Some days are for dwelling on the past. Some are for preparing for the future. And some are for leaving.
Tomorrow, I'm going to Germany. I'll be there for 12 days, exploring places like Düsseldorf, Aachen, Saarbrücken, and Bochum. I'll go to a wedding. I'll go on a boat tour. I'll visit various UNESCO World Heritage sites by bus. I will see beautiful art and architecture. I will see places that have been emblazoned across the annals of history. I will eat delicious food, and spend time with awesome friends. This will be my first time in Europe, and I'm extremely excited.
I doubt that I'll be doing much posting from Europe; I'm not bringing a computer, so I'll just have my phone as a wifi device to access the internet. But rest assured that I will be taking a fair number of photos, and definitely subjecting you to them on my return.
This trip has me thinking a lot about my last (and only other) international excursion (not counting Canada, of course; who would?): Japan. Now, I was in Japan for four solid months, so there aren't really a lot of comparisons. But I went back and looked at some pictures from my time in Japan, and it completely blew me away to see how much I've changed. That was six years ago, but it feels almost like looking at a completely different person. Even the facial expressions I see myself making -- I don't think I can do those anymore. Some pieces of me that I carried for so long, just left behind somewhere along the way...
The most major difference, though, is in my self-perception. Back then, I would have told you I was quite a loud person, and I was; I talked all the time, I talked to anybody, and I talked freely about my opinions. I wasn't quite as ear-puncturing in volume as some people I've known, but I was a loudmouth. Nowadays, I will tell you that I'm a quiet person. That absolutely isn't true, but it's how I feel about myself.
My wife says that it isn't actually that I'm quiet; instead, she thinks I'm wiser now, and less prone to shooting my mouth off just for the attention. And yes, the histrionics have largely ceased. But oh, how I miss them. I used to believe, in my heart of hearts, that any attention was good attention. This caused, I am sure, several people to grow tired of my company. But did that attitude, at the same time, grant me the courage to reach out and make even more friends than it may have cost? Then again, would those friends simply be less discriminating, and I'm the worse off for permitting myself to have associated with them?!?!
It doesn't matter now. The Japanese have a saying: the nail that stands out will be hammered down. But Japan didn't obliterate my desire to be noticed; that personality change happened in law school. Law school is a place you should go if you are good at not being noticed, I think, because evading the piercing gaze of the professors as they pitch their impossible questions at you will be the skill you develop the most if you decide to attend. Law schools claim to celebrate their outstanding students; in reality, nothing is celebrated. The ego exists merely to be broken down.
And so it was with me. Any self-confidence I possessed was shattered upon my arrival in that new place. My youthful, eager heart was torn out, replaced with an empty, mechanical organ that nourishes the body, but never the soul.
I looked at those pictures of myself from Japan -- a boy with a face that was designed to draw people in, intended to convey all the exciting things I wanted to talk about with you -- and I wondered if there was a way to get that feeling back. I don't want to go back in time; I don't want to be cursed with that pathological drive to be the center of attention. But maybe there's some way to want it without needing it.
So I looked at those pictures, then I looked in a mirror and started practicing expressions. I'm going to Germany, you see, and I'm going to gather some amazing stories to share with people. I want to be able to see in the eyes of my listeners that I've taken them with me, that I've managed to get across some small part of what made the trip truly special (as I'm sure it will be). I'm going to smile, and put that twinkle in my eyes, and you'll all be carried away.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Monday, July 8, 2013
in vesania, veritas
The brain boils.
I don't mean from the heat (although it is horrendously hot). Sometimes, my mind reaches a point where it stirs itself into a frenzy of misery-thought, and I'm left to deal with the consequences. There are a few common causes for such a state: an acrimonious argument with someone I'm close to, a realization or reminder of a personal failing of mine, an acknowledgment of life's inherent unfairness, and being forced to listen to hypocrites compliment themselves are frequent catalysts for a descent into unutterable moodiness. But that's odd, because I woke up feeling fine, and I didn't experience any of the above today. It was, all in all, a lovely and relaxing day, with a few significant victories. And yet.
When I get like this, the primary effect is that my brain refuses to allow me to go to sleep. It's not that I'm miserable; it's just that I'm so mentally fixated on whatever problem has presented itself that I'm unable to slow down my consciousness. This is different, though, from the kinds of challenges I talked about before. These aren't challenges; they're conundra, and the essential difference is that I don't believe they have solutions. Focusing all of your mental energy on problems that don't have solutions is not a recipe for mental happy times! And yet.
For that reason, I'm trying to put a lot of thought into what constitutes escapism for me. All of us have little hobbies or distractions that pull us away from our stressors long enough for us to recuperate a bit. I'm just not sure what mine are anymore. If you had asked me a few years ago, I would happily have answered that I like to play video games and read to relax. And that's still true, to an extent, but now I try to limit myself to games and books that are deeply challenging. To be challenged while consuming media requires that you're going to be uncomfortable, and discomfort doesn't make for very good escapism.
I guess the kind of thing I'm looking for would be considered a guilty pleasure, something that asks very little of me, something mindless. But I find such things infinitely boring! Who wants to be mindless?
My mom often tells me that my brain is always busy, that I don't have any idea how to truly relax. She says it as though it's a character flaw, something I need to fix about myself before I can be fully happy. And she might be right, because there are certainly times when I'm not happy. All of us have those times, I'm sure, but how many of us lose an entire night's sleep when they roll around?
I can't count how many times I've stared at the dark ceiling for hours, only to have my sleepless repose ended by the morning chirps of avian alarm clocks. It's a terrible feeling every time, especially because you know those dang birds just got a good night's sleep.
Now, it's not like I have chronic insomnia. This doesn't really happen more than once every couple of months (although, depending on how upset I am, it can last for several days). And there are certain advantages to being freed from the all-consuming tendrils of sleep: it gives your subconscious the opportunity to run rampant, expressing itself in all its madness in the waking world for a time. For example, here's a sheet of paper I scribbled on during one such night recently:
I'd just read Cat's Cradle, so I scrawled Ice-9 in there. And the little sketches of the man and the stylized bird's head are purely incidental. Everything else, and I mean everything else on that page (other than the pen marks in the corner) is intimately connected and a fully honest manifestation of my stream of consciousness as I sat on the porch at 2am, stared at the street, and tried to find some way to quiet my maddeningly busy mind.
I know what it all means, but I'm not about to tell you. The fun is in the guessing. The last time I felt this way, I scribbled all over that sheet of paper. This time, I'm scribbling all over this one. Be my guests, friends. In a sense, it helped me sleep. I wish it could help me now.
go home to your wife and family
I don't mean from the heat (although it is horrendously hot). Sometimes, my mind reaches a point where it stirs itself into a frenzy of misery-thought, and I'm left to deal with the consequences. There are a few common causes for such a state: an acrimonious argument with someone I'm close to, a realization or reminder of a personal failing of mine, an acknowledgment of life's inherent unfairness, and being forced to listen to hypocrites compliment themselves are frequent catalysts for a descent into unutterable moodiness. But that's odd, because I woke up feeling fine, and I didn't experience any of the above today. It was, all in all, a lovely and relaxing day, with a few significant victories. And yet.
When I get like this, the primary effect is that my brain refuses to allow me to go to sleep. It's not that I'm miserable; it's just that I'm so mentally fixated on whatever problem has presented itself that I'm unable to slow down my consciousness. This is different, though, from the kinds of challenges I talked about before. These aren't challenges; they're conundra, and the essential difference is that I don't believe they have solutions. Focusing all of your mental energy on problems that don't have solutions is not a recipe for mental happy times! And yet.
For that reason, I'm trying to put a lot of thought into what constitutes escapism for me. All of us have little hobbies or distractions that pull us away from our stressors long enough for us to recuperate a bit. I'm just not sure what mine are anymore. If you had asked me a few years ago, I would happily have answered that I like to play video games and read to relax. And that's still true, to an extent, but now I try to limit myself to games and books that are deeply challenging. To be challenged while consuming media requires that you're going to be uncomfortable, and discomfort doesn't make for very good escapism.
I guess the kind of thing I'm looking for would be considered a guilty pleasure, something that asks very little of me, something mindless. But I find such things infinitely boring! Who wants to be mindless?
My mom often tells me that my brain is always busy, that I don't have any idea how to truly relax. She says it as though it's a character flaw, something I need to fix about myself before I can be fully happy. And she might be right, because there are certainly times when I'm not happy. All of us have those times, I'm sure, but how many of us lose an entire night's sleep when they roll around?
I can't count how many times I've stared at the dark ceiling for hours, only to have my sleepless repose ended by the morning chirps of avian alarm clocks. It's a terrible feeling every time, especially because you know those dang birds just got a good night's sleep.
Now, it's not like I have chronic insomnia. This doesn't really happen more than once every couple of months (although, depending on how upset I am, it can last for several days). And there are certain advantages to being freed from the all-consuming tendrils of sleep: it gives your subconscious the opportunity to run rampant, expressing itself in all its madness in the waking world for a time. For example, here's a sheet of paper I scribbled on during one such night recently:
I'd just read Cat's Cradle, so I scrawled Ice-9 in there. And the little sketches of the man and the stylized bird's head are purely incidental. Everything else, and I mean everything else on that page (other than the pen marks in the corner) is intimately connected and a fully honest manifestation of my stream of consciousness as I sat on the porch at 2am, stared at the street, and tried to find some way to quiet my maddeningly busy mind.
I know what it all means, but I'm not about to tell you. The fun is in the guessing. The last time I felt this way, I scribbled all over that sheet of paper. This time, I'm scribbling all over this one. Be my guests, friends. In a sense, it helped me sleep. I wish it could help me now.
go home to your wife and family
Friday, July 5, 2013
freedom has fees, but failure frees
Like many cold-blooded Americans, I'm spending this week at the beach. My particular beach of choice would be Ocean City, NJ; I've been coming here for at least one week every summer since I was a wee lad. I've made an expert study of its surface, and none whatsoever of its substance. In a sense, I vacation in a fantasy Ocean City, and we never need to learn each other's foibles. I am the consummate happy vacationer, and she, the city, is the perfect destination.
Of course, I'm surrounded by family. The crazy ballet of transportation, food, and sleeping arrangements send my sanity into frequent tailspins, but it's still a whole lot of fun. My siblings' and cousins' kids are running around all over the place with the frenetic energy reserved to those below the age of reason, flinging open every closed door without so much as a how-do-you-do. Although my wife and I are lucky enough to have our own room, we need to be constantly vigilant with the door lock, lest an impressionable four-year-old in an Iron Man costume catch us in media res.
Which has led me to consider, given the sheer quantity of families arrayed in similar circumstances this week every year, just how many poor children are hideously scarred for life by being forced into such unfamiliar proximity with their relatives as part of a simple holiday celebration. Personally, I can't recall ever stumbling across such an unknowable tableaux in my youth (though I had plenty else to scar me), although it's always possible I could simply have blocked it out of my memory! But still, I am forced to go through life with the sad certainty that I have never seen what should not have been seen.
Today, my wife took my second cousins to cavort in the waves, and I took some time to watch them repeat the eternal cycle of being knocked down by the bigger waves, then getting up just in time to be knocked over again. I recalled how much I enjoyed the same when I was younger (and admittedly, would still enjoy it today, if I could find anybody willing to enjoy it alongside me [my wife being unwilling to approach any waves tall enough to actually knock either of us over]); there was just something so gratifying in allowing myself to be felled, only to rise again, stronger and more able to withstand the next onslaught. Nothing in the water ever delighted me so much as pitching myself against the great forces of nature embodied by the towering crests, and little has ever made me feel as alive as dragging myself back up from the sea floor to await the next crushing swell.
Is that what living means? To lose your footing, to be knocked under, to flirt with the sweetly grasping claws of suffocation, only to reject it all, plant your feet firmly once more, and to stand tall, laughing as the water runs from you?
That seems to jive with my experience. When I don't feel particularly challenged -- when I'm lacking any sense of a struggle -- life loses all its vim. I find myself whiling away the days miserably, trying to figure out what's missing. Then, as soon as a problem, adventure, or challenge presents itself, all of my energy is restored in an instant. Without the potential for failure, I lose all sense of success. When I'm comfortable, you could give me a million years, and I wouldn't produce anything sharing with a kindergarten class. When I'm struggling, there aren't enough hours for me to find an outlet for all of the creative energy I have. And that's in excess of the excitement and energy I devote simply to solving the primary problem, whatever it might be.
Even now that I'm grown, as I stand on the shore and watch the myriad swirls of clouds of sand beneath the water, I still long for those waves to come and knock me down. And sure, the idea that struggle gives life meaning isn't a new one. But I think life is just a series of failures -- of waves that knock us down -- and it's impossible for us to become strong enough that we can't be pulled under. But sometimes, we rise, and for whatever reason, we're given a brief reprieve before the next wave comes along -- and we call that a success.
Don't spend your life hoping not to fail, or yearning for successes. Spend your life cherishing your failures and doing your best to keep on your feet, and you might learn that success oftentimes finds you.
used to be one of the rotten ones and I liked you for that
Of course, I'm surrounded by family. The crazy ballet of transportation, food, and sleeping arrangements send my sanity into frequent tailspins, but it's still a whole lot of fun. My siblings' and cousins' kids are running around all over the place with the frenetic energy reserved to those below the age of reason, flinging open every closed door without so much as a how-do-you-do. Although my wife and I are lucky enough to have our own room, we need to be constantly vigilant with the door lock, lest an impressionable four-year-old in an Iron Man costume catch us in media res.
Which has led me to consider, given the sheer quantity of families arrayed in similar circumstances this week every year, just how many poor children are hideously scarred for life by being forced into such unfamiliar proximity with their relatives as part of a simple holiday celebration. Personally, I can't recall ever stumbling across such an unknowable tableaux in my youth (though I had plenty else to scar me), although it's always possible I could simply have blocked it out of my memory! But still, I am forced to go through life with the sad certainty that I have never seen what should not have been seen.
Today, my wife took my second cousins to cavort in the waves, and I took some time to watch them repeat the eternal cycle of being knocked down by the bigger waves, then getting up just in time to be knocked over again. I recalled how much I enjoyed the same when I was younger (and admittedly, would still enjoy it today, if I could find anybody willing to enjoy it alongside me [my wife being unwilling to approach any waves tall enough to actually knock either of us over]); there was just something so gratifying in allowing myself to be felled, only to rise again, stronger and more able to withstand the next onslaught. Nothing in the water ever delighted me so much as pitching myself against the great forces of nature embodied by the towering crests, and little has ever made me feel as alive as dragging myself back up from the sea floor to await the next crushing swell.
Is that what living means? To lose your footing, to be knocked under, to flirt with the sweetly grasping claws of suffocation, only to reject it all, plant your feet firmly once more, and to stand tall, laughing as the water runs from you?
That seems to jive with my experience. When I don't feel particularly challenged -- when I'm lacking any sense of a struggle -- life loses all its vim. I find myself whiling away the days miserably, trying to figure out what's missing. Then, as soon as a problem, adventure, or challenge presents itself, all of my energy is restored in an instant. Without the potential for failure, I lose all sense of success. When I'm comfortable, you could give me a million years, and I wouldn't produce anything sharing with a kindergarten class. When I'm struggling, there aren't enough hours for me to find an outlet for all of the creative energy I have. And that's in excess of the excitement and energy I devote simply to solving the primary problem, whatever it might be.
Even now that I'm grown, as I stand on the shore and watch the myriad swirls of clouds of sand beneath the water, I still long for those waves to come and knock me down. And sure, the idea that struggle gives life meaning isn't a new one. But I think life is just a series of failures -- of waves that knock us down -- and it's impossible for us to become strong enough that we can't be pulled under. But sometimes, we rise, and for whatever reason, we're given a brief reprieve before the next wave comes along -- and we call that a success.
Don't spend your life hoping not to fail, or yearning for successes. Spend your life cherishing your failures and doing your best to keep on your feet, and you might learn that success oftentimes finds you.
used to be one of the rotten ones and I liked you for that
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)