Habitualized writing.
My submission for the Daily Post Photo Challenge theme: Motion. Captured this while walking on the beach one soft morning in Carlsbad, California (just outside San Diego). It was fascinating to watch these birds skim along the edge of the breaking surf as they looked for their breakfast. If I’d had my act together, I would have used a longer zoom and swept along with them; as it is I’m still pleased with the way this came out.
It’s dark inside Chop Suey. The floor is sticky from spilled beer. I mean a hope it’s beer. A sour smell in the air, of marijuana sweat, the ozone coming off of poorly-wired amps, a few cheap candles back by the novelty photo booth. I’m waiting to see Daikaiju, a surf-guitar band out of Huntsville, Alabama. It’s a Monday night in Seattle.
There’s barely anyone here. One band played, something fuzzy and forgetful, to a crowd of about 30 people. They broke down their set while I grabbed another beer. I least I hope it’s beer. The next band managed to hang on to half the people in attendance. And now, guys in dirty white t—shirts and ten thousand miles of road weariness on their shoulders are setting up a drum kit. There are so few people left inside, they’re not even bothering with the stage. They’re setting up right on the floor.
A drum kit, surrounded by speakers, surrounded by guitar stands, and a black web of licorice wires, spaghettied on the floor, draped over soundboards. It’s a mess. A complete mess. But no microphones.
What if, right now, there’s an asteroid hurtling towards Earth. And it’s the perfect size to do nothing more than punch through the roof of Chop Suey and kill those four guys who are at this moment putting on kabuki masks. Would I be grateful? That I’d seen them perform before, that I’d always have those memories?
Or would I envy you, reading this now, who have probably never seen them perform, and don’t know what would be missed. Because as much as I can describe for you this place, this set-up, these four guys, I can never convey to you the amazing. I’m reduced to resorting to vague words like “amazing.”
If an asteroid were to punch through the roof right now, that itself would be sort of incredible. A story to tell people. An extremely unique experience. I bet they’d interview me, the papers or the TV or some magazine. And that’s too bad—because I can describe that for you just fine. The sound like a freight train, the heat, the vibration, getting knocked on my ass. Confusion and chaos and running to the back… and then?
And then trying to tell you that Daikaiju will never perform again? You’d think me shallow, to focus on THAT and not the fact that an asteroid nearly killed me.
But if you’d ever seen them perform, you’d understand. Because here they come, running up to their instruments, throwing their guitars onto their bodies. Daikaju IS the asteroid. They’re going to destroy everything else for the next hour as they run around the floor, wrapping us up in their spaghetti licorice, knocking us over with so much reverb, we’re never ever going to be able to describe it.
People are flooding into Chop Suey now. We’ve gone from 30 people to 15 to 5 to about a hundred. And yes, that’s beer spilling everywhere. For this writing assignment I was supposed to tell you how I’d feel if something I loved was suddenly gone. But I just can’t do it. Tell water what it feels like not to be wet.
View outside of my laundry room window.
To say I’ve missed you would be a lie. I only ever notice you’re around when you make me feel, frankly, terrible. Jittery, obviously, nervous. I tend to spill things. Like the coffee cup you come in, yes?
It’s not as if I’ve avoided you acidulously. Just the way things have been. Fewer morning lattes, fewer shots of 5-Hour Energy Drink, fewer green tea pills. And not because I’m trying! Just the vagaries of life.
And yet, for all of that, I do wonder if I’m getting enough done these days. I “wake up,” (i.e. crawl out of bed. Hard to call the next several minutes actually “awake.”) Stumble around the house, end up on-line, browsing increasingly stupider websites. Maybe a load of laundry goes in the washing machine. Maybe a dish or two gets rinsed and shoved into the dishwasher. On Thursdays, trash day, a bin or two gets emptied. Maybe.
Remember when you and I would tackles everything though? Like that time we did three loads of laundry, ran 5 miles, emptied and filled the dishwasher, worked on my (our, over-caffeinated, our) novel for an hour, vacuumed, and beat Grand Theft Auto V ALL BEFORE NINE AM?
Yeah, I was sick as a dog the rest of the day, and just sort of sat in a chair and ate saltines while watching old episodes of Burn Notice on Netflix. But still. A sense of accomplishment as my skin slowly turned gray.
The thing is, over-caffeinated, you’re one of those friends I could maybe hang with when I was younger, once in a while, but as much fun as we had one or two times, I have to call-out the bad times too. The aforementioned jitters. The two-dozen trips to the bathroom. The heart palpitations—I mean, I’m in my forties now, not exactly cardiac-arrest territory, but not so alien as to be ignored, either.
Just “using” you to “get things done,” isn’t really an option anymore, or, if I think about it, necessary. The laundry gets done, eventually, and the dishes too. And if we’re being honest, getting everything done before nine AM just leaves the rest of the day for, well, browsing increasingly stupider websites.
I have to pace myself. That’s the lesson here, over-caffeinated. The day is 24 hours long, and even if there’s lots to do, there’s lots of time to do it in. And if it doesn’t get done? Maybe it’s not important.
Don’t get me wrong, pal. We’ll see each other again, on occasion. I’ve got a few projects due at the end of the month, so I’m sure I’ll be giving you a call. There’s that 200 mile relay race in July, of course, and we’ll always have the last few days of NaNoWriMo!
But not all the time. Not everyday. And I don’t really miss you. Miss “it,” I should say. I have to stop anthropomorphizing experiences. Have to stop taking them so personally.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a few more letters to write. Got a few tough things to say to Mr. One Pound Bag of M&Ms.
Taken near the Seattle Sculpture Garden.
I worked as a consultant for a $40 billion-a-year company, 12 years, and then they hired me full-time. Less than a year later, I was laid off, and then about 8 months after that, I was brought back as a consultant again. At a better pay rate than before. During that “sabbatical” I worked at a small start-up that made brain-training games. Part of my job was to read brain-blogs all day long, on all sorts of subjects, from biology to psychology to philosophy. By this deeply personal and circuitous route, I bring you to my discovery of “mindfulness,” which has been a pretty hot topic in brain science for a few years now.
The relevance of mindfulness to the above, of course, is being aware that end results are always only the very smallest part of a journey. It’s a more complicated way of suggesting one not sweat the small stuff. So the Mariners lost AGAIN last night. How can mindfulness help me deal with this sports anxiety?
I mean, thinking about it, new-age philosophy and sports fandom go together like peas and chocolate. Indeed, the only place they would ever meet is in the head of a self-indulgent, middle-aged, upper middle class, privileged white male living in Seattle in the new-millennia teens. Nevertheless, here I am.
The Mariners, after 14 games, are five and nine. They have to win four games in a row just to break even. They have to do better than they’ve done, so far, just to be considered mediocre. There’s an irony there. Hard work is supposed to be its own reward, but here’s what I’m finding in all of this: no it’s not.
If the journey is the thing, then the current record doesn’t matter. And we hear this in sports all the time. Athletes will tell you they don’t think about the last game, they only think about the next one. They don’t think about the play-offs, they just think about the next game. And when they’re playing, they only think about the game they’re in.
Turns out, good athletes are expert practitioners of mindfulness. And that’s the reward: not needing a reward. “It isn’t whether you win or lose; it’s how you play the game.” So, ignoring the winning and the losing of my home-town team, how am I playing this game?
All I can do is try to find something in this game I’m playing, this ridiculously close examination of my feelings vis-à-vis the losing record of one of the highest paid teams in baseball. My discovery: mindfulness. Being self-aware. Knowing that I’m darn lucky to even have access to the misery of watching my team lose. Being grateful for my existence.
And laughter— the look on the average fans face if/when I tried to explain all of the above. “Every loss is a gift,” I would say. “So is every beer,” they’d reply. Sounds like a win-win to me.
Tilt-shifted in Photoshop. Taken from the Eiffel Tower.
The following conversation did not occur at a Starbucks near my house:
Hey.
Hey.
Been here long.
Forever. A couple of minutes maybe.
I just got here.
I know. I saw you walk through the door.
Yeah. I would have been here sooner, but I was running late.
Amazing.
Is that a scone?
No, it’s a plate.
Is that a scone on top of the plate?
Well, that depends. I’ve eaten some of it. Is it still what it was, or is it something else now?
That sounds like philosophy.
It is. It’s why we’re meeting here. To study philosophy.
Is it?
No. Unless you think that the only reason to exist at all is to study philosophy.
Is it?
Yes.
Oh.
I mean it’s not.
Oh.
I mean it’s not a scone. It’s a croissant.
It… it doesn’t look like a croissant.
It doesn’t look like a scone, either.
Well, I don’t know what I scone looks like.
Then why did you ask if it was a scone?
Because if it was a scone, then I would know what a scone would look like.
Well, I’m sorry about that. It’s not a scone. It’s a croissant.
I know what a croissant looks like.
Good for you.
And that does not look like a croissant.
Does it look like half a croissant?
No.
Are you sure? There are literally an infinite number of ways to cut a croissant in half. Are you sure you can hold in your mind an infinite number of images like that?
I don’t have to.
Why not.
Heuristics.
Ah… good one. I’d give you an A, if I was your teacher.
Well, you’re not.
I know. Except, I am, sort of.
No. You’re not.
Yes I am. I helped you there, helped you understand a subtle philosophical point.
Well…. I guess.
So I’m sort of your teacher.
Like that’s sort of a croissant.
Yes. I mean no. I mean, didn’t you just say you know what a croissant looks like?
Yes.
And this does not look like one?
Yes.
So why are you now saying it’s sort of a croissant?
Meta speech.
Come again.
I was talking about what we were talking about. That’s meta speech. It refers to but does not have to be consistent with what we were saying before.
And is that, what you just said, also meta speech?
Don’t be cute.
I’m not being cute.
You are. You’re trying to be. Look, just answer the question.
What question?
Is that a scone?
I’m going to stand up now. I’m going to ask you sit here. I’m going to go outside. I’m going to come back in. We’re going to start over.
Okay.
And that will give you your answer.
Okay.
Good.
Bye.
Hey.
Hey.
Been here long?
Forever. A couple of minutes maybe.
Taken somewhere in Maui.
There’s not much to say about what life was like when I was 12, or where we lived. Our house was next door to a non-denominational church, a half mile away from Wichita State University, just a few blocks away from a new fast food joint called Church’s Fried Chicken, and haunted by the ghost of a murdered wife. Now, that last part is a complete lie, but when I was 12 my life was pretty boring, so I might as well entertain you with something made-up.
Our house was built in 1901, and occupied by one Phineas Densmore and his wife, Felocity. A couple things to note: Phineas is one of those names one only sees nowadays in Steampunk novels, although Mr. Densmore himself (no relation to the Seattle city councilman of 1882) was about as sci-fi as the long-grass growing in the fields next to his new home. And yes, “Felocity” looks like a misspelling of “Felicity.” That’s because it is. On her birth certificate, anyway, and her death note, although most folks just called her “Fel.”
It’s seems that Phineas, a bank clerk, was having an affair, and was racked with guilt. And, like many men staggering under the weight of crushing anxiety, he projected his guilt onto others. He convinced himself that his wife, too, was having an affair. And so when his own lover took a risk and sent a letter to his home, addressed to “Msr. Densmore,” he took one look at the envelope and decided “Msr.” stood for “Mistress.” He dashed his poor wife’s head in with a rock. Then he ran for the local constable, letter in hand as proof of the justice of his dastardly deed.
When they opened the letter, they found that “Msr.” stood for “Monsieur,” as his lover felt that their affair was so “European” as deserved a more sophisticated form of address. Proof, yes, but proof of motive, and Phineas was hung by his neck. Until dead. Which is how the execution order was spelled out, in those days.
Fast forward several years to 1984, and watch the rest of Wichita creep up the hill, building more and more houses until the big yellow house is surrounded by others homes and, as I said, the university, the church, and the chicken shack. And finally, a family of four moves in. One of them me.
In those days I was obsessed with books about poltergeists (this part is true). In the summer I would ride my bike to one of three libraries within ten miles of our house, and head right to the 133.1 section. Grab as many book as I could. Load up my backpack and take them home, and read all day. And all night, until I was exhausted.
Now, my bed frame and my brother’s were old antiques, built by my mom’s grandfather. Our mattresses, however, were more recently acquired, used beds from an old nun-run hospital Perfectly sturdy, but too long for the old frames. My dad’s dad, a cabinet maker, was taking the summer to rebuild them.
So here’s the scene: me on my mattress on the floor. The window open to let in a modicum of breeze. A tall stack of books, sitting on the edge of an old easy chair, the chair itself on four splayed legs and a fat, crusty rusty spring. All is quiet, still, calm, dark. Until:
Creeeeak.
My eyes pop open. The room is bathed in yellowish gray, from a streetlight penetrating gauzy curtains.
Creeeeeeak. Thump.
I sit up. That overstuffed chair looks like it’s shaking just a bit. There’s a book on the floor in front of it.
Creeeeak. The chair leans forward a bit. Sshshsss as a book slides forward and THUMP! Lands on top of a book on the floor. I leap up like a shot and my legs start kicking. I’m wrapped up in bed sheets and cold sweat.
Creeeak sshh thump! Creeakshshsshthump! Shshssthump! Shshssthump! Thump! Thump! The books are flying off the chair. I’m out of breath. I’m thrashing my arms and legs. I’m finally free of the sheets, bouncing off the door frame, falling into the hallway, shooting forward and slamming into the door of my parent’s bedroom. I open it with slick hands, fall down, drag myself to the foot of their bed, and curl up, fist rammed into my mouth stop keep from screaming.
And that’s all I remember. Get this—when I woke up, I was back in my bed! And the books were stacked up on the chair again. Did I dream it all? Did my dad carry me back before he went to work? In later years, I would decide it must have been a breeze, and the weight of the books was just enough that they tipped the chair forward. I mean, after all, there’s no such thing as ghosts.
But eventually I turned thirteen, and stopped reading books about poltergeists. When I was 17, we moved out of the house. I don’t know who lives there now these 26 years later. I just hope they don’t have any affairs, murder anyone, or get that house really haunted for whomever lives there next.