Tracing the Outline of Myself as a Child

...literally. this morning I awoke astonished and confused, with obligations to open the coffee house...and a moment prior I had been living in my dreamworld (as Rilo Kiley likes to say) and was just beginning the act of
Tracing the Outline of Myself as a Child. It sounds very Dali-esque. But what does it all mean?

Myself as a child was maybe three years old. I had short cap sleeves and short short hair, and I was tracing myself's left side. Which to my contemporary self was on the right. I anticipate that has got to be a crucial detail. I had only arrived at the specific and delicate curvature of the cap sleeve when the alarm ruined my life...or the life I was living as I traced the outline of myself.

Usually when I can't sleep (most nights) or wake from a dream and think "what the F?". I can associate the experience with something that is or has been occurring in my waking life. But here at the cap sleeve and the three year old me, I am at a loss. On a hunch I will venture a guess on antisocialism. Historically, realistically, three me was silent; morbidly shy. The comfort of having limits, guidelines, outlines I suppose, in the graphic sense, was reassuring...a parameter to fit into. To translate it to the present, I return full-circle to the forced socialism that exhausts my daily interactions as teacher and customer-server. These situations mimic a sort of outline, traced over and over again through repeated work routines. They have familiarity, guidelines, still circumventing a certain innate introversion.

But maybe now in adulthood I have been fortunate enough to have found my voice and a little bit of confidence, I have shed the outline of myself and am free to exist in any vague, symbolic and non-literal way I please.

Kickstand

(n.) allows to be kept upright without leaning against another object or the aid of a person.


I am one who likes to sit on things a while. I'm not talking chairs...I mean ideas and opinions; core beliefs that make me, me. I work it out in my head-space while life is going on around...and then proceed to evaluate why I let such things carry that impact on my formation. It must be part of my INFJ diagnostic personality (see previous post "the nature of forced sociability") . I've been working one inter-personal topic out for the greater part of this week. And prior to that, for the greater part of my mature life. If you are out there and reading, this one's for you:

My resolve, my most conclusively conclusive conclusion, for modernity, is that my introvert's solitary side supersedes the desire to be validated by friends. Because for me the latter inevitably fails. My F, my feeling side, is attuned to the nuances of self-centered-ism....I can see eyes drift up and to the right while I indulge myself in verbalizing a personal story, opinion or insight on an infrequent but trusting whim. I can anticipate another selfish request, favor or expectation amidst the heat of a guest's re-run outward self-attestation and hopeful receipt of substantiation. I clam up at being cut-off by a listening party neglecting their role. And those tell-tale signs dig right into my F.
Rather than surrounding myself with company who will validate, not hear but listen, make me feel like I am valued as an individual, respected for my struggles and perseverance, considered as "intelligent" and "capable" (as I strive to do for others), I am most often only made to feel like I might have the unfortunate powers of invisibility. Regrettably, I am only seeking a 50/50 scenario. I would negotiate 60/40. How hard could that be?

Occasionally I reach the bottom-out point and really crave some socialization. I think, "it sure would be nice to have a worthwhile conversation with someone my age/frame of mind/ mentality/ social status/etc." to reflect on things I've been working through or developing in my mind, and see if others are working through said things too...then go seeking such interaction. The unfortunate thing is that inadvertently I always seem to wear my blasted invisibility suit; thusly a conversation, as between two or more, is like a three-legged dog: lopsided. So I go home wondering whether I have some dysfunction. It's perpetual.

While my ode to the label of kickstand may sound piercing, directed or conniving, to the aforementioned reader, I offer gratitude...communication, as between two, is always achieved...(sometimes my answer is best received with a few days thought, vocab, and the assistance of editing and refining abilities).

But, generally, I have come to this: if my inevitable role is to bolster the bike, I'd rather stay in the garage.













A final deep thought: as a provider of support I should really take all the safety precautions, so as not to get lost.

Free to be You and Me (?)

Today under midday sun I decided on a mini road excursion to the lovely town of Palmyra. The hills were rolling, quiet. Snow's leftovers glistened in fields and open spaces. The peace before me provided a moment of impartial appreciation for the beauty of my hometown state and a sense of hopeful calm about this day within the world. Perhaps something positive would happen. Glass half full.
I was on a mission, though ironically not in the formal sense, with the interest of procuring some vintage military garb. As I pushed open the door to the "Top Gun" store (its true name) I anticipated a greeting presented with the formalism of Sergeant's orders. Instead I went seemingly unnoticed to browse through sweat- stained tees and uniforms with last names on the lapel, old canisters, packs, gas masks, polar gear and other accoutrements. It felt a bit like stepping backwards through time: garments stained with lingering smells of weeks' long journeys on foot for the sake of strong beliefs conjured an emotional coloration of war. I got lost inside the gory nuances of the collective experience that soldiers had/did/do face.
A moment later I turned to face the door through which I entered to see a Baby-Boomer in full garb accompanied from behind by a duckling-row of miniature soldiers, also dressed to the nines. One soldier dad, three soldier sons. The oldest of the boys couldn't have been more than 15 in my opinion. I am almost certain one donned braces. Judging by their shopping goals this day though, I could only conclude that they were preparing for their respective post-high-school military service agendas and needed the right gear for the future. I was only wondering whether impending service was a diplomatic choice or paternal expectation.
As the boys searched up and down rows of green wool and polyester, the sound of eight high-laced military boots clodding through uniform-laden aisles penetrated deep into my psyche. The boys' answers to father's questions were with the rote precision of trained officers.

"Yes. Sir".

A chill ran down my spine. I found myself suddenly feeling like an intruder in the midst of some secret operation. Then I remembered that this was the conversation between family members.

And most of them were still children.

My glossy hope goggles shattered. All too quickly I was catapulted back to the severity of the American situation. The land of the free; a land that prides itself on individuality, acceptance, opportunity and innovation, is overstuffed with individuals who refuse to accept or enforce individualITY (primarily among their flesh and blood) or to see that one traditional familiar way is not often the right one.
We millenia generation liberals have pipe dreams that the nation under our influence will be one of acceptance, peace, and positive impacts. Through a life of worldy travel, quality education and cohesive experiences we believe that we can break down walls and forge global bonds. We gather in cities and march peacefully to this end. But we forget that we are the periphery and there are masses who conform to convention.
While I observed the tension between this neo-nazi-esque brood I couldn't help to wonder which pristine little duckling would show his "ugly" colors first. What kind of life includes jamming great portions of oneself (homosexuality, pacifism or liberalism per say) into little subconscious holes beneath that woolen brocade, lest he be ostracized by papa bird for daring to be himself? Unfortunately the life of many a "free" young American it seems.



"If we are to teach real peace in this world, and if we are to carry on a real war against war, we shall have to begin with the children. "
Mohandas Gandhi

If you're EVER in New Mexico visit the Black Hole near the nuclear testing site in Los Alamos (photo of exterior above). Talk to the old fella there and ask to watch his videos-he defies all odds to assert his individualISM, and rightfully so.

And the point I was getting at:

...Last night I was watching a PBS documentary on a twenty-something who has asperger's, a high functioning form of autism. The asperger's individual is the most fascinating of all people to me. Generally asperger's kids are very intelligent and intuitive, have great language and verbal skills, but somehow lack the innate capabilities for "appropriate" social interaction. In short they are more like the ISTP individual than the INFJ. In fact, in the doc an asperger's support group member shared that he is obsessed with TV because he uses television drama as a set of rules for real life social interaction. Whereas I just take of running with my gut instinct and heart on my sleeve, there are those that need a set of rules to dictate whether that sort of behavior is appropriate or not. Its a case of the F versus the T. In a sense even the most basic daily interaction with others seems to be forced sociability for the aspies...kind of like I am experiencing in my controlled work environment, only for them its a constant free-for-all.
My mother said the other day, in response to my introverted need for a moment's silence post required-sociability, that its the same with having kids. There becomes the constant need to repeat oneself in simple terms, to hug and hold and pick up and wrestle, so that by the end of the day the last things a mom wants are conversation or physical contact.
Ironically I had just been thinking to myself that day how much I have been craving physical contact. Not of the intimate sort, though I think physical contact of all levels has some intimacy underlying...
As a dancer though, I have led a life accustomed to touching other people, feeling their body weight on mine, touching their sweaty salty skin, using myself as a tool to aid in stretching, lifting, shaping, weight sharing and receiving the same from my fellow dancers. Having left that world of flesh on flesh there has been a lacking in physical connection to other people and I have become acutely aware of the "rules" of physical engagement...similar to the rules of social engagement the aspergers individual was seeking. But still somehow to me it seems much more appealing, and normal, to drape my sweaty torso over a complete stranger in a proper setting than to give a dear friend a hug.

The nature of forced sociability

INFJ. According to the Myers Briggs personality test (loosely based on Jung) I fit into the following four boxes, if its a black-or-white sort of classification: intuitive, introverted, feeling, and judging...I.N.F.J. As far as grid-like breakdowns of human nature are concerned, I feel this is satisfactorily accurate in describing "me". I work from the gut, I function from the heart, I trust too much, love too hard, think that people are more often "good" than not, hold grudges when someone lets me down, believe that everyone CAN find fulfillment in work, and live with the expectation that if I just wait long enough I will find mine. I think a lot and talk only when prompted or when I feel I have reached my own conclusion or state of comfortability with my standpoint. When I was a child I was SO shy I refused to answer questions like " what is your name?" or " how old are you?" and wouldn't commit to any academic answer I wasn't one hundred percent certain of.
Funny then, that I should choose teaching as my profession. The teacher is always on display, always performing, needing to be on key and quick-witted, able to improvise and exhibit unconditional patience and genuine interest. I often think about how I morphed my INFJ personality into that of an enthusiastic teacher. I know first-hand that it takes a great deal of energy that must be brought to the table every day, and requires a certain degree of commitment to this end.
I never verbalized this concept, but it all became clear quite recently by the words of my uncle, a fellow educator, and is essentially this (and I paraphrase) :the nature of the career (of teaching) is one of forced social interaction on a daily basis. At the end of a long day of teaching, the last thing the educator wants to do is talk or socialize.
Ironically I'm only now realizing that the task of coffee wench-ing for the socialites is quite a parallel task. All day long I am forced to socialize, accommodate, bolster egos, and appreciate. I absorb idiotic flattery from men three times my age, smile patiently when women demand, object, and belittle.
Then I get home and shut myself in my own introvert's hole. And I wonder, does forced socialization allow the introvert to feign relationships and/or interaction? In forced social situations are people ever able to connect with others? Does this sort of interaction detract from the motivation to form real and deep relationships?

To be continued....

Descent/ Ascent

The all-pervasive "they" are always harping on the "post-holiday blues" or the inevitable blasé demeanor and melancholy mood "they" believe most people (dare I say American people) will exhibit at the start of a new calendar year. "They" formulate and circulate a bunch of top ten lists ( Top ten ways not to feel blasé! Top ten ways to keep your New Year's Resolution now!) designed to combat the feelings "they" impose upon us. Indeed I agree that for the binge shopper or ultimate materialist mentality there must certainly be an aftermath to all that consumerism. Who else is left to buy for? What else is left to buy? If not a holiday, a gift, it seems, is not a thing to be given.
Often times this post-"holiday-climax" descent takes the form of loneliness, as friends and family return to their respective lives and homes worldwide, or bid you adieu when the time comes for you to return to yours.
This year my personal downslope has taken a unique form. With roughly eight months of ongoing life in "transition" as my mom likes to call it, the day-to-day has been inconsistent, variable, frustrating...if not interesting to say the least. I have hit road blocks in essentially every valued area of Western life: career, finance, love, family...come to think, these aforementioned months have actually been a long and gradual downslope, precluding a new calendar year.
Consequently, my recent and well-publicized cross country trip was a bit a fresh air in a life- aspirations stalemate. And so, right now while I'm not sitting on a bunch of melancholy feelings resulting from a holiday of overstuffed expectations, or feeling blue at the thought of taking down a Christmas tree, I am on the downward slope from two weeks as nomad. Settling in to routine days is a bit tough.
But the upside to my mini-denouement is my hopeful and optimistic anticipation of what I intuit will be an awesome year. My impending ascent. Nomadic time (and a little yogic meditation) is conducive to flushing out the stagnant so as to allow space to invite the new things that are to come.
For once in a long while I'm optimistic. I wonder what "they" would have to say to that.

In desperate measures, one has got to plug in!

So, I extended my ticket home to give myself more time in the San Francisco bay area. After a week of driving to arrive here on New Year's eve, plans to fly home on the 3rd seemed hasty to some. Fair enough. The plan was to help my brother procure an apartment and necessary furnishings, and to use my guns (not the ones in my holster, the ones on my upper arms) to help with the logistics and man labor of getting stuff into the place...and in the meantime see about the prospects and interest in living here until I have the funds to return to Fairbanks. I made this decision yesterday. Otherwise I was to have arrived home back east by lunch time.
As per my life, today there are torrents of rain. The place we're staying is out of power (for how long? I don't know.) so not much is getting done. I'm writing this at a geriatrics' cafe in town with fifty percent battery power remaining; the only place we could find an internet connection for free. Who knew that the septuagenarians required wi-fi...The crosswinds are blowing the rain horizontal outside my booth window. I hear a woman beside me tell her ten-year-old son that it is supposed to rain like this until Tuesday. Then she says that something is amiss at the PG&E headquarters nearby so the area might be without power for a few days...and as I sit here frantically trying to complete my blog on remaining battery power, while some guy boggarts the other electrical outlet for his cell phone, I am reminded of the one true and reliable constant in my life: when faced with deciding between two options (in this case, in most cases really, 'to stay or not to stay') inevitably whatever I decide, I should have chosen the other.

Murder in the First

A few months ago I was tuned in to the documentary "Who killed the electric car?", a bleak tale of the birth and death of a short-lived idea freeing us from the greasy depths of oil-reliance: a car that runs on electricity. " Oh, what a great idea!" one thinks when watching the electric fetus emerge from the environmentalist womb. Visions of wars ending, smoggy airs parting, and smiling drivers exiting cars and plugging them into earth-conscious sockets start flashing in the mind. I imagined the fall of American imperialism and the possibility of peace, harmony...but then the tale takes a turn for the worse as the Bush Administration and oil companies sabotage the the invention to preserve their investment interests. As a result the electric cars are secretly sent away to an EV1("electric vehicle") burial ground somewhere in Arizona. I remember watching the footage as an aerial shot panned over the dumping grounds for these earth-preserving cars and envisioning their metal shells as corpses...left to die in a mass grave in silence. And littering the land to boot.
This reminded me of an equally saddening sight: the fate of Christmas trees after Christmas. Today marked the first day of my annual tree sighting. All splayed out on the curbside sans lights, decorations or love, the post-Christmas evergreen has continually filled me with a feeling of sadness. I've always felt that the sight of them on the street was a cause for mourning or the impetus for a moment of silence. These trees, plucked from their homes and carted to unfamiliar environments, drowned with water and dressed up with pomp and glitz, used and abused, are then discarded without a second thought as soon as the party has ended. The whole act has a tone all too similar to that of procuring a prostitute.
On the first day of their disposal, the trees still seem to have life in them. With their pre-attached tree stands they could easily be hoisted up into their original position and lined up in rows to ornament the street for a week or two. They could in fact live the extent of their lives and die naturally ( I'm sure they've been watered enough inside their respective brothels).
But today in Oakland, CA I saw the worst disposal of a holiday-prostitute-tree to date: the homicide, cover-up and disposal, mafia style.
This makes me appreciate my new family tradition of celebrating festivus....no tree, no gifts, no pomp and glitz. Next year while everyone else goes murdering trees, there'll be a festivus for the rest-of-us.

Conditioned Looking

When traveling across country by car the eyes have two functions. By day they dart swiftly back and forth, near and far, taking in as much stimuli as possible. As the miles pass by, the terrain changes, and the tiny one-horse towns pop up and then recede in the distance, the eyes check it all out, deciphering each new set of visual information to take in upside-down, turn around in the back of the brain and register- beautiful, unique, interesting, exciting,shocking, frightening, etc. It's like the eyes and brain are running a marathon. By sunset, although one has been seated in a car all day, there's a feeling of a hard day's work. After endless hours of catching things on the fly at seventy miles per hour, its hard for the mind to slow down.
...but then its dark. And so it must. And since its only five o'clock there are plenty more miles to chase after before day's end.
The dark state highway roads of the midwest present the next challenge. After a day of darting,the eyes are now resigned to the tedium of watching the little yellow lines on the road two hundred feet ahead because frankly thats all the further they can see. The scenery on either side might be exquisite, but peering into the darkness presents not even the slightest hint of what it might be. On long straight stretches of road reflectors and road signs whiz by in periphery. After 200 miles or so the task becomes very hallucinatory. Pools of purple start appearing on the road along side those hateful yellow dotted lines. Dark shadows in the roads' edge start looking convincingly like free-range cattle. The monotony resorts the eyes to habituation; conditioned looking where reaction disappears.
I imagine that residents of podunk mountain towns across the U.S. suffer from a sort of habituation themselves. Their eyes no longer dart back and forth in bewilderment and awe of the scenery on the 20-or-so-mile mountain drive into "town" for necessities. Instead the route becomes utilitarian, goal-oriented, ordinary.
There's something to be said then for the intention of the contemporary nomad: avoiding the disappointment of inevitable conditioned-looking.