Every once in a while, I pull a 3rd shift. It's not totally unpleasant. I worked nights for years in restaurants and bars.I'd stay up rambling until sunrise. I've been seen teetering down the street at daybreak, becoming damp with morning dew as I shiver my jean jacket-- wondering how it was only 10pm five minutes ago. Now, as a mother of twin five year olds, I can't hang like I used to. I even fantasize about taking a brief nap around 6pm. But, if my daughters feel I am in their vicinity, there will be no rest.
When working a 3rd, I usually leave as the rest of the house sleeps-- my children in their beds covered with stuffies and my husband on the couch in front of a baseball game. As I pull out of the driveway, I remember how much I love that time of night. After all the neighborhood bedtimes, yet before the drunks barrell home from the bars. My eyes adjust to catch the rustling in the bushes and the glow of all the other noctural eyes. I pick the CD or radio station necessary to force the blood to my fingertips for the rest of the evening. I stop by one of the only coffee joints still open, and double fist it.
In spite of these chemical and environmental stimuli, I usually start to drift off around 5am. Doesn't matter if I am sitting or standing, I start to slip down that slippered slope of sleep. Where I work at the hospital, it is protocol to call a Code Blue if a non-patient hits the skids. So, after doing my 200th lap of the unit, I start to self talk,"Oh, damnit! They're gonna have to call a code on me! I can't... do...this." Yet, I make it. I stumble out into the dawn, eyes feeling as though they've been sandblasted. I see all the fresh, well-rested faces. I feel like an alien or a ghost.
I would like to say I then go home and go to sleep. But, I don't. Usually just as I slide out of my scrubs into a tank top and boxer shorts, I hear the first cough resonate from the girls' room. They feel me. I make the choice to brew a pot of coffee versus catch 28 1/2 winks. I then spend the rest of the day hoping I don't fall asleep at a redlight like a cat sitting in the sun-- with my kids in the car. Yeah, I have actually pulled the "I'm just gonna close one eye... just for a second."
I try not to work 3rds too often-- I try not to work them at all. 2nds are good. I get my day. I work my evening. I go home and stare to something (a book, a computer, a drawing, a Korean horror film) until approximately 1am. I go upstairs. I check on my children. I brush my teeth and empty my bladder once last time. I stumble to bed. I am alseep within two minutes of thanking the great beyond for my children. Fast forward six hours (sometimes with memoriable dreams of interplanetary structures, sometimes with a sufficating pillow knock out lapse)-- and I start all over again.
I live by my calendar. I don't have a schedule that is anywhere near routine or regular. It sometimes works to my advantage, because I can manipulate my days off and shifts with a certain degree of success. I also need to be aware of what I have planned for my children. I try to be cognitive of my husband's band commitments and other social pursuits. I have minimal social engagements. Every once in a while, I go to a friend's house in the middle of the afternoon and pretend I don't have any commitments. But, I usually end up moaning about my commitments, glorifying the "bad old days", and sucking down a handful of pre-mixed liquor store beverages. I am usually home by 9pm. And, those plans revolve around the plans of everyone else in my home. Those times are cherished. I usually show an uncomfortable amount of gratitude toward the hostess.
A couple of Tuesdays ago, the schedule said, "11p-7a". I anticipated it over a week before. I knew it was there almost a month before. There was a certain degree of dread involved. I started the routine. I left my silent home. I put Will Oldham's track "I am Goodbye" in the player. I got my coffee. I made note of the change in traffic flows throughout the day as opposed to the night. I got on the Bayfront Highway. There was a slight breeze coming off the Bay intensified by the air whipping through the windows at 40mph. I repeated the song.
You are hello
A glowing cry
heaven we go
Never say die
I'll likely never know
the answer why
You are Hello
I am goodbye...
It was like every other night. Every other day. I take that road daily. However that night, there was a Jeep overturned on its side in the middle of the street. I slammed on my breaks, I hit the hazards, and flew out the driver side door. The air had become still. Events were moving faster then time. Maybe time stopped. I took it all in like staring at a panoramic postcard. To my left, the Jeep. Beside the Jeep a young man and a woman crouched over him. And, to my right, a young man face down on the asphalt-- shining glass tossed around his head like cupcake sprinkles. There were no paramedics, no cops. Just me and three other individuals who happened to drive up on the scene seconds after the accident. Behind me a couple stood together as the man called 911.
I walked over to the woman and the conscious man. "Don't move him. Try not to get him to move," I blurted out. "I am-- but, he is trying to move," she told me. We both knew he was craning to get a look at his friend, to assess the situation. I told the woman she was doing a good job. Then I looked at the Jeep. There was still a young woman inside, who I would later learn was the driver. Intoxicated. Somewhere along the line, I learned never move a body. She seemed okay. I left her.
I was the only one moving freely through the scene. Beside the woman with the young man, no one else had approached. I walked over to the other young man in the street. He wasn't moving. I could see as I strode over, his eyes were open. I bent over. No blinking, no moving glances, no changing pupils. Not good. I leaned over him, being sure not to touch anything, looking side ways across his chest. No respiration. Nothing. I knew he was dead. I knew he was dead as I walked toward him. People just don't lay like that. Like a discarded toy thrown aside. I whispered something to him, I can't even remember what. Maybe, "It's okay... just rest." Strangely I wanted to stroke him like you would a sick child. But, I also knew he was gone. Not "in" there. Empty.
I stood back up. I quickly made my way over to the couple with the phone. "Please let me use that," I requested. I called the hospital. Why wait for the paramedics and cops to get it together, when I could wave to my co-workers in the break room on the second floor less than a block away? I turned away from the accident. I walked up into some trees, because I didn't want anyone to hear me. A smaller crowd had collected. One woman was wailing, she knew the victims.
A: ICU East.
M: Hey, it's Melissa. I am on my way in for work. But, there has been an accident down here on State and Bayfront. A car is overturned. There are two hurt... and one is already gone.
A: What?
M: I am right down here on the Bayfront. Look out the window. Nobody's here yet. I am going to be late. (Right here shows a bit of my shock over it. Like I would really be able to work after witnessing this!?)
A: Oh my god. But, what do you mean you're on your way in? You're not scheduled.
M: I am on my way in to work 3rd. Please check the schedule now.
A:(pause)No. No, you're not scheduled. Go home.
M: Man, okay... I gotta go.
There it is. That tiny little part of this that makes no sense. Sounds selfish, huh? But, why was I there? There was NO reason. I accidentally wrote it wrong on the calendar almost a month ago. It's like I got in my car, witnessed one of the most terrible things I have ever seen in my life, and then went home.
I understand death. I know it happens. It happens every day at my job. I see violent deaths and labored passings. Yet it is clinical and clean. Somehow expected. Death itself never bothered me. It has to happen. If anything, the sorrow and grief of the survivors is curious and heartbreaking. This was different. When I stood so close over that man, there was a force involved like I have never recognized. Something so massive. Something that made me feel so small.
I waited for the paramedics and the cops. I explained to the officer what I could. What I saw, which I felt was little. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the paramedic check the ragdoll for a pulse with his blue gloved hand. "We have one casualty," he reported into the radio strapped to his vest. Someone screamed as he walked away from the body. I finished with the police. He was going to clear a path for me to go home. I asked the couple with the cell phone if they were okay. They shrugged.
I got back in my car. Time had started to speed up again. Back to the rest of the world. I flipped my hazards off. I drove slowly, trying to avoid the shoes in the street. I headed back West. I started to sob. I clenched the steering wheel so hard, I ended up with blood blisters along the bottom row of my knuckles.
I am goodbye
like the end of something wonderful sometimes
like the way that a wound-up toy unwinds
I am goodbye
I am goodbye...
When I got home, still sobbing, my husband was sitting out in the garage. In a blur, I tried to explain what had happened while still gasping and nauseous. And, that I didn't have to work. I made a drink. And, another. I smoked cigarettes-- I don't really smoke. It was almost like I wanted to feel tactile things. Like smoke filling in my lungs. Like alcohol changing my lucidity. I talked to my husband. I cried on and off. He eventually went to bed. I called one of my best friends in California (by now it was past 1am EST). I told her what happened. I told her I loved her. She was thankful I hadn't arrived at the scene moments earlier-- that I wasn't involved in the accident itself. I didn't even think of that.
Finally, I went to bed. Only after writing a few notes to a couple other people, expressing my gratitude for them. I slept. I had the next day off. So, I was able to attend to my children and my home without too much thought of it. However, in a strange way, my mind kept forcing the image of the dead man back into view. I wasn't sure how to feel. I am still not sure how one is SUPPOSED to feel when something like that happens. I know it is carried deep within you. One of my favorite authors, William Marsh, suffered from hysterical blindness after his time in the war. I have lost six pounds since that accident. I have no appetite. But, that could just be heat and summer.
It all happened on a Tuesday night. Wednesday, I had off. I had to head back to work on Thursday. I mindlessly got in the car. I mindlessly pulled out onto my usual route with the same CD in the player. It wasn't until I was about 50ft from the scene that I had realized what I had done. I started to cry. How stupid of me! I cried all the rest of the five minutes into work. I pulled it together to make it through the lobby, up the stairs, but once in my unit I started to tear up a bit. But, I kept pushing through it. Only a couple of people in a unit of over 75 people knew what had happened or bothered to extend themselves to me. I don't ask for sympathy. I definitely don't court hugs and pats on the shoulder. But, is this how much we don't want to be bothered by each other's trials? Does it stop and make us think for too long?
More than a couple people close to me, friends and family, want to believe or want me to believe it happened for a reason. I am not sure about that. What blows my mind more than anything is perhaps it happened for NO reason. We, as humans, rationalize too much. I believe in the forces of entropy. And, the deterioration into chaos has never been so palpable.
I do wonder how those tragic minutes played out into the loss suffered by his family and friends. I wish them strength. I will never be able to listen to that song again, a favorite of mine, without thinking of the man I never officially met.
I am goodbye
like the end of something wonderful sometimes
like the absence that more and more crowds into my mind
I am goodbye
I am goodbye
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Friday, July 20, 2012
As for me, all I know is that I know nothing, -Socrates
When I left him, I reasoned thus with myself: I am wiser than this man, for neither of us appears to know anything great and good; but he fancies he knows something, although he knows nothing; whereas I, as I do not know anything, so I do not fancy I do. In this trifling particular, then, I appear to be wiser than he, because I do not fancy I know what I do not know. --Socrates
This past Thursday afternoon I was invited to address two groups of young people (ages approximately 17- 22yrs) on the spectrum preparing to head off to college. From Pennsylvania, California, Michigan, Nevada, North Carolina, and Massachusetts even! The invitation came from Janet, a psychologist I have been working closely with for a while now. As one of the instructors working with this group, she shared some challenges she was experiencing. And, one of her solutions seemed to be me. Hearing it from the horse's mouth approach. I can appreciate that. I wouldn't necessarily trust a rocket scientist to teach me how to make shoes, no matter how bright or how many pairs of shoes he/she owned. I would want the low-down from a cobbler who had the callouses on his hands. But, here's the problem-- I can only tell you about me. I can tell you about what I have read also, but you can get your own library card. So, we come back to what do I know? I know me. And, I have had over forty years of knowing me. I guess you can say I have gained my chops in the realm of a recently diagnosed female on the spectrum.
I had trouble imagining what a 17year old would be thinking if they were forced to sit directly across from me for an hour plus. Not really able to do that, I imagined myself at that age. I remembered what I did and what I wanted to do. Would I have been engaged? Defensive? Pensive? Bored? I probably would have preferred to be sitting in the middle of the woods, buried in leaves. Well, I don't even have any idea what people in my own peer group think of me and my tales. So, what would this group glean from the talk? Got me! But, I dove in the water. With less than a day to prepare myself, I couldn't even test the temperature of said water.
I did write a few notes to myself based on Janet's brief overview. I referred to those notes ZERO times. I can't even recall how I began. A young man in the second group had an excellent question prepared for me out the gate. To paraphrase the first part of his question, what was it like being undiagnosed for decades? Well, I guess that is as good of a start as any. It sucked. It was frustrating. For years, I had the grades. The stellar grades. The slot in the "gifted" program. Yet, I also had the years of behavioral and what was read as discipline issues starting as early as kindergarten. By the time I reached high school, I had given up. I didn't understand it. The people around me didn't understand it. So, I just stopped. I managed to graduate in the top quarter of my class, but I never took homework home. Not unless it was a subject I enjoyed. Teachers couldn't understand why I wouldn't show my work in college algebra (with correct answers), but I would request extra physics books to borrow. They couldn't understand what would possess me to just stand up and leave a noisy classroom or cafeteria, to just walk straight out of school to sit in the side yard. That was a behavior issue to them. Not a sensitivity issue. Something I like to share with every group I have ever addressed, the wisdom bestowed upon me by a guidance counselor who offered no guidance, "I'll read about you some day... for either winning the Nobel Peace Prize or ending up in jail." To me that phrase IS undiagnosed ASD. My epitaph, perhaps. However, I am sure to relay-- I do not use those years as an excuse or hold a grudge. What matters is now.
This group was spending a week preparing for the transition into college life. Having attended at least three colleges in over fifteen years (not including other training and online courses), I knew a little about university life. I had earned nearly enough credits to be awarded a Doctorate, but needed to scratch enough together by trying to put the correct pegs in the matching holes to be award a degree of Letters, Arts, and Sciences with a dual focus of psychology and creative writing. Just trying to get a piece of paper in my fist before I quit AGAIN. I knew how difficult it could be.
College is a series of hoops. Okay, first, life is a series of hoops. However, in college, I think there are more hoops lined up one after another and closer together than one will ever experience at any other point of their life.
Let me back up. Leaving for college for the first time is an amazing experience. For many, it is a chance to break free from the parental structures both physical and metaphysical. It is a chance to finally assert one's self. If you are lucky, you know what you'd like to pursue in the academic culture. You can finally wear old men's oxfords all the time without someone telling you you look like a rag-a-muffin. You can begin to feel empowered by choosing to surrounding yourself with people like yourself-- people who have perhaps read Pere Ubu. You have resources at your fingers: oil paints, microscopes, and a professor or two who are still engaged and engaging. It is great.
As you begin to examine the requirements of your degree with your adviser, the hoops begin to cast their shadows on your bright and budding academic career. I spent most of my life questioning the hoops and having contempt for the people who managed to glide through them. Heck, even the people who went kicking and screaming! Instead of taking a few steps back to then gaining momentum towards that great leap needed to pitch myself through the center, I stood back and tapped my chin. Hmmm, what is this hoop composed of? Who placed this hoop here? What is on the other side of the hoop? The diameter? Is there a way around the hoop? Tick-tock-tock-tick. If no one was able to address these questions in what I viewed an acceptable manner, I'd turn my back on the hoop. Usually only to be faced with another hoop. The process would begin again.
Don't misunderstand me! The over-analytical mind is a precious and rare commodity. It is the fertile ground of every unconventional idea that eventually becomes conventional until another ripe mind questions its validity. As one young man quoting Socrates reiterated during this phase of my rhetoric, "The life which is unexamined is not worth living." Yes-yes, I couldn't agree more. But, do I agree because it is a CHOICE or because it is simply who I am? Is there the same degree virtue in a good deed that is done without thought versus the good deed that is done after contemplation? Or are they both equal because the result is equal? Follow? I have no choice but to CONSTANTLY question life. It is how my brain functions-- constantly question.
It is like this-- you are dog tired. You are aching. You finally, after hours, find a chair where you are able to rest. You sit. You sigh. You relax. You are relieved having found a chair. You appreciate the chair being there for you to take respite. At that point, you stop thinking about the chair. Here's where the subtle difference takes place. Maybe before I even let my haggard bones collapse, I begin to assess. Is it wooden? Upholstered? If yes, what fabric was used? Was it ever RE- upholstered? Why? Cats? Sitting near a window and sun-bleached? Is the seat still warm? If yes, does that means someone or something was recently sitting there-- will they be back? Meanwhile, I am still aching and still unseated. That is a BIT of an exaggeration but not much.
Again, if the inquiries about the hoop cannot satisfactorily be answered and reason for the hoop doesn't materialize, that's is usually it for me. Even if the third hoop following down the line provides a prize much revered. Hoop one is senseless. I cannot make myself do it. My first collegiate hoop? Gym class. I was one semester away from being awarded a bachelors degree with two minors. Gym? Gym! As mentioned in previous blogs, I never liked Phys Ed much. I even shared with the group about my nearly six foot self being seen as defiant because I would not, as a senior in high school, try to bend myself in to an origami crane. I quit college rather than jump through that hoop.
I can't say the decision was the worst ever made. I ended up moving to Chicago- working in record stores, publishing freelance comics and illustrations while meeting some fantastically talented people with whom I am still friends today. Wait... maybe that is not the best way to end that. I guess you need to jump ahead fifteen to twenty years and be faced with a potential employer who doesn't care if you know the differences between all the Blue Note album labels. Or that you can tell him what city Harvey Pekar called home. The potential employer needs to know how fast, how high, and how far you can jump through a hoop that you may or may not agree with in order to complete a project for the overall benefit of the team/employer. Practically speaking, it is part of how you will pay your bills. Also, there may come a day when you question yourself as to why it has taken you nearly twenty years to complete something it takes most typical people four years to accomplish.
Being able to jump through a hoop sometimes has very little with overall aptitude, intellect, or logic. Some less then bright people are pretty good at hoop jumping. They potentially can get further in their pursuit than you, even though you may know and understand more than they do. It is a skill. Try to learn it. It will only enable you to achieve more.
However, there is a difference between being a trained pony and a hoop jumper. People should respect you, and you need to respect yourself. It is a fine line. Recognize where your line lies in the sand. Every once in a while evaluate what is on the other side of that line. And, if necessary, adjust your line. Don't worry, lines aren't permanent-- they are fluid.
One of my favorite gentleman came up during our mostly one-sided conversation, Sherlock Holmes. As I mentioned, even back in high school, I had a hard time finding the value in information which held no interest or purpose for me. And, being unable to anticipate future need for most of it, many of those topics became mute. In the episode of the Cunningham Heritage with Ronald Howard (1954), Watson and Holmes decide to share a flat. While unpacking, the they begin to discuss how unbelievable it is that a man of Holmes' intellect didn't know the Earth moved around the Sun. Sherlock goes on to explain to Watson it means nothing to him so he will promptly forget it to leave room for facts which are useful to him. Exactly! Whether it is a person, place, or thing... living or dead, if it doesn't apply to my world or interests and pursuits, I have trouble finding a reason to retain it or even initially pursue it. If I don't like an artist, why would I remember his/her name? One of my favorite artists is Jean Dubuffet. If I don't own your dog, why would I remember its name? My cat's name is Itty. If I like British bikes better than American bikes, why would I remember what kind of braking system a Harley Davidson uses? A Norton Commando uses drum brakes. Even though I can remember what all the Twilight series book covers look like from working in a bookstore, I don't know the author's name anymore. My favorite author is Harry Crews.
In the realm of academia, these hoops are called requirements. They are the filler a university pads their degrees with to show the world their graduates are well-rounded individuals. My advice? Pick the best you can, complete it to your best ability. Give the subject designated time and effort. Complete it, move on. Once it is done, you can keep it in the storage units of your gray matter or put it to the curb with a "free" sign leaning on it. Keep yourself open to possibly experiencing something interesting. Something you may want to follow-up on in the future.
As a side note, when thinking about all this thinking, I think, "There are sometimes I just wish I could turn my brain off." That is complex subject for another time. It opens cans of worms. When does a line of thinking become obsessive? Before I even heard of ASD or Asperger's, I planned on one of my research topics toward my psychology major to focus on understanding the borderline obsessive thinking found in MANY of my fellow "gifted" students. And, was it helpful or harmful to tell kids like that to brainstorm and hyper-focus even more? At one point of my life I wore a rubber band around my left wrist. I would snap it when I wanted to STOP thinking about something. There was also one point of my life when I would get annihilated to slow all the spinning gears down. Some of that changes with self-actualization. Some doesn't. But, it is all a topic for another time.
Here's a link to this great program:
http://www.mercyhurst.edu/learning-differences/foundations-program/
This past Thursday afternoon I was invited to address two groups of young people (ages approximately 17- 22yrs) on the spectrum preparing to head off to college. From Pennsylvania, California, Michigan, Nevada, North Carolina, and Massachusetts even! The invitation came from Janet, a psychologist I have been working closely with for a while now. As one of the instructors working with this group, she shared some challenges she was experiencing. And, one of her solutions seemed to be me. Hearing it from the horse's mouth approach. I can appreciate that. I wouldn't necessarily trust a rocket scientist to teach me how to make shoes, no matter how bright or how many pairs of shoes he/she owned. I would want the low-down from a cobbler who had the callouses on his hands. But, here's the problem-- I can only tell you about me. I can tell you about what I have read also, but you can get your own library card. So, we come back to what do I know? I know me. And, I have had over forty years of knowing me. I guess you can say I have gained my chops in the realm of a recently diagnosed female on the spectrum.
I had trouble imagining what a 17year old would be thinking if they were forced to sit directly across from me for an hour plus. Not really able to do that, I imagined myself at that age. I remembered what I did and what I wanted to do. Would I have been engaged? Defensive? Pensive? Bored? I probably would have preferred to be sitting in the middle of the woods, buried in leaves. Well, I don't even have any idea what people in my own peer group think of me and my tales. So, what would this group glean from the talk? Got me! But, I dove in the water. With less than a day to prepare myself, I couldn't even test the temperature of said water.
I did write a few notes to myself based on Janet's brief overview. I referred to those notes ZERO times. I can't even recall how I began. A young man in the second group had an excellent question prepared for me out the gate. To paraphrase the first part of his question, what was it like being undiagnosed for decades? Well, I guess that is as good of a start as any. It sucked. It was frustrating. For years, I had the grades. The stellar grades. The slot in the "gifted" program. Yet, I also had the years of behavioral and what was read as discipline issues starting as early as kindergarten. By the time I reached high school, I had given up. I didn't understand it. The people around me didn't understand it. So, I just stopped. I managed to graduate in the top quarter of my class, but I never took homework home. Not unless it was a subject I enjoyed. Teachers couldn't understand why I wouldn't show my work in college algebra (with correct answers), but I would request extra physics books to borrow. They couldn't understand what would possess me to just stand up and leave a noisy classroom or cafeteria, to just walk straight out of school to sit in the side yard. That was a behavior issue to them. Not a sensitivity issue. Something I like to share with every group I have ever addressed, the wisdom bestowed upon me by a guidance counselor who offered no guidance, "I'll read about you some day... for either winning the Nobel Peace Prize or ending up in jail." To me that phrase IS undiagnosed ASD. My epitaph, perhaps. However, I am sure to relay-- I do not use those years as an excuse or hold a grudge. What matters is now.
This group was spending a week preparing for the transition into college life. Having attended at least three colleges in over fifteen years (not including other training and online courses), I knew a little about university life. I had earned nearly enough credits to be awarded a Doctorate, but needed to scratch enough together by trying to put the correct pegs in the matching holes to be award a degree of Letters, Arts, and Sciences with a dual focus of psychology and creative writing. Just trying to get a piece of paper in my fist before I quit AGAIN. I knew how difficult it could be.
College is a series of hoops. Okay, first, life is a series of hoops. However, in college, I think there are more hoops lined up one after another and closer together than one will ever experience at any other point of their life.
Let me back up. Leaving for college for the first time is an amazing experience. For many, it is a chance to break free from the parental structures both physical and metaphysical. It is a chance to finally assert one's self. If you are lucky, you know what you'd like to pursue in the academic culture. You can finally wear old men's oxfords all the time without someone telling you you look like a rag-a-muffin. You can begin to feel empowered by choosing to surrounding yourself with people like yourself-- people who have perhaps read Pere Ubu. You have resources at your fingers: oil paints, microscopes, and a professor or two who are still engaged and engaging. It is great.
As you begin to examine the requirements of your degree with your adviser, the hoops begin to cast their shadows on your bright and budding academic career. I spent most of my life questioning the hoops and having contempt for the people who managed to glide through them. Heck, even the people who went kicking and screaming! Instead of taking a few steps back to then gaining momentum towards that great leap needed to pitch myself through the center, I stood back and tapped my chin. Hmmm, what is this hoop composed of? Who placed this hoop here? What is on the other side of the hoop? The diameter? Is there a way around the hoop? Tick-tock-tock-tick. If no one was able to address these questions in what I viewed an acceptable manner, I'd turn my back on the hoop. Usually only to be faced with another hoop. The process would begin again.
Don't misunderstand me! The over-analytical mind is a precious and rare commodity. It is the fertile ground of every unconventional idea that eventually becomes conventional until another ripe mind questions its validity. As one young man quoting Socrates reiterated during this phase of my rhetoric, "The life which is unexamined is not worth living." Yes-yes, I couldn't agree more. But, do I agree because it is a CHOICE or because it is simply who I am? Is there the same degree virtue in a good deed that is done without thought versus the good deed that is done after contemplation? Or are they both equal because the result is equal? Follow? I have no choice but to CONSTANTLY question life. It is how my brain functions-- constantly question.
It is like this-- you are dog tired. You are aching. You finally, after hours, find a chair where you are able to rest. You sit. You sigh. You relax. You are relieved having found a chair. You appreciate the chair being there for you to take respite. At that point, you stop thinking about the chair. Here's where the subtle difference takes place. Maybe before I even let my haggard bones collapse, I begin to assess. Is it wooden? Upholstered? If yes, what fabric was used? Was it ever RE- upholstered? Why? Cats? Sitting near a window and sun-bleached? Is the seat still warm? If yes, does that means someone or something was recently sitting there-- will they be back? Meanwhile, I am still aching and still unseated. That is a BIT of an exaggeration but not much.
Again, if the inquiries about the hoop cannot satisfactorily be answered and reason for the hoop doesn't materialize, that's is usually it for me. Even if the third hoop following down the line provides a prize much revered. Hoop one is senseless. I cannot make myself do it. My first collegiate hoop? Gym class. I was one semester away from being awarded a bachelors degree with two minors. Gym? Gym! As mentioned in previous blogs, I never liked Phys Ed much. I even shared with the group about my nearly six foot self being seen as defiant because I would not, as a senior in high school, try to bend myself in to an origami crane. I quit college rather than jump through that hoop.
I can't say the decision was the worst ever made. I ended up moving to Chicago- working in record stores, publishing freelance comics and illustrations while meeting some fantastically talented people with whom I am still friends today. Wait... maybe that is not the best way to end that. I guess you need to jump ahead fifteen to twenty years and be faced with a potential employer who doesn't care if you know the differences between all the Blue Note album labels. Or that you can tell him what city Harvey Pekar called home. The potential employer needs to know how fast, how high, and how far you can jump through a hoop that you may or may not agree with in order to complete a project for the overall benefit of the team/employer. Practically speaking, it is part of how you will pay your bills. Also, there may come a day when you question yourself as to why it has taken you nearly twenty years to complete something it takes most typical people four years to accomplish.
Being able to jump through a hoop sometimes has very little with overall aptitude, intellect, or logic. Some less then bright people are pretty good at hoop jumping. They potentially can get further in their pursuit than you, even though you may know and understand more than they do. It is a skill. Try to learn it. It will only enable you to achieve more.
However, there is a difference between being a trained pony and a hoop jumper. People should respect you, and you need to respect yourself. It is a fine line. Recognize where your line lies in the sand. Every once in a while evaluate what is on the other side of that line. And, if necessary, adjust your line. Don't worry, lines aren't permanent-- they are fluid.
One of my favorite gentleman came up during our mostly one-sided conversation, Sherlock Holmes. As I mentioned, even back in high school, I had a hard time finding the value in information which held no interest or purpose for me. And, being unable to anticipate future need for most of it, many of those topics became mute. In the episode of the Cunningham Heritage with Ronald Howard (1954), Watson and Holmes decide to share a flat. While unpacking, the they begin to discuss how unbelievable it is that a man of Holmes' intellect didn't know the Earth moved around the Sun. Sherlock goes on to explain to Watson it means nothing to him so he will promptly forget it to leave room for facts which are useful to him. Exactly! Whether it is a person, place, or thing... living or dead, if it doesn't apply to my world or interests and pursuits, I have trouble finding a reason to retain it or even initially pursue it. If I don't like an artist, why would I remember his/her name? One of my favorite artists is Jean Dubuffet. If I don't own your dog, why would I remember its name? My cat's name is Itty. If I like British bikes better than American bikes, why would I remember what kind of braking system a Harley Davidson uses? A Norton Commando uses drum brakes. Even though I can remember what all the Twilight series book covers look like from working in a bookstore, I don't know the author's name anymore. My favorite author is Harry Crews.
In the realm of academia, these hoops are called requirements. They are the filler a university pads their degrees with to show the world their graduates are well-rounded individuals. My advice? Pick the best you can, complete it to your best ability. Give the subject designated time and effort. Complete it, move on. Once it is done, you can keep it in the storage units of your gray matter or put it to the curb with a "free" sign leaning on it. Keep yourself open to possibly experiencing something interesting. Something you may want to follow-up on in the future.
As a side note, when thinking about all this thinking, I think, "There are sometimes I just wish I could turn my brain off." That is complex subject for another time. It opens cans of worms. When does a line of thinking become obsessive? Before I even heard of ASD or Asperger's, I planned on one of my research topics toward my psychology major to focus on understanding the borderline obsessive thinking found in MANY of my fellow "gifted" students. And, was it helpful or harmful to tell kids like that to brainstorm and hyper-focus even more? At one point of my life I wore a rubber band around my left wrist. I would snap it when I wanted to STOP thinking about something. There was also one point of my life when I would get annihilated to slow all the spinning gears down. Some of that changes with self-actualization. Some doesn't. But, it is all a topic for another time.
Here's a link to this great program:
http://www.mercyhurst.edu/learning-differences/foundations-program/
Thursday, July 5, 2012
I am finally converting some analog to digital. This is T.Nougat, one of the most favorite bands I've been in. A trio with guests. We toured a bit. We did live radio. Singles on comps. We opened. We headlined. We did mostly originals with a few covers like Can, The Stooges, Gang of Four, and Elton John. I was fortunate enough to play with two of my best friends. We all lived in the same flat and practiced in the basement. I think it shows.This is the first track I converted. A studio recording. One of the few songs I brought to the table. I had a weird relationship with lyrics. I still love this song. It is so much more heavy than we ever intended. Thankfully.
T. Nougat- I Love You (1996)
T. Nougat- I Love You (1996)
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