Forced Perspective

I am human. Nothing human is alien to me. --Terence

Responding to a comment left on his very thought-provoking post about resonance, Michael asks:

How does it happen for you? With art or with real people? Have you noticed how automatic it is to slide back to the comfort of your "self" when the going gets rough?

[I highly recommend you have a look at his post first; for context, but more so for your own edification.]

When art resonates with me, it’s as though the art has been there, in my being, all along; its creator simply slid a panel back to present it to me, or plucked it from me, secretly, before planting it in my path. There’s a Yes! that occurs, like finally recognizing the form of a loved one in the distance, across a crowded airport. Sometimes it is so exactly the contents of a particular idea or flight of fancy I may have harbored for years that it is almost painful to see it or hear it in the light of day. Always, there is an overwhelming gratitude toward the artist. Thank you for making me less alone… thank you for making me the same as you… thank you for reminding me that actually, we are all one.

When the resonance is with a person, it’s as though that person’s image hums and vibrates, maybe levitates, in my mind’s eye, brighter and slightly higher than the rest of people in my consciousness. Without the use of words, I think of them as The Ones Who Get It. They grow in numbers over the years, and I can go long periods of time without seeing or communicating with them; our relationships are not affected. They are real, and they know that I am real. I know that I can be myself with them, and they with me, and our ugliness doesn’t matter in the way we tend to believe it does. It doesn’t mark us anything other than human. We are beautiful and hideous. We try again, every day.

Forced resonance occurs quite differently. It’s nearly the exact opposite, in fact. It’s an exercise I do to keep myself humble [stop laughing, sometimes it works!]. I think of it as worming my way into their beings, setting the stage from the inside out, much the way we were taught to prepare our characters in theater classes. What does this person fear, love, worship? After all’s said and done, those three concepts form us, for better or for worse. We have the same basic needs, yes; it’s our props that make us distinct from one another. Considered from that angle, it is less difficult to imagine how the devil’s shoe-shine boy [with a nod to Michael] leaves behind, come next month, an 8-year legacy of idiocy and destruction. [Please note: I did not say “easy to imagine” but only “less difficult” to do so.]

And that’s where things get scary. Because if it is less difficult to imagine how someone stands at the helm of a country and allows it to be destroyed, then perhaps one is only a few thoughts away from completely understanding how something like that occurs. And if one can be something almost resembling sympathetic, even if only in one’s most private thoughts, to a person responsible for something terrible, then how can one confidently point the finger?

Let’s not be mistaken: there is right and there is wrong. That is what I believe. But we are all wrong, aren’t we? Aren’t we wrong, in some way, every day? And if we can be a little wrong, we can be a lot wrong. Horribly wrong. Under the right circumstances, it could happen. Couldn’t it? If you were slightly less able-minded. Slightly less diligent or disciplined. A little lazier. A little sadder. Couldn’t something slip by you? I know I’ve had plenty of close calls. So what right do I have to criticize? Well, it’s my country, it’s my planet; sure I have a right to criticize, to speak out. No one can take that right from me. But I believe there is a difference between speaking out against actions and policies, and speaking out in condemnation of another human being. [Feel free to point out that, this being the case, it's somewhat problematic for me to refer to someone as the devil's shoe-shine boy. I know, isn't it?]

That said, were someone to harm a loved one, you’d hear a different story from me. Absolutely, you would. My aim, though, my goal, is to remember that we are all one. My instructions, as a follower of Christ, are simple: 1. Love God; 2. Love my neighbor. Running through that little exercise of forced resonance keeps me honest. And it makes the spontaneous resonance all the sweeter.

How about you? I’d love to hear your thoughts on this matter.

Special Holiday [Sap and Emotion] Edition

Every year I have more for which to be grateful. This year, in particular, when so many of us are watching the floundering world and wondering what's going to happen next, I feel very rich indeed, in love and comfort. Below, some of the particulars.

* My little family: H., who makes me want to be a better person every single day, who stands at the top of the line of fine men in the world, who loves me tirelessly (or at least does a great job of pretending not to tire of it -- it's a difficult job, I'm the first to admit), and Luke, who manages to amaze me every single day with his tender heart and sparkling wit.

* My brother, the 30-year-old married father who still crank calls me. We weren't very close for years, and now we talk at least three times a day. My life would be far less lovely without his text messages full of absurd inside jokes from childhood.

* My parents, who shaped me and encouraged me to be myself, and somehow didn't put me in a gunny sack and drown me (some things do not become obvious reasons for gratitude until after one becomes a parent)-- who are more and more becoming my friends and co-conspirators in this life.

* The friends I have, far and near, past and present, in person and in the computer, on earth or elsewhere. Inspiring, comforting, clever, hilarious and gorgeous, these people help keep me on the up-and-up, the straight-and-narrow, and every other hackneyed stand-in for truth and strength that you can think of. I've learned something from each of you, and continue to do so.

* My extended family, filled with every type of individual available in the world. Thanks for continuing to welcome me and mine.

* The cute condo in a cute part of town in a cute part of the cutest state in the US (sorry, other states; you know this is only the truth): how did we get so lucky?!

* The jobs both H. and I have... more and more people no longer have jobs, and we know we've got it good.

* My health insurance! I hear horror stories about diabetics without health insurance. I need not be allowed to ever complain.

* My God, whose unparalleled mercy and kindness bring me to my knees every day.

Whether or not you are celebrating Thanksgiving, I wish for you a wonderful day. And if you are reading this, thank you. I pray that you may know how firsthand how much love there is in the world for you.

Mirror world

It becomes easy, after a time, to imagine that you are neither complicated nor messy; that your own little unit of human currency is clean, crisp and unfussy. You know your own system; your language is reasonable; your habits pristine. But numbers easily prove you wrong; add more people to the mix and you quickly realize that, out of context, your lines blur. You become aware of how often your demands, the silent ones, veer off into childishness. Your inflexibility, intolerance and snobbery dance around you gleefully, unbridled.

Pushing past your ugliness, you force yourself to forge a new path. For what other choice exists? You have so far to go.

My President: Fanf--ingtastic!

This brought me real joy:

When he was preparing for them during the Democratic primaries, Obama was recorded saying, "I don't consider this to be a good format for me, which makes me more cautious. I often find myself trapped by the questions and thinking to myself, 'You know, this is a stupid question, but let me … answer it.' So when Brian Williams is asking me about what's a personal thing that you've done [that's green], and I say, you know, 'Well, I planted a bunch of trees.' And he says, 'I'm talking about personal.' What I'm thinking in my head is, 'Well, the truth is, Brian, we can't solve global warming because I f---ing changed light bulbs in my house. It's because of something collective'.

Via Newsweek by way of H.

And how unremarkable our suffering

I could not love Andrea more if I tried, honestly.
This post really resonates with me.

Endgame

Pete's got me thinking, again, this time about what happens when someone you love dies. He writes about the beauty he notices, the beauty of the world.

I notice the frantic way we live, and how hard the struggle is to keep fierce love and plain practicality in the same place.

I've had lots of practice at losing people I love. Death has shown itself with alarming regularity for much of my life. It doesn't get easier, but patterns do emerge. Each time is different, yet the same. The duality of life carries over into the way we are affected by its opposite. The process is always the same, or varies little, at any rate. There is some comfort to be had in that; what was at some point uncharted territory becomes a long, twisty road with recognizable signposts. The loss itself always remains uncharted. And the longer I live the more palpable the loss becomes. It used to be that the tragedy was what stood out: losing someone so young (not-quite-newborn, 15, 16, 18, 34, 38), losing someone so suddenly (within hours of being admitted to the hospital), losing someone in such a horrible way (being run off the freeway on-ramp; shot by insane spouse; passing out after huffing and inhaling vomit; drive-by shooting; prolonged illness following years of heroin use; cirhossis of the liver). Shock wears off, both the immediate and the long-term, and it wears off faster each time, I think. What happens now is a pointed thing, like two edges of paper rubbing together, an almost physical ache for the soul who's up and gone.

I regret not having told my grandfather the last time I saw him how very much I loved him. I think he knew, but it would be easier to know that he knew. I chose to act my age for once, that summer, and a 12-year-old is busy, after all. I regret, too, not having had a chance to get to know my cousin L. I met him only once, at my great-grandmother's funeral. I was 14; he was 28 and very handsome, extremely dashing, slightly mysterious. He flew back home after the funeral and I never saw him again.

Those two examples notwithstanding, I try to do everything I can so that the people I love know that I love them. Sometimes it's a bit much. I can go overboard. Sometimes it's misinterpreted. (See "I can go overboard".) But I'd rather err on the side of love and reassurance. I'd rather people think I'm too "out there" than cold. If I were to die today I am fairly certain that no one I know would be left wondering how I felt about them. It's probably not important to everyone. But it matters to me; I need to know if and when people love me, and so I need to let others know if and when I love them.

It's said that in war, each general is only fighting the last battle he knew. That is certainly true of me, and I wonder for how many others as well.

On Bullshit.

This poster from Yee-Haw's Shop is just utterly, perfectly perfect.


Via MightyGoods.

Mum's the word

Inspired by Maggie's excellent post (through which I discovered that my mom may say odd things, but at least she has company), I've compiled a few gems from my own life.

Nine by Mum
1. You need a slip with that.
2. If you ever have something in the car that sticks out of the back like that [indicating toward pickup truck ahead of us on the road with large furniture/planks of wood/etc. in the bed], always tie something red to the end of it.
3. That [skirt/blouse/sweater/pair of pants] would look killer with a black [pair of pants/sweater/blouse/skirt]. Or: a red one.
4. If your tooth or eye ever falls out, put it in a glass of milk and go to the hospital.
5. If something big stabs you, leave it in and go to the hospital.
6. Eat fruit!
7. Have you been drinking enough water?
8. Have you been taking your vitamins? FAITHFULLY? [Woah, Ma.]
9. That needs to be ironed.

And the Ass [did not see] the Angel

This is just fantastic. Enjoy.

PS, Sorry for the rude title, Dustin and Dylan--but it was too good not to. xo.

I'll remember you, honey. You're the one that got away.*

The world has lost a class act and a hell of a man.
So long, Paul.



*From Hud.

All the king's horses and all the king's men

I love this piece from Time. The best bit:

Admit it, mes amis, the rugged individualism and cutthroat capitalism that made America the land of unlimited opportunity has been shrink-wrapped by a half dozen short sellers in Greenwich, Conn. and FedExed to Washington D.C. to be spoon-fed back to life by Fed Chairman Ben Bernanke and Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson. We're now no different from any of those Western European semi-socialist welfare states that we love to deride. Italy? Sure, it's had four governments since last Thursday, but none of them would have allowed this to go on; the Italians know how to rig an economy.

You just know the Frogs have only increased their disdain for us, if that is indeed possible. And why shouldn't they? The average American is working two and half jobs, gets two weeks off, and has all the employment security of a one-armed trapeze artist. The Bush Administration has preached the "ownership society" to America: own your house, own your retirement account; you don't need the government in your way. So Americans mortgaged themselves to the hilt to buy overpriced houses they can no longer afford and signed up for 401k programs that put money where, exactly? In the stock market! Where rich Republicans fleeced them.

Oh, New Zealand, why won't you love me back? I'll treat you well. Go on, give me a chance. Need me the way I need you!

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Via Apartment Therapy

At one point I lived near Loud Sex People, but they were in the next building over--they, like us, lived in an end unit, though I could never figure out which one. It was fairly icky, but even so I never got up the nerve to say anything about it. Or post a public sign about it. Most of my shared-wall neighbor trouble has been because they are impossibly loud. I have been upset enough to bang on the walls and the floor, and to yell "SHUT UP!" in the general direction of loud neighbors. I also once, in a mean and rather passive-agressive/creepy move of which I am not proud, but sort of makes me chuckle nonetheless, left a basket of flowers on the doorstep of some particularly loud and irritating sorority girls who lived next door. (Someone had sent me flowers and the florist bungled the order, sending the same bouquet twice, and I didn't like the flowers enough to keep a duplicate around.) Hilarity ensued when the girls' friends came over and said Here, this was on your doorstep! Delighted, my neighbors insisted that their friends shouldn't have. When everyone finally realized that no one knew where the flowers had come from(since they were so screechingly loud, I could hear every word from my living room), they all became a little frightened. I laughed meanly to myself like a Disney villain.

But if you try sometimes, you just might find...

Mind you, I wasn't expecting a five-star stay. We'd booked a motel, after all, for one night, just an hour or so out of town. A city by the sea to which we'd never been, kind of just a lark, really, the man and the boy and myself. The room was small, but the price was right. The room smelled a bit funky and the other guests looked like they'd had better days. I want to go home! said Luke. I did too, though I didn't say so. Not then.

We rested a bit, decided on dinner plans, walked out to the main strip. The city advertised itself as a great family place, a less-pricey Santa Barbara. That sold us-- that and the cheerful website chock-a-block with fun, wholesome, family activities. But as we walked through town it quickly became apparent that we stuck out like three sore thumbs. Three sore, sober, home-having thumbs. About eighty percent of the population, at least this afternoon, consisted of meth addicts, stoners, homeless people, mentally unstable people, and/or some combination thereof. Every park we passed had at least five of these people sleeping/smoking/living/talking to unseen friends in it. It was like Santa Monica[note: incendiary article there], without the other 80% of the population.

It was like being in a zombie movie*, is what it was like. Which may have been slightly hilarious at an earlier point in our lives, but is markedly less so when vacations are few and far between, and the gorgeous crux of our very existence is less than three feet tall and wants to smile and say hello to everyone in the world, everyone. It was disturbing and gross and I just wanted to go home.

And so we did. We walked back to the place that was to have been our lodging for the night (being careful to walk around the man in his forties and a much younger man, perhaps his son, who appeared to have a mild version of Downs syndrome and who, along with the older man, was lying in the middle of the sidewalk next to the crosswalk). I told the nice woman at the counter that we'd been called back home unexpectedly and was there any way she could cut us a break on the room rate? She called her manager and voided the transaction entirely. We packed the car back up and got back on the road, heading south. Heading home.

*Adding to the weirdness: about a quarter of the otherworldly citizens of this fair shire were pushing wheeled wire baskets around town... empty wheeled wire baskets.

You clever devil!

Last night I made an awesome faux pas in Spanish. My mom's family was gathered at her house to celebrate her birthday. Dinner had been eaten, presents opened, cake served. I was massaging my grandmother's shoulders, as she had some big knot that was bothering her. The conversation was all in Spanish, so don't be confused by my switching between Spanish and English in the transcription that follows: it serves a [humiliating] purpose.

Me: Wow, Mama [that's what we call her], that's a big knot!
My mom: Don't say that, you'll scare her!
Mama: [Laughs weakly]
Me: You might need to go to the doctor!!
Mama, et al: [Laugh]
Me: ¡Créo que vas a necesitar cesaria!
Everyone: [Laughing hysterically]
My mom, in English, for the non-Spanish-speakers: She said the knot is so bad she's going to need a C-section!
Me: Um... ah...
Everyone: [Laughing]
Me: I meant to say cirugía!!!
My mom, in English, crying with laughter: She meant to say "surgery!!!!"

Much blushing ensued. I ought to be used to this by now, no?

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.

Look, I know Bono is a complete ass. But given that I fell in love with him at age 11, I'm stuck with him in my heart forever. Some girls like horses... others like bleeding-heart rock stars with massive egos. In any case, this made me laugh my fool head right off.

That about sums it up for me as well.

In response to an online news story regarding the plans of Mr. Bush and his cronies to boost our flagging economy, my husband said, "Yeeeeeeesssss, I have no doubt they will handle this with all the competence and confidence-inspiring action we’ve come to expect from this crew over the last seven years."

I was born like this; I had no choice

Things Which Serve As Further Proof That My Mother Is, Indeed, Fantastic:
1. The fact that she writes emails such as this one, which was titled "Note to Parents" (she works with a lot of parents), and then sends them only to me:

Please note that Elijah and Elisha are two distinct names. One is not the other. They were two distinct historical figures; one was the servant and successor of the other. Do not name your child Elijah and call him—or, what is worse, expect others to call him—Elisha. I, for one, shall refuse to call Elijah, Elisha. It shall never happen, as surely as I shall never stop wincing and/or twitching when I hear YOU do so. If you persist in this madness, then you may as well name your daughter Marie-Therese and spell her name Griselda.

Since when were you so generously inarticulate?

Surprising things I've heard recently:

1) That Mr. Bush "has not heard" any rumors of a recession. Huh.*

2) That Mrs. Clinton "loves all of us" and that we are all one big wonderful family in her heart.* [Obviously fallacious, as one must first be in possession of said heart before keeping anything in it. Perhaps the speaker--an enthusiastic woman from San Antonio--meant that Hillary would like to cram us all into the hollow place in her chest where most people have hearts, thereby ensuring world domination? One can only speculate...]

And, on the opposite end of the spectrum:

3) "You're such a nice guy, Mommy."** Thank you, son. I try. You sure make me feel like a nice guy.

4) "You're such a good boy, Mommy."*** Ah, son.

* Heard on NPR
** Heard yesterday evening on the stairs, as I tied his shoe.
*** Heard this evening, while we prepared for his bath.

Stories of the street

Things found in stall #2 of the upstairs ladies' lavatory in my office building today:

1. A paper wrapper
2. A lock of light brown hair
3. A black button

The items appeared one by one, over the course of the day.

Other things found in that same lavatory recently:

1. A silver-plated hoop with rhinestone-encrusted letter charms attached, which spelled out "Dior" (on the sink)
2. A to-do list, which spanned three days and included such items as "Exercise," "Walk," "Dr Appt" and "Buy stuff for chicken salad." (on the back of the commode in stall #1)

The bats have left the belltower

Hector recounts his evening out.

Him: ...I got really drunk.
Me: That's scary. You got really drunk?
Him: Why?
Me: Because I've seen you drink. You can drink a lot.
Him: Yeah, I can hold my liquor.
Me: Yeah!
Him: Yeah... I got, like, Tom Waits drunk.