Life as an Extreme Sport

Category: life and living

Not so much the daily grind, as the things that fall outside the scope of academics.

hopeful misanthropes unite

blog as therapy, Buddhism, Duct Tape and Prayers, life and living

Many years ago, I was in the hospital, after deciding that nope, life? Sucked and wasn’t worth it. I was still during my lockdown period, where technically I was not allowed any visitors. But someone had misinterpreted the rules and told me otherwise, and I mercilessly badgered and cried and basically pitched a giant fit until I got what I wanted — a few visitors. It was really, specifically, one visitor I wanted, but he was a package deal with the boyfriend at the time.

We finally sat, alone in a room together, and I remember it as clearly as if it just happened. He sat in a chair, and I sat at his feet. He looked so sadly at me, and I’m sure I returned the look, laden with so much more. We had been friends through a lot, a lot of his problems, and I had been there for him, steadfast, often in the wake of others having enough. I was a rock. I would not budge.

Now it was my turn, my time. I needed a rock. And I told him as much, that I needed to know he cared, that he loved me, that I could fall apart and he would take care of me, he would make sure I was okay. I needed to know that he who I had given so much to would do the same in return, and I needed that return.

I remember everything vividly. I remember sitting, kneeling at his feet. I remember the yellow light, the sick hospital walls, bad furniture in the room, the feel of the industrial carpet under my feet. I remember looking at the floor, even then having such a hard time admitting I needed anything from anyone else, and I remember his look, his sorrowful expression. I remember the tears rolling down his face, quietly, as he understood what I was asking, what I needed, and what his answer meant.

And he reached out, ever so gently touching my face with his long, delicate, almost elven fingers, tracing the route the tears had taken down my face, and whispered so quietly, “I’m sorry, I can’t,”

You would think, those twenty years ago, I would have learned a lesson. That I would have not repeated it since. Of course, if you thought that, you probably haven’t spent too much time around me.

We were never as close after that. I still dropped everything if he needed me, which he frequently did for a while, until he got things together. And when he was more pulled together, he needed me less and less, and eventually he replaced the friendship I offered freely for nothing in return with someone else, someone without history. By then, I simply shrugged. I had walled myself off from him, from those moments where he touched me so gently and said no. In that time, he had proven to me just what he thought of me, just how he thought of me, and I learned that fast, and kept that lesson near and dear to my heart.

I could give, but he never would. It would not be an equal relationship, and I could either accept that and continue to give, or walk away. I chose the first, I gave until I was no longer wanted, and then I went away.

And people wonder why I have issues, especially with trust.

It came to mind because I recently found myself in a situation that evoked similar tone (if the details all different), and received similar results. And found myself that same mix of resigned and so frustrated with myself.

Why frustrated with myself? Because I know me well enough to know I will repeat what I did with the boy above, and have done with people since him. I will continue to care and make it clear I do, I will continue to be there, I will do all asked and more. And I will do it both expecting nothing in return — for that, truly, is what you must do to love, to give unconditionally; you must not expect anything in return. ((Insert Buddhist rah-rah justification, loving kindness, compassion, etc and here. Although truth be told, I think Buddha’d probably be getting close to kicking my ass. There’s a difference between practicing loving kindness, and allowing people to take advantage of your inclinations.)) But at the same time, I know I will build that wall, create an arm’s length distance, and I don’t know if I can stop that, or if anything can undo it.

I know that if, today, the boy from above were to show up on my doorstep, I would drop and welcome him with open arms, while not saying a word about my own situation to him. And now I fear I’m in that situation, once more.

And to be honest, I hate myself a little for it, for being such a doormat. For drawing boundaries that mean I pull back and away while still giving freely. Buddhism would counsel me on how this is a good thing, to give without expectation of anything but the generation of metta. It would also say I obviously still have too much attachment. This would be why I am a bad Buddhist. One of many reasons.

I would say that I am a hopeful misanthrope who is continually let down by the world, yet still keeps alive the idea that one day, one day, it will be different. And keep getting hurt, because one day hasn’t yet come.

when the stoic fails

blog as therapy, Duct Tape and Prayers, life and living

This is the second time in so many days that I have been sitting still enough outside that squirrels have walked by me as if I wasn’t here, one actually sniffing me before continuing on its way. Buddha, I suspect, would be proud.

I’m sitting outside again – as squirrels have not yet invaded the indoor spaces here – enjoying the evening weather and sunset. It had gotten muggy earlier, so I’d headed indoors to Starbucks. Free wifi and caffeine? I’m always a sucker for a good deal. The grass is a little itchy on my bare legs, but the breeze is nice and I have some limited internet access from Sage’s guest wireless.

I have a bunch of raised red welts on the back of my left hand – as if I were breaking out in hives, or one of the cats had badly clawed me while playing. In fact, given how closely they resemble the marks Lunar and Toledo sometimes leave, and that one or two are bleeding slightly, I thought perhaps I’ve spent the entire day with a bloody hand and just not noticed. It wouldn’t be unlike me,…

I gave them to myself. It took a minute to remember, and realize, as I repeated the grasping of my hand and squeezing, hard, until the pain breaks through and switches my focus elsewhere, out, away.

I got a phone call while at Starbucks, full of bad news. I reacted as well as I could, as well as I normally do – I have delayed reaction down cold at this point. And then I packed up calmly, my feet carrying me to the one place I felt I would be okay falling apart in, safe falling apart in, gripping my hand to blood along the route to not fall apart alone.

I am sitting across from a statue, a woman resting a vine covered sword against the ground. She’s holding a bundle of what looks like palm fronds in her hands, and a hood is draped over her loosely tied back hair. She’s classically dressed and carved, emulating the Greco-Roman tradition, and standing in front of what looks like a funeral byre. Carved on the back of the byre is a memorial to soldiers of the Great War. She’s fading in the dusk, becoming brief outlines and nothing more against the night sky. It crosses my mind that she would make an excellent Halloween costume, except I don’t expect to have a Halloween.

I have a history of being stupid when falling to pieces alone, and this final bit was just too much. My brain short circuited and I went on gut instinct, which sadly is not the most thoughtful of creatures. Go to the safe place, go to the safe place, go to the safe place… not thinking through the implications, just go where, if stupid happens, stupid can’t happen. Where I will be safe, and can lose control, and know then when I yank myself back together, I will be in one piece, not hurt or damaged in any way.

Except I was wrong, and the implications were explained to me. Which I suppose is good – a functional equivalent to a slap in the face. Instead of a physical gating mechanism, an emotional one. We’ll see what the long term damages are. My hand will heal, hopefully so will the rest. It’s hard for me to trust, especially with things like this – I don’t fall apart often. I can’t. And it doesn’t take much for me to curl up inside myself and go “right, people suck, don’t trust people, people are bad.”

There are squirrels racing all around me now. Some are fighting for nuts, others space – some are running in abject fear from the giant German Shepherd that is terrorizing the park with gleeful abandon. It’s sort of nice to see. A reminder that my world is so small, so insignificant in the scheme of everything. That right now, some poor squirrel sees me as a place to hide from the giant, furry, slobbering terror, and that giant, furry, slobbering terror thinks the only thing I am good for is a scritch behind the ears before turning back to ball and squirrel.

It’s perspective.

The trees are changing colour. One tall tree across the clearing from me has a crown of gold and red leaves. She’s the only tree to have changed yet, early to the party, but beautiful and regal, not giving a damn what the trees around her look like, or think. The air has just started getting cold enough at night to hint at the promise of fall, and winter. The tree just changed her clothes early, a rush to protect herself from the cold. A rash impulse – I wonder if it’s one borne from previous experience? I could understand that, empathize with it. Apparently, as I’m already anthropomorphizing.

My mother was in the hospital over the weekend, something which several of you already knew about. My father called me this afternoon, while I was at Starbucks, to tell me that they did a scan Sunday evening, before discharging her.

It’s spread.

Again.

It’s riddled her brain.

It is definitive. It is terminal. It is now just a matter of time.

Another dog is racing through the park, chasing squirrels. A brindled pit, happy as the day is long. You can almost hear the doggie thoughts as she races by – squirrelsquirrelsquirrelBALLlooksquirrel!Hey!HUMAN!SMELL…CAT?CAT!oooohlooksquirrel! Another happy creature, just glad to be outside, running.

I want to run. I want to run, to get in my car and drive until there is no more land, until I am at the edge of all that there is, and then leap away. Just crash and sink into the wet wide saltwater, tears and body blending away to nothingness and release.

you can generate warmth in multiple ways

blog as therapy, KellyZen, life and living

I’m sitting outside right now, taking advantage of the last days of autumn, before it becomes too brisk, cold, and wet to do this. I’ve found an open access point at the park, and am hiding under the shade at a picnic bench. It’ll be the perfect place to take a conference call.

I’m going to have to figure out a more permanent and stable arrangement for internet access before the wet weather sets in, though – this on again, off again internet at home isn’t working for me. (Which makes me suspect I need to switch from cable internet to DSL, a thought which pains. But when the cable is as flaky as it is, no matter whose internet connection it is, then there is a greater problem. The last time I spoke with the company about it, they told me the area I live in is old, and has a lot of above ground cable connections that go out easily. Which, okay fine… but I can’t do most of what needs doing from such spotty access!)

Beyond that, life is as it is. I have, for the most part, moved beyond asking why me – although I have some interesting variances. Which suggests I’m not really beyond it, I’m just generating a subtle distinctions that come across as meaningful when it means I’m really running from the greater picture. Which is all lovely and vague, and all you’re going to get.

Method

life and living

I’m a sucker for good marketing. I know this, I know the tricks being used on me, and I still appreciate it well enough to allow myself to be swayed. Case and point is the Method line of household cleaning products.

People against dirty. Cute tagline, I can get behind that sort of thing. But more than that, their products are non-toxic, full of wonderful smelling essential oils, and try hard to be at least environmentally neutral, if not flat out good for the environment.

The bit that really solidifies my preference for their product, though, is a very simple fact: they have a sense of humour.

For example, on the Aroma Pill I just recently bought, the directions read:

1. Holding fragrance bottle upright, remove cap. Do not remove wick. It’s pretty important.
2. Keeping fragrance bottle upright, insert into bottom of aroma pill.
3. Rotate bottle clockwise until tight. You know, righty-tighty.
4. Rotate plug of aroma pill to accommodate vertical or horizontal wall outlet. Insert aroma pill into wall outlet with glass bottle pointing down. Do not turn sideways or else fragrance oil will spill. Gravity is mean like that.

It’s just a delight to read their packaging, and is the final little push of incentive that creates (at least for me) brand loyalty.

Even if I can acknowledge how hideously manipulative it is from the getgo….

the problem with expectations

...and everything else, Academics, blog as therapy, life and living

This was written I don’t know when – been hanging out in the drafts area of the site. Probably some late night, fraught with insomnia and over-analysis. Yes, Michael, much like tonight, shutupthankyou. Anyhow, after a re-read, I still find I agree with what I wrote, so up it goes…

The problem with setting expectations is that eventually, your competence becomes your enemy: the assumption becomes you don’t need what you once did. This was a huge problem for me my last year or so at UW, and made me really question a lot of things, about myself and how I interact with the world, and about the people I work with. It also made me wonder if perhaps this factored in to why I only stayed at software companies for 2-3 years, at most – and normally had risen to the senior spot possible in that (relatively short) time.

Of course, when I was in the software industry, it was almost a bragging point. The less time you saw your manager, at least in any official capacity, the better you were at your job. The people who were constantly in their boss’s office? They were the ones who were incompetent, the ones who were making trouble, who couldn’t pull their weight. During the Microsoft era, my team and I had a competition going (at least prior to our reorg) – just how long could we go without seeing our manager, W~, without a beer in his hand?

But somewhere along the way, I started thinking about gender dynamics. The only time that sort of competition didn’t exist was when I had a female manager. She was still very hands off; I think I once went almost three weeks without actually talking work with her. It wasn’t that we never saw one another – we did, frequently, whether we were pitching expensive prototype powerbooks down the hall at one another, or playing volleyball over lunch, or sharing beer and BBQ. It’s just that there was no need to talk work – I had my project solidly outlined, knew what I was doing and what I was expected to do, and would meet up with her when it was done. Losing her is a large reason why I left Apple in the first place – the manager who replaced her was a micromanager of the worst variety.

Where do gendered dynamics come into it? I’ve often wondered if Carol was consciously aware of how women are raised, and worked hard to avoid using that against her almost completely female crew. A lot of scholarship suggests that there are certain ways of behaviour that women learn at a young age, and we’re almost primed to react to – such as being thanked for being conscientious, and not contributing to a problem. Or for being thoughtful, or kind. And the scholarship seems to suggest that getting feedback like this plays into certain gendered behaviour, of being submissive and quiet and not raising a fuss. Of being a “good” woman. After all, how often does a man get thanked for going out of his way to not be a problem?