Elevator

(This is a fictional piece, a homework assignment for the writing class I'm taking. And no, this is not about me... mostly)

I knew already it was going to be a long day: I had woken up late, very late. I had had to skip breakfast, running, the morning paper. A silent curse crossed my lips as I remembered I was supposed to have finished that stupid work project the previous night! Son-of-a-bitch, I knew I'd forget. It occurred to me that the four beers which had started out as just one hadn't helped. That also explained the skull cramp. I looked out the window, it was early April and there was still snow on the ground. Wait, what was that? Snow flakes? "You must be joking", I thought, it was almost Tax Day, and still snowing? The fucking April snow was coming down heavy and wet, the kind that nearly breaks your back when you shovel it. Taxes! I remembered I needed to finish my return by the following Tuesday. How, I wondered, was I going to figure out the cost basis for those stocks, and where was the HUD settlement sheet for the new house? That thought was interrupted by another as I tried to recall when the movers were scheduled for, my release date from that hellhole of an apartment... memories of the fist-shaped holes in the walls, needing to be fixed before I moved out elbowed their way into my already overcrowded mind. "God" I muttered. I really needed to get going I thought, it would take even longer to get to work now, as everyone would be driving so absurdly slowly. Ok, jacket on, boots on, I hoped they'd salted Limekiln Road, or some idiot would inevitably have found a way to take that one turn too fast, run off the road and cause a backup. I shut the door behind me, walked over to the elevator and hit the button. The door opened, I stepped in, hit the button for the ground floor and leaned back against the wall, shutting my eyes, trying to catch a moment of respite from the already rotten day. The day couldn't possibly get worse, I thought, hoped, prayed. Just as the door was closing a hand shot through. No, it wasn't, it couldn't be, God couldn't be that unjust, could he? But it was. It was The Asshole from down the hall. That one. The one who always played music too loud, too late, who had drunken parties during which his friends would park in my spot, puke in the hallway. And no, he wouldn't clean it up until I threatened to call the landlord on him... again. That one. Things were very "polite" between us though, as we both understood the unfortunate consequences of what would happen if either of us really lost our temper: you know, police, district attorneys, bad stuff. The Asshole stepped in, looked at me, his eyes barely concealing the contempt in which he held me. I returned the stare. I begged for a pretext, any pretext really. I'd always wondered how useful my years of karate would be in real life. The Asshole, ok, "Bob" if you must know, looked at the illuminated ground floor button and faced the front, graciously assuming a position as far from me as possible. All I had to do was not kill him for 3 floors, that was all. Simple, right? I stared at the wall in front of me. All would be well, I told myself, 20 seconds to go. Then Bob spoke. "Pretty late for snow, eh?". Wishing to maintain the facade of politeness, I responded "Yeah, now I'll probably be late for work, too". Bob stared at me, the hint of a smile crossed his lips. He hit the button for the second floor and said "I guess you will be". Something inside me snapped with an almost audible "pop". I was going to have to slay him, right then and there. There would be an investigation, they would certainly find out who had done it, I would go to jail, be executed, my life was over. I didn't care one whit. My fist clenched, I took a step to the side, winding up for that first blow. Just as I was about to launch my murderous attack, the bell sounded and the elevator stopped. The doors opened and the cute girl from the second floor looked up, my violent plans foiled. The Universe had yet again taken the side of those who already had everything, now denying me the simple pleasure of killing Bob. The hopelessness of my life hit me like a sledgehammer: trapped in a shitty job, doomed to loneliness, crawling further into the bottle every day, predestined to step aside as the imprudent and carefree passed me by, obtaining everything they'd ever desired. Bob-The-Asshole had everything it seemed, including the ability to elicit in me the kind of rage I had spent 20 years trying to suppress through psychotherapy, booze, hours and hours of thinking of.... nothing and the oneness of all of humanity at the local Bhuddist temple. The cute girl, whose name I didn't know said "Hi". The shock of her voice gave me a second's pause, my homicidal fist still clenched and ready for action. Without a clear plan, I fled out of the elevator and onto the second floor, pushing past my nameless neighbor. She looked at me, quite rightly, as though I had lost my mind, and stepped into the elevator. The doors closed. As the elevator resumed its descent, I thought I heard Bob and the girl laugh. I headed for the stairs, and resumed my journey out into the world.

Henri woke up late that day, quite late. He hadn't really meant to drink an entire 6-pack the night before, it was supposed to just be one or maybe two beers. His lateness caused him to miss breakfast, running and the morning paper. His growing alcoholic tendencies had recently led to other problems: forgetting work assignments, what his therapist would probably have diagnosed as depression, anxiety, a loss of control over his own life, his temper. While he drank to cover up and forget his shyness and sense of inadequacy, it really just aggravated the problems. These were lessons he had yet to learn. Henri had spent years in therapy trying to master his inner demons. He had recently taken up meditation at a local Bhuddist temple, tantalized by the possibility of discovering the inner peace and happiness which eluded him. He was aware of the self-defeating aspects of some of his behavior, but was seemingly unable to really do anything about them, to escape the seemingly inevitable path his life was on. The escape he found in alcohol had led him to procrastinate starting on his tax return which was due the next Tuesday. Having just bought a house, he had scheduled the movers during an early "cocktail hour" but was now unable to recall when that was. In a drunken rage, he had put his fist through the sheetrock a few times, requiring him to fix it sometime before he moved, whenever that was. All of this added to a sense of overwhelmed hopelessness which hung over him like Damocles’ sword. Had Henri not overslept, he would have read the paper and known it was supposed to snow and would not have been surprised to see it doing so when he looked out the window. He may have left a little earlier for work, leaving time for the reduced speed of traffic or the possible accident on Limekiln road, locally known for a particularly treacherous curve, luring many into the ditch on such a day as this. But he didn't. Instead, Henri looked out the window, saw the snow, and in what was now a common occurrence, freaked out. Hurriedly putting on his boots and jacket, he walked out into the hallway of his cheap apartment and hit the button calling the elevator. Stepping into the elevator, Henri leaned against the back wall, closed his eyes and tried to remember how to meditate, something about thinking of nothing except the oneness of humanity. Just as the doors closed, his neighbor, Bob, stuck his hand in and forced the doors open. Startled, Henri looked up with surprise and dread at the sight of Bob, who he despised. The feeling was mutual. Henri hated Bob for having the life he wanted: he had an easy, good-paying job, which he liked, a lot of friends, particularly girlfriends, a life full of fun and parties in which the laws of causality were seemingly suspended. Bob had parties at least twice a month which he invited the whole building to attend. Whether out of shyness or self-pity and resentment, Henri never went. Had he gone, he might have met Lucy who lived one floor below and who was secretly rather taken with him for reasons she only partly understood. But he didn't. Instead he sat in his apartment listening to the loud music, cursing all these people who managed to live carefree and in the moment. How would the world function if everyone lived like that? He would ask himself, echoing the voice of his parents. Bob saw Henri as an angry bitter man with no sense of humor, someone just like his Dad who had always tried, unsuccessfully, to make him "buckle down" and "be responsible". Bob had never been willing to give up the joy he found in living an unscripted life for some nebulous promise of future happiness. He was not yet old enough, mature enough to understand that there are indeed usually, eventually, unpleasant consequences to a recklessly lived life. It isn't clear he would have cared if he did. Bob wasn't an evil person, just somewhat full of himself and very impulsive, rarely thinking much before doing things. As Bob walked onto the elevator, he saw Henri. Wishing to lighten the tension instantly filling the air, Bob said something about the weather. Henri responded by mentioning how the snow would probably make him late for work, but the tension remained palpable. Wishing to make a joke, Bob hit the button for the second floor and said something to the effect that Henri would now certainly be late. In Henri's mind, years of suppressed rage at the injustice of the universe and his own self-loathing boiled over, erupting in a black wall of hatred directed at Bob. It is unfortunate that karate students are not psychologically screened before being allowed to train, as Henri planned in that moment to misuse every bit of his decade of training to kill Henri. Henri clenched his fist and was about to launch his assault when the elevator stopped on the second floor. The doors opened to show Lucy staring idly at the floor. Lucy looked up and saw Henri, her heart briefly inflating with joy. She looked at Henri and said "Hi". Startled, Henri paused, his murderous plans interrupted by the sound of Lucy's voice. Henri, desperately seeking to escape his situation, leapt past Lucy and out onto the second floor. As the elevator doors closed and Lucy and Bob continued their journey, Bob made some comment about Henri being even more uptight than usual, and laughed. Lucy, not knowing what else to do, gave a nervous little laugh which she instantly regretted, having seen both the anguish on Henri's face and the self-assured arrogance on Bob's. Henri, after a moment's pause, found his way to the stairwell, to work and to a new day.

Call me Steve

(Yeah, ok, this happened 30 years ago, I don't actually recall all the details in this story. Consider it semi-fictional. Most of it is true, kinda)

I knew in an instant I could no longer live without it: metal-flecked dark blue paint and a very tall sissy bar. It had a sports car-like gear-shift lever mounted on the bar going between the banana seat and the ape-hanger handle bars. It had 6 gears, at least one more than any of my friends' bicycles. The front fork, complete with fake suspension springs, was raked just like Peter Fonda's "Captain America" chopper. Well, not really, but enough to make it clear that it wasn’t just a bicycle, it was a bike. The twin mirrors and huge headlight added to the chopper look. The heavily chromed wheels and bobbed fenders were hypnotically resplendent in the sunlight. My God, how was it possible to make something so beautiful, so utterly, completely, absolutely cool? There are moments in a person’s life when the path of their life lies before them, clear, obvious, unambiguous. My destiny laid in owning that bike.

I clearly foresaw the lustful, jealous looks in my friends' eyes, the ease with which those gears would propel me around the neighborhood, through the woods, to and from school, or to the pool. No one would ever be able to catch me in races. When my mom sent me to the store for milk, I would easily set some kind of land-speed record in my age division. My Dad would certainly get it for me, I saw in his eyes how he missed his '55 Triumph Bonneville and the coolness it automatically bestowed upon him, how we bonded over the uniquely male fascination with two-wheeled things, how even he was seduced by the nearly sexual appeal of this bike. Parents are so easy.

I imagined myself in a white tucked-in T-shirt, cuffed jeans and boots, a leather jacket. Marlon Brando, Steve McQueen, eat your hearts out. Certainly then the girls in their skin-tight jeans, about whom I was still somewhat ambivalent, less so by the day, would swoon and fawn over me. I wasn't yet quite old enough for a moped license, but who cares, every 15 year old had a moped, no one had a bike like this.

Some things change. Others don't.
Just call me "Steve".

I am a writer

My 11 y.o. daughter has played in a couple movies ("The Two Bobs" and "Shorts"). I asked her if she would buy me car when she became an actor. She looked at me and stated with confidence "I am an actor". She has acted, therefore she is an actress.

In the same spirit, I will publicly state: "I am a writer". I did not say I was a good writer, but I write, therefore I am a writer. I am taking a creative writing class at the Austin Community College in the hopes that I can improve my skills, or at least have fun. I am right now procrastinating from doing homework I need to do by tomorrow. Given the volume of homework I have, I may not have as much time as I did before to blog. I may let you know how the class is going. After one class, all I have to say is that anyone who is capable of writing fiction, or even better fiction with dialogue is a genius. I'm talking to you, you know who you are, you!

Ok, I should go, I have homework to do and I don't want to disappoint.

Take care everyone.

Dawn

I have a love-hate relationship with dawn.

On the one hand I hate waking up. I hate leaving my dreams, the warm cozy comfort of my bed, the freedom from responsibility. When I am tired I hate it even more, it hurts. I have a thousand memories of waking up tired, sleep deprived, painfully thirsting for just a few more moments of that precious, delicious sleep. No drug could be better, no love sweeter than sleeping. I thus associate early morning with pain, deprivation, a half-dead stupor that hangs on you like a wet blanket.

Yet I also love it: the birds just beginning to chirp, while the dark of night is no longer complete, neither has the sun declared the day begun.

Dawn is an intimate stolen moment I share with the world: just me and it, no one else is around to notice. Quick! enjoy it before someone sees us. The quiet and tranquility is not yet broken by the business of the day, I'm still free of the day's worries, blissfully unaware of its problems and stresses.

Dawn is the naive promise of a new start, a fresh beginning, yet unsullied by the grit of reality: work, bills, traffic. Dawn is a young person's innocent belief in true love, untempered by the reality of the difficulty and strain of living together, raising kids, noticing your lover's flaws. Dawn is the hope that it isn't too late for any of us, that as long as we breathe we can do whatever we want. Dawn is the wonderful illusion of free-will, before we discover our freedom to be that we have at the wheel of a car in heavy traffic. Dawn is the promise of immortality before we discover life to be terminal.

Dawn is the end of one beautiful thing and the beginning of another, still pure, beautiful, hopeful.

I love dawn.

Transitions

There are several things that have surprised me about the process of suddenly becoming single or at least not-fully-married.

The first is how fast everything went. From the time we decided to separate until we selected and bought my ex-wife's house and moved her, only 3 weeks elapsed. Although we were planning things, it seemed like events took on a life of their own.

Then there was the almost complete lack of any real negative emotions: we were just getting stuff done, executing the plan. There were a few sad moments, but very little acrimony or anger. This is a good thing. I could sense the ease with which things could have gotten bad quickly, but we both worked to avoid that, and succeeded.

I was surprised at how differently my wife and I have reacted to the end of our marriage. While I "dove into" my new life, accepting the permanence and reality of the end of my marriage and trying use this as a chance to become a better me, my ex has somewhat belatedly decided she really cares about our marriage and seems to want it to continue. She seems to be having a hard time dealing with the consequences of her completely deliberate and intentional choices, a contradiction I find more than a little perplexing.

I was pleasantly surprised at how quickly I was able to "let go" of my hurt (for the most part) and in many ways forgive my wife, even as I recognized the wrongness of what she did and the pain it caused me. I didn't really forget, but the immediacy and unrelenting nature of the pain receded very quickly. I went from being nearly insanely obsessed with the situation to being able to at least function in society within a week. Through no effort of my own, I could suddenly walk away from the pain, as least for a while, just let it go.

Nothing surprises me more though than the absolute abruptness of our transition from "spouse" to "just friend". I fully expected that transition to take weeks, months. Given the freakishly amicable nature of our separation, I honestly even expected there to continue being a sexual aspect to our relationship or hint of such. Even though our sex life was nearly non-existent while we were married, it always existed at least in theory. I could not have been more wrong. Within 48 hours of her moving out, any feelings of being "married" disappeared (for me). She also instantly became a really good friend: someone close, but not so close that you take them for granted. It suddenly became natural to hold doors open for her, thank her for getting back to me, or taking my phone call. I stopped calling her several times a day. We started making lunch appointments where one person invites the other and pays for the meal. Our interactions became much more formal and distant. We stopped telling each other how or what we should do. All of this happened in a few days. In some ways, it is as thought the last 20 years never happened. It is as though we were never married nor romantically involved. Even as this change was happening, it seemed strange, surreal. I don't really have an explanation for this, except that the physical intimacy of living together, sharing the same roof fundamentally changes the nature of how people interact, it drives an emotional intimacy and interdependence (which can be good or bad). Take away that physical proximity, the forced intimacy, and the relationship snaps back to what it naturally would be.

As I said in my last post, I hope our friendship can continue. Friends are good, I don't have too many of them, fewer yet who have known me for 25 years.

So here's to friends... making new ones, but even more so keeping the ones you have.

My significant ex

There was recently a news story of a man who won the lottery. He had been divorced for a long time. The first person he called was his ex. When interviewed, he referred to his former wife as his "significant ex". I love that expression. It resonates deeply with me.

Despite the pain my wife caused me, I find my self unable to hate her. To the contrary, I find myself seeking out her company, yearning for someone to talk to who understands me. I have been attached at the hip to my wife for 25 years. She is part of me, we grew up together. She understands me like no one else. A 25-year relationship cannot be explained any more than childbirth or parenting can be. While I do not wish to live with her, sleep with her (in any sense of that phrase), I also do not wish to "get over" the deepest friendship and most important relationship of my life. I have not forgotten the reasons we split up, not at all. Yet there remains a soft place in my heart for the person who helped me through some terribly difficult times. I am not able to envision a time when we will be able to be together again, but I am equally unable and unwilling to envision my life completely without her. She is part of me, I am part of her. We wish the best for each other: I sincerely hope she finds happiness and joy in life, that she finds someone to love her, live with her, be her lover. My wife gave me my beautiful children. For that, and for all the good times we had together, I thank her. I love my friendship with my wife, I hope it continues for as long as we live.

The astute reader of this blog will note the striking dichotomy between this entry and the one a couple back. Both are true, both reflections of what's going on in my head.

I would like to take a moment to note that the friendship described above is universally viewed with suspicion by all my friends, counselors, and observers of my situation. With the solitary exception of one person (out of perhaps 15), everyone is telling me that I need to cut the tie, sever the bond between my wife and me. Everyone tells me that my friendship with my wife is unhealthy, unwise, unsustainable, that I need to "move on". I don't know if I should believe them or not. It seems unreasonable that I should sever our friendship "on principle", yet I wish to be open to what people have to say.

Interestingly, the one person who is sympathetic to my continued friendship with my wife also had an amicable divorce, and also had people telling them the same thing. Perhaps we are all so trapped by the immediacy of our own experience that we are unable to see outside of it.

To the wonderful complexity of human interaction, may our relationships always be "complicated" and confusing.

Regulation

One of the more difficult aspects of the end of my marriage is the extreme volatility of my emotions. They oscillate rapidly, sometimes in the same day, but usually from one day to the next. I never know going to bed what I will feel like waking up: happy, sad, euphoric, depressed, serene, lonely. The previous post was incredibly angry, today I feel o.k. again, like things will work out. I sometimes feel insane just from the speed at which my emotions change.

There are three things I have found that regulate my emotions: sleep, exercise and human interaction. The first two are mostly within my control, the last one somewhat less so. It's hard to meet people. My status of "separated" doesn't help, as that appears to be some kind of scarlet letter in the social world: neither married nor single, and likely to be mired in complicated and ugly problems with the ex.

It's o.k. Much of what I need to do is figure myself out, by myself: let those roller-coaster emotions settle out a bit, live my life as I want it lived. No one else can do that for me. I do need to exercise and sleep though... so do it, moron!

O.k., well today is Sunday. I'm hoping to go to Church and get me some God, as a friend says, along with a little human contact.

Have a nice day y'all.

Rage

[Warning: This is not a well-composed or written piece. It also an angry piece, very angry, and has a lot of swearing in it. It was written at 3 am, in a hurry, the only thing I could think to do with my emotions.]


Remember that anger I couldn't seem to find?

I think I found it, it was stuck in the couch cushions, next to the remote, three pennies and a piece of old gum.

Rage erupted in me today, a storm front's black wall: violent, overpowering, flashing, blinding, howling, raging. I don't know what to do with it, it is there, pounding at my head, barbarians at the gates. I can't let it in, I don't want it in. Not for my ex-wife, not even for my kids. For me. I don't want that dark beast to eat me up like some poor tormented devil, spitting out dessicated bones and the shell of a man. Yet it is there, howling, clanging.

People, meet rage, rage... people:

I HATE my ex-wife's infidelity.

I HATE the betrayal, the 18 years of lies, the utter and complete abuse of my trust, my unconditional and absurdly dedicated obligation to her. I didn't speak to other women for 22 years because she might be jealous, it might hurt her, wouldn't want that, would we? It wouldn't be fucking PROPER! Should I laugh or cry at that? I don't know.

I HATE that even now, she doesn't understand how her actions have eviscerated our marriage, destroyed everything it was supposed to be. She gutted it like a fish, leaving it gasping, dying, a putrid shell of the living thing it once was. How she can even entertain the notion that I would want to get back with her, after I "get over" what she did. As recently as today she pointed out what a small part of her life it was: only 5 of the last 18 years. She was actually faithful for an entire 4 years before she took her first lover. She had the decency to take of her wedding ring when she fucked him though, out of consideration for me I guess. She generously refrained from taking lovers for 8 years when we lived in the woods in NY. That ended though, the first time she had an opportunity and thought she could get away with it, when she was adopting our second child overseas!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! But it's because we weren't getting along, making it both our faults.

I HATE how she continues to downplay how important it was, how she says it was "such a small part of (her) life": after all only 25% of all the sex she had during our marriage was with other people, that wasn't really that much. During the time that 90% of all the sex she was having was with her lovers, it was because she was immature and we weren't getting along. That makes it ok I guess.

I HATE how she considered it normal that a continued friendship with her last lover was simply a non-negotiable item, something she was going to do, because she could and I wouldn't leave. Moreover it was non-negotiable that she continue a private email relationship with that last thieving adulterous prick, because it would be a violation of her independence for me to be able to see what they say to each other.

I HATE that she exposed my little girl to this shit, negligently allowing my little (11 y.o.) baby to see lover #5's erect penis, the first one she will ever have seen, and listen to them screw like rutting pigs for hours, then making her hold the secret for 6 months. Now there's some good motherin'.

I HATE that she has made me feel like this separation is my fault for not being able to "deal" with her years of infidelity, her 100+ dirty little fuck sessions, her 5-day romantic Barcelona honeymoon with the last asshole who fucked her, her trips to Vietnam with our kids to visit another fucker.

I HATE that she stole my memories, sullied them. All those times she "went on vacation", "studied late", "worked", "went on a business trip", "went to a party with some friends". Lies, all fucking lies, every last one of my best memories now a morbid testament to her treacherous deceit.

I HATE how she took this marriage, and turned it into a farce, "a safe base" (her words) from which she could freely explore her sexual independence.

I HATE how she used me, simply squeezed everything she could out of me and my, MY marriage for her own personal gain. Fuck her kids, fuck her husband (not literally, she had people for that), what really matters is her happiness and recovering the sense of autonomy and independence she missed.

I HATE how she refuses to understand that marriage is about obligation and commitment, how a refusal to accept those is simply incompatible with any kind of committed relationship, how marriage cannot be about trying to assert your own personhood and independence.

I HATE that I have felt so ridiculously obligated to protect her from the shame and humiliation of the world knowing what she did. Let them know. Let the whole goddamn world know! Her parents, her family, her cousins, why not? This is the life she chose, why not expose it?

I HATE that she doesn't understand that promises mean something, that openness and trust should be inviolable, that abusing someone's inability to believe you would lie to them is a terrible, horrible thing.

I HATE that my wife killed the innocent, idealistic, well-intentioned girl I married and replaced her with a lying, cheating, amoral, honorless, narcissistic slut, willing to sell everything that matters in life for a few dozen fucks and a sense of independence.

I HATE, most of all, that she brought to life this angry beast, now speaking, this beast of mine, who is so hard to keep in check, but for whom I am wholly, totally responsible. I own my emotions, they are mine, no one else's, God damn it!

I had an illicit sexual encounter too, tell everyone. It was wrong. It felt good: I was genuinely, hopelessly, madly in love with my lover, it did wonderful things to me, but it was completely wrong. I took things that did not belong to me: my lover's passion, my wife's trust. For that I apologize to my lover, her husband, God how I apologize to him, her kids, her family, the Universe. I am abjectly sorry for my thievery, for contributing to the death of someone else's dreams.

Let everything out! No more secrets! I was overly cautious, conservative, boring, controlling. I was emotionally unavailable for my wife when she needed me. Tell everyone everything... NOW. Let the chips fall where they may. You want my parents' phone number, here, I'll dial it for you.

My wife sold our spiritual love, her soul and integrity, my trust, this absurd and beautiful ideal of marriage for a couple hundred hours of passion. I hope for her it was worth the price.

Actions have consequences, fucking deal with them.


Now where did my happy place go? I thought I saw it next to the remote.

Getting old

I got old tonight.

Tonight my oldest spent the night at my house. I love the times we have alone together. We get to relate one-on-one, almost like adults. I saw her as a person, a real person, like you, like me. I could imagine her as an adult, a woman, with kids of her own.

We played checkers, several times, and for the first time ever, she kicked my ass. I don't mean that she just kind of won because I wasn't paying attention, I mean we played three times, and she whopped me, but good.

There are times when I hate getting old, and there are times when I like it. In a strange way, this is one of the times I like it. I feel like my life, all in all, has been well spent. I could die now and be happy, I would have accomplished at least part of my mission, part of the reason I am alive. This is why people want to have kids, because they want to feel obligated, they want to feel like they have a reason to live.


So here is to getting old, to serving your purpose, to being human. To fulfilling the programming the universe had in store for you.

May you get old and happy.

Attachment

I have had a couple occasions recently to ponder the issue of attachment: how we become so attached to things that we fear life without them.

I was very attached to my marriage.

I am attached to my work and the financial security it provides.

I am attached to my stuff: my house, my car, my material life.

I am attached to my friends, their kids and the love I feel when I am around them.

I am attached to my little rituals, the way I do things.

I am attached to my kids, my dog, and even my now-estranged wife.

I am attached to the idea of being romantically bonded to someone.

Most importantly, I am attached to a certain image of myself, a belief in my own basic value and goodness.


I recently went to a Buddhist meditation and discussion. They seemed to say that attachment is almost always something bad, as it causes one to behave reactively, protecting the thing we are attached to, not least of which is our "ego". I would definitely try to protect all the things I mentioned above, to preserve my "relationship" with them. Is that always bad? I don't know.

I can certainly see times when I was overly attached to things that were bad for me, things that I should have let go of a long time ago, but my kids, friends? Why not allow myself to be attached to those?

Perhaps the key is fear, and my reaction to it.

Being separated, I share the kids evenly with my wife: one week on, one week off. During my on-week my oldest occasionally wants to go "off-schedule" over to my wife's to hang out or sleep. Part of me, no small part, feels jealous, afraid that I am losing my relationship with her. I can feel the pressure of that fear pushing me to react negatively: insisting that the schedule be followed, giving her grief for being over there. I do not think that would be a good choice, but I feel the urge to do so, driven by fear, itself driven by attachment. If I allow myself to "let go" of my daughter's love, at least mentally, I can accept her choices, respect her wishes and paradoxically probably make her love me more than if I reacted negatively. I have no wish to lose my daughter's love, and don't think I really will, but I need to let things be as they will be, driven by the forces of reality. My daughter will either love me or not, driven by the reality of how I interact with her and meet her needs (or don't). I need to not try to externally, artificially impose my own will on situations.

I think that may be the key: being ready to "let go" of hopes, desires, and the fear of loss. What's the best bluff? to never bluff. I need to be ready to let go of things, even as I hope not to have to. There are many things I yearn for, some deeply, but some of them are not possible. For those, I need to truly, deeply, "let go", let reality takes its own course and genuinely accept and appreciate reality as it is. There are other things I long for that may happen eventually, but again, I need to learn to "let go" of the desire to have it now, understanding that things will happen (or not) in their own time.

The unwillingness to let go generates fear. Fear prevents me from enjoying, appreciating life as it is, right now.

I used to go canoe-camping on the Wisconsin River quite a bit. There are time when the channel restricts and the current becomes strong. The canoe was also pretty heavily laden and maneuvered like a pregnant Heifer. In those channels, you can see obstacles in the river: logs, rocks, that you need to avoid. You can also see things you want to get to: a clear channel, a place on the shore. The thing is you can't fight the current to get there: a heavy canoe cannot be moved by one person against the current. You can steer, you can direct, but you cannot force the canoe to go in a certain direction. The canoe will pretty much go where it is going to go, with some guidance from you. That guidance is important, critical even, but it is not the primary mover of the canoe. It is important to accept the reality of the current because it ultimately moves the boat, you just influence how. The key to canoeing is understanding, respecting the current and how you choose to interact with it.

To reach a distant objective on the river it also does little good to paddle harder, it may get you there a little faster, but it is exhausting and unsustainable. The best way is to work with the current and wait, simply wait, until it takes you there. You cannot jump ahead.

Reality is a current, the force of that current pushes us in certain directions. We can direct our path, we can aim for places, but reality, history, our circumstances are very strong currents. Fighting the current can lead to small victories, momentary changes in direction, but overall the broad, strong current of reality takes us where it wishes to. Much more effective is to study the current of our lives and work with it to try to achieve our goals, accepting that the current may not allow for it, and moving on to the next objective.

Am I saying that we have no choice, no moral responsibility for what we do? No. We still must choose our path, the direction in which we steer our life. We are responsible for the way in which we react to the current of our lives. Those choices matter and often determine which path we take. I guess my point is that I need to be able to recognize situations where reality is simply going to be a certain way no matter what, and learn to "let go" without bitterness, regret, and carry on with living.

I would like to approach my life that way: openly accepting what is, what will be, without fear, without desperation to attain a certain objective, to appreciate the true wonder of life, as it is, now.

Groceries

I love grocery shopping.

When I am grocery shopping, I'm someone else.

I am the person I want to be.

My 5 year-old and I usually go grocery shopping on Saturday morning. We go to the local super-HEB. We have a routine: we get a race-car shopping cart and make a circuit of the freebie handouts. We are particularly fond of this one station where they actually cook. We call it “our favorite place”. Dave works there. The thing is, when I am shopping with my girl I'm this other person: happy, friendly, outgoing, patient. I am the best parent you have ever seen: loving, gentle, attentive. I smile at strangers, I hold doors open for people. I chat with store employees and other shoppers. I am the most outgoing person you’ve ever met. This is not usual for me. It’s not that I am unhappy or unfriendly, but I'm a bit shy and don’t usually find it easy to talk to people.

Why is that? Why is it that in a slightly different setting I'm suddenly free to be who I want to be? Why is it so easy to be super-dad with my friends’ kids or with my own in a store? Why can’t I just be who I want to be all the time?

I love the grocery shopping me, why does he only make a weekly appearance?

I had this conversation with a friend of mine yesterday. We made a deal that we would try to be who we want to be all the time. I can do it, I do it every week, why not make that the new me?

Are you sometimes someone else?

So next time you are at an HEB and you see a really great outgoing, friendly guy with a 5 year-old girl, say hi to me, tell me what you think of this post.

I scream!

I love summer.

I mean, I LOVE summer.

It is very early May in Austin, Texas, and by the northern standards I still seem to use, it's already summer: warm, sunny, glorious. People are out in shorts, kids are swimming. Life is good.

It's Sunday afternoon, I'm lounging in bed, half-asleep, listening to the radio. My oldest girl is watching a streaming movie from Netflix, my youngest watching along. A perfectly quiet, indolent Sunday afternoon.

Suddenly terrified shrieks fill the air: Daddy, Daddy, DADDY!!!!! The tone is frantic, panicked, like when Something Really Bad happens. I envision broken bones, severed limbs... arterial spray. Leaping out of bed, I run into the game room where my two lovelies were just a moment ago: they're gone, vanished! How could it be? they were just there, I heard their terrified yells. Then, from outside, I hear another plaintive cry: "I scream, I scream", or was it "ice cream, ice cream"?

I look out the window just in time to see the two of them flying down the street, headed toward the ice cream truck strategically parked by the community pool. They end up toward the back of the gaggle of impatient kids straining to glimpse the board loudly displaying the dizzying array of options to choose from, one sugar and artificial-everything laced item more delicious than the next. A middle-aged man, for whom the preciousness of the moment is somewhat diminished by having spend much of his adult life dispensing ice cream to crowds of kids, is doing exactly that, once more, with the enthusiasm of a TxDOT worker at the end of a long day. I notice what looks like a prison-tattoo on his hand, perhaps the inked reminder of a misspent youth. My kids don't notice, they wouldn't care if they did, it's ICE CREAM.

Not just any ice cream, mind you, not the boring Breyer's all-natural stuff, not Blue Bunny or HEB-store-brand, not even the Hagen-Daaz ice cream we sometimes get, and completely unlike the three or four kinds of ice cream or popsicles in our freezer. No, this is ice-cream-truck ice cream, that most treasured, precious and delicious treat. The stuff over which wars could be fought, fortunes or nations lost and be worth it. My oldest gets some kind of chocolate ice cream, the youngest some fluorescent-colored snow-cone thing.

The sheer delight of the moment, the pure joy of sugar and summer radiates from their faces, raw, unfiltered, untempered by any perspective or experience. They don't know how fleeting the moment is, how ultimately food won't really make them happy, how one needs a job to pay for the ice cream.

They don't give a care, it's summer, it's ice cream, and they are happy.

I love summer.

Marriage

Marriage is an ideal, a hope, a dream.

An impossible one.

Marriage starts with two people: two individuals with different tastes, preferences, inclinations, drives, desires and ambitions. These people choose to commit themselves unconditionally and without reserve to each other, to put the welfare of their spouse and their marriage above their own, with the understanding, the trust, the faith that their spouse does the same. They agree to forgo their own personal interests and desires for that of this new entity, this joint venture, again assuming that the other person does too. Through this process, the happiness of both parties increases: they support each other, care for each other, make each other happy, meet each others' needs. Well, that's the idea at least.

Critical to this arrangement is trust. Without it, the whole scheme simply falls apart. Therein lies its weakness. If one party violates the trust the whole premise of marriage vanishes, it stops making sense, it becomes a sucker's game: who can fool the other, play the game and get the most out of it. The most trusting and gullible person loses.

It seems like a bad idea, doesn't it? I mean who would agree to such an arrangement, given what we know of human nature.

And yet we marry, by the millions each year. For many it ends up being the sucker-game described above: trust is broken, needs unmet, promises forgotten. The hurt is too great, the betrayal too deep or the unmet needs are simply to great to ignore. This usually ends in divorce, separation. Other times people carry on in abject misery, driven by a sense of duty, obligation, cowardice or simple inertia.

For a lucky few, it's easy; whether by temperament or good luck, there are no significant temptations, disappointments, they always see their spouse as the beautiful desirable person they were when they met. These sentiments are reciprocated and everyone is happy. Maybe I'll meet such a person some day.

Then there is a third category: people for whom marriage works, but only because they work at it, really, really hard. For these people, subjugating their desires, preferences, drives for a greater good, an ideal, an abstract notion and promise is not easy. Not at all. Yet, they fight the good fight every day, and they win... mostly. Their unhappiness and disappointment occasionally eats at their soul until they don't think they can stand it anymore. Yet they do. They choose to love their spouse, to overlook their foibles and shortcomings, to remain true to them in spirit as well as in action. They choose to deny themselves freedoms and feelings they yearn for. They do so not because they are not tempted to pursue their own interests, but because they fundamentally believe in the hopelessly naive ideal that two people can "find someone to love and make it last" (Rush- "Ghost of A Chance"). In the process of undertaking this struggle, of making the right choices, of choosing to actively love their spouse, something occasionally happens. They sometimes discover that they actually do love their spouse, they are reminded of what brought them together in the first place, of what truly binds them together. Love is a complex thing. After a while the butterflies leave, replaced by something else, something more enduring, more subtle, but no less powerful. This is the love that can be rediscovered and renewed daily.

Marriage is like Faith: it is the unreasonable hope (hope not based on reason) that something more exists, something more profound than what appears at the surface. Why is the sky blue? is it due to Raleigh scattering or is it because God wanted there to be something beautiful for us to look at? The faithful may believe the first, but they hope for the second. The married person may believe that marriage is a financial, sexual, housing and child-rearing arrangement, but they can hope there is something else: something that transcends the practical, or even romantic. Marriage, like Faith, makes us human.

The people in this last group are either idiots or heroes. I choose the latter. I would call them "lucky", but that would insult the hard choices they make every day they live. They have much more than "luck": they have character, strength, integrity and courage.

There are no guarantees, no assurances that even after all their efforts these heroes will succeed in their tasks. Sometimes marriages fail despite the best effort of all involved. Even heroes are human, ultimately limited by their own needs, finite capacities, personal histories. But damn it, they're trying!

So here is a salute, a tribute to those people who keep this irrational and absurdly ridiculous idea of marriage alive through work, determination and guts.

May you find your reward in the happiness you reap growing old with someone you love, in the best, deepest, most active sense of that word.