I watched this gem of a disaster movie, Rachel Getting Married, by Jonathan Demme of Silence of the Lambs fame. I think this film is more unsettling than the Hannibal Lecter story. To sum it up: girl with chip on shoulder nearly wrecks wedding of her sweet sister and family. I think it might be like an Ingmar Bergman film, which is to say, uncomfortable unraveling of emotions in a social setting. It’s pretty much better than anything Hollywood makes in dealing with emotional truth in a way that feels mostly believable, like, it could happen; I’ve had fights that felt like the fights in this movie, though over comparatively benign subject matter.
It is shot with a high definition handheld camera, which makes you feel like you’re in on the wedding. Aspects of the film made me genuinely uncomfortable: too much extroversion, relentless wedding crap, etc. But, this is not like the rash of Hollywood wedding movies. It’s more like hippy liberal wedding, interacial harmony without comment, and pukefyingly, Neil Young sung at the ceremony by the groom. On this latter point, I thought it was very sweet - I am the kind of man who sings to the woman who loves him - I just find hippy sentimentality as expressed through music - especially the bad Young - to be a bit cringe inducing when watched in an impersonal medium like film.
“Somewhere on a desert highway, she rode a Harley Davidson…” Or something. Huh? Why sentimentalize a girl riding a motorcycle? I don’t get it. It’s from some other universe. “Somewhere in a kitchen, she baked me a chocolate cake…” There’s a woman I sing about.
The film is two parts. One is a boring wedding, and one is this highly charged drama about a recovering drug addict who, um, well, that’s the Silence of the Lambs part that I’ll leave to the movie. But I even kind of liked the boring wedding; it’s social, and you can observe without participating, which makes socializing much easier, like squeezing the juice from an orange without trying to eat the fleshy pulp.
The deleted scenes had a couple of important exchanges that I’m surprised were left out of the film. The camera lingered too long on cultural aspects of the wedding instead of developing the plot more. For example, the reason Anne Hathaway’s character is so upset at the rehearsal dinner is, she has just been through greeting all the guests, many of whom make veiled insults to her for her drug addict past. In watching these scenes, I realized how brave she was being during the film in trying to fix her emotions by confronting her demons.
I’ve only been to one upper middle class wedding - some people I knew, when I was in my early twenties. It had all the cliches - including groups of friends from the liberal arts college of choice - but still managed to be kind of fun. I was late to the part in the church and sat in the back (I prefer to sit in the back, in general), which was good because it was kind of boring, although I liked aspects of that ceremony. I also recall the cake was really good.
Last weekend skiing I picked up a bug. Sore threat, headache, fever, fatigue. About midway through the week, those symptoms started to subside. In their stead, I developed a dry cough. Tonight, a week later, that cough is so intense I can not sleep, and I find myself a bit desperate for relief. The last time I remember feeling this bad was on the ferry ride from Cozumel to the mainland. Before that, it was when I fell off my bicycle and skidded on a gravel mountainside for a few feet. I suppose overall I should count myself lucky.
This cough goes into remission during the day, so I kind of forget about it. At night, it comes out with a vengeance. I have a bad headache from last night, when I didn’t get enough sleep. Most helpful would be if I could get some @##$@$% Robitussin. All I have are leftover cough drops from years prior, and I’m running low here at 11:45 p.m. on Sunday night in a mountain town in the off-season. The nearest liquid cough suppressant short of breaking-and-entering is an hour’s drive away.
I could also use a codeine. Or carbon monoxide poisoning. Anything to get me out of this.
12:15 a.m. Not lying down seems to be helping. I did some yoga stretches and those seemed to help, too. I’m sure yoga instructors would be thrilled and would tell you that yoga cures all your ills. Now, about this sleep issue. Stores open in maybe five hours, forty-five minutes…
Did you know Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon split up?
1:35 a.m. - So I may have just had forty-five minutes of sleep before waking up in a rage of coughing. I’m just getting over it now, sitting upstairs in front of the computer. New theory is my pets aggravate it. They’re so cute - but as I discovered last fall, I’m borderline allergic to them. That was allergy season (ragweed), and Millie had to go live elsewhere for a few weeks because she kept bringing in the outdoors on her coat.
3:23 a.m. - Well, good, it’s not the pets. Had nearly 90 minutes of blissful rest in the chair before waking up dead. Have just now come out of the latest lying-down induced coughing fit. This one sucks.
[March 1 2010 New Yorker] A critical review of two psychiatry books on depression treatment, a multi-billion dollar industry in the U.S., raises some interesting issues. One book is “Manufacturing Depression” by Gary Greenberg; the other is “The Emperor’s New Drugs” by Irving Kirsch. The latter name implies that there is nothing to them, like the Emperor being naked.
Occasionally I think about going to a psychologist. I did, once in college, for a few sessions. It was senior year, and I was having trouble staying motivated and happy, because college is a complete waste of time. I partly went because I wanted to know what it was like. Mostly it was like having somebody listen to me, and saying that my proposed solutions to my problems were just fine.
I believe that such a service can be valuable. If you tell your friend a problem you are having, most of them will come up with an annoying response. The one that puts me off the most is when they come up with a problem of their own to match yours. Please don’t compound my sense of despair by telling me that shit happens - can’t you just listen and help me forget?
The best way to manage any problem is to forget about it, once it’s more or less resolved, that is. This applies particularly to conflict. The mind lingers over conflict, for biological reasons. In the past, conflict could mean extreme danger. Today, not so much. A lot of conflict arises from so many people being in close proximity to one another. I admit to a slight sense of wonder at people who seem to float from fight to fight without remembering a thing about the prior conflict. I’m starting to get more that way, in part because I can’t remember things that happen to me for as long as I used to be able to.
Back to the books. Both authors agree that antidepressants are overprescribed. One place they disagree is cognitive behavioral therapy, or CBT. CBT is positive self talk, where you talk back to the depressing thoughts. Greenberg says it is “a method of indoctrination into the pieties of American optimism, an ideology as much as a medical treatment.” Kirsch says its the only way to go.
Why is optimism a big deal in America? Here’s my theory. One theory of why so many people left Europe for America is because they were misfits in a certain way - they had attention deficit disorder. We are a nation of ADHDers. This would explain a lot; our constant cheeriness, inability to focus on unstimulating media, general craziness, religious fervor, jingoism, etc.
Here’s the thing: when society tells you that you are no good, but there you still are, breathing; optimism becomes something for you to use to define your life. I’ve experienced this in my own life. I remember what it was like arriving in Colorado after three terrible years at Cornell. I felt like life was starting over. I didn’t think I would strike it rich and find babes everywhere. But I just thought I would find a lot of fun stuff to do. I find it relatively easy to maintain that sense of optimism once school is over.
So on the CBT/non-CBT debate, I go with CBT. Positive self-talk works. It may not be pretty or desirable, but it’s like in Black Hawk Down: “They’re shooting at us.” “Well, shoot back.” If you don’t talk back to your negative thoughts, they control you.
Greenberg goes into how normal responses can be classified as psychiatric maladies. Intense sadness is a natural response to being laid off, for example. Maybe not for everyone, but for some. 18.7% of Americans supposedly suffer from “social-anxiety disorder” more commonly known as “shyness,” but “this is a blatant pathologization of a common personality trait for the financial benefit of the psychiatric profession and the pharmaceutical industry.”
We should be more forgiving of shyness, rather than always trying to correct it. Shy people prevent themselves from being drawn into certain social situations so they can pursue things that interest them more and which might not get done otherwise. A shy person might be a better observer of human nature, and might make a better friend, for example.
Shyness can cause one to miss out on certain types of social fun. Just as social butterflies miss out on the pleasures of Paul Krugman or science fiction novels. Life has tradeoffs. I agree that the work world values lack of shyness, so there may be an economic problem to it, and there may be reproductive problems as well. But there are also jobs and people that would value it.
Greenberg thinks much of modern psychiatry amounts to adjusting to the way the world is. He “basically regards the pathologizing of melancholy and despair, and the invention of pills designed to relieve people of those feelings, as a vast capitalist conspiracy to paste a big smiley face over a world that we have good reason to feel sick about. The aim of the conspiracy is to convince us that it’s all in our heads, or specifically, in our brains–that our unhappiness is a chemical problem, not an existential one.”
In Greenberg’s view, unhappiness is a source of strength; it’s how you change the world. Should Michael Moore or Naomi Klein go on medication because they are “unhappy” with how capitalism brutalizes billions of people?
Kirsch’s book argues that all antidepressants amount to a placebo effect. On the substance of antidepressants themselves, I think everything we seek out to do is an antidepressant. I go skiing, or bike riding, or mountain climbing, for fun. Fun alleviates what ails me. Why would I need an expensive chemical developed by weirdos trying to make a buck? And besides, they have that drug, it’s called alcohol. It makes you happy for a couple of hours, and if you don’t overdo it, there’s not much of a cost.
Kirsch also notes the failure of psychiatry. “Patients who are treated by psychotherapists do no better than patients who meet with sympathetic professors with no psychiatric training. Depressed patients in psychotherapy do no better or worse than depressed patients on medication.”
The only lesson is that being cared for by another individual works. We like to be taken care of.
The thing with antidepressants is, we’ve been there before. It used to be valium in the 70s. The Kirsch book finds parallels between that and Prozac.
The critiquer counterclaims that progress in science is made by “lurching around.” We have to go through our crazes and trials to figure out what, if anything, works.
People who have actually gone through the “I’m depressed” pharmacology route is overwhelmingly “Take the Meds!” Finally the article concludes with talking about shortcuts to happiness. We prize hard work and sacrifice leading to a desired goal. Or, do we just prize the goal? Is it better to be Leann Rimes, and work hard for many years and persevere? Or is Carrie Underwood becoming a star after one talent show contest just as good? Is is the challenge on the way to the goal that we like, or the goal itself?
At the beginning of my cruise, after hearing a surprising number of complaints about things that don’t matter from my sister, I told her about this character from South Park. She has become more aware of herself in recent years and tries to be better, but I have put up with her annoyance for a long time, mostly in silence, and at some point, in our mid thirties, I’m noting it. I still love her! It’s just interpersonal communication is probably neither of our strongest suits, yet I feel like I’m the one who, in general, is nicer and more easygoing and trying harder. Obviously she doesn’t approach this level of caricature, but nonetheless (here’s a link if the embedding doesn’t work for you):
Here’s what one ought to say after a plane flight that lands safely: “Oh, it was fine.” I suppose if the airplane aggravates one’s asthma, one could say something like: “It aggravated my asthma, but I’m used to that.”
In related news, a while back we were watching the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. It’s hard for me not to make fun of such things, but I was doing pretty well, and there are aspects I like OK. When they had the modern dancers come on, I went up and started doing interpretative dance next to the TV, and people thought it was funny. But then they brought on this fat douchetard with tortoise glasses, not unlike Kyle’s cousin, and he had this poem he read. And this was after the show was quite long in the tooth. I determined after several stanzas that the poem was bereft of meaning. So, I went over and started playing on my parents’ new piano. Catherine got up in a huff, went over by the TV and listened closely to every inane word he said because she couldn’t hear over my piano chords (apparently). Even though I could still hear that moron over the piano chords, and I was closer to the piano and further from the TV.
Fortunately Andy Borowitz is with me on this one, here’s what he had to say about the “slam poet:”
“I didn’t think these ceremonies could jump the shark any further, but the “slam poet” just did it.”
“Re: Slam poet. Starting tonight, let’s stop discovering “talent” on YouTube.”
“The dude at the podium is going to take the gold in the anesthesia event.”
“English translation of guy at podium: “You are getting sleepy. You are getting very sleepy.”
“The opera singer is starting to make me nostalgic for the slam poet.”
In other interpersonal news, in which I attempt to describe issues without libeling the people I care about, I realize that my girlfriend has twice indicated that she can be annoying. One time she said “I can be a brat” and another time she said “I’ll try not to annoy you.” She was sincere about it. I told her I would work on not snapping at her.
On recent phone call, I practiced not getting annoyed. Like, she got this watch for Kathmandu - has all kinds of features, including pulse monitor. I got curious if that meant it had to have a strap around your chest, or maybe it could read it directly from her wrist. I knew that bringing up this issue would lead to trouble, believe it or not. It seems like something fun to talk about (to me), but she sucks the fun out of it. Unfortunately, I went ahead. Or rather, it was like an experiment. I said: “I have a heart rate monitor. Mine comes with a strap to wear around your chest. Does that watch–” “Yeah, it comes with a strap,” she said in a low, quick voice.
“Um…OK.” I didn’t say, because I chose not to get annoyed. But still. C’mon. So this watch comes with a strap for your chest if you want to use one of its features? Isn’t that worth noting?
When it comes down to it, it’s her tone that puts me off, even though I realize she’s not trying to convey something negative (most normal people would be, but she really isn’t; it’s just her (surgeon’s) manner). She doesn’t know how to use a friendly, conversational tone on some things. That consequently makes conversation more labored. Yet she wants to talk on the phone, and I don’t especially. I feel like saying: “OK, but if we’re going to talk on the phone-if I’m going to do that for you-you have to try and use your nice girl voice.”
It’s a new show on NBC that I watched the pilot of on Hulu. It was very good, I thought. My problem with such smart comedy shows is the recognition that they consist largely of: (a) clever writers who joke about their own insecurities (b) while saying nothing especially interesting or real or relevant to our own experiences (c) the writers and actors and such get paid, while we just sit there with the same stupid problems we’ve always had, most, if not all of them, economic.
But this show is a “drama” with comedy, or something, and it started getting heavy. So, we get Asperger’s, a disease which inhibits social interaction, untreatable with alcohol because kids aren’t allowed to have it; we get the horrors of little league baseball; a man in his thirties who is commitment phobic and whose girlfriend is considering artificial insemination. So, some reality. Albeit of an upper middle class type. Pretty parents, one or both with reasonable confidence in their careers. Yes, they’ll have some surprises along the way. But in the end, it will all work out and the kids will get into the colleges “of their dreams.”
(If, as a boy, I had known that people “dream” of being in an institution, I think I might have swam out into the ocean, and kept going. But I would have missed out on Predator and The Lord of the Rings trilogy.)
There, I said it. Being cautious, injury averse, and intelligent, I see a lot of dumb things out there. I don’t always know if they’re dumb; sometimes I just think they violate my particularly strong sense of self-protection. But here on my blog, I get to say, “I told you so.”
Our governor was hospitalized for a bicycling accident. The cause was clipping the tire of the cyclist in front of him. The doctor says he sees such an accident two or three times a week.
On my Backroads trips, some people ride together, and they ride way too close. They ride in groups, and they talk to each other. One woman even said to me “I notice you don’t like to talk while riding.” I didn’t mind the comment though. It’s true. I like to concentrate on getting my thrills and not getting in an accident. “I’ll see you at dinner,” is how I think of it.
The problem with riding close is, among other things, bikes don’t have brake lights. You may not realize how important they are until you’ve experienced life without them. So if somebody slows suddenly, you’re screwed. I put a lot of distance between me and the next bike, in both directions. I don’t want to take a spill!
Oh, but feel better, Governor! We all make mistakes!
We live in a society where the people who fly planes don’t make enough money to feed themselves. Michael Moore is so perceptive. “You cleared the room with that one, Sully. They like you as a hero.” In general, the powers that be don’t like discussions of our economic system. And I have to wonder: what is to discuss? The arguments against it speak for themselves. The arguments for it come from well-fed, wealthy (mostly) white ASSHOLES (and their middle class minions who they have fooled into thinking like them).
I must be perfect in all respects in order to be worthwhile. Nobody can be perfect in everything that we have to do in life. But if you believe that you’re a failure unless you are perfect in every way, you are setting yourself up for a lifetime of unhappiness.
I struggle with this one a bit. When I learn a new skill, I want to be really good at it. This developed partly as a result of people putting pressure on me to be good, and then also my realization that I could impress people with skill. Especially when it seemed like I didn’t talk enough for people, I didn’t care about the same things they cared about, I made fun of professional sports because I genuinely thought they were kind of silly, etc. Now when I work on things, I talk to myself a lot. I say things like “I’m not trying to ski in the Olympics,” and “I enjoy playing Scrabble more for the fun words than the great triple word scoring combinations.” And, because of my rebellious mind, I like just being kind of average at some things. I can chuckle at watching people stressing out trying to be slightly better at things they should just be enjoying.
I must be loved and approved of by everyone who is important to me. Sometimes you just can’t help making enemies, and there are people in the world who bear ill will to almost everyone. But you can’t make your own life miserable by trying to please them.
I’m not sure on this one. I like it when my insiders approve of me, and I count on their support. But, I imagine I piss them off occasionally, and what can I do? I’m sorry.
When people treat me unfairly, it is because they are bad people. Most of the people who treat you unfairly have friends and family who love them. People are mixtures of good and bad.
I agree with this, mostly. Still, with the customs agent last year or this guy in the ski line, they are not as good as me. But yes, they probably have their good points.
It is terrible when I am seriously frustrated, treated badly, or rejected. Some people have a such a short fuse, that they are constantly losing jobs or endangering friendships because they are unable to endure the slightest frustration.
I might have a problem with this. But, I can be pretty patient for long periods of time. Maybe then I have the problem of “beware the fury of the patient man.”
Misery comes from outside forces which I can’t do very much to change. Many prison inmates describe their life as if it were a cork, bobbing up and down on waves of circumstance.
I’ve done a reasonably good job of “being happy no matter what.”
If something is dangerous or fearful, I have to worry about it. Many people believe that “the work of worrying” will help to make problems go away. “Okay, that’s over. Now, what’s the next thing on the list that I have to worry about?”
I’m getting better at this one. This is what I mean when I say I “don’t worry” or “don’t care.” I’m mainly talking about things I can’t control, which a lot of people worry about incessantly. Even things I can control, I don’t worry about as much. I’ve come to see “control” as something of an illusion.
It is easier to avoid life’s difficulties and responsibilities than to face them. Even painful experiences, once we can get through them, can serve as a basis for learning and future growth.
Sometimes, this is true. But sometimes false. We have to pick our battles. Sometimes not fighting a battle is better than fighting and losing just to prove you’re not a shirk. Mainly I will go for difficulties that I realize are important and I stand to gain something from them. But it’s becoming increasingly important that I “want” to do them. When you’re young, you have to do things you don’t want to do all the time, and you get partially brainwashed into thinking that that’s how you lead a life; you’re basically a slave.
Because things in my past controlled my life, they have to keep doing so now and in the future. If this were really true, it would mean that we are prisoners of our past, and change is impossible. But people change all the time — and sometimes they change dramatically!
I’m very plastic. I remember painful things from my past, but I don’t let them define me. Sometimes I enjoy thinking “well, if they could see me now!”
It is terrible when things do not work out exactly as I want them to. Could you have predicted the course of your own life? Probably not. By the same token, you can’t predict that things are going to work out exactly as you want them to, even in the short term.
No problem here! Things rarely go the way I want them to! And yet, a lot of things do work out. I wanted a fun ski weekend this past week, and I got it! So, I’m happy!
I can be as happy as possible by just doing nothing and enjoying myself, taking life as it comes. If this were true, almost every wealthy or comfortably retired person would do as little as possible. But instead, they seek new challenges as a pathway to further growth.
General Zod, after conquering planet earth in a short amount of time, becomes bored. “Is there no one on this planet to even challenge me?” I guess we need our challenges. Oh yeah, and from some other movie: “When there were no more worlds to conquer, Alexander wept.”
Removing from the fray–I do this sometimes–it’s safer, and can get boring. Sometimes I get so bored, I go seek out something that challenges me. But, I don’t like going through life with a plan, it’s true. I don’t want to go to business school and run a company, just as I didn’t want to go to law school. I don’t want to go through interviews. The interviews pretty much always say the same thing: I don’t have what it takes. I am not economically viable. And, that’s kind of like economic and personal suicide (most normal white girls of pretty form and status want a successful man).
But look at it from my perspective: why are people so hepped up on being viable? Once they’ve learned their native tongue and can clean up after themselves, why do they then have to go through this carefully orchestrated charade that gets exceedingly tedious?
One other thing: while I feel that psychology has something substantial to contribute to being a better person, I can’t help but feel that Democrats have been too afraid of breaking some of these “rules” made up by the same profession that provided justifications for torture. So, take it with a grain of salt. We come from fighting stock. We fight for what’s right, in addition to what’s wrong. It’s important for people to stand up for what’s right.
In some ways, the previously discussed fight was a highlight for me. I love it when bullies are defeated. I mean, I really love it. But the main part of the weekend was about having fun, not about setting the universe straight and dealing with the challenges of conflict and confrontation. Or rather, the confrontation was with my own ability to safely steer myself down a scary mountainside!
I discovered one slope at Winter Park that I really enjoyed. I had asked the info desk to help me figure out some green slopes that I could go on, as Winter Park is so large it’s a bit disorienting. The woman went through them with me, and then became somewhat animated about the run called “Jack Kendrick.” It was cute. So I decided to head to it and see what it was about.
It quickly became my favorite run of all three resorts I’ve been to! It’s merits were: it was long, with variety, and very wide. It began with a gradual downhill to a slightly challenging downhill (for a beginner). Then a long curving stretch with a slightly harder downhill. Then there were two harder downhills, but you could bypass one, or both of them, by taking the “Easy Way.”
On the flatter parts, I practiced skiing on one ski the way my instructor taught me; this turns out to be very helpful in making turns, because it gives you the confidence to lift one ski off the ground if you really get stuck turning, and also helps develop your sense of balance on the turning ski. By the end of the weekend, I took the scariest hill on Kendrick by lifting the downhill (inner) ski off the ground to make it easier to swing the turning ski all the way around. I might have looked like I was doing moguls, or like how you see really fast downhill skiiers manage an absurdly steep hill, which I suppose is a bit comical for a beginning hill. What I was doing was controlling my speed to a great degree, with tight turns and a lot of control. But they weren’t “wedge” turns, so they felt enjoyable and athletic instead of defensive and awkward.
To get to Winter Park, I left on Thursday night in the midst of a snowstorm. It’s about a two and a half hour drive without snow; the snow made it take three hours, I think. I was planning to skip dinner that night, but driving through Nederland I saw a sign for the “Kathmandu Restaurant” and decided that since I am going to the genuine article in a month, fate wanted me to eat there. The service there was too slow, but the food was reasonably good. Slow service is a theme up in these ski area restaurants, I’ve noticed.
Thursday night I stayed at a hostel. My first time doing that! My only other experience with a hostel is the movie Hostel in which the protagonists are butchered staying at a Hostel. Fortunately that didn’t happen. I went for the $27 per night package, where i stayed in a room with eight twin beds, all filled. I slept on a top bunk, which turned out to be a good choice. I felt above the fray a bit. I used earplugs and slept fitfully both nights. I’m big on the earplug angle; I have hopes now that I’ll sleep with them on the plane to Hong Kong.
Friday skiing was so-so. It was fun discovering Winter Park, and I enjoyed the skiing, but I felt stuck at the same skill level. I tried not to worry about it though. The only reason I wanted to get better was to enjoy it more, and I was already enjoying it. That night I was in a strange mood. I felt like talking about things I hated. In the past I haven’t allowed myself to say “I hate…” Hate is based in fear, misunderstanding, weakness. But it’s also a passion, and I just decided to drop the hate bomb for a bit. Mostly my target was the Olympics, and I just picked on the silliness of it. I shared my secret desire for Communism to win. I want the whole world to become Communist. Not because I believe that any form of government is ideal; just because I would want the anti-communists to suffer for being such jerks.
And, somewhat delightfully, people are saying that Communism is winning; China is the future, and the world sees how they can get things done that you can’t get done in America, such as developing renewable energy. Because of the Republicans, we have not been able to get anything sensible done in America since 1980. Republicans are destroying our democracy and even our capitalist system.
It’s so basic, and I feel like the anti-government types are devastatingly retarded. It’s the ski lift line: when people are left to their own devices, shit happens. Fights break out, people cut in line, everything takes longer. You put in a “resort host” — i.e., the oppressive government with its regulations — everything works better. Nobody fights, the lifts get boarded more efficiently. A soccer game needs a referee; a society needs a referee. End of story.
On Saturday the first half of skiing was not so good, and I began to think I was in a rut. I lay down in the snow for 10 minutes. I got up and had five runs that were of significantly better quality after that, and Sunday I was better still, to where I felt I was attacking the slopes. Saturday night the hostel was all reserved, so I stayed across the street in the Pinnacle for five times the money. But I had my own room, with shower and HBO and continental breakfast. Also, the hostel had so many rules it was a bit suffocating. Everywhere you went was a sign saying “Don’t do this, do that.” I could see why, you had a large number of people sharing a small space with not much staff to clean up after us. But still. Signs are pretty annoying, and they were everywhere. One over the sink. One on each door of the refrigerator. One on every cabinet. On every door. All over the walls. “Quiet time is 10:30 to 7″ “Don’t make noise up here, they’ll hear it downstairs.” “Load this dishwasher first.” “Take your sheets and put them here.” and so on. Also, take your shoes off when you come in.
Overall though i dug the hostel experience. I was mainly there for the sleep, and I’m a pretty good rule follower.
Sunday morning i slept in and watched The Karate Kid on TV. A perfect movie for my later experience that morning of standing up to an idiot lowlife moron. Around 3 p.m., it started snowing heavily. I made it till 3:47 p.m. I had time for one more run, and I love closing the places down, but the snow was so thick and my legs so tired that I decided I might not enjoy the run much or fall over, so I headed in. My cheeks got so cold from the snow riding in on the “Turnpike” that I briefly feared frostbite.
That night on the way home I stopped at the Indian Springs resort in Idaho Springs. I bought a book of hot springs in the West last week at Hot Sulphur Springs (so many towns called Springs here!), so I could go to more of them. This one was really cool–it was in a cave! Miners dug out the cave, then discovered the springs. Temps were 104, 108, 110. I stayed in the springs for two hours. Me and two older guys. I realized there that Native Americans went in to their sweat rooms to think and have visions and what not, and wow did I ever do some thinking in that cave! The sign on the door said “this is a sacred place,” and I came to agree with that assessment.
I spent some time in a literal cave, and these were my thoughts. As a writer it’s hard to know how much to avoid one’s personal life; I realize talking about my relationship with my girlfriend in a candid manner might not be the classiest thing I could do, but I guess i’m doing it to help me figure it out. I’ve taken my blog out of search engine range, it’s privately hosted and not very advertised, so without further beating around the bush:
I have become increasingly polite in dealing with people in things like ski lifts. I used to be that way more. But other boys would make fun of me - or rather, I noticed that they would make fun of it, and stopped myself from being that way around them before they could make fun of me. But now, I just don’t care. Being polite gets you places.
And to slightly veer from that point to something I’ve been thinking about. It’s the “bridge the gap” factor in human relationships. Have you ever noticed how easy it is to get along with foreigners? They don’t speak English very well (or they speak it so well, they speak it better than we do!), and so they are very polite. Sort of like we are when we only know a few words in their language. Thus, both parties are struck by the innocence in each other, and they become kinder. Also, there’s a curiosity to it, like visiting with a strange and wondrous alien being.
It becomes easier to deal with others when you see their innocence and convey yours. Maybe not to bullies or social cliques, but in the real world where there are many good people.
Sometimes I wonder if this is why men and women often get along so well. They’re just different enough that it is easier to reach out to them. Like, when I think of my friends over the years, I have generally preferred my female friends. I find them more interesting, and they seem more careful of my feelings. Sex is a complicating factor, but other than times where I become especially eager for it, it’s usually not enough of an issue that it gets in the way of friendship.
Another facet I was thinking of, regarding my male friends: usually, they are different from me, and that’s a good thing. My 63 year old friend Rich. My best friends in college: one black, one Laotian. The times when I’ve had white male friends who were in a similar boat (smart, nice, girl-challenged), they usually hurt me. Familiarity breeds contempt, perhaps; but also, there was the lack of innocence. We were too close. One of my best friends in high school became angry at me when I refused to go out drinking and vandalizing with him. Another “friend” in junior year started saying hurtful things to me, and so I stopped hanging around with him. Another friend from high school, same deal. And another. And another…yeesh, that is really something.
This goes to a realization about myself: I am very, very sensitive. I like to be handled just right, and I sometimes become infuriated when the idiot I’m with seems tone deaf to my feelings.
I generally find it easy to figure out another person’s emotional style, and I’m used to tapdancing around them. Which is why it makes me a bit confused when over the years, a few people have mentioned that they feel they have to “tapdance” around me. I think to myself–is that really so hard? I figure out what you do and don’t like, and I give you what you want. Isn’t that just the basics of getting along? But I also see their point; I seem to only be able to make my points with them when I’m somewhat worked up, which is not a mature way to handle it. But then, if they only listen to me when I’m angry, how much choice have they left me?
One thing I really like in a friend is when they compliment me. So few people will compliment you, it turns out. There are cynical sayings, like “flattery will get you everywhere,” but I’m not talking about sycophantry. Bucking the trend, my white male friend in law school may have been one of the best I’ve had, and I remember one day after class he said, after I was called on, “that was a strong performance.” All these years later, I remember how nice that felt to hear. Especially because law school is an alienating experience. And I remember how so many of my friends have hurt me over the years, and really, how dangerous “friends” can be.
I should note that I had to end my friendship with my law school friend, too. The experience of law school became so painful to me that by the third year, I stopped to talking to anyone at the school. Now that’s quiet. And it’s a good metaphor for my experience of American capitalism: work destroys your happiness.
Back to compliments, this isn’t to say I can’t stand hearing negative things about myself or that I require constant reassurance. I appreciate negative feedback in some ways, because I think, maybe it explains a few things, and maybe it helps me be better. The problem with criticism is it can destroy your motivation to try. Oh, I’m no good at playing your game? Very well, jerk, I quit! But maybe you can learn from the critique. I remember in soccer camp years and years ago, I overheard two guys talking about me in the shower. The one said “What do you think of Matt?” “He’s a nice guy, he’s just so quiet.” It reminds me that in nursery school, I was the second shyest kid in class. It’s funny, because I used to think, I’m just doing what seems obvious.
My Dad can be pretty quiet. He was known for sitting under a tree for hours at a time as a boy, if I remember the story correctly. When asked what he was doing, he would say “I’m thinking.”
But the thing with the negativity, is, it’s kind of stupid, too. We are bundles of will power, and we just do what we do. Does it matter if we do it in different styles?
Some of these issues are in my mind because I’m in a relationship now, and the two of us have different emotional styles. Usually in my relationships, I feel like I’m more the girl, and my girl feels like the guy. In my prior two relationships, I’m not sure I ever saw them cry. At the center, they were colder than me. My current girlfriend is a surgeon. Surgeons are not usually bundles of warmth. Although she’s considerably more likable than you would expect. But she has the analytical-competitive streak in her.
I think I look for warmth in a woman because my mother is that way.
In my current relationship, I’ve seen her cry already, mostly as a result of fights we’ve had. Why are we fighting? Different emotional styles; usually, she hurts my feelings without realizing it, and I get mad at her. I don’t want to be mad at her, or to hurt her.
My predicament was, on one thing that she kept commenting on to me, I tried to tell her that I didn’t like it. She kept making the comment (it was about my hands being too cold). Eventually I snapped, because I could not communicate to her effectively that she was really annoying me. And, I needed her to not mention the temperature of my hands again, ever. I also don’t hold hands with her anymore, even though she likes it. She likes holding hands, and she likes making fun of my hands. Sometimes women can be really stupid.
I am confused in my current relationship. I think I would be confused about any relationship. At the end of my trip, I thought, who would I like to talk to right now? And the somewhat sad answer came to mind: not her. That’s weird, I suppose. But I might have a bad attitude toward the relationship. Baggage. I’m just not sure…I feel like relationships are so complicated (maybe especially for me), it’s hard to know how much weight to attach to any one thing. My long-term relationship years ago, we were with each other all the time, we were each other’s everything, right up to the moment where it all went to shit.
There’s the tradeoff aspect to it: I know the fairly bleak reality-it’s possible to be single indefinitely, with no one there by your side to give you comfort. So I could be staying in the relationship to alleviate loneliness. And, it’s long distance, which takes a lot of pressure off of me. I thought long distance would be hard, but it’s mostly easy. I don’t have to deal with her shit as much. And I don’t just mean her. It’s just this general sense I have of the complexity of getting two human beings to get along. And finally, there’s the state of things, which don’t exactly encourage me to feel hopeful about making things work. Since I always see the big picture, I feel like: (a) the world has 6.7 billion people in it, and won’t care if I have kids (b) it’s basically impossible to get a job (c) marriage is an institution, like a mental hospital (d) America seems increasingly troubled.
This makes me wonder: should a partner make you feel a certain way? Should you feel taken care of emotionally? But if a partner is there with you when you ask, and goes places with you (such as skiing and kathmandu) and is generally nice to you, is that enough?
Oh, and what if she has really bad breath? Like it smells like something died inside her mouth? And you think, this woman’s half way through her life, and hasn’t tried to correct her breath? She’s a doctor! Her teeth are crooked and there are studies about how bad oral hygiene leads to heart disease. It’s…annoying. Moreso because she jokes about my hands, oh, and strangely, my clavicles (my collar bones are a bit prominent because I’m thin); whereas I had been treading lightly about her, er, physical issues that were completely within her control, and here she was joking about aspects of my physicality that were (a) not especially unusual or disgusting (b) entirely beyond my control.
She didn’t mean it meanly though. This is what I mean by “different emotional styles.” But I had to press upon her the importance of not singling out aspects of my body for ridicule. My muscular, toned, thin, agile body with straight teeth and good breath. Ugh, when i think of how much time I spend maintaining it, how painful my braces were, how I visit the dentist every six months and listen to the stupid comments of vapid dental hygienists, yes, I get a bit ticked thinking of her “style.” And it’s not like I’m annoyingly into my own appearance. It’s just…let’s say she had a beautiful garden, and instead of visiting it and saying “Wow. I can see you spent a lot of time on this — it’s a passion for you. It’s beautiful! It’s amazing!” I say something like “your tulips are too wilty.”
And here’s the thing–for her, she would understand that. She would say probably go into how the tulips weren’t up to snuff. She wouldn’t see the bigger emotional picture of the thing and wouldn’t be bothered that my only reaction to it was to focus on something negative about it.
As I think about this, there is an aspect to it where the shoe was on the other foot. Her “garden” is her surgery. But early in the relationship, she would go into great detail about it. At first I would listen politely; but then, I started making fun of it. And at one point she became a bit defensive. So you could argue it’s the same thing, except, NO, IT’S NOT! Surgery is ridiculously fucking disgusting. I can not stand the thought of it. I’m still trying to forget the stories she told me. I don’t want to know anything about it. I don’t think I would tell my girlfriend “all about it” if that’s what my job were. Surgery is not a garden; a garden is beautiful. So at this point I said “I’m sorry, I’m genuinely glad you enjoy what you do. But I’m going to have to ask you not to tell me the details of it anymore.” And she was fine with that.
Back to the breath, I realize I could tell her about her bad breath. I don’t know the exact reasons I haven’t yet. A while back I told my mom she had bad breath (actually, I wouldn’t say she has bad breath–she had it at that moment) and she thanked me right away and said my Dad wouldn’t tell her things like that and that she kind of wished he would. She also explained it was her diet at the time–she was on Atkins, and sometimes carnivores get a little breathy. Very poised response she gave!
A couple months later I took a chance telling my emotionally belligerent sister that she had bad breath. Yes, she got defensive and irritated and a bit devastated. Then a couple days later, she thanked me for telling her. She figured out the sense of it; after all, she’s the one going through life putting people off with her breath (possibly, I hadn’t really noticed before), and I was the one who decided to brave her wrath and help her out.
When you get to telling somebody about their breath, you scoot out of the “tapdancing” zone, and into the “I’m going to try to help you even though it might hurt a bit at first.” But re: the breath, I just think very few people would want a correctable flaw that grossed people out, and the only way to know, often, is to be clued into it by a friend.
And really, this one isn’t that hard. Spend extra time flossing. Invest in some mouthwash. And take the toothbrush and scrape it across the back of your tongue a few times! It’s fun!
Back on the anger subject, I have a tendency to snap at people sometimes. I have anger issues. My mother was prone to getting angry in my house, because she was emotional. So that was the example I grew up with. She grew up in an angrier household, still. Her Dad was a hothead. He sounded really tough to live with. I wouldn’t characterize my mom as angry enough to be “tough to live with,” but her outbursts could be surprising. She was always nice to people in the world, it seemed, but she would get angry at us sometimes.
Anger isn’t all bad. A lot of people who don’t feel anger think it is, or they make fun of it. But it can be useful. I took down that fucktard at the ski lift because I got angry; and I was fortunate enough to have the presence of mind to wield that anger effectively. If I weren’t as emotional a person, I would have shrugged it off. Oh, and guess who congratulated me on it? My mom.
Another thing with anger: as I’m better able to spot when it’s happening, I can control it better; I can also step back and say, OK, I’m probably in a situation that is overwhelming my mind’s ability to cope with the situation. I need to exit the situation. So it can be a protective emotion as well.
My Dad and sister aren’t as emotional. I can be cold and analytical like them, and emotional like my mom.
I notice I capitalize my Dad and not mom. My Dad was the disciplinarian and my mom was the understanding one.
Sometimes my emotional life seems like a puzzle that I can never fully grasp.
Some say we spend most of our young life developing our IQ, only to go into a world where the main thing that matters is our emotional IQ. Given my sub-standard career as an adult, I wonder if I’m emotionally challenged. But…I understand things very well, emotionally. I just, well, I just don’t like work life that much. I am deeply troubled by the way most people treat each other. I am a generalist in a world of specialists; I like variety; I don’t like listening to people complain; I have in the past gotten angry on the job, and if I readjust myself to not get angry, I often stop caring about the job and forget about it.
I am quiet because I am in some other realm a lot of the time. A place that doesn’t leave me bored, that doesn’t hurt my feelings, where I acquire new skills, conquer challenges, where people really like me and really listen to me; a place very different from this painful world I’ve been travelling through. But it’s absurd; I’m in this world, and I throw myself into the mix regularly. Like with my new ski habit. And my buddy in the lift line! I could picture us getting a beer later and just shrugging of the morning fight as our “morning selves.”
I also thought about God in the cave. Like how I use God now to explain things that happen in my life. I can’t say one way or the other about whether this entity is “real.” I just feel comforted by the notion. With painful experiences, I think God had a purpose for it. I admit there are many aspects of it that don’t sit right with me; like, God cares that I stood up to a bully in the ski line, at the same time he/she/it allows thousands to perish in third world country earthquakes. Theologians can be pretty good at explaining things like that, though. I sense that my very rational brain nonetheless has a spiritual side. I think other words for God could be Goodness, or Love. Like Bjork sings “All is full of love.”
