Here's my idea for a new method of therapy. It's called the Self- Fulfilling Prophecy treatment. People, I don't know if this reflects intelligence or stupidity, believe what they hear. We believe something if it comes from an external source, whether that's a Time magazine, a Cosmopolitan, a politician or a friend. People are especially inclined to believe something if they've spent money to hear it, deeming their usage of money a worthwhile investment. Crafting a therapy treatment around this knowledge isn't cheating or corrupt, it's just playing into people's psyches, understanding how people work and using that knowledge to further the a) success of a business and b) the effectiveness of a therapy treatment. With no knowledge whatsoever of a person's future and having only the social skills to understand the client's situation and ability to read them well enough to know what it is they want to hear, you too can become a highly successful therapist and change many lives for the better.
Here is the story of the genesis of this brilliant idea:
My mom is an acupuncturist. She and her husband share a practice. He teaches at a nearby acupuncture school and has a highly successful practice. He is one of the bigger names in acupuncture, especially in teaching because he practices a form of acupuncture not widely taught or practiced and is, supposedly, a fabulous teacher. My mom has been in practice for five years, although she rounds up to eight, and although she is devoutly adored by her patients, has a humble practice and no other major source of income. Money, for whatever reason, has never been either of my parents' forte.
To maintain her license, my mom needs a certain amount of 'continuing education units' a year, usually obtained through seminars and lectures. Dr Tan, an eastern medicinal healing superstar, was teaching a weekend class on Chinese astrology and diagnosis in Portland, Oregon. My mom jumped on the opportunity to soak up info from the great Dr Tan and, knowing well my love for wandering around yet unexplored cities, invited me to come along.
After the first day, my mom was a bit disappointed with the seminar. She was stuck in a hotel conference room all day, instead of exploring a city that I assured her is fantastic, and she was straining to listen to an old burnt-out Chinese man fumbling through a topic which, for a good reason, had never been taught to a white audience before.
"The textbooks he gave us, so we could follow what he was saying, are in Korean! You know that sheet or characters I was supposed to be familiar with? Those characters are supposed to let us get the important information out of the textbooks but even if I WAS familiar with those characters, how am I supposed to pick those out in an entire book full of the tings, written backwards, in tiny print... and they all look the same!"
The next day was slightly more successful. Because on the second day, Dr Tan read the horoscopes, the in-depth life paths of some of the audience members. After scrawling down her birth day, birth time, birth place, moon sign, sun sign, social security number and mother's maiden name on a slip of paper, my mom got her horoscope read. Over dinner, she gave me a detailed recounting of her life according to Dr Tan, the man we had just seen come out of a restaurant, can and take out bag on one arm, blonde 25 year old assistant in heels on the other.
"He said something really interesting. He said, not knowing anything about me or what's going on right now, that I will not, in my life, be supported by my partner. I was thinking about it and that's not necessarily a bad thing, it's just what's lined up for me."
I chimed in. "Thats a good point. Because on your own, that's when you do best- when you have the most drive and energy and when you take the best care of yourself."
"And right now, the last few years have been in the wood sign for me which means, well I don't know, I forget but the next few blocks of years of my life are metal metal metal metal. Which means, money."
"Is that metaphorical? Success, abundance or something or does it literally mean cash money cash?"
"Literally, it means cash."
Seeing as how my mom paid good money and traveled halfway across the country to soak up all the info that Dr Tan had to dish out, when he told her she was going to make a ton of money, my mom of course believed him. But this prophecy begs a few questions: how; where is it all going to come from? So, knowing her past and having been given her future, my mom's only job is to fill in the gaps, examine her life and ask herself, is the path that I'm on now going to be the one that will lead me to all this cash in my future? Put in this context, immediately became apparent that no, continuing along with the way things are, will not bring about the buckets of lollie promised to her. So it will have to come from somewhere else.
"Maybe this cancer clinic idea I had. Oh speaking of which, I should call Dr. Pujet back. Or maybe my anti-sugar book is going to lead me somewhere. I should get to work on that actually. Maybe I'll dedicate the two hours between my patients today to writing."
And just like that, my mom has begun to craft and shape the future that she knows will be hers. All of the things that my mom knows will come to her, she's now began to work on reigning in. And will it work? Of course.
People believe what they hear, whether it's the findings of a study reporting that people living in Boulder, Colorado represent the happiest and healthiest population of any American city ("Ha- that's so true," I thought after reading the headline. "I eat great, am totally happy and do tons of sports. As a matter of fact, I think I'll go for a run right now.") or a psychiatrist telling her patient that he is ADD and cannot function normally without being medicated. People are so impressionable that they'll do the work necessary to live up to the image they hold for themselves. Unfortunately, that image, for most people, is not very good.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
Skipping on the Brink
Its a Sunday and in Boulder, in January, its supposed to snow, they say but its raining, at an angle from the mountains west where there are storms and freezing temps to the plains east where tornadoes come here and there but in between, the valley of Boulder is safe from, or deprived of, either and both. We ride bikes and rock climb, we ski and six year olds break piggy banks to send tooth-faerie dollars to Haiti, simply because we dont live in the real world. Graffiti is of love, hearts and beauty. Its warm and pleasant always and when its cold, its freezing, the mercury strains to compress, and coats are worn- North face if youre from California, fur if youre from New York, sandals if your from Texas. Nobody's a local. We've all come from somewhere else because no one can be born in Boulder, no one conceived and death is just a voluntary return. Im from California but dont consider myself human so I wear Monte Belle. My other coat doesnt have a name or a brand but its red and warm and it fits me the best that any misfit material can- covering a body that's naked and will rebel against any covering by changing size, shape and hue- Coats are worn, the body shivers but the cold isnt really felt even, it doesnt matter at all.
Did I mention? I've always lived in a valley- LA at first for several years, where so much goes on that really nothing happens and now in Boulder, where so much is happening that nothing really has to go on. We're all floating to and fro in the tidal waves we've made in the bathtub, without having moved at all. I started rock climbing a month or two ago and now Ill climb anything, I decided to start running and just because I decided, I can run as fast as I want for as long as I want and it all feels the same. Swimming, we're pushed forward and reach our destination much faster than expected, not even knowing we were in a stream, the current pushing us where ever we choose to go. Strokes cant keep up with our progress so why not just lay and float, I say, and the rain outside pours on.
It gets louder and louder within the walls of this cafe, until it becomes unbearable and then I realize its silent. The coffee grinder breaks the din, turns on and turns off and turns out I AM still here. Not only that but my legs are crossed, my back is bent, my hand moving. The coffee I finished half an hour ago was free and the pastry a dollar twenty-five. I paid for it but my wallet doesn't miss anything. I ate it but I can't feel it anywhere inside my body.
The man sitting in front of my table to the left is watching, complacently, a slideshow of cold cuts on his computer and is grooving to some unheard tune. I'm meeting people for dinner, as if they'll show. as if six o'clock is universal. as if someone else is living a life too, just like mine maybe but the hair that falls in front of their face when they stoop is blond, maybe, not brown like mine.
Is it possible or is this it? Is it just one streaming immortal, amorphous cloud thats there whether or not we divide it up, divvy it out and assign characteristics to this one versus that. Just for fun.
Im hungry now. (How did I know?) I've been eating less, not as hungry as often, and I feel like more liquid comes out than I put in. But running my hands down from my ribs and onto my hips, there is still and always will be a little hump built up on top of the base of my belly. A little hump of warmth that is stollen from my freezing fingers and hands, just sitting there waiting to protect the baby that isn't there and won't be for many years still. Knowing that I have no control, no matter how much or little I eat, of my sole purpose, manifested and clearly stated by my anatomy, shape and purport, calms my mind and upon racking my brain (given much more credence and attention than it deserves) for solutions of who to be, what to do and how to live, reassures me that, by breathing, blinking and bleeding, I'm doing exactly what I need to be doing and am fully fulfilling my potential.
In the cafe, a pot breaks, plates clatter, a kid jabbers in an unbelievably high-pitched loud voice. The usually impeccable bathroom looks like a crime scene. A boy walks in with a sword in sheath hanging through the loops in his backpack next to his nalgene water bottle and I think. Is it possible that today is the day of every exception?
My phone buzzes across the table with the name of the restaurant and, looking at the time, the amorphous cloud of shapes and colors falls to the ground, compartmentalizing, and the pieces are assigned the sounds that were already there but are now rationalized. I recognize the song in the room and the familiarity spreads down from my ears until my hair and hands come back into my field of view and I can feel every part of my body, aware of what shoes I'm wearing based on the height of the arch and the comfortable pressure on the slope of my foot top.
A chilly bike ride and a warm wonderful dinner awaits but I can't, just not quite yet, know how that will feel.
Did I mention? I've always lived in a valley- LA at first for several years, where so much goes on that really nothing happens and now in Boulder, where so much is happening that nothing really has to go on. We're all floating to and fro in the tidal waves we've made in the bathtub, without having moved at all. I started rock climbing a month or two ago and now Ill climb anything, I decided to start running and just because I decided, I can run as fast as I want for as long as I want and it all feels the same. Swimming, we're pushed forward and reach our destination much faster than expected, not even knowing we were in a stream, the current pushing us where ever we choose to go. Strokes cant keep up with our progress so why not just lay and float, I say, and the rain outside pours on.
It gets louder and louder within the walls of this cafe, until it becomes unbearable and then I realize its silent. The coffee grinder breaks the din, turns on and turns off and turns out I AM still here. Not only that but my legs are crossed, my back is bent, my hand moving. The coffee I finished half an hour ago was free and the pastry a dollar twenty-five. I paid for it but my wallet doesn't miss anything. I ate it but I can't feel it anywhere inside my body.
The man sitting in front of my table to the left is watching, complacently, a slideshow of cold cuts on his computer and is grooving to some unheard tune. I'm meeting people for dinner, as if they'll show. as if six o'clock is universal. as if someone else is living a life too, just like mine maybe but the hair that falls in front of their face when they stoop is blond, maybe, not brown like mine.
Is it possible or is this it? Is it just one streaming immortal, amorphous cloud thats there whether or not we divide it up, divvy it out and assign characteristics to this one versus that. Just for fun.
Im hungry now. (How did I know?) I've been eating less, not as hungry as often, and I feel like more liquid comes out than I put in. But running my hands down from my ribs and onto my hips, there is still and always will be a little hump built up on top of the base of my belly. A little hump of warmth that is stollen from my freezing fingers and hands, just sitting there waiting to protect the baby that isn't there and won't be for many years still. Knowing that I have no control, no matter how much or little I eat, of my sole purpose, manifested and clearly stated by my anatomy, shape and purport, calms my mind and upon racking my brain (given much more credence and attention than it deserves) for solutions of who to be, what to do and how to live, reassures me that, by breathing, blinking and bleeding, I'm doing exactly what I need to be doing and am fully fulfilling my potential.
In the cafe, a pot breaks, plates clatter, a kid jabbers in an unbelievably high-pitched loud voice. The usually impeccable bathroom looks like a crime scene. A boy walks in with a sword in sheath hanging through the loops in his backpack next to his nalgene water bottle and I think. Is it possible that today is the day of every exception?
My phone buzzes across the table with the name of the restaurant and, looking at the time, the amorphous cloud of shapes and colors falls to the ground, compartmentalizing, and the pieces are assigned the sounds that were already there but are now rationalized. I recognize the song in the room and the familiarity spreads down from my ears until my hair and hands come back into my field of view and I can feel every part of my body, aware of what shoes I'm wearing based on the height of the arch and the comfortable pressure on the slope of my foot top.
A chilly bike ride and a warm wonderful dinner awaits but I can't, just not quite yet, know how that will feel.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Too Much of a Good Thing/ The Evolution of Insecurities
Sorry about the slow lead in. Bear with me here..
Why does society cater to incompetence? Is that what a society is? A system of support in which the strong take care of the weak in order to maintain our race? Its worked so far at least- tremendously well. The smart, able people have engineered products to compensate for idiots’ incompetence, reducing their impact, allowing them to function independently by either trashing and over utilizing their resources or by buying into the bureaucracy that provides the shortcuts necessary to bring lofty goals and complicated procedures down to the level of incompetent, unthinking people who can only thrive within the confines of structure, games and rules. And then becoming slaves to it. It’s worked. Despite the fact that we, as a society, structure, race, and people, have more problems and diseases and unhappiness as ever, there are also more people than ever, our systems are bigger, bureaucracies are more impenetrable and were able to get more things done faster than ever. Ah, sweet success. But what was our goal to begin with in creating this maze for ourselves? Were short sighted, maybe that’s the problem, creating quick fix solutions to problems that we’ve created by our own immediacy and laziness and then, just after we become fully dependent on our new creation, we realize that our new crutch is unsustainable, running out and has terrible backlashes.
Although this is often the kind of things I think about periodically, in the shower, putting away laundry, spacing out, this specific little impassioned rant was triggered by helping Keith clean his apartment to show to a potential renter. Keith’s not the subject matter here, Johnny is- the roommate whom three people are relocating in order to avoid. Our disbelief at the level of Johnny’s dependence lead me to ask what makes people this way. So here’s my attempt at an explanation.
People started by gathering. In families, tribes, near rivers- for transport, water, crops, connectivity, trade, then cities formed and grew and grew. Sticking up for yourself, your family was no longer enough. Now it was a society, you had to be a valuable member of society while still looking out for yourself- this survival tactic now based not on the maintenance of a closely-knit community where people felt confident and solid in their role, enough to lose a need for self- preservation and work instead for the maintenance of a way and a people one strongly believed in preserving. A then small-scale system in which you and everyone were necessary and vital components. But now in a city, a system, a society, moving as a unit of its own, unreliant on personal impact (every vote counts but not because we respect your opinion but because 1+1+1=3, times a few hundred thousand adds up, it all adds up, to maybe one point, which can win or lose an election), moving on its own, bolstered by and built upon a foundation of insecurities, inferiority and a desire to keep up with an impossible ideal. Now we’re lacking the reliance on one another that previously made up a society. Charity, then, made sense. Empathy and support because everything that happened to an individual effected the community. Here, an individual is no longer important in the bigger picture, just a number to add up to make a whole, a fraction of the bigger picture instead of being a microcosm for it.
In the good ol’ days, if your grand father and your father were barbers, you would be a barber too. Now, one has to find his own meaning instead of being born into it. You have a world of possibilities in front of you, hundreds of potential careers, lifestyles, relationships and if you choose wrong, it all comes back to point its fingers at you. What is masked as control over oneself is presented with such daunting possibilities and implications that it has the opposite effect and in turn, disempowers the individual. And if one day, for some reason, you’re a little discontent, its no longer just a bad day in the midst of a good life. It’s the result of thousands of personal choices that now, you must look back on, doubt and wish had been made differently in order to spare yourself from this impermanent unhappiness. So egos are considered, tried and fail. Within the privacy of your own home, out on the streets, a huge world is not comprehensible for us so we fragment it, create classes, races, stereotypes, groups, political parties and above all, watch out for numero uno! A safety in numbers (the dependence and personal responsibility one takes in a small scale community) morphs into the bystander effect where now, we’ve become so removed, that big world out there, its no longer our creation or even our land to walk on. It has a life of its own and is no longer ours, that a girl yelling for help on a street corner in New York has nothing to do with us, its not our problem, its just another struggle far off along with the thousands of problems and suffering brought to our attention and pinned on our backs as vague nagging responsibility, by a global community but not actually experienced, seen first hand, lived and felt.
In order to preserve ourselves, engage in our surroundings, we create false worlds based on distractions and creations- things we can process and tackle. The drama in tonight’s episode of Desperate Housewives is more manageable, more tangible, closer to home, than the warring sects in the Middle East, the governmental corruption in Somalia and Kenya and what that corruption is driving people to do. So our efforts to engage in hum-drum routines and trivial pleasures is really just an effort to regain a control over ourselves and our own lives that was lost when our worlds went from tribal familiarity and familial values to large-scale worldly knowledge, expectations and involvement- a task much too daunting for our small simple bodies to take on.
We’re stretching ourselves in order to move further and further away from animalistic, bodily-dependent simplicity and further and further towards matters of the mind. If we disconnect from our bodies (what do you mean my mood is affected by the processed food-like substance I just ate for lunch? Im a lawyer, I make 200 grand a year, Im a self actualized human being!), distance ourselves from the mortal world around us, falling leaves and springing buds, life cycles, water cycles, mortality, change, death and evolution, than maybe- at least consciously- we’re able to detach ourselves from the impermanence which everyone fears. Why? I don’t know, maybe because its one more threat to our control. Control-that’s the one thing here that sets us apart from any other animal. A mind so abstract that its mere engagement contradicts every cyclic, mortal force that plays on our lives. Opposable thumbs my ass. If we couldn’t open jars, we’d find a way around it. A way to justify our inability with a desperate, quivering ego-based superiority.
The ingenious of us have found that the number one way to market products is to strip perspective buyers of their last thread of control, instill a feeling of incompleteness and lacking, making them dependent on an outside source to regain that thread. If you tell girls enough that theyre bad at sex, they’ll rake for solutions and find an impermanent solution in the false promises of a Cosmopolitan magazine. And for 6.99 a pop, that’s not a bad price for a quick fix high. If you convince a homeowner that her cleaning methods don’t protect properly against a certain strain of bacteria she cant pronounce, she’ll spend her money on products manufactured not to improve the quality of her life but to turn her into a consumer- buying a fix here and a fix there until the dopamine is expended, regulators forced open and the high becomes the norm and the lacking becomes the painful, sweaty trembling crash. Addicted, dependent on products that support the maker‘s similar struggle to keep up, prioritizing immediate personal gain over sustainable betterment.
Dependence on something means that without it, you’re lacking. When people are taught that they’re incomplete or not good enough as is, they lose the confidence in themselves necessary to think for themselves, follow not what is forced down their throats but instead what they independently believe in. The loss of control over oneself strips people of the power to think critically, question authority and say- this is how I want to see the world and this is what Im going to do to see that through. So little power is given, or taken, over ones own life that people try in vain to bolster their failing egos by abusing the few aspects of control that they still feel they have. Teens desperately do everything they can to rebel against parents and every force bigger than them- drug problems, self mutilation, eating disorders- some of the few things in life they feel are in their hands- so who could pass up the chance to exploit that rare power?
Johnny, as described by his former roommates, is a fuck-up. To the extent that his mom flew in from the east coast to come check up on him, you know, clean his sheets, buy him toilet paper. If his own mom doesn’t have the faith in his abilities to manage his own life, who will? And then it all became clear. Maybe if his mom hadn’t flown a few thousand miles to help him with his life, he may have understood, after perhaps finding himself in the bathroom with no toilet paper a few times, that his power over his life extends an ability to find people who are willing to take care of him. And maybe then he would scrape the leftover lasagna off of his plate before balancing it on the tower of his unwashed dishes in the kitchen sink. Maybe then he would have the self-esteem to redirect the energy and money currently spent on constantly revamping his wardrobe (to once more get that dying high of false confidence instilled upon consumers by marketers who don’t mind adding to the whirlpool of dependence and disempowerment to get a slice of their pie) to the promotion of something he genuinely believes in, something that brings actual, sustained, real happiness.
I might be completely wrong, totally missing the mark about all of this, but if its true- if this kind of pathetic dependent incompetence is in fact just the manifestation of a desperate confused desire for empowerment, its hard to look at Johnny and feel anything but pity. But I can also see how after a year of living with the guy, being constantly bombarded by his pleas for attention and approval, and scraping crusted-on oatmeal off of abandoned bowls, pity might morph into pure resentment.
Why does society cater to incompetence? Is that what a society is? A system of support in which the strong take care of the weak in order to maintain our race? Its worked so far at least- tremendously well. The smart, able people have engineered products to compensate for idiots’ incompetence, reducing their impact, allowing them to function independently by either trashing and over utilizing their resources or by buying into the bureaucracy that provides the shortcuts necessary to bring lofty goals and complicated procedures down to the level of incompetent, unthinking people who can only thrive within the confines of structure, games and rules. And then becoming slaves to it. It’s worked. Despite the fact that we, as a society, structure, race, and people, have more problems and diseases and unhappiness as ever, there are also more people than ever, our systems are bigger, bureaucracies are more impenetrable and were able to get more things done faster than ever. Ah, sweet success. But what was our goal to begin with in creating this maze for ourselves? Were short sighted, maybe that’s the problem, creating quick fix solutions to problems that we’ve created by our own immediacy and laziness and then, just after we become fully dependent on our new creation, we realize that our new crutch is unsustainable, running out and has terrible backlashes.
Although this is often the kind of things I think about periodically, in the shower, putting away laundry, spacing out, this specific little impassioned rant was triggered by helping Keith clean his apartment to show to a potential renter. Keith’s not the subject matter here, Johnny is- the roommate whom three people are relocating in order to avoid. Our disbelief at the level of Johnny’s dependence lead me to ask what makes people this way. So here’s my attempt at an explanation.
People started by gathering. In families, tribes, near rivers- for transport, water, crops, connectivity, trade, then cities formed and grew and grew. Sticking up for yourself, your family was no longer enough. Now it was a society, you had to be a valuable member of society while still looking out for yourself- this survival tactic now based not on the maintenance of a closely-knit community where people felt confident and solid in their role, enough to lose a need for self- preservation and work instead for the maintenance of a way and a people one strongly believed in preserving. A then small-scale system in which you and everyone were necessary and vital components. But now in a city, a system, a society, moving as a unit of its own, unreliant on personal impact (every vote counts but not because we respect your opinion but because 1+1+1=3, times a few hundred thousand adds up, it all adds up, to maybe one point, which can win or lose an election), moving on its own, bolstered by and built upon a foundation of insecurities, inferiority and a desire to keep up with an impossible ideal. Now we’re lacking the reliance on one another that previously made up a society. Charity, then, made sense. Empathy and support because everything that happened to an individual effected the community. Here, an individual is no longer important in the bigger picture, just a number to add up to make a whole, a fraction of the bigger picture instead of being a microcosm for it.
In the good ol’ days, if your grand father and your father were barbers, you would be a barber too. Now, one has to find his own meaning instead of being born into it. You have a world of possibilities in front of you, hundreds of potential careers, lifestyles, relationships and if you choose wrong, it all comes back to point its fingers at you. What is masked as control over oneself is presented with such daunting possibilities and implications that it has the opposite effect and in turn, disempowers the individual. And if one day, for some reason, you’re a little discontent, its no longer just a bad day in the midst of a good life. It’s the result of thousands of personal choices that now, you must look back on, doubt and wish had been made differently in order to spare yourself from this impermanent unhappiness. So egos are considered, tried and fail. Within the privacy of your own home, out on the streets, a huge world is not comprehensible for us so we fragment it, create classes, races, stereotypes, groups, political parties and above all, watch out for numero uno! A safety in numbers (the dependence and personal responsibility one takes in a small scale community) morphs into the bystander effect where now, we’ve become so removed, that big world out there, its no longer our creation or even our land to walk on. It has a life of its own and is no longer ours, that a girl yelling for help on a street corner in New York has nothing to do with us, its not our problem, its just another struggle far off along with the thousands of problems and suffering brought to our attention and pinned on our backs as vague nagging responsibility, by a global community but not actually experienced, seen first hand, lived and felt.
In order to preserve ourselves, engage in our surroundings, we create false worlds based on distractions and creations- things we can process and tackle. The drama in tonight’s episode of Desperate Housewives is more manageable, more tangible, closer to home, than the warring sects in the Middle East, the governmental corruption in Somalia and Kenya and what that corruption is driving people to do. So our efforts to engage in hum-drum routines and trivial pleasures is really just an effort to regain a control over ourselves and our own lives that was lost when our worlds went from tribal familiarity and familial values to large-scale worldly knowledge, expectations and involvement- a task much too daunting for our small simple bodies to take on.
We’re stretching ourselves in order to move further and further away from animalistic, bodily-dependent simplicity and further and further towards matters of the mind. If we disconnect from our bodies (what do you mean my mood is affected by the processed food-like substance I just ate for lunch? Im a lawyer, I make 200 grand a year, Im a self actualized human being!), distance ourselves from the mortal world around us, falling leaves and springing buds, life cycles, water cycles, mortality, change, death and evolution, than maybe- at least consciously- we’re able to detach ourselves from the impermanence which everyone fears. Why? I don’t know, maybe because its one more threat to our control. Control-that’s the one thing here that sets us apart from any other animal. A mind so abstract that its mere engagement contradicts every cyclic, mortal force that plays on our lives. Opposable thumbs my ass. If we couldn’t open jars, we’d find a way around it. A way to justify our inability with a desperate, quivering ego-based superiority.
The ingenious of us have found that the number one way to market products is to strip perspective buyers of their last thread of control, instill a feeling of incompleteness and lacking, making them dependent on an outside source to regain that thread. If you tell girls enough that theyre bad at sex, they’ll rake for solutions and find an impermanent solution in the false promises of a Cosmopolitan magazine. And for 6.99 a pop, that’s not a bad price for a quick fix high. If you convince a homeowner that her cleaning methods don’t protect properly against a certain strain of bacteria she cant pronounce, she’ll spend her money on products manufactured not to improve the quality of her life but to turn her into a consumer- buying a fix here and a fix there until the dopamine is expended, regulators forced open and the high becomes the norm and the lacking becomes the painful, sweaty trembling crash. Addicted, dependent on products that support the maker‘s similar struggle to keep up, prioritizing immediate personal gain over sustainable betterment.
Dependence on something means that without it, you’re lacking. When people are taught that they’re incomplete or not good enough as is, they lose the confidence in themselves necessary to think for themselves, follow not what is forced down their throats but instead what they independently believe in. The loss of control over oneself strips people of the power to think critically, question authority and say- this is how I want to see the world and this is what Im going to do to see that through. So little power is given, or taken, over ones own life that people try in vain to bolster their failing egos by abusing the few aspects of control that they still feel they have. Teens desperately do everything they can to rebel against parents and every force bigger than them- drug problems, self mutilation, eating disorders- some of the few things in life they feel are in their hands- so who could pass up the chance to exploit that rare power?
Johnny, as described by his former roommates, is a fuck-up. To the extent that his mom flew in from the east coast to come check up on him, you know, clean his sheets, buy him toilet paper. If his own mom doesn’t have the faith in his abilities to manage his own life, who will? And then it all became clear. Maybe if his mom hadn’t flown a few thousand miles to help him with his life, he may have understood, after perhaps finding himself in the bathroom with no toilet paper a few times, that his power over his life extends an ability to find people who are willing to take care of him. And maybe then he would scrape the leftover lasagna off of his plate before balancing it on the tower of his unwashed dishes in the kitchen sink. Maybe then he would have the self-esteem to redirect the energy and money currently spent on constantly revamping his wardrobe (to once more get that dying high of false confidence instilled upon consumers by marketers who don’t mind adding to the whirlpool of dependence and disempowerment to get a slice of their pie) to the promotion of something he genuinely believes in, something that brings actual, sustained, real happiness.
I might be completely wrong, totally missing the mark about all of this, but if its true- if this kind of pathetic dependent incompetence is in fact just the manifestation of a desperate confused desire for empowerment, its hard to look at Johnny and feel anything but pity. But I can also see how after a year of living with the guy, being constantly bombarded by his pleas for attention and approval, and scraping crusted-on oatmeal off of abandoned bowls, pity might morph into pure resentment.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
walking home one night. sent to my email by text. I dont really know anything- these are just guesses in an attempt to understand what I do.
I can give myself completely because once I have, that's just a layer for me that Ive sloughed off and although aspects of that, what I just revealed that is, leave a residue on my skin, they dont necessarily still (or maybe no longer) define me. Or maybe its just that I dont let anything (nothing that can be put to words at least) define me.
Or maybe there is nothing that is me. Nothing to me. Im not even let in on that. Im an observer to myself as much as I am to the rest of the world.
Im always on the outside, a shell, so theres no core of me to give (nothing to compromise or maintain). If you pour out my contents, Ill find something new. That change, defines me. That constant reshaping, revising, evolving. Im a host to whatever I let fill me and Im not the same now as I was yesterday.
Or maybe there is nothing that is me. Nothing to me. Im not even let in on that. Im an observer to myself as much as I am to the rest of the world.
Im always on the outside, a shell, so theres no core of me to give (nothing to compromise or maintain). If you pour out my contents, Ill find something new. That change, defines me. That constant reshaping, revising, evolving. Im a host to whatever I let fill me and Im not the same now as I was yesterday.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
There's a notion people have, have been taught, that they must look out for their safety at all times. Never let down their guard. Never miss a beat or slip up. And safety first: watch out for numero uno and thats good. I believe that. I do think that its healthy to meet ones own needs before trying to provide for others. But with that notion, has come an assumption that forgiveness is bad. That, by forgiving someone, you must compromise yourself. Compromising your own morals. And that, I dont agree with. And I think its okay to compromise ones own morals here and there. Relax. Stop trying to maintain yourself. Keeping this steady image of who you think you are: as something in your control that you can hold onto and rely on no matter what else happens. But I think thats the thing that must be most flexible. Staying true to oneself is not necessarily staying constant. People change. So dont limit yourself and restrain yourself by trying to stay true and constant to an image you want to maintain. Thats as superficial and out of touch as it gets.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
I went to church with Seth one night and I think it backfired
God, for Seth, is an unsinkable tanker built up in the water that will stay afloat through the storms and that mutes all the waves and cold.
I have no protective tanker and Seth knows that. But what he doesnt know is that he doesnt have to look down on me, swimming in the water along side him and throw me a vest and pull me up into safety and sweet salvation. Not only does he not have to, I refuse it because- as easy as that would make things- I dont want anything to be muted for me. I want to feel every rise and fall and Im saturated and my skin is pruned but thats how I like it.
I dont need the horizon line to be off in the distance so I always will have something unattainable to grasp at. Im there, I set the horizon for myself and its not just a pretty view. Beauty for me, is not just beautiful because its bizarre, other wordly and unattainable. The reason why its beautiful is because when the sun sets, it comes down right on me and crushes me into the ground and I burst into orange light and pink rays and purple shadows and when it rises in the morning, it pushes me up with it, balancing and Im part of the sky. I can see clearly the whole sky looking up and the whole world looking down and it pushes me through the clouds for that moment. Im part of it all, not just watching from the shore. And I can feel every part of it and I wouldnt give that up for anything. I would never give that up for security and stability.
A forest cant always flourish and be lush and healthy. Every once in a while, theres a forest fire. And that forest fire has to happen. And then theres rotting wood and ash and that feeds the things that eat that stuff and strengthens the soil so it will be fertile for the next generation of trees and plants.
In Boulder, the hundred year flood is due. The local newspaper has mapped out flood plains and given advice on what to do when the flood happens, Y2K, 20/12. What if the flood happens, and we get out of the way and let it happen and then carry on? I used to be afraid of earthquakes, growing up in LA. The thing that cured me of my fear was when it occured to me that, without infrastructure (building freeway onramps, stacking people on top of each other in high rise apartements so there are four layers of beds and cabinets on a shoddy short-sighted foundation, just to tempt something to come and knock it all down), earthquakes would be no problem at all. Nobody would ever die from an earthquake! again!
All of this, all of these "natural disasters" are no big deal. Its fine. And people die and friends are lost and opportunities are passed by and its all okay.
Religion (providing that unsinkable tanker for people to hop onto when really, theyve just got to swim) is halting and limiting our evolution just as vaccinations are promoting an unnatural health, a fake immune system that can fight off the little guys just by forcing them to evolve into huge killers. And hell, its the same with the economy. Now, I know nothing about the economy but I do know that theres a boom and bust situation here, and its got to be the same thing.
Its time to let go
I have no protective tanker and Seth knows that. But what he doesnt know is that he doesnt have to look down on me, swimming in the water along side him and throw me a vest and pull me up into safety and sweet salvation. Not only does he not have to, I refuse it because- as easy as that would make things- I dont want anything to be muted for me. I want to feel every rise and fall and Im saturated and my skin is pruned but thats how I like it.
I dont need the horizon line to be off in the distance so I always will have something unattainable to grasp at. Im there, I set the horizon for myself and its not just a pretty view. Beauty for me, is not just beautiful because its bizarre, other wordly and unattainable. The reason why its beautiful is because when the sun sets, it comes down right on me and crushes me into the ground and I burst into orange light and pink rays and purple shadows and when it rises in the morning, it pushes me up with it, balancing and Im part of the sky. I can see clearly the whole sky looking up and the whole world looking down and it pushes me through the clouds for that moment. Im part of it all, not just watching from the shore. And I can feel every part of it and I wouldnt give that up for anything. I would never give that up for security and stability.
A forest cant always flourish and be lush and healthy. Every once in a while, theres a forest fire. And that forest fire has to happen. And then theres rotting wood and ash and that feeds the things that eat that stuff and strengthens the soil so it will be fertile for the next generation of trees and plants.
In Boulder, the hundred year flood is due. The local newspaper has mapped out flood plains and given advice on what to do when the flood happens, Y2K, 20/12. What if the flood happens, and we get out of the way and let it happen and then carry on? I used to be afraid of earthquakes, growing up in LA. The thing that cured me of my fear was when it occured to me that, without infrastructure (building freeway onramps, stacking people on top of each other in high rise apartements so there are four layers of beds and cabinets on a shoddy short-sighted foundation, just to tempt something to come and knock it all down), earthquakes would be no problem at all. Nobody would ever die from an earthquake! again!
All of this, all of these "natural disasters" are no big deal. Its fine. And people die and friends are lost and opportunities are passed by and its all okay.
Religion (providing that unsinkable tanker for people to hop onto when really, theyve just got to swim) is halting and limiting our evolution just as vaccinations are promoting an unnatural health, a fake immune system that can fight off the little guys just by forcing them to evolve into huge killers. And hell, its the same with the economy. Now, I know nothing about the economy but I do know that theres a boom and bust situation here, and its got to be the same thing.
Its time to let go
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Boulder's Cafes
--I realized, reading over this, that is sounds really bitter. I didnt intend for that. I see most of these things as just funny and amusing. Quirky enough to put into writing. Hope it didnt come off too bitter.--
Baxter's favorite Boulder cafe is the Cup. Danny likes the Tea Box. Helen goes to Espressoria. My former English teacher can always be found with a laptop and a stack of papers in a manila envelope at the Bookend Cafe. Seth and Daniel call me to come join them at the Trident.
The Trident is probably my favorite too. You can always expect to see the same people at the Trident. Some go there for the indy hipster atmosphere, some to study. Some for the chess boards and backgammon- one of whom is the terrifying Israeli-Romanian Alex, who makes persistent eye contact and speaks in a thick undistinquishable accent. He looks like the kind of person who you would see at one in the morning, drunk, brass knuckles in pocket, looking for a fight to pick or a girl to rob. Im telling you, he's scary looking. Bald, stocky, dismissively flaunting muscle tees, gold chains and rings. But he wouldn't hurt anyone. If he's ever wandering dark allys late at night, he's just looking for someone to discuss developmental phychology with and to beat in backgammon. And oh my god he will. He knows more strategy that I thought was possible in a game made of cork triangles and stone discs.
Samuel's another psychologist I met at the Trident. He hangs around, petting and adjusting his flowing sandy 80's rocker hair, pouting his lips, making skittish eye contact with girls, hoping they'll be impressed by his highlit copy of the DSM-IV and the pot of tea on his table that maybe makes him look sensitive and in touch with... you know, horoscopes, yoga, feelings, all that crap. But no. He just wants someone to watch him from across the room, to partake in his impossible, tempestuous, star-crossed romance. He's a 28 year old man but is in all ways a 16 year old girl. I know this because one day, I went over and talked to him. He was reading The Sun Also Rises, one of my favorite books, and I noticed the little skittish eyes he had been making at me. I was brain-numbed from studying and felt like bursting his little self-indulged bubble of unilateral romantic tension, so I leaned over my table and invited him for a game of boggle. He killed at boggle so naturally I was impressed. But those were the only points he earned in my book. Literally, everything he said was a turn off, from his humble recounting of elicit, dramatic sexual escapades, to his shitty poetry and the invitation for a day of meditation and rock-climbing with him. No way would I go out of city limits with someone who lives so much in their head, could convince themselves of whatever truths favored them, and who didnt mind being suggestive with a 17 year old girl.
"I guess it would be illegal for anything to happen between us, huh."
It must have given him chills saying that. The situation was perfectly unattainable and I'm sure the word "illegal" complemented my eyes and made him squirm and smirk.
"Yes sir it would. Anyway, I have to study so Im leaving bye."
And then there was Spencer, the English major who's impressive ability to whip out of his bag whatever author or poet was mentioned, increased my visitation of the Trident in hopes of bumping into him, until I realized he was a one-act show. I like my guys multi-faceted. Also he straight-up sucked at boggle. Beautiful, though. He looked like a Greek God. A chisled statue of bold features, dark hair and black eyes. I never found out where he was from. But his personality was a bit too much like the stoic, severe statue of his demeanor so I branched out from the Trident to see what else Boulder had to offer.
Now Im at the Laughing Goat. Same cozy space with makeshift furniture but with less Naropa graduates reminiscing over charity drives, meditation workshops, astrology and the power of Soy. Here, people are concious of their volume, showing an initiative other than impressing the table next to theirs', bolstering their failing egos based on disillusioned self-righteous supremacy.
Okay, there's one problem with the Laughing Goat. The only thing in their glass case that wouldn't exacerbate my annoyingly persistant sore throat was a wedge of quiche smaller than my fist. (I have fairly small hands too.)
This quiche is made of egg-flavored rubber. I should have just gotten an italian soda. It's hard to go wrong with an italian soda.
Baxter's favorite Boulder cafe is the Cup. Danny likes the Tea Box. Helen goes to Espressoria. My former English teacher can always be found with a laptop and a stack of papers in a manila envelope at the Bookend Cafe. Seth and Daniel call me to come join them at the Trident.
The Trident is probably my favorite too. You can always expect to see the same people at the Trident. Some go there for the indy hipster atmosphere, some to study. Some for the chess boards and backgammon- one of whom is the terrifying Israeli-Romanian Alex, who makes persistent eye contact and speaks in a thick undistinquishable accent. He looks like the kind of person who you would see at one in the morning, drunk, brass knuckles in pocket, looking for a fight to pick or a girl to rob. Im telling you, he's scary looking. Bald, stocky, dismissively flaunting muscle tees, gold chains and rings. But he wouldn't hurt anyone. If he's ever wandering dark allys late at night, he's just looking for someone to discuss developmental phychology with and to beat in backgammon. And oh my god he will. He knows more strategy that I thought was possible in a game made of cork triangles and stone discs.
Samuel's another psychologist I met at the Trident. He hangs around, petting and adjusting his flowing sandy 80's rocker hair, pouting his lips, making skittish eye contact with girls, hoping they'll be impressed by his highlit copy of the DSM-IV and the pot of tea on his table that maybe makes him look sensitive and in touch with... you know, horoscopes, yoga, feelings, all that crap. But no. He just wants someone to watch him from across the room, to partake in his impossible, tempestuous, star-crossed romance. He's a 28 year old man but is in all ways a 16 year old girl. I know this because one day, I went over and talked to him. He was reading The Sun Also Rises, one of my favorite books, and I noticed the little skittish eyes he had been making at me. I was brain-numbed from studying and felt like bursting his little self-indulged bubble of unilateral romantic tension, so I leaned over my table and invited him for a game of boggle. He killed at boggle so naturally I was impressed. But those were the only points he earned in my book. Literally, everything he said was a turn off, from his humble recounting of elicit, dramatic sexual escapades, to his shitty poetry and the invitation for a day of meditation and rock-climbing with him. No way would I go out of city limits with someone who lives so much in their head, could convince themselves of whatever truths favored them, and who didnt mind being suggestive with a 17 year old girl.
"I guess it would be illegal for anything to happen between us, huh."
It must have given him chills saying that. The situation was perfectly unattainable and I'm sure the word "illegal" complemented my eyes and made him squirm and smirk.
"Yes sir it would. Anyway, I have to study so Im leaving bye."
And then there was Spencer, the English major who's impressive ability to whip out of his bag whatever author or poet was mentioned, increased my visitation of the Trident in hopes of bumping into him, until I realized he was a one-act show. I like my guys multi-faceted. Also he straight-up sucked at boggle. Beautiful, though. He looked like a Greek God. A chisled statue of bold features, dark hair and black eyes. I never found out where he was from. But his personality was a bit too much like the stoic, severe statue of his demeanor so I branched out from the Trident to see what else Boulder had to offer.
Now Im at the Laughing Goat. Same cozy space with makeshift furniture but with less Naropa graduates reminiscing over charity drives, meditation workshops, astrology and the power of Soy. Here, people are concious of their volume, showing an initiative other than impressing the table next to theirs', bolstering their failing egos based on disillusioned self-righteous supremacy.
Okay, there's one problem with the Laughing Goat. The only thing in their glass case that wouldn't exacerbate my annoyingly persistant sore throat was a wedge of quiche smaller than my fist. (I have fairly small hands too.)
This quiche is made of egg-flavored rubber. I should have just gotten an italian soda. It's hard to go wrong with an italian soda.
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