Thursday, May 19, 2011
Memories of Dreams
Well, a strange bit of neuronal connection seems to be happening lately. In my head, that is. That is this: I'm having distinct memories of dreams. Dreams that I had long ago. Of events that never actually happened, nor could ever occur. Weird thing, that, to be stuck inside of a cloud of nostalgia for a dream. I know it might seem quaint, but I was sucked in by the "devil" in my recent dream memory. He was charming, and cunning, and I emulated him. Of course, my notion of right vs. wrong was totally skewed until the end of the dream, when I was shown the error of my ways, and their irreversible consequences.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Pervasive Insecurity and a Cure
It occurred to me today that there's a lot of insecurity out there--and in here, if you know what I mean. Many people in their 20s and 30s, especially, are trying on new identities and trying to make certain things fit. I see it in lots of ways. One way is through hesitance to voice opinion, or to be warm, for instance. Or conversely, to be overly warm. To, further, act like you've got it all figured out, or that "it" is so big and complex that any figuring out is completely worthless. So a false self-esteem occurs, a sense of jockeying for status, and other excessive kevetching, or withdrawal.
There are definitely people that buck the trend. I'm not really one of them, but I can recognize them. They're plain spoken. They don't see complexity; they seek answers. They care about answers to questions they ask, and they are not afraid of stating an opinion that belies their position. In short, they don't seek approval everywhere they turn. Honestly, I think you've gotta live quite a long time and through a lot of different circumstances to become this person. There are many dangers out there lurking to transform us, especially those, like me, who are weak to temptation, and eager to please. I sort of fall apart without a base to rely on. I like stable personalities. I like people, to some extent, to tell me what to do. At least when I'm feeling insecure and weak. It helps me resolve my lack of direction, and at times, my severe apathy. I'm working on this facet of my personality--that is, letting go of seeking goals to stabilize myself.
I talk to my mom some times, and try to be open to the words she expresses, and especially, the hard places she's found herself in throughout her life. I haven't been open to her too much in the past. Most of the time she was lame. What she is, though, is a tireless, and mostly ego-less hard worker. A lot of people are this way. Thankless hard workers, without the desire to become famous, or think of themselves as really special, or much else, beyond the act of helping others exist. That's all we've got, really. What I'm also saying, I suppose, is that a lot of the insecurity we all exhibit is demonstrated because we're sons and daughters of a generation that believed anything and everything was possible--that they were a bit more special--they had a greater emphasis on individuality and creativity. That's good, of course, in the right balance. It can be highly insidious too. Of the abusive men and women I've known, each one felt very, very special, and exceptional, and better than those around them. I think that, because I'm partially a victim of that personality, I developed a defense mechanism against this type of special thinking, and, simultaneously, was comforted by the approval I've received and sought for my behaviors and actions. I know, I can hear you out there: that's only natural, and normal.
Well, you're right. And so I am. That's why our emotional selves are truly a delicate balance. I wish I could increase my own empathy--and I mean, in the moment, the day to day moments, really, of everyday life. And I wish I could increase other people's empathy for each other too. I wish that all could be nice and easy. It isn't. We have limitations. We have great potential, but also, great limitation. I don't have much of a conclusion. The cure, though, you're wondering about? Simply the realization that everyone else is situated similarly. Most people, in other words, struggle much like you or I, and most of them could use a helping hand every now and then. I'm not telling you that helping people should be your only mission in life, or mine. I think we do have to look out for ourselves first and foremost. Still, we are, whether we like it or not, engaged with the world around us, and we're here together. We share much more than what separates us.
There are definitely people that buck the trend. I'm not really one of them, but I can recognize them. They're plain spoken. They don't see complexity; they seek answers. They care about answers to questions they ask, and they are not afraid of stating an opinion that belies their position. In short, they don't seek approval everywhere they turn. Honestly, I think you've gotta live quite a long time and through a lot of different circumstances to become this person. There are many dangers out there lurking to transform us, especially those, like me, who are weak to temptation, and eager to please. I sort of fall apart without a base to rely on. I like stable personalities. I like people, to some extent, to tell me what to do. At least when I'm feeling insecure and weak. It helps me resolve my lack of direction, and at times, my severe apathy. I'm working on this facet of my personality--that is, letting go of seeking goals to stabilize myself.
I talk to my mom some times, and try to be open to the words she expresses, and especially, the hard places she's found herself in throughout her life. I haven't been open to her too much in the past. Most of the time she was lame. What she is, though, is a tireless, and mostly ego-less hard worker. A lot of people are this way. Thankless hard workers, without the desire to become famous, or think of themselves as really special, or much else, beyond the act of helping others exist. That's all we've got, really. What I'm also saying, I suppose, is that a lot of the insecurity we all exhibit is demonstrated because we're sons and daughters of a generation that believed anything and everything was possible--that they were a bit more special--they had a greater emphasis on individuality and creativity. That's good, of course, in the right balance. It can be highly insidious too. Of the abusive men and women I've known, each one felt very, very special, and exceptional, and better than those around them. I think that, because I'm partially a victim of that personality, I developed a defense mechanism against this type of special thinking, and, simultaneously, was comforted by the approval I've received and sought for my behaviors and actions. I know, I can hear you out there: that's only natural, and normal.
Well, you're right. And so I am. That's why our emotional selves are truly a delicate balance. I wish I could increase my own empathy--and I mean, in the moment, the day to day moments, really, of everyday life. And I wish I could increase other people's empathy for each other too. I wish that all could be nice and easy. It isn't. We have limitations. We have great potential, but also, great limitation. I don't have much of a conclusion. The cure, though, you're wondering about? Simply the realization that everyone else is situated similarly. Most people, in other words, struggle much like you or I, and most of them could use a helping hand every now and then. I'm not telling you that helping people should be your only mission in life, or mine. I think we do have to look out for ourselves first and foremost. Still, we are, whether we like it or not, engaged with the world around us, and we're here together. We share much more than what separates us.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Sticking to Instincts -- Paradoxical Thinking
The danger, for me, is always to feel something, then associate my feeling with a perspective, or belief, or ineffable muttering, and become emotionally attached to the idea that I think follows [but which does not necessary imply what I think it does, all the time]. How does this work? Well, for instance, an egalitarian viewpoint come to mind immediately: inequality is wrong. The question is more about framing, context, and degrees of severity, than it is about carte blanche thinking. Fairness, I think, is almost a genetic predisposition--we feel that it is right to be fair. We know it. We don't know what it means, but the fairness instinct is pricked when we say things like "Inequality is wrong." Why? Well, inequality isn't fair, because it cannot be fair that so many people, let's say 99/100 of them in an average city block of a random city, have assets equivalent to 50,000 dollars, and 1 of them has assets equivalent to 500,000 dollars, especially when we perceive the 50,000 dollar folks to suffer because of things that money could solve.
What's much harder to measure is that there could be a justified reason for the discrepancy. Indeed, that the 50,000 folks might be in a 500 dollar category, even, were it not for the resultant rewards of the 500,000 person. Maybe not possible, but not impossible either. If we accept the precept that I just laid out, though, then then inequality might seem justified. I could also justify it by saying that the 500,000 person saved an equivalent of 500 more lives than the other people on the block, basically that his or her social worth is equivalent to his or her financial worth. That's why we generally don't balk at doctors making huge sums of money, because we've bought in to the precept that their jobs are carte blanche justified in terms of social value and financial compensation.
We don't go around testing such things. We don't have to. Instead, we use black and white thinking, and instincts--at least more often than not--to justify what we feel is the case.
What's much harder to measure is that there could be a justified reason for the discrepancy. Indeed, that the 50,000 folks might be in a 500 dollar category, even, were it not for the resultant rewards of the 500,000 person. Maybe not possible, but not impossible either. If we accept the precept that I just laid out, though, then then inequality might seem justified. I could also justify it by saying that the 500,000 person saved an equivalent of 500 more lives than the other people on the block, basically that his or her social worth is equivalent to his or her financial worth. That's why we generally don't balk at doctors making huge sums of money, because we've bought in to the precept that their jobs are carte blanche justified in terms of social value and financial compensation.
We don't go around testing such things. We don't have to. Instead, we use black and white thinking, and instincts--at least more often than not--to justify what we feel is the case.
Blank Post
There are kids in my living room, and an old man on the couch. Near the drafty windows, the heaters pump out more noise than anything else. We play the same Chopin every Sunday, and the notes do not feel bright anymore, though the repetition has allowed me to spot any one of the notes, in isolation, on their own, and I've used this skill at various cocktail parties to impress sundry hosts. I'm drooling on myself, I notice, and then snap out of the daze and get up for hot wasabi and the flesh of cold sushi on my own tongue. One day, I"ll wander into the mall, set myself up in a store front, and inject nitroglycerin into my veins, only to be thawed out and revitalized when women rule the world and every belief withers with age like the recharge on portable electronics. We stare at them as if they make us live longer, as if we can escape fundamental truths that way--of boredom, of monotony, of callous behavioral ambiguity. The electronic devices.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Formatting is . . . useful.
The side streets of manhattan's western outliers hit me this morning with an crisp overflowing morning breath, somewhere between the post office of eighth ave and the puddle of gas-infused urine on 10th, between my identity decomposing and submergence into ennui, and the disquieting patience of constipated starbucks patrons, all jiving for my bathroom spot.
If I could have passed out, taken a break, I would have done so. Instead, I chose to imbibe myself on caffeine prior to a computer-generated training that sucked all liquids from my ensconced half-sheathed epidermal fringe, and displayed them, Light emitted diode style, in front of my post-pubescent eyes, a landscape of grid lines, snap shots, and controlled space, and you'll tell me I'm just joking, although I assure you, I am not, gives some peace to my heretofore slippery being. To say it plainly: I like spreadsheets.
As an aside, it is difficult to recognize negative space without being trained to do so. Difficult as well to train yourself not to seek order, to fall into prefabrication. The trick is not pretending to be somewhere that you are not, so as to wake up with a startling realization of profound confusion--that all thoughts, belief systems, and known entities, were and are fundamentally flawed. It helps, in this effort, to base thoughts, entities, and belief systems, however sheer or flimsy they may be, in firmly known knowns, and stick to them with mathematical precision. To wit: math. Formulas. Assumptions to build oneself a little fortress on, with the more bristly pine cones to lay down first and absorb water, followed by the downy layer upon which to place a fat pale ass after a long week in self-imposed exile.
If I could have passed out, taken a break, I would have done so. Instead, I chose to imbibe myself on caffeine prior to a computer-generated training that sucked all liquids from my ensconced half-sheathed epidermal fringe, and displayed them, Light emitted diode style, in front of my post-pubescent eyes, a landscape of grid lines, snap shots, and controlled space, and you'll tell me I'm just joking, although I assure you, I am not, gives some peace to my heretofore slippery being. To say it plainly: I like spreadsheets.
As an aside, it is difficult to recognize negative space without being trained to do so. Difficult as well to train yourself not to seek order, to fall into prefabrication. The trick is not pretending to be somewhere that you are not, so as to wake up with a startling realization of profound confusion--that all thoughts, belief systems, and known entities, were and are fundamentally flawed. It helps, in this effort, to base thoughts, entities, and belief systems, however sheer or flimsy they may be, in firmly known knowns, and stick to them with mathematical precision. To wit: math. Formulas. Assumptions to build oneself a little fortress on, with the more bristly pine cones to lay down first and absorb water, followed by the downy layer upon which to place a fat pale ass after a long week in self-imposed exile.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Life Lived
Eleven years seems like a long time ago. Some 11 years ago a seminal event occurred in my life. Today. May 10. 2000. I'll always be able to track the year because of that.
Anyway, in no direct relation there are two thoughts I'd like to share on this, a temperate splayed out evening of continual blooming pollen, which, to tell the truth, builds little canals of mucus in my nostrils and flails about under my eyelids like two young lovers over-eager to undress (albeit young lovers covered in microscopic razor blades) The first thought is simply that I'm more conservative than liberal in my personal behavioral patterns. That just is. I'm not extroverted unless I'm around good friends. I understand perfectly the need to remain quiet.
Second thought: cue typewriter: I will make it through this year. It isn't in the distant future that this will happen. It will be next month. I'll try to post until my birthday, as promised, daily, and maybe sporadically after that. I realize that I could have done more research, answered more questions, heighten my level of compunction with some more clearly defined wry wit. I realize, in short, that I don't always make myself easily understood. Part of this is due to the fact that I am not always clear myself. Usually I'm muttering about in the dark. My one solace is that I can share this blinds-man bluff with a few people.
Not drinking has made me value my relationships more, while taking me away from friends too. I'm just not as social as I used to be; I don't pine to walk to cruddy streets of manhattan and feel manic energy blow excess steam out of my peripheral vision. I truly value my solitary moments. I try to slow myself down, and to focus. I realize, too, that the world is not magnanimous. Anyway, I shall save these tidbits for later. Suffice it to say that I've absconded away with the true second thought, which is this: our lives are terribly, terribly short. They whiz by on the ledge of a mad carousel. Figuring out what we really care about is vital. They will not close, story-book fashion, without loose ends. We need not fully develop. We need not mature. Our outsides may be burnt thick and insides frozen.
There is nothing that need be; there is, nothing, that need not be.
Anyway, in no direct relation there are two thoughts I'd like to share on this, a temperate splayed out evening of continual blooming pollen, which, to tell the truth, builds little canals of mucus in my nostrils and flails about under my eyelids like two young lovers over-eager to undress (albeit young lovers covered in microscopic razor blades) The first thought is simply that I'm more conservative than liberal in my personal behavioral patterns. That just is. I'm not extroverted unless I'm around good friends. I understand perfectly the need to remain quiet.
Second thought: cue typewriter: I will make it through this year. It isn't in the distant future that this will happen. It will be next month. I'll try to post until my birthday, as promised, daily, and maybe sporadically after that. I realize that I could have done more research, answered more questions, heighten my level of compunction with some more clearly defined wry wit. I realize, in short, that I don't always make myself easily understood. Part of this is due to the fact that I am not always clear myself. Usually I'm muttering about in the dark. My one solace is that I can share this blinds-man bluff with a few people.
Not drinking has made me value my relationships more, while taking me away from friends too. I'm just not as social as I used to be; I don't pine to walk to cruddy streets of manhattan and feel manic energy blow excess steam out of my peripheral vision. I truly value my solitary moments. I try to slow myself down, and to focus. I realize, too, that the world is not magnanimous. Anyway, I shall save these tidbits for later. Suffice it to say that I've absconded away with the true second thought, which is this: our lives are terribly, terribly short. They whiz by on the ledge of a mad carousel. Figuring out what we really care about is vital. They will not close, story-book fashion, without loose ends. We need not fully develop. We need not mature. Our outsides may be burnt thick and insides frozen.
There is nothing that need be; there is, nothing, that need not be.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Tego Jeszcze Nie Wie Nikt - Edyta Geppert
Sen o Zyciu - Dream About Life
Te marzenia którym skrzydeł brak
Usta pełne pustych słów
Drogowskazy które stoją tam
Gdzie nie było nigdy dróg
Czas wędruje po manowcach gdzieś
Nie wiadomo zmierzch czy świt
Może wszystko to jest tylko snem
Który właśnie nam się śni
Może świat śni się nam
Może my się śnimy komuś
Jak naprawdę jest nie wiadomo
Tego jeszcze nie wie nikt
Czy to świat śni się nam
Czy to my się śnimy sobie
Nikt niestety nam nie odpowie
Tego jeszcze nie wie nikt
Te starania by zostawić ślad
Na ruchomych piaskach dni
Śmieszna wiara że zdołamy wpław
Do szczęśliwych dotrzeć wysp
W zapytania ślad układa się
Codzienności szary dym
Może wszystko to jest tylko snem
Który właśnie nam się śni
Może świat śni się nam...
Te marzenia którym skrzydeł brak
Usta pełne pustych słów
Drogowskazy które stoją tam
Gdzie nie było nigdy dróg
Czas wędruje po manowcach gdzieś
Nie wiadomo zmierzch czy świt
Może wszystko to jest tylko snem
Który właśnie nam się śni
Może świat śni się nam
Może my się śnimy komuś
Jak naprawdę jest nie wiadomo
Tego jeszcze nie wie nikt
Czy to świat śni się nam
Czy to my się śnimy sobie
Nikt niestety nam nie odpowie
Tego jeszcze nie wie nikt
Te starania by zostawić ślad
Na ruchomych piaskach dni
Śmieszna wiara że zdołamy wpław
Do szczęśliwych dotrzeć wysp
W zapytania ślad układa się
Codzienności szary dym
Może wszystko to jest tylko snem
Który właśnie nam się śni
Może świat śni się nam...
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Thinking and Not Thinking and "Everything" -
I have a tendency toward obsessiveness. One way that it manifests itself is through sheer thought patterns that, while ceaseless, remain relatively incomplete, and yet, sort of compound away in my aching brain so that I'm on the borderline of real and honest anxiety. I don't know where the desires to think about things come from, or how they get into my brain, or what those things are. Sort of like surfing the internet. You don't know why you're reading out the new trendy raw chocolate pomegranate enemas the hipsters in williamsburg swear by, but you are--and you must.
Except that you don't. I don't. Part of getting sober has been the slow realization that even though I might "get" a lot of references at times, in certain company, I cannot, and will never be able to, know all references. I cannot avoid saying "no, I never heard of that, what/who is it?" Stunning, right? Because at the same time, I feel a pang of shame creep up every time I have to ask it, like I should already know, especially if someone is already talking about it to me, as if we already shared some experience.-- When what's really going on is that a lot of people cherish a sort of cryptic talk that's highly specialized for certain things. One of those things, of course, is group cohesion, and another, naturally, is to test someone's ability to decipher something and spit back the correct response. In other words, it matters whether we can respond appropriately, and at the same time, if given enough exposure to enough people, and enough information, we won't be able to pin down all the language games that percolate up through the air and into our ears without systemitizing it somehow, in our own language, and with our own thoughts . . .
Thoughts and language that is, while self-reflexive, should also be objective enough to be responded to entertain conversation. Which is just what other people are probably doing around me, when my previously slightly paranoid self would second guess meaning and fracture my own identity over the need to get something or not get something, whether intellectually, morally, or else wise.
Now, there's a tremendous tendency to shirk all convention, and to "stop" thinking. To stop with all of the slipperiness of language, and just exist--to put one's hand up at the spigot and turn the damn thing off. All that water. All those thoughts. All the stuff that is simultaneously going on and that I have to stay current on.... kind of frenetic and high paced when you get right down to it... and even while I was imbibing on alcohol I was filtering through those thoughts, I was also spewing them out. Even when I was overwhelmed I naturally turned around and relished in the fact that I could open my own mouth and overwhelm other people. Why? Part of it at least has to be that we learn through experience, sure. But the meat of the dish, I think, is that we need to put through what we feel like we're going through, to do a miniature recreation, and see how they respond, with what substance they conjure meaning, and that we do it in a less than conscious state.
To state this all in a different way: our first reaction to something new is to bring it back to those we have previous relationships with and show them, somehow, whether through a summary, or through an emotional interchange, and see how it is they deal with it--whether it is fair or not.
There is a lot going on out there, anyway, and no matter how many distillers of information there are, we cannot digest it all, even if mostly edited out. We like to have stories to hang our hats on, and we will invent them, backward in time, for comfort in the face of oncoming stimuli, and for the sake of staying sane. That doesn't mean, I think, that the patterns we recognize are untrue, just that they are not more predominate than other multitudinous patterns that we de-emphasize when we notice the one; that's nothing to worry about, per se, because the idea is that we cannot see all of it at once. We cannot simply put our mouth on the spigot and turn open a lake. We need to swim about and be free and forget at times. And other times we need to immerse ourselves in the gory details, especially when they are overwhelming. I'm not sure which times are which. Some people are really good at all the details all the time. Others are good at all big picture stuff all the time too.
Except that you don't. I don't. Part of getting sober has been the slow realization that even though I might "get" a lot of references at times, in certain company, I cannot, and will never be able to, know all references. I cannot avoid saying "no, I never heard of that, what/who is it?" Stunning, right? Because at the same time, I feel a pang of shame creep up every time I have to ask it, like I should already know, especially if someone is already talking about it to me, as if we already shared some experience.-- When what's really going on is that a lot of people cherish a sort of cryptic talk that's highly specialized for certain things. One of those things, of course, is group cohesion, and another, naturally, is to test someone's ability to decipher something and spit back the correct response. In other words, it matters whether we can respond appropriately, and at the same time, if given enough exposure to enough people, and enough information, we won't be able to pin down all the language games that percolate up through the air and into our ears without systemitizing it somehow, in our own language, and with our own thoughts . . .
Thoughts and language that is, while self-reflexive, should also be objective enough to be responded to entertain conversation. Which is just what other people are probably doing around me, when my previously slightly paranoid self would second guess meaning and fracture my own identity over the need to get something or not get something, whether intellectually, morally, or else wise.
Now, there's a tremendous tendency to shirk all convention, and to "stop" thinking. To stop with all of the slipperiness of language, and just exist--to put one's hand up at the spigot and turn the damn thing off. All that water. All those thoughts. All the stuff that is simultaneously going on and that I have to stay current on.... kind of frenetic and high paced when you get right down to it... and even while I was imbibing on alcohol I was filtering through those thoughts, I was also spewing them out. Even when I was overwhelmed I naturally turned around and relished in the fact that I could open my own mouth and overwhelm other people. Why? Part of it at least has to be that we learn through experience, sure. But the meat of the dish, I think, is that we need to put through what we feel like we're going through, to do a miniature recreation, and see how they respond, with what substance they conjure meaning, and that we do it in a less than conscious state.
To state this all in a different way: our first reaction to something new is to bring it back to those we have previous relationships with and show them, somehow, whether through a summary, or through an emotional interchange, and see how it is they deal with it--whether it is fair or not.
There is a lot going on out there, anyway, and no matter how many distillers of information there are, we cannot digest it all, even if mostly edited out. We like to have stories to hang our hats on, and we will invent them, backward in time, for comfort in the face of oncoming stimuli, and for the sake of staying sane. That doesn't mean, I think, that the patterns we recognize are untrue, just that they are not more predominate than other multitudinous patterns that we de-emphasize when we notice the one; that's nothing to worry about, per se, because the idea is that we cannot see all of it at once. We cannot simply put our mouth on the spigot and turn open a lake. We need to swim about and be free and forget at times. And other times we need to immerse ourselves in the gory details, especially when they are overwhelming. I'm not sure which times are which. Some people are really good at all the details all the time. Others are good at all big picture stuff all the time too.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
I've Gotta Pee: a Confession
I really despise this one thing: pissing next to other men. Why? Well, there are a lot of reasons, of which I'll freely admit: we all look at each others crotches without really looking, or even meaning to look, much the way a moth might fly directly into a flame and burn himself. It is an irresistible impulse to see another man's penis in the most flacid pressed-against-the-leg mode, when it has been resting pleasantly for a half morning, and peeks out only to let itself be drained free and clear before getting tucked away with nary a wipe, and you tell me, who wouldn't look?
Not that I look, men! Real men sort of square their shoulders against the tiles and jostle and you know what they do, first thing that the warm slice of liquid hits against the porcelain (and sizzles, I swear), they talk. A lot. Loudly. About nothing. About the most gutturally masculine shit possible, and, if someone prefers to be eloquent at the urinal, they are in monologue mode. Because, maybe, for some men, talking and acting like a logger going to to a giant redwood with an extra long saw/gun type contraption is how they urinate, but for me: I've gotta coax it out by touching my right rib area very very gently, for just a few moments, and concentrate--IF there are other men there, which is kinda weird, you know, for them. And office gossip is office gossip after all.
And being self-conscious about coaxing out the innards of one's bladder doesn't assist one in actually producing. So. So, I usually just go to the toilet. Let them all have it. But, yesterday, I went into the bathroom twice and did not actually go, mostly because I wouldn't be able to go, and then I'd just be standing there, forever, not going. You know. Just standing there with some pissing men, acting like I'm about to go, and knowing, deep down, and with utter clarity, that I will not.
So, okay, I went to whole foods to go to the bathroom. I went there, walked inside, and all the way to the back of the store, up the stairs, and all the way back to the bathroom, and guess what: it was time to clean the men's bathroom. Yeah. Closed.
Not that I look, men! Real men sort of square their shoulders against the tiles and jostle and you know what they do, first thing that the warm slice of liquid hits against the porcelain (and sizzles, I swear), they talk. A lot. Loudly. About nothing. About the most gutturally masculine shit possible, and, if someone prefers to be eloquent at the urinal, they are in monologue mode. Because, maybe, for some men, talking and acting like a logger going to to a giant redwood with an extra long saw/gun type contraption is how they urinate, but for me: I've gotta coax it out by touching my right rib area very very gently, for just a few moments, and concentrate--IF there are other men there, which is kinda weird, you know, for them. And office gossip is office gossip after all.
And being self-conscious about coaxing out the innards of one's bladder doesn't assist one in actually producing. So. So, I usually just go to the toilet. Let them all have it. But, yesterday, I went into the bathroom twice and did not actually go, mostly because I wouldn't be able to go, and then I'd just be standing there, forever, not going. You know. Just standing there with some pissing men, acting like I'm about to go, and knowing, deep down, and with utter clarity, that I will not.
So, okay, I went to whole foods to go to the bathroom. I went there, walked inside, and all the way to the back of the store, up the stairs, and all the way back to the bathroom, and guess what: it was time to clean the men's bathroom. Yeah. Closed.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
I've taken a liking to almond butter
The world is less evil (and less good), though it maintains the propensity for both extremes, if you catch me at an off angle, and my traversal through the path of least resistence is somehow less humid than previously, now that I have a lick of almond butter. It is sensuous and should always replace a drink, and will leave you feeling pleasant, and mood-stabilized, afterword, instead of used up and recycled and processed and cracked. And now that all the hippies are talking it up, one can endeavor to purchase the thick sludge like substance that is ground almonds at any local food store without inflicting damage to one's delicate identity calculation, either, much like peanut butter. Even almond milk is becoming more accepted. However, ordering an almond milk frothed green tea will still get you a raised eyebrow, at least from me.
I work in/near tribeca/near ground zero, now. I'll tell you what's there: people who like to work out, and walk around in their exercise outfits. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind their perfectly coiffed hair or their spandex-enmeshed bottoms sashaying away double-wide child carriers that double as shopping carts, or the way they all seem so comfortable while maintaining a sense of purpose. I've always been one or the other, you know, totally comfortable or totally purposeful, and I'm trying to glean what behavioral cues I can from the tribeca crowd. Which could explain the change in my almond butter acceptance/non-acceptance ratio, and the fact that I'm convinced the scales have tipped--
That's the proposition.
Also, there's something to this statement: good music is music that can be listened to over 1000 times and reveal more of it itself. But it is not necessary that good music do this, just a correlation I've noticed.
By the way, did you know that excel can do regressions, forecasts, and massage your feet with vitamin E oil? No? Go hang out in Tribeca for a few years, I'm sure it will rub off. Or maybe that's the sound of not talking about money when you have so much that you no longer have to acknowledge the role it plays in asset acquisition. Not sure, you decide.
I work in/near tribeca/near ground zero, now. I'll tell you what's there: people who like to work out, and walk around in their exercise outfits. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind their perfectly coiffed hair or their spandex-enmeshed bottoms sashaying away double-wide child carriers that double as shopping carts, or the way they all seem so comfortable while maintaining a sense of purpose. I've always been one or the other, you know, totally comfortable or totally purposeful, and I'm trying to glean what behavioral cues I can from the tribeca crowd. Which could explain the change in my almond butter acceptance/non-acceptance ratio, and the fact that I'm convinced the scales have tipped--
That's the proposition.
Also, there's something to this statement: good music is music that can be listened to over 1000 times and reveal more of it itself. But it is not necessary that good music do this, just a correlation I've noticed.
By the way, did you know that excel can do regressions, forecasts, and massage your feet with vitamin E oil? No? Go hang out in Tribeca for a few years, I'm sure it will rub off. Or maybe that's the sound of not talking about money when you have so much that you no longer have to acknowledge the role it plays in asset acquisition. Not sure, you decide.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Desire.
Through text message I met an whiff of exposition from a friend via text message. Yes, I too, get disastrously annoyed at people who feel it necessary to walk and type into their miniture computer phones. Nothing allows me greater indignity, actually, and I carelessly blast them with an evil stare, holding nothing back--what rejoinder could there possibly be, anyway? What, I'm texting 911? Maybe, right? But then again, on a sidewalk, with all of these other people around? Anyway, it drives me absolutely nuts, and like most things that drive me nuts, I'm a complete hypocrite regarding this fascinating slightly fetishistic practice that takes grown men and allows them to pay 100% of their attention, while walking down a busy street, to a small toy. And I digress. Much better to reserve the texting to one's ambiguous gray cubicle. And here it is: preferences, he said, can be whatever they are; they just are! There are no rules. They can be absolutely anything. Irrationality happens not because preferences are illogical, but when one acts on illogical preferences (or holds a belief because of illogical premises/preferences)--sounds right, and allows me to want whatever it is I want (to covet whatever it is I please, so long as I do not act, and to not feel waves of panic-tinged guilt because of it!). Just. Don't. Act.
Check. I'll sit here in a gentle burbling steam of dirty laundry water and soapy ground up turkey meat that is my dinner/chore evening etude.
Check. I'll sit here in a gentle burbling steam of dirty laundry water and soapy ground up turkey meat that is my dinner/chore evening etude.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
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