"It Felt Safe"

So again, theoretically, let us say I am in therapy.

Say it with me, slowly, therapy.

Let us say that money and the lack of it occupies a great deal of the therapeutic conversation. 

Theoretically, I can distinctly remember the therapists saying, "Money matters."

This isn't news. 

You don't have to be a marriage counselor or divorce lawyer to know that money, and the lack of it, plays a huge role in divorce. 

Again, not news.

Theoretically, what therapy recently did for me was point out how unsafe I feel, not having money.

Theoretically of course, I was explaining how during the first Fall semester of the pandemic (hopefully the last Fall semester of the pandemic) I no longer had to commute the three hours each day (saving on gas) but also picked up a whopping three courses to teach at the local community college. I explained that my bank account exploded. Now of course, this is relative, most people making any real money will not think of my checking account as "exploding." But as someone who has lived paycheck to paycheck for most of my life, this was for me, a lot.

The therapist asked me how this felt. 

I thought about this for a second. Then it hit me, the one and only correct answer among many.

"It felt safe."

I felt safe. Safe enough that if some car repair was needed, I wouldn't be ruined. Safe enough to buy some xmas presents for my family without going into the usual funk/depression/anger that xmas causes. Safe enough to buy fruit every week without worrying that I shouldn't be buying fruit because of the cost. Safe enough to buy books to read without hating myself after, knowing some bill would need to be paid.

Safe.

And as I was thinking about all this last night (the therapist told me I might overthink things, to which I told him maybe I just think about things the right) I realized that part of the reason I seemed to enjoyed life in Athens more (read felt safer) was because I knew that if I had to, I could walk to work if I had to. A car and its upkeep would not ruin me in Athens. I could walk to work and get groceries on foot if I had to. 

I explained to my therapist that my wife now realizes that I become a different person when I take my car to get serviced. It feels unsafe. I am in danger. The bill will ruin me. I have no control. I won't be able to pay it. I have no money.

For a little while, teaching three courses, not commuting three hours a day, I felt safe. 

Well, the cushion of money is practically gone but I still don't have to commute. I am back to a state of teetering on financial and ergo, complete ruin.

Being a George Carlin devotee, I know that safety is an illusion. 

So I tell myself that I felt safer, when I had my little bit of money. Safer than not having it. 

So the real question is, can I enjoy life without feeling safe?

Meme Soil

 Like you, perhaps, I just got done with some yard work. 

Spring.

I smelled soil. Rich, thick, penetrating.

Soil.

Sweat building underneath.

Soil bound with the damp.

Do you even lift bro?

Have you even smelled soil?

Have you ever smelled soil?

You should.

Smell.

Soil.

Grass Over Graves

One point gleaned from reading Lewis Hyde's The Gift, is that we need death to grow. 

Hyde focuses a great deal on Walt Whitman and Leaves of Grass and one metaphor in particular: grass over graves. 

Death underneath provides the nutrients for the new blades to bloom. 

We need death to grow. We need finitude for our lives to matter. 

If we are eternal, there can be no value.

Death is the ground to your figure, always there, giving your life and your projects, definition.

Dog Food And Truth

I had a truly terrible dream last night.

I had a dream I was taking a German exam and I was unable to prepare for the exam–my ability to memorize got me through undergrad and a scholarship for graduate school (I once got a 100% on a Spinoza exam mostly by memorizing a shit-ton of Spinoza)–so this was terrible for me. 

But, it got worse, the way some dreams do. While taking this awful exam, with pictures I couldn't make sense of and directions I couldn't make sense of, pages out of order, I tried to go up to the front of the class to ask the prof for clarification. But you know dreams, while trying to make my way to the front of the class, I get lost, end up on a crowded sidewalk in a crowded city and almost get hit by a trash truck, only to reach a prof for a previous Marxism class, plus my exam is all out of order and I can't even ask her questions. So I'm trudging back to my German class, exam in hand, fighting the people on the sidewalk and the occasional car up on the sidewalk when, I wake up.

I have dreams of this ilk and they are awful. The feeling resides upon waking. The feeling of being lost and unprepared. I hate to Heidegger this up (do I though? Don't I love Heidegger?) but this feeling of geworfenheit, of being thrown...into the world is truly awful, almost horror...for me.

And I thought about writing upon awaking. And I thought about perhaps my son, asking me why I have these kinds of dreams.

And I thought about explaining to my nine year old Juju that: I'm not satisfied with quaint little stories. Though quaint and cute they may be. I think I have these dreams because I seek accurate explanations.

"But you're a relativist!" I hear from the interlocutor.

Indeed. You have me pegged. 

But my relativism doesn't quell the questioning. This is the crux.

Consider an example:

You're starving. You haven't had a crumb of food in, let us say three weeks, and the only reason you are alive is you've had access to water. Truly starving is my point here. You'll die unless you find something to eat.

You find something to eat.

A can of wet, dog food.

Yes, dog food. It'll keep you alive and sustain you. Perfectly edible, dog food is. 

My relativism is dog food. Can sustain me but it doesn't taste very good and it doesn't go down easily. Different from the quaint, candy-like stories that go down oh so smooth, but rot your teeth.

Truth is relative, per Lakoff and Metaphors We Live By but I am still thrown into this world and I live and move about in the minutiae and the people who thwart my projects (so much Heidegger this guy!) and offend my delicate sensibilities.

The world gives me dog food when I want to order off menu–the Dirty Steak from Al Forno in Providence, after a grilled pizza appetizer, with a single malt to wash it all down.

Dog food.

And relative truth.

"We do not believe that there is such a thing as objective (absolute and unconditional) truth, though it has been a long-standing theme in Western culture that there is. We do believe that there are truths but think that the idea of truth need not be tied to the objectivist view. We believe that the idea that there is absolute objective truth is not only mistaken but socially and politically dangerous. As we have seen, truth is always relative to a conceptual system that is defined in large part by metaphor. Most of our metaphors have evolved in our culture over a long period, but many are imposed upon us by people in power—political leaders, religious leaders, business leaders, advertisers, the media, etc. In a culture where the myth of objectivism is very much alive and truth is always absolute truth, the people who get to impose their metaphors on the culture get to define what we consider to be true—absolutely and objectively true. It is for this reason that we see it as important to give an account of truth that is free of the myth of objectivism (according to which truth is always absolute truth). Since we see truth as based on understanding and see metaphor as a principal vehicle of understanding, we think that an ac-count of how metaphors can be true will reveal the way in which truth depends upon understanding." 

His Hearing Aid Helped Me Hear

Let us say that, theoretically, I am in therapy.

At the age of fifty.

Let us also say that, theoretically, I am in therapy for, again, theoretically, anger.

Let us say that.

I am 5'9, 160lbs.

An angry 5'9, 160lbs.

I have a sense of the origin of this, ahem, anger. And I told, this theoretical therapist, that this something else, is presenting as anger. 

And I had this thought the other night, in a relaxing tub, while reading Lewis Hyde's The Gift. I remembered sharing, in one of the psychology courses I taught at the community college, this example of myside bias. Basically, myside bias is when you do something, perhaps wrong, you have legitimate reasons and the circumstances justify this behavior. Ah but when someone else does, misbehaves, it speaks to their character, not the circumstances. And I used the example of parking in the fire lane at the local grocery store. I used the example because I can get genuinely angry at people that park in the fire lane at this grocery store, though, wait for it, I have done this myself. You know, with legitimate reasons, like just pulling up for a second to drop off my pregnant wife, because we have two kids in the car and etc etc. Legitimate reasons, justifying my parking there. But other people, oh no, their reasons are not legitimate. Well, you can sense the hypocrisy. And I started rolling this around in the old bean and it started becoming a comedy bit of sorts but with effect and Heideggerian perspective/psychological framing at the end, that shoots, from all things, a hearing aid.

So hear it now:

AS A COMEDY BIT

Oh man, get this. I am in therapy. Yep, fifty years old and in therapy. Haven't figured things out after fifty years on the planet. Oh and get this, I'm in therapy for...anger. Yep, lil ole me has anger issues. Grrrrr.

This one time, I was going to the grocery store, grrrrr, and as I pull in the place is packed and I get all angry about it. Grrrr. Just incredibly bothered and angry about a crowded grocery store. You can see why I need therapy now. Anyway, I'm pulling in to this incredibly jamming parking lot and get blocked by this car parked, you guessed it, in the fire lane. Oh boy, I'm pissed now. I can't get my errands done on my time, I might have to wait for thirty seconds and you all know how important I am and how thirty seconds matters so much to a man of my incredible importance. Why I am a man who needs milk, and eggs, and butter, how dare you park in the fire lane and interrupt my important life. Right? So I'm jammed up by this fire lane parker so I just lay on the horn behind this fire lane parker. Just blarin' my horn, to let 'em know how important I am. Grrrr. 

Well all of a sudden, an old lady gets out of the passenger side door. Must've been close to a hundred years old. She's got the three prong walker with the tennis balls, the whole nine yards, and she's going to get her groceries. Well I feel awful about myself and immediately cut off the horn. You know it all hits me in a matter of seconds, seeing this old lady getting out of the car, and I just feel awful and turn all that anger inward, right. Grrrr. 

But here's the thing. Next thing, I see this old arm, from the driver's window, waving me past. Ok, now I'm ashamed. Just awful. All I wanted to do was go to the grocery story and I'm having all of these feelings. So I start to creep by this guy, with my shameful self in my shameful car, and I know I shouldn't have. Dammit I shouldn't have. But I looked at the guy. And of course, he's about a hundred years old too, just looks like the guy from the movie Up. Yeah. This sweet old man is dropping off his sweet old wife at the grocery store, and because I had to wait a nanosecond for them, I laid on the horn. What an asshole, right?

But get this, I drive by, and the old time smiles at me. And it wasn't a "how you feel now you prick?' kinda smile either. It was a genuine "how you doing today, isn't it great to be alive, getting groceries, dropping-off my wife" kinda smile. Not even kidding you, this old man laid a smile on me, like "hey young feller, how bout that ball game last night?"

Well, as I'm creeping by in this car, this old timer smiling at me, I see it. A hearing aid, in his left ear. And it dawns on me, that he didn't hear the horn. Yeah that's it, the old timer and his cute old wife, they didn't even hear the horn. I tell myself they couldn't hear an AC/DC concert with front row tickets. 

"They never even heard my horn," I tell myself. Saved. My day was saved.

My day was saved. But that wasn't why. 

He heard the horn, he heard me blaring it because I had to wait a nanosecond. He just didn't get angry about it. He didn't feel insulted and he's not mad at the world and he doesn't trod this planet with a chip on his shoulder, waiting to be offended, and judged. He has perspective, and he shared it with me, with a smile from ear to ear. A smile to say: what is this in the big scheme of things? A smile to say: why does this offend and anger you when the sun in shining and you draw air into your lungs? A smile to say: what are you so pissed off about when you have so much? 

I heard all of this, though he was the one with the hearing aid.

My Precocious Spawn

Well as you can probably surmise, during the pandemic, a LOT of kids these days are having a LOT of movie nights. We are not a tv watching family but come the weekend, when the parents have had it up to here with responsibility and parenting and responsibility and parenting, well, movie nights can be a real responsibility and parenting savior. 

A few weeks ago, Journey 2: The Mysterious Island graced (what is the opposite of "sic?") our screen. Now to no one's shock, Journey 2 didn't win any Oscars. Who cares? It won a couple of (relatively) parenting-free hours and so in my book, Journey 2, is a real winner. Unless of course you are counting Journey 2 as Journey without Steve Perry. It's NOT the same. (Sings softly: Highway run...)

While watching Journey 2, ludicrous plot and all, my six year old kinda shocked me. Granted, I don't think what I'm about to share here indicates he's some sort of nuclear surgeon or anything, but still, I thought it was pretty darn astute.

So let me set the scene for you:

To get off the mysterious island, that is sinking into the ocean by the way, Hank (The Rock) and Sean (Josh Hutcherson) must get to the submarine. Which they found out about by using their wits and, of course, the map. Oh no, they are too late! The submarine, is already in the ocean. Well, right after a "Let's do this!" Hank and Sean make a dive for it. )Who can't hold their breath for three minutes now a days?) But oh no! There's a giant electric eel between them and the sub. I think, if memory serves, as this has been a couple of weeks ago, Hank pile drives the eel after a couple of chest slaps and off-the-ring-ropes forearms, and Hank and Sean make it to the sub. End of story.

But oh no! The battery is dead on the sub. And they can't call triple A for a jump. Whatever will they do?

This is where my six year old comes in. He says, "I know what they are gonna do!" Now mind you he has never seen this movie before. "They're going to use the eel to start the sub!"

And if my name isn't Nikola Tesla, that is exactly what they do. 

So my spawn is precocious on at least two fronts here. One: electricity and how it works. Two: how absolutely ludicrous movie plots can be. 

FFS, the Rock swims out and throws a harpoon, which on one end is attached to an electric cable, and on the other, attached to the Sears battery that starts the submarine.

Having recently seen my retirement numbers, here is to hoping my precocious spawn will support me in my old age with all of the dough from his screenplays. 

JuJu and George

I finished reading Hatchet, along with my nine year old son recently and toward the end of the book he recognized that my voice was “getting different” as I fought off emotion. I was emotional for two reasons: one was just finishing a good book that involves a teenager (not that far away for my nine year old) being rescued after surviving in the Canadian wilderness for close to two months and two, the more powerful reason is that we read it together, as father and son. And the truth is that he is difficult and I am more difficult but reading this book together, we had powerful moments of connection and it became a beautiful, what Heidegger might call, project. A project is powerful in this sense because it posits a future. Over the nights reading I could ask him questions as his excitement showed on his sleeve and I talked about the power of a good story, a good paragraph, a good sentence. We were inside of this book, and it was beautiful and of course, books come to an end, and we would no longer be inside, and I became emotional. The time ended. Which made me think about my radical thanatism: The steadfast belief that I am finite and that I do not transcend this earthly life and how this focuses THIS life and makes seemingly simple moments like finishing a novel with my son, into intense cherishable moments that connect me to meaning and value in the absurdity (absurdism is realism around 18:22). In short my thesis stands, my radical thanatism is healthy, believing individual humans are eternal is, not; it cheapens our individual and collective lives. 

Later that night I also finished George Saunders’ most recent, A Swim In A Pond In The Rain and cannot help but bring relief to the subtitle: In Which Four Russians Give a Master Class on Writing, Reading, and Life. The next day I would share Saunders’ thoughts on the power of a good story with my JuJu and I would again become emotional but I prefaced it by telling him why I was emotional the night prior. Because we did that thing together and that time, with you, that time we have, runs out. 

Pardon the imperatives here: Value time, cherish time, it is all you really have. If you don’t believe me, please believe George Saunders (bolding mine):

Hi – I'm reading "A Swim in a Pond in the Rain: In Which Four Russians Give a Master Class on Writing, Reading, and Life" by George Saunders and wanted to share this quote with you.

"We ended the previous section by agreeing to confine our expectations for fiction to this: reading fiction changes the state of our minds for a short time afterward. But that may be a bit on the modest side. After all, as we’ve been seeing, reading fiction changes our minds in particular ways, as we step out of our own (limited) consciousness and into another one (or two, or three). So, we might ask, how are we altered, in that “short time afterward”? (Before I give my answer, let’s just say, again, that there’s no need, really, for me to do that. We know how our minds were changed as we read these Russians, because we were there. And we know, if we’ve been lucky enough to have other beautiful reading experiences in our lives, what those did for/to us.) But I’ll give it a try: 

I am reminded that my mind is not the only mind. 

I feel an increased confidence in my ability to imagine the experiences of other people and accept these as valid.

I feel I exist on a continuum with other people: what is in them is in me and vice versa. 

My capacity for language is reenergized. My internal language (the language in which I think) gets richer, more specific and adroit. 

I find myself liking the world more, taking more loving notice of it (this is related to that reenergization of my language). 

I feel luckier to be here and more aware that someday I won’t be. 

I feel more aware of the things of the world and more interested in them. 

So, that’s all pretty good."