Black & White

Today I learned a new word: Manichean. It's defined as the tendency to see things in black or white. There are those who would use this word to describe me.

I'm told that things are either good or bad for me. Either on or off. That it's always all or nothing. That there's no negotiating or compromising with me. If I can't have everything just so, then I'll forgo it altogether.

While it's true that I have these tendencies, I wouldn't describe them in such simple terms. I see things in vivid colors, and not just two. When I feel a certain way, that feeling has weight. It has substance. It has characteristics and properties that allow it to do things to my soul.

A feeling can be fashioned into many different weapons. A feeling can also become a vessel that transports me to different levels of bliss. Is there an in-between? Certainly. The in-between is like the din of everyday life. There is no such thing as silence. My poles are like the difference between elevator music and joyful laughter. Like wanting to puke my guts out versus hungering desperately for something. The in-between isn't necessarily a place of indifference -- but it's not something to strive for, either. It's a place void of strong desire. If all I meant to be was carefree, then the in-between is where I would go.

And honestly, sometimes I think that might be the way to go. Why not live in the gray twilight? It's certainly easier than either wanting or rejecting wants. Maybe just being accepting is the path to true happiness.

But that -- to me -- is like not wanting anything. And what kind of way is that to live?

Yes ... okay, I see how this could be construed as a black and white view. Manichean: That's me.

 

Banking And Beer

Today I ate lunch at my favorite brewpub, a Mcmenamins location called Six Arms. It's been a long time since I've been there, which was evident from the change in beer selection. On tap was a new beer called "Bernanke's Dream", which was the third and final brew in a series called "The Big Bailout". The first two in the series were no longer available; I can't remember what they were called exactly, but they were named after Paulson and Geithner. It's too bad I missed out on trying them. The "Bernanke's Dream" was quite good. Malty and hoppy, it also had some seasonal spice flavors (i.e., nutmeg and cinnamon) and a fine finish. If this is the type of thing the banking crisis inspires, I might require more crises in the future. Yum.

 

To Be Complete

Everyone is broken. Each of us has been shattered by life in some way or another, crushed or wounded beyond repair. A part of me is comforted by the broken parts in others. Somehow it helps to know that I'm not the only one, and I guess looking for those broken parts in others has become automatic for me. Rarely do I come across exceptions, and it's difficult to trust that it's not there in some people.

There is one couple whose broken spots I still haven't located. I've known my boss and his wife for more than eight years, for example, and they still seem complete in a way that others are not. I've seen them stressed and angry and I've seen them bicker, but they work it all out. Their lives are what normal should be. They're more normal than normal -- they're beyond normal, super-normal, perhaps. They're both funny and popular and they always turn the things they say into the right things, even when they're not. Their lives seem touched by fortune and untouched by whatever it is that breaks the rest of us. They don't let the world bother them too much. I must be missing something, though, even after all this time. I mean, is it possible for anyone to pretend that well, and for that long?

Being broken isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's just that I sometimes find myself wishing I were whole. The scars aren't what make us incomplete; it's the broken parts, the gaps and poorly glued-back-together pieces that ruin us. To be whole, I would have had to withstand the crushing forces, to beat them or, at the least, not surrender to them. I don't want to be fragmented. I want the choices I face to be clear. I want my intentions to be focused. I don't want to waver or hesitate at the precipices inside my broken self.

See, to be whole isn't to have it easier; it's to have certainty about who you are. With certainty comes a kind of power and freedom: The kind of power that allows you to be deliberate without faking it, and the kind of freedom that protects you from all of the wondering and questioning about potentials.

I imagine how much more straightforward life would be if I were whole. And then I wish there were a way to repair myself.

 

Writing Stuff Down

Every now and then, I'm tempted to start a new journal, one that I can touch and feel and make marks in. I miss writing stuff down on paper, especially stuff that doesn't have to make sense to anyone else but me. I miss using a pen and hearing the scratchy sound that it produces on paper. There's something very comforting about it. But maybe this is a sign of old age, like someone missing the way it feels to write with a quill and a bottle of ink.

Mainly I miss getting stuff off my chest and having it seep into the paper, like blood. As much as I enjoy pounding on a keyboard, the act lacks seepage. No matter how hard I hit those keys, the feeling I put into it will never be more visible. Maybe word processors should be more like pianos; if they were touch sensitive, all of the letters could look different from each other and compositions could be more expressive; some words would have more flourish, some would look splattered onto the document. That's actually not a bad idea, but it would still be missing something.

That something could be the inherent adventure involved in avoiding paper cuts. It could be in how definite or permanent it feels to make an actual mark on something real, something that was once living, and in knowing that deletion isn't possible. It could be about the relationship with the notepad, having carried it everywhere and turned it this way and that during the writing process, having left some sweat on the paper and having been given some ink stains in return.

Whatever the reason, a journal kept on paper just seems more personal, and sometimes I think about starting one again. Maybe one day.

 

Noticing As They Go

A question that I often ask myself, and just as often fail to answer, is: What am I doing with my life? I recall that I never planned to live this way. If it was ever part of the plan, then it was supposed to be a small part, something to help get me to the place where I really wanted to be. Instead, I feel like I've fallen into the same trap that everyone falls into. I've become too comfortable with the rut that I'm in; you could even say that I'm fond of the rut.

And then I remember that this life is temporary, and it forces me to take a closer look at the rut I'm in. If I continue to cling to my current lifestyle, then the majority of my days will take the shape of the office that I sit in and the commute required for me to get there. My experiences will be mostly limited to whatever time I spend at the office desk, pounding out code fragments that are largely meaningless.

What if I were to say goodbye to this rut, though, and make drastic changes? What kinds of things would I do instead? Here are some scenarios that come to mind:

I would find myself a cheap house or cabin, a fixer-upper in a great location (on the beach, or beside a lake in a secluded spot in the mountains, etc.), something that I could buy with cash. I'd find myself some part-time work (manual labor or something creative, woodworking or farming or brewing beer) or work that I could do out of my own house. I'd write. Maybe my writing would become my work. I'd spend a lot of time outside, even if it was just reading in the hammock on my back porch. I'd swim. I'd boat, probably on something rickety and old. I'd keep a vegetable patch and maybe do some fishing. I'd mostly pretend that the rest of the world didn't exist, except for those times when I hopped in the car to take a road trip or to visit a local saloon or bookshop. Perhaps I'd occasionally teach a class at the community center, something about computers or literature. Sometimes, my road trips would have no definite end; I would just keep going from one small town to the next, stopping for a few days here and there whenever a place seemed particularly charming. Now and then, I'd drop in unexpectedly on friends and family.

Okay, honestly, I don't know if this dream scenario wouldn't end up being just another kind of rut.

I suppose the crux of the matter is that I don't want to be in a position to allow my days to slip by without my hardly noticing; I want to notice them going! I don't want to spend the majority of my life in service to something else unless it's something I care about intensely. I don't simply want to sustain my life from day to day; I want to be actively creating it! Every day.

So I guess the question is: Can I do this without making drastic changes?

 

Mixed Feelings

Half of the time, I wish I were loved by someone who was worth loving back.

The other half of the time, I don't feel that I'm worth loving.

As someone who is observant of the nuances of language, you might notice that my own self-worth is non-existent in both of the statements above. There's only a faint hope for someone else's worth. The first statement seems to imply some self-worth, but it doesn't. What it implies is a wish for a better world.

If I were to rephrase these statements, I might say something like this: I don't deserve what I have, and no one else does either. But maybe there's someone who would.

 

Waiting In Limbo

Being in limbo,
I want neither the problem
Nor the solution;
And so I wait for something else,
Perhaps for the moment that I forget
What the problem was at all.

 

I'd Rather Starve

Oftentimes, I wonder about the things that I settle for. Compromise is just a word for settling, right? I wonder why I accept things the way they are.

When I go out to eat and the food is hardly recognizable, I wonder why I don't go without it. When I cook a meal and fail to cook it well, I wonder why I go on eating it.

When I hang out with a friend and I'm let down by the way they've treated me, I wonder why I allow our relationship to pass as friendship. When I fail to be a good friend by own terms, I wonder why I allow anyone to go on associating with me.

When I conduct business with people who are unreliable and who are clearly unconcerned with my experience, I wonder why I continue giving them my business. When I rush through my own work as if I don't care, I wonder why anyone still does business with me.

When I read a book by someone who writes terribly, I wonder why I force myself to finish. When I write a story that doesn't even work for me, I wonder why I allow anyone to read it.

When I treat myself and the things I'm responsible for poorly, I wonder where my pride is. When I allow others to treat me poorly, I once again wonder where my pride is.

When I find myself wondering why I'm spending my time and my energy in the ways that I am, I know it's time to change something.

The truth is, I'm starving for some quality. And without a whole lot more quality, I'd rather starve. The fact that I go without it in so many ways already makes me wonder whether I have any pride left at all. There are many things that I should toss or let go. And other things need far more attention than I currently give them.

Some people think I'm too demanding. I think I'm not demanding enough. It's time for me to stop accepting things the way they are.

 

Everything I Expected And Less

To continue with the theme of my recent post about being sheltered from the world, here is a quote that I find amusing and relevant:

"I didn't want to leave that party. It was great."

"No, it wasn't. The music was too loud, the food was cold, the drinks were too few and the people many. It was everything I expected and less. I'm never going outside again unless I need to find a place to throw up."

Excerpt from Black Books

 

Trust As Gift

I once thought (and perhaps still do) that trust was just another word for believing in the truthfulness of someone. I've come to see that this isn't how people use the word, though.

Often for people, trust only means agreeing not to worry about the truth. Not worrying, in my mind, always means not caring. To use a writer's phrase, it means suspending your disbelief. Suspending your disbelief means allowing fiction to rule. It means being open to fantasy. In practical terms, it means acting "as if" you believe something is true.

The problem here is that people tend to forget that they're acting after a while and start to believe the act instead of the reality. On a barely-related note, the same can be said for happiness. People say: If you act happy, then you'll be happy; if you smile and laugh, then you'll feel better. I say: These are just ways of forgetting about what we really feel. We forget that we aren't happy, which is probably OK (and maybe even good enough), but the mistake is that we think we've replaced what we've forgotten with real happiness. Likewise, in the case of trust, we trade our suspension of disbelief with what we come to think of as true belief. This, also, is a mistake, I think.

When we allow ourselves to do this, trust becomes a gift. We don't get anything in return for it; in fact, we shouldn't even expect to. In this context, saying "I trust you" is like saying "I'm giving you the ability to hurt me, but I hope you won't do so." Our trust may be appreciated, but it's possible (even likely) that there is no basis for it whatsoever. A person doesn't have to earn it. Even when we have reason not to trust, we still give this gift, anyway. I don't know why. Maybe we just don't want to care. We don't want to worry. Maybe we want to suspend our disbelief. Maybe we prefer our fictionalized versions of reality.

 

Sometimes It's Best To Hide Away

I was shuffling along the streets of downtown Seattle, lost in thought and, except for the cracks in the sidewalk passing beneath my feet, unaware of the rest of the world. It's possible that I was sighing heavily and frequently, but I didn't think it was any reason to take notice of me. Perhaps it was enough, however, because suddenly I was being yelled at by a stranger on the street.

"Hey buddy!" he called. "Cheer up, will you? You're depressing the hell out of me!"

Ugh. I didn't realize I was having such an effect on others.

 

Happiness In Another Universe

I've just finished reading an immense novel by Neal Stephenson called Anathem. It's an interesting story that takes place in an alternate cosmos with characters who use words not known in our own cosmos (if I ever find myself in that particular universe, I am now fluent in their language). In addition to science fiction, there's a lot of philosophy in the story dealing with things such as knowledge and where it comes from, as well as how the acquisition of knowledge may alter everything else. And something I particularly liked about the story was the existence of secluded places (like convents minus the religion) where characters spent their entire lives largely devoted to the study of science, math and philosophy. I wouldn't mind living like that, I think.

There were also repeating themes in the story related to various methods for finding happiness. As an example, there's a chemical called "allswell" which, if you ingest it and have enough of it in your system, will make you feel good in general. In my mind, I equated this made-up chemical with real-world habits like drugs, television and fast food. It wasn't a huge leap to make -- in the story, characters referred to the difference between working for your happiness and obtaining it the easy way, i.e., by some type of shortcut. Here's a snippet found early in the novel:

We moved on across the pavement slab. "Look," I said, "it's been understood at least since the Praxic Age that if you have enough allswell floating around in your bloodstream, your brain will tell you in a hundred different ways that everything is all right --"

"And if you don't, you end up like you and me," he said.

I tried to become angry, then surrendered with a laugh. "All right," I said, "let's go with that. A minute ago, we passed a stand of blithe in the median strip --"

"I saw it too, and the one by the pre-owned-pornography store."

"That one looked fresher. We could go pick it and eat it, and eventually the level of allswell in our blood would go up and we could eventually live out here, or anywhere, and feel happy. Or we could go back to the concent and try to come by our happiness honestly."

Sounds like happiness in an alternate cosmos is not much different from happiness here. If only for the fact that the story dealt with matters like these, I would say that I enjoyed the book (although, because of the length of the novel, I do wonder whether the author was using some sort of allswell himself). Still, it was a thought-provoking story all around.