Status Update: COLLIDER ROCKS

The title "status update" should be read in a loud British accent. And you know, like "stay-tus", British-like.

Okay fine. Don't.

It's Thursday, not quite but it will be soon. All day I've been thinking it was Thursday. I've wanted it desperately to be Thursday. I really want time to pass. Weird, and not.

I was asked tonight "Are you okay?" Like, yeah dude, I'm okay. Life is rough and this is the inside of my head. I still am who I am on the outside, even when that's a little rough too. This is how I operate. You see me on the outside. You know me on the inside. It's not so incredibly incongruous.

Like my Vespa and my Rover. Yes. I can do both. I can do extremely fucked in the head and mostly put together in real life. I can do excessively weepy and then do my best bad ass. Survival.

Doesn't mean that my lows don't get low. I think it freaks people out a little. Until they get used to it. Maybe. Sometimes even I am not used to it.

******

So I'm up. Yea me! It's not hard when I have awesome friends. I do. You all rock. And there's stuff, there's life, things to do. People to see. There's tons of stuff I should do that I don't. (Hello homework!)

It's not hard when the music FUCKING ROCKS.

Okay, so here's the skinny on Collider and why I think they are so fabulous:
Rocking beat, hard core sound, with an edge of funkiness. Awesome lead voice. Incredible bass guitar artist with a five string bass (one string is lower than standard). And the songs are not predictable. Listening to and knowing the songs in their complexity makes the live shows incredibly seductive as you are pulled into the whipping crescendos and hairpin turns. It's beach music meets punk meets Led Zepplin. It's nutty and multilayered. It's FUN and COMPLICATED. Just like I like 'em.

******

So I had a blast tonight. Great music. Just enough beer. Danced 'til my kippah was sweaty under my hat. A rush, a soul song, a lift. Lovely. Thank you.

Wiped

I'm spent, wiped out, completely out of juice. It's Tuesday. This is not good.

Work is being... you know, work. And life is being difficult and complicated. I am actively attempting to ratchet myself back, care a little less, perhaps, become less involved. Because, you know, I never get involved. And I definitely never care.

Nope. Don't care. That's nice, just another news flash, another drastic headline. Another plane going down. One more bawling, weeping soul -- I don't really care. I'm as distant as the other shore. Yep. Yep. Don't care.

I am annoyed by work, as it continues to pop into my consiousness. Another new employee? Really? Did we get any information about that? I don't think we have an open phone line. Where are we on expanding our phone capabilities? *Who* is calling me all frantic? A salesman? He's being rude? Jeez, people.

Okay, what's this about a crisis with the proposal? Well who was supposed to do that? Okay, we need what kind of file format? Sure sure, I can do that. Okay, people, breathe. This isn't life or death, just millions of dollars of project money. Someone's job could be on the line and we've got forty minutes to burn this DVD... patience... wait for it. Breathe. No, I'm not talking to you, I'm talking to me so I don't rip your head off.

His hard drive won't read at all? What did you try to do to fix it? You don't remember. Well that's okay, we'll take over from here. Yes, go back to programming the web application. I'm sure we'll figure it out.

I'm sorry what? Of course I was serious. I'm way more serious than you think. No no, I didn't mean that of course. I'm not thinking about that. I'm off onto something else, you know, more important, like work.

********

I can't tell what's working and what's not. I can't feel anything but angst, frustration and fear. I'm sure there are other feelings in there somewhere, but right now it's all just pooling up in my eyes, making it hard to focus on the screen.

My whole life is on a computer screen. And a whiteboard. But I'm not paying much attention to that.

*********

Okay, so back to work. Time to make a Powerpoint presentation. I have two hours before I have to leave for martial arts class. Must go to martial arts class. Though I won't be able to hide all this weepy shit there as easily as I can duck behind my monitors or shut my office door.

Don't care, don't care. I don't care. Nope.

Mobile Blogger Test

I'm trying to be a slightly more engaged tech professional. I configured my cell phone to connect to Blogger.com ... we'll see how it works.

Included is this gloomy and beautiful pic I took on Valentine's day. I haven't had a poignant V-day in a long time, but this year was oddly difficult. I checked out early, ducking into bed before 9 PM. I had company was but was lonely. Had an awesome dinner, and a largely productive day, going to the gym and sword class. But I skipped synagogue services, evening and morning, and felt like a bad Jew just because my favorite cantor wasn't on.

Dear friends sent me sweet emails. Other friends had their hearts ripped out. This heart thing, this love thing, is dangerous and seductive.

Sending love.
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

The Problem with Writing

I used to want to be a writer. When I was like six. Okay, maybe seven. I had a typewriter and I'd settle in to write, rolling in the pages one by one. I would always think long and hard about the title first. That was my jumping off point. I imagined I was Snoopy, hunched over the top of his doghouse, tippity tapping away. "It was a dark and stormy night...." In homage to the dog I actually started at least one unfinished novella exactly like that.

I did writing type stuff all through junior and high school. Little bits. Even then I felt the odd pull of what people wanted me to produce against what was coming out naturally. Of course in school it's all pretty whiny and self-centered. I consider that I haven't really changed that much. I start probably 90% of my sentences with "I", and I do notice. I do. I went to Quartz Mountain summer arts camp for creative writing. Eventually it got hard to produce back then. It scared me. I worried about running out.

I stopped wanting to be writer. Foolish, I thought. Who could possibly live as a writer? (Sorry, boo.) Plus how could you possibly keep producing? I worry about people who do it for a living, and the critiques they get after years of cranking it out. I am just not that brave. Not for that. Now, I did find something to jump off a cliff for. I'm still measuring the distance between where I'm standing and the edge. Calculating. Doubting, for sure.

And yet, writing is part of that. I have to be able to communicate with written word. It is very important to me, and I can't really explain that. Not beyond my other urges, which include the usual and needing to drive for hours on end. No, I must write. It's like that somehow got included in the promises I've made. I keep wondering "how did You slip that in there?" Dude.

Facebook. Connections. Written word. Say no more. Feelings, motivated by history, motivated by feelings, motivated by competition. A healthy version of running around the school yard playing tag? Whatever it is, it has me smiling intensely.

I'm largely motivated by the much-cooler-than-me friends who have been blogging and chatting it up for years now. They toss me positive nuggets and that keeps me going. Then I get quiet and run out of shit to say. Sometimes I really don't have a thought, beyond what's in front of me. If you haven't had the privilege of turning me down on Facebook yet, you can always go directly to my profile page to see what's been in front of me in half hour intervals for the past three months. Because I manage to find enough OCD to check in with the world via Twitter.

Now THAT'S an odd thought, said the woman who broke up with her last girlfriend because the woman wanted to know what was going on daily basis. Sheesh. She shoulda waited until I really started tweeting. I could probably go a week or more without calling.

Sometimes -- like now -- I really don't know what it is in my prose that works. People tell me I'm funny. I know I'm not always funny. In person I occassionally have the perception that what's funny isn't exactly what I meant to be funny. I'd bet money that what I think is a zinger goes thud and the following sentence, full of wit-n-wisdom is actually the punchline.

But that's regular life, really. Day to day. What I find that doesn't feel good about writing is the ebb and flow of the ease, the gush of words, the rush of I need to say this. Sometimes it feels good, and sometimes it's work. And now I feel like a gluttonous hedonist, addicted to the fabulous feeling when it comes easy, and not willing to work.

Will work for job that also requires passion...? I know how to work for stuff I don't care much about. Software... don't care much about software, but I've written my share. Don't care much about managing people. They really piss me off. I consider it practice for not losing my shit. I'm finding that practice useful. Perhaps when I get that down, a magic door will open for me and I'll be whisked off to HUC where I'll submerge myself in ancient, dusty texts and Hebrew and Aramaic will swirl around in my brain effortlessly.

What will they want me to write?

What am I supposed to learn from this point? How do I get to the next step?

So really it all boils down to the rise and fall of self-esteem... the perpetually fluctuating ratio of insecurity and positive feedback. Pulled by the moon? Riding high, I feel on point and sure. The low end is the bottom falling out, silent screaming. Climbing, falling, we're usually somewhere in there. Hang on children, we're all on the ride. Some of just enjoy it more than others.

Travellin'

I seriously love to travel. I do. I love renting cars and driving the hell outta them. I love getting lost in a new city -- though not when I'm expected to be somewhere. I love the process of figuring a city out, getting a sense of it's personality.

P.S. I love Minneapolis. Great frickin' city. And I'll tell you why:

1. Skyline... I love a good skyline
   
2. College town
   
3. Lots of local shops... restaurants, coffee shops, bookstores
   
4. Mary Tyler Moore will be forever cute to me
   
5. Water, water everywhere
   
6. People... friends, colleagues and strangers alike, they're just different, and they really set the tone

I guess people are different everywhere. And I could go about making some grand generalizations (which I'll probably do in a minute) that a lot of folks will disagree with. Regardless, I really do think each city has a personality, made up of a lot of things, but also largely the people there. Question is, are they more a product of their environment (the other stuff) or do they interact with it, bringing a common human element, or do people in cities really have distinguishable attitudes?

Here's some juicy generalizations, as promised. Minneapolis has a lefty bent. The whole state does, technically. But Minneapolis also has a sort of Californian-save-the-world vibe going on. Recycling is really expected. Composting is not out of the ordinary. It's got a major university in it, which brings liberals and pot-smokers. I saw two MASSIVE head shops and smelled prolific weed in the air in the partying downtown Saturday night. The personal is political, and there is a significant core of folks walking the walk there, bringing the median even closer to the left.

DC has universities, and liberals. But there is also a conservative element, both from the political party and from the sheer pomp and circumstance of the government machine. Power brokers and deal makers tinge the air and make it bitter. Seriously. The nasty, dirty, back room deals... I swear I can feel them. But then, I'm a little nuts.

So... maybe I'm just swooning still, but it seems like an awesome town. Good people, with good intentions, trying to do the right things and take care of each othe and have a good time too.

Word up, Mpls.

OMG OMG OMG

I officially can't take it. Officially.

There have been two deaths in the HumRRO family this week, one an employee, the other the father of an employee and a friend. I don't know if my friend expected her father to die. I know he had been ill. The employee who passed was in a hospice situation, otherwise known as waiting for death. And while not surprizing, the loss of life is still a shock to my psyche.

So I'll be starting off Superbowl Sunday with a funeral. One more reason to go to someone's house for the game... make myself be social. Make myself sit next to someone. Force small talk. Force myself not to weep.

Then I read a blog post of someone dear to my heart, and like the little stinker writer she is, she pokes her finger into my softest spot and relays her results like a champ: "A love that can stand up straight, won’t bump its head on conditions, run into glass walls. A love that won’t drown in miscommunication, in things left unsaid. A love that can handle a good fight, a love that realizes fighting for each other is the best kind of fighting, even if things get messy now or then, even if it seems too late in the game."

And that just does it. That's it for me. Sanity, signing off.

Can't take it. Can't take the idea that it's my own effing conditions, it's my own freaking glass walls... me me me, my stopping myself, me taking down the possibilities and sorting them into all the ways it'll go wrong. All the while it's still me looking into faces and asking is it you? Can you hear me? Do you understand me? Is anybody out there?

I'm pretty sure I'm not.

I'm curled in a ball in my bed, sobbing until I can't breathe, wracking my brain for a way out of this downward spiral. I'm scaring the cat.

A Distinct Pulling, East to West

First let me say: all praise due Facebook! Facebook has given me cherished souls that were long lost to me. Facebook has uncovered personalities previously missed. It has hooked my heart and at least one quarter of my productive time at work. Praise be.

Okay, next, due to the amazing powers of Facebook, I have reconnected with the complex and dangerous minds that probably saved me during high school. And here's a link one of them gave me: http://www.vipassana.com/meditation/khema/allofus/be_nobody.php

I've heard from other friends too, about this Eastern concept of expecting less, or having no expectations. They're not entirely the same topic... the link talks about not giving in to the desire to "be somebody", as in the guise of wanting to become famous, I suppose. Although I suspect that if you expect less, you won't become famous.

I wonder if the Eastern flavor of lesser expectations and unplugging wants is the 21st Century way of alieviating our psychic stress. In the Middle Ages the people were promised a glorious afterlife, and that seemed to do the trick, right? The concept has lasted us until today, where some still cling to it. Maybe the Thinking Man's Heaven is a dismembered spirit, where one's inherent instincts are denied. If you're a monk you might even practice with things like hunger, pain, cold or needing to pee. But what we really want is relief from our complex instincts: our need to achieve, to feel like we contribute, to feel real (whatever that means to us).

No, I disagree with the Eastern perspective. I understand it provides relief... even if we can't unplug our desires, we can at least point to them and say THAT'S the problem and focus on that. Problem is, those feelings, those desires, those emotions are still part of us. Denying them, suppressing them is just temporary, for they will surely grow back like weeds. Maybe, like unwanted hair removed by waxing, if we just keep after it, they'll grow back less and less, thinner and thinner, until we just don't notice them at all.

And then?

Would we be a nice, compliant, vegetable of a person? Would we be devoid of passion? Is life without passion life at all?

I know I'm something of a hedonist, but I can't imagine it. Even though I seriously torture myself by giving my heart away or pining for what could never be, I would rather -- G-d help me -- I would rather weep and pine than know that my heart is so hard that it can't feel at all.

The Rabbis say that within each of us is both the yetzer hara, the evil inclination, and the inclination to be good, yetzer hatov. Both exist within us, regardless of wisdom or age. The ability to master them, however, is the variable. Still yetzer hara provides us with the motivation to DO things: build a house, achieve in business, etc. Yetzer hara is the inclincation for competition, and it spurs us on. It is not entirely evil, it is just ... self-centered.(Genesis Rabbah 9:7) Rabbi Joseph Telushkin even says, in Jewish Literacy: "A rich person, for example, might have an overwhelming desire to be famous. Let him fulfill that potentially ignoble desire through tzedaka (charity); that way his name will be known because it is engraved on the wing of a hospital, or a college library, or a Jewish day school. These sorts of activities would clearly fulfill another rabbinic teaching, that people should worship God with both their yetzer ha-tov and yetzer ha-ra." The Reform Jewish (and other Jewish strains too, I reckon) belief is that we do have free will. And with that free will, we can choose how to deal with our desires.

Much like I don't believe taking sex out of one's life has made Catholic priests any more G-dlike, I don't believe taking our emotions, wants or needs out of our everyday life will bring us any more happiness. It's just avoiding the issue that we must choose. We must wrestle with ourselves.

The technique could be used as an analgesic, I'm sure. And to be sure, I'm using it now to stave off the PMS-blamed rollercoaster I just got on. You know, I've been sick for days. It makes me cranky and I've started yelling at motorists more. I yell and then I think, shit Shel, you just don't feel good. Take it easy. I can spend three-quarters of a lovely Sunday farting around the house, taking pictures of pancakes and videos of myself acting the fool. But one quarter could still be spent in internal wailing: why not me? why alone? why now? why this?

Peering through welling eyes, the screen going diagonal through the teary prism, I take a deep breath and try to unplug my feelings. They'll come back. But until they come back a little happier, I'm going to breathe, and wish them away. I'll wish my brain into interest about something else. Dive into Hebrew. Hide my head in dry governmental documentation. Go through the motions. Am I living? Am I breathing? Am I feeling?

Sort of. Yes. Soon.