamp comes up in the headphones and he starts to shake his head slowly from side to side.

“I can’t believe it,” he says, shaking his head to the slow beat, “I did it…  I did it!” and he laughs, and keeps the beat with his head, and his friends around him at the console all smile too.  The actor who plays Biggie keeps smiling, closes his eyes and floats away on the music.  

In the movie’s next scene he’s shot dead from a passing car.  Then all of Brooklyn is mourning him on the streets as his body comes back for one last ride through the streets, and Angela Bassett looks on weeping, and I’m sobbing long after I turn off the TV.

And then, tonight, after I mixed this clip of the first two animation workshops  I started to laugh.  I said to myself  “I can’t believe it, I did it.. . I did it!”  I pumped my fist in the air as I jumped out of my chair, then I watched it again and again, with and without the headphones on.  I’m smiling as I type this, and I’m laughing too, to think about it.

(animation clip here)

Ahimsa’s all well and good

First do no harm, a very good place to start.  If I can’t help, I don’t hurt.   I do kill cockroaches when I see them, but I do it exactly the way I want to go– fast, in one blow, a certain death, no lingering in agony, even for a second.  I am a bit embarrassed to say I often apologize to the individual as I wipe him or her out.  It’s not their fault they are loathsome insects or that I can’t tolerate them near my kitchen sink.

Gentle is the goal, I tell myself.  I do not want to use the powers, already sharpened and ready inside me, to strike at people who do me wrong.  I want to give them a chance to do right, and, if they don’t, I want to leave without looking back.  I don’t need the last word, I just need to be away from toxic types.

But here’s the thing, sometimes these toxic types keep screaming for a showdown.   They can be very demanding and unreasonable about such things.  They provoke once, and if you let it go, they get furious and dial up the provocation the next time.  Over time they will find a way to set up the showdown they’re looking for, or die trying.   They have this wild west mentality, they want to be the fastest gun and they want a damn shootout to prove that they, and not you, are the baddest killer around.  

I don’t want to have to knock any of these toxic sociopath zombies out anymore.  There’s nothing in it for anybody.  First do no harm, and lastly, do no harm.  Amen.

“So, do you think you’ll ever work things out with X?”

I don’t think so, I told him, because I realize now that we brought out the worst in each other.  I was the worst I’ve ever been and he couldn’t do any better.  It was a long goodbye, and I tried my best to make things better, but in the end I didn’t see another way.

Said without defensiveness, because, finally, I understand that we can only proceed with good faith.  I’m not playing games or trying to win contests, I am in this to be interactive, to create things with people who want to play.   Whatever the world may say about that is really not my concern any more.  Trying to play with unhappy critics is not fun.  I need to play with people who just love to play.

My goal is to be present, direct, and as good as I can be.  People I have to be polite around I’ll be polite around until I can get away from them.  People I can be creative with are the ones I’m looking for now, not people who test my abilities as an improvisational actor by insisting I pretend that a bowl of moldering snot is actually a tasty dip.

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.

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.