December 29, 2020

I stepped into the shower thinking that something is missing, that something isn't right in my life, that I am supposed to be doing something more important—saving the world from destruction, working on the alchemist's opus magnum, or whatever other dream. But instead I am putzing about the apartment, waiting for my menial job to start. 

Buzz Lightyear from Toy Story came to mind, and it took me a bit to figure out exactly why. From a writer's perspective, Buzz is actually quite clever. Buzz comes into this world with (flase) a priori knowledge, thinking that he is a Space Ranger equipped with deadly weapons and military training. But he's really just a child's toy, which he eventually learns to truly appreciate. He overcomes his inborn fantasies/complexes and fruitfully embraces reality. 

I wonder how many times I have arrived at this same conclusion—that I must stay in the present, awake, attentive, and with care, all in spite of the feeling that this is worthless and that I belong somewhere else. If I would like to go somewhere better, I must make my way from here, this spot right here where I am standing; this is the end and the beginning, the end and the means. 

"Each day is equal to the rest," said the weeping philosopher.

It appears that the process of realizing the value of my everyday-mundane-life is like the sun, rising, then setting again. I'll be here again, with a new metaphor or story in hand.

...

Last night, I couldn't sleep, so I was sharpening our kitchen knives, thinking about the following: 

For years now, I have felt a part of me, an internal part of me somewhere deep, struggling with the distinction between being and experiencing. It's as if a deep part of myself didn't understand how to differentiate between these until just recently. (I have the intuition that this is related to a process of maturation, a concretizing of identity.) These two words are deceptively simple and, at times, almost interchangeable. But I will be differentiating them here.

Being and experiencing are related to each other, quite intimately. 

Being is what a man is. 
Experiencing is what a man feels he is.

I'll tell you of two:
Humble is the first,
Internally exalted,
his station is low.
The other is mighty,
tho may not feel it so.

..

A ghost speaks: Many great things can be achieved with little awareness.

I do not know what he means.

...

The world at large is uninterested in me as I am. Yet, I crave its attention, a tiny seedling in me wants to be adored like a celebrity. 

A ghost speaks: respect is more mindful than adoration. 

I do not know what he means. 

December 17, 2020

Yesterday, I was hiding from the rain, standing under an airplane, probably one of UPS's MD-11's or 757's. I waved hi to a coworker, and—over the noise of an idling airplane (or whatever the technical word for it is when an airplane is hooked up to generators on the runway and makes a lot of noise, but the turbofans aren't running to avoid sucking in FOD or union employees)—I said, "Melodie, right?"

She nodded yes with big starry eyes that were framed by good-looking, yet obviously fake, eyelashes. We stood relatively close to each other for a while without really looking at eachother or talking. I realized that (and how) I enjoyed her mere presence, something I wouldn't have noticed, oh say, a year or two ago. I also noticed that Phil, a 40 year old truck driver who wants to become a pilot and also my favorite coworker, noticed me waving hi to Melodie; he nodded his head, to himself with a kind of, "huh, okay then," as if to acknowledge that a part of my personality is flirtation. —And then May, who has been exceptionally friendly to me, walked past the three of us. She looked angry, jealous even.

I stood under that jet for ten minutes and stared out into the air ramp for ten minutes, processing what had just happened, thinking about how I would be here, writing this.

Granted, it is entirely possible that I am projecting all of the drama I have described here. Even if that is the case, this is still the drama that I am (perhaps only semi-consciously) living. This is the game that I am playing whether I choose to acknowledge it or not. —Not that I want to play this particular game. We all play social games. A Jungian analyst would say that we're all living various myths and that it is in our best interest to understand the myths we're living because sometimes those myths are not in our best interest, which is what I'm trying to do here.

Standing under the jet, I realized a game that I play—or perhaps a strategy, or a modus operandi. It's a bit devious. When I go into a new place, I turn on my charm and I lightly flirt. This flirtation isn't explicitly sexual. It is possible to flirt with people's various interests. In this non-sexual sense, flirtation is non-committal socialization; or perhaps that is what charm is. Anyway, I "flirt", promising more social-attention than I care to give. This is attractive to some people. However, I merely continue to flirt; that's all they get—shallow, friendly greetings and small talk. I am not really able to move beyond this stage and really get to know the person because that would ruin the charm, and they would see that I cannot live up to the expectations set by my charm. 

The end result of excessive charm ends in one of two extreme cases: (1) enthrallment or (2) disenchantment/disappointment.

If someone is enthralled, they worship someone in the way that movie stars are beloved by their fans. The result of this is a cruel power dynamic, but it may also be fairly inconsequential.  Disenchantment may also work in my favor; the person may realize that they cannot have me, and I relish their misery because it proves my superiority (false superiority that is). Whereas when I elicit disappointment, it hurts my pride and vanity.

On a bigger scale, I think I am driven to this "charming/flirtatious behavior" by my need to feel special. I enjoy feeling like a celebrity when I walk into work. I don't want to be merely greeted by people; I want their adoration. The worst part of this is that I think many people have recognized this behavior in me. I don't imagine that they always had the words for it, much less a reason to call me out on it, since confronting me wouldn't do them any good. 

I would do better to earn respect, not adoration. I suspect that is a very important distinction for me to make when I try to gather people's attention, especially in the work place.

....

I've been reading The Listening Society at work during my downtime between planes, oftentimes huddled over my phone in an attempt to keep the screen dry from rain. There is one main argument in this book which I find simple, yet profound: the reason for much of the suffering in this world is that many people have failed to (psychologically) develop themselves across a sufficient number of domains. The author then also describes the process of development in a way that I agree with; moreover, this process unfolds in the individual and within a group/culture/society (scalefree). This parallels "my" ideas on sophistication as a virtue and our human tendency to a particular type of universality. 

Reading this book has been uncomfortable in the way that reading Nietzsche was uncomfortable. But, at least, it is more hopeful.

December 14, 2020: Family Garden

A lot has happened in the past two weeks. Perhaps the most important thing is that I started working, and I also drove down to Redmond, Oregon to take the entrance exam for the IBEW. I'll hear back in 4-6 weeks, hopefully sooner. 

It's 9am. I have work in the early noon. I have a pot of coffee brewing. 

I have a story from my high school days. It's about one of those moments in time where a lot of information is suddenly revealed in a flash of light.

"Thunderbolt Steers All Things," said the weeping philosopher. 

As a teenager, I attended a Bible study every friday evening with my family. The Bible study was lead by Shawn Sather. He was an interesting guy who deserves to be written about in a separate entry. Half the time my parents would host the Bible study, and the Sather's would host the other half. 

Sometime during my sophomore or junior year, when I went to the Sather's house for Bible study, I saw a picture of the Doak's hanging on their fridge. The Doak's were a family close to the Sathers who lived in Alaska. They were a beautiful Christian family. The father of the family was a retired army sergeant major (or first sergeant, who knows). And, what I believe was their oldest daughter, who was nearly my age, was also exceptionally beautiful. —Tall, pale white, dark hair, blue eyes (probably), and looked nothing like any of the (all but exclusively) Mexican girls I went to school with. For better or worse, I can't remember her face or the clothes that she was wearing, other than the fact that it was a sweater. —I fell in love with her picture. And I do mean love. 

I never met her. I met her father, John Doak. I met her brother, Tom. But I never met her. Almost every time I went to the Sather's house, I would look at that picture on their fridge. I would stare too long. I thought I was being sneaky, but now I'm sure I wasn't.

Falling in love with a picture is a metaphor that adequately describes how capable I was of loving someone. The Andy that went to that Bible study was only capable of loving the mere image of a person. I had more feelings for that picture than the girl I lost my virginity to. —Is that tragic or merely pathetic? (Now, after reflection, it is tragic; back then it was pathetic.)

But when I woke up this morning, I wasn't thinking about the picture I fell in love with. (—Jessica, perhaps? I would rather forget her name.) I woke up thinking of John.

The night of one particular Bible study, I knew the Doak's were visiting, so I was trying to be on my best behavior. I walked into the Sather's living room. John was there, sitting, speaking with somewhen. He noticed me when I stepped in.

He looked me up and down and said, "Oh, you're a punk." 

His tone made it obvious that I did not have his respect or approval. Apparently, that comment lodged itself really deep since I'm writing about it now, twelve years later.

I was wearing bootcut Bullhead Jeans from PacSun that were torn at my heels from being stepped on by my converse, which were dirty and written on with pen. I was probably wearing a too-tight Volcom shirt or a tattoo-inspired graphic-T from Anchor Blue. I didn't feel cool or trendy, (and I wasn't). I only remember feeling an urge to dress in that particular style. I was beholden to values I didn't understand.

I didn't consider myself a punk. I had a specific idea of what it meant to be punk. Punks were anarchists, and while I appreciated the aesthetics and rebellious energy of anarchy, I had every intention of joining the military after I graduated high school. I thought I was a good teenager, a Christian. I spent my Fridays at Bible Studies—not with friends or girls (not yet anyway).  I figured John didn't understand me—not the real me, at least. So, his comment rolled of my shoulder, but it left an ugly taste in my mouth.

But he was right. His judgement was—as far as he was considered—very correct. He had no business respecting me. He could see that I was not like him.  John had his niche; he was a well-established American, a Christian, the father of a large family, and a retired soldier. He was well-adapted. And it was in his interest to protect his family from people like me. The World at Large was calling me. I was not a good christian. I was already beginning to lead a double life that would, only a few years later, cleave in two, leaving me on the side of atheism.

John did not understand me, nor did he care to try; but I do suppose that I could have eventually earned his respect. (On the contrary, Shawn thought he understood me, and he idealized me.)  John saw that I wasn't a good Christian; I certainly did not look like one. He could tell that I was trouble. He knew that I was not like him. He could see that I would not do well in his community.  I was an outsider. All of which was true. Despite my ability to keep a cool face and have reasonable conversations, I was immature—emotionally stunted. If he would have let me into his life I would have been trouble.  And he made his feelings instantly clear with his first words to me. 

Well, good riddance, John. Thank you for sparing me your virtues and vices. For now I know how tall the walls are around your family's garden and how vast is the world outside of it. And I know that you can hardly even bear to look beyond those walls, for there isn't a gate. 

...

The past weeks I have looked back at my days in college. I've thought about a few of my relationships. Back then I wouldn't allow myself to say, "I love you." I always wanted to say "love" and really mean it. I didn't want to cheapen the word. Instead I withheld the word when I should have said it. I left love unacknowledged. And because of that I lived in a poorer world. Sorry. I won't name you here. But I have in my heart.