Happiness is…
[insert label here]
There are many reasons why I am anonymous on Twitter, and elsewhere, although I am not anonymous to many of you. I choose to trust a few not to divulge my identity, and for this I might someday be sorry. However, in the meantime, I am hopeful that those individuals will respect my reasoning, but moreso not attack or reveal me for anything deemed “inappropriate” by the superior majority. You see, saying the wrong thing on Twitter, or elsewhere, can win you immediate cruel, and hypocritical backlash. Just ask @nick, or dare I say the name, @wilburly. There is no room for knee-jerk mistakes, insensitivity, or “unacceptable” observations when it comes to the herd (I too am guilty at times). The impact and implications of such similarly knee-jerk, insensitive, and self-important domino attacks can be more far-reaching, long-lived, and personally painful when directed at a name, rather than at a “character.”
Furthermore, in one year I will have attained, and will need to protect and defend, a RN license (and additional licenses thereafter). Anyone who inaccurately assumes that using a real name on Twitter or elsewhere will never adversely impact them professionally, or otherwise, has never experienced such, and is taking a significant, yet unnecessary risk. Obviously these people do not watch the news, read Employee Handbooks, or understand the trival reasons that employers, and others, use to discriminate. But go ahead, keep talking bukkake and hobo vaginas. Smart stuff to permanently attach to your name on the Internet. Me? Pass.
I have “serious” accounts, but guard them closely. Those are the accounts where I will compromise my principles, and restrict my freedoms in an effort to manipulate perceptions for my benefit. One could argue that I already manipulate perceptions given my pseudonym, and to this I say “nonsense.” You feel manipulated because I’m not doing it just like you, and as a result your distrust is a manifestation of prejudice.
Those needing to avoid persecution and oppression, while also maintaining freedom and honesty, have always attempted anonymity. Those who do not are either naiive, or careless, in my opinion. It’s the stranger who tells you exactly what he/she thinks, for they have nothing to gain, or to lose. If you believe the same of the people you “know”, or who “know” you, then you’re doing it wrong.
Be Better Than Them
I don’t live with my Moms, but I try to come home as often as possible to visit, and to help her. She’s 72, lives alone, has degenerative osteoarthritis, and an emphysema condition from 50+ years of smoking that she rationalizes as asthma.
Mom had an hip re-re-replaced on Monday of last week. She spent 5 days in the hospital where they walked and exercised her daily. I completed final exams last Friday, and have just over 1 week before I must return for another accelerated, rigorous summer term. Given her surgery, I am of course at home with her for my break.
Mom previously had back surgery, after which she refused to wear her back brace. “I am claustrophobic! I would never have agreed to the surgery if I knew I would have to wear a brace for 2 months!” It didn’t heal properly, and continues to give her
[sorry, was interupted by Mom asking “don’t you think that writing that blog makes you more verbose?”]
trouble. Now she’s not doing the exercises required for proper healing of the hip.
Over the years Mom has acquired significant learned helplessness, and alongside it, much martyrdom and self-pity. It is nearly impossible to tolerate. She “can’t, can’t, can’t” do anything, or go anywhere. The mere suggestion receives a “can’t”, and usually delivered in an angry tone.
Then add the typical little quips, barbs, non-sensquiters, and other pointed, defeatist comments. I’ve learned to mostly tolerate them, but occassionally I will not. Of course that results in her crying, and accusiing me of being just like my Father. It is infuriating and hurful, but luckily I can escape.
Perhaps everyone experiences this dynamic to one degree or another. If so, make every effort to not become your parents. If you already exhibit signs, work on it. Allow your children to become “themselves” absent your “informed” direction as to how to live a life, and sooner-than-later, stop viewing and treating them like children. But more importantly, do not perpetuate any dysfunctional dynamic by accepting or reinforcing the thoughts and behaviors of ANYONE who invalidates you, whether it be a parent, an employer, or a “significant” other. Be better than those who seek to deny you pride and self-esteem. Your life depends on it.
@jamield
[This was read at my Father’s funeral. I posted it previously in tribute to @jamield.]
Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, I did not die.
- Anonymous
How Video Comments Can Help To Save The World
[A piece from one of my previous blogs written during my dotcommer days. Kinda runs counter to my interest in anonymity, but back then I didn’t write shit that could get me fired. It’s also a fine example of how I am clueless when it comes to the use of ‘em em dashes.]
When I first read Josh Catone’s Video Comments? No Thanks - 5 Reasons They Don’t Work re: Seesmic video comments on TechCrunch, I got annoyed, but then again, I am easily annoyed.
Although I found it unnecessary to so quickly discount what is nascent functionality admittedly implemented by a primary competitor to ReadWriteWeb, the tone was constructive, and raised some valid points. After a second read my reaction is more understanding, but I still remain very concerned.
What is there to be “concerned” about? The lack of interest in the inherent value of the human form in digital media. The frivolous relationships that are pursued, formed and maintained via social networking applications, and elsewhere. The physical, psychological and emotional disconnections that negatively impact, if not entirely negate the interest in, any empathy and compassion for our fellow man. Users prefer an anonymous digital existence masked by pseudonyms and fabricated, idealistic profiles. Flames can so easily replace conversations, avatars our faces, and characters our voices. We all know the drill.
Not only do we fabricate our personas, we give away our “friendship” to anyone who “requests” it, to then never further enable or extend the “relationship”. Human relationships have become fast food - easily found, never analyzed, rapidly purchased, consumed anywhere, and rarely truly enjoyed. Life has become a “stream” of pics, tags, quips, links, widgets, emoticons, polls and jokes. We all know the drill.
There are many ways to combat the dehumanization of the medium, most of which are internal to the user. Self-respect, integrity, ethics, honesty, sincerity, interest, empathy, compassion, attention - all of the things that contribute to the quality of our individual lives, and to the mutually-dependent communities and societies in which we co-exist. Although I am concerned for the quality and happiness of an individual’s and the World’s existence, there is little I can do to assist it here. Or perhaps I can…
What I can do is compel Josh Catone and others to encourage the use of video - an external aid - not to discourage it. The technology and its supporting functionality is imperfect, and sure, embedded hotlinks would help to improve a video comment, as would voice recognition and transcription to enable moderation and captioning. It will get there - we all know the drill.
In the meantime, we all need to encourage the use of any media - such as video - that enables an individual’s presence, voice and human form. We are not digital entities - we are flesh & blood & smiles & stammers. Our comments are not to be skimmed, for each of us brings value to the conversation in our own way. It might not be ideal, well-informed, or perfectly formed, but it is human. Go ahead and “scan” what I say, discount me for having not “provided any links”, and discourage the inclusion of my physical, full-motion, voice-enabled image because “the load times takes longer.” Truth is, I’m not here to make the world a convenient place for you, or to fit into your idea of importance and relevance.
However, show me you care about more than my pic, text and links and I might care about you, too. Take the time to listen, not just to read - to watch, not just to view. Practice a little selflessness, and perhaps I will, too. Ultimately we begin to know each other, to like each other, and to perpetuate each other. Strange to think that digital video - and video comments - could help to bring us together, and to make the world a better place to live, but you never know until you give it a try. Well, for longer than an hour, that is.
The Blind Catfish
The boat motor swiftly and painlessly removed the catfish’s other eye - “painlessly” meaning that the impact was so immediate that no physical pain was experienced in the instant. However, obviously the subsequent physiological and emotional pain were beyond unbearable. Losing the second eye is not the same as losing the first, but it is the same as losing it all.
The catfish hardly expected such an event when it swam to the surface of the lake it had traversed for years. At a healthy 8 pounds or so, it was no easy task to bring itself up from the murky depths of darkness to the sunlit surface of home. On this day it seemed safe, for what is the worst that could happen, to get eaten by a 30 pound foe? Unlikely, at best.
Lost eye #1 was similarly misundertsood. One day some obviously unseen object ripped the fleshy tool from its long-lived location on the left side of the head. It had happened in a similar instant, and with similar resulting confusion. The inability of one eye to see the other, combined with the now inability of the eye to see itself, left the catfish puzzled as to why darkness fell to the left, and why a few weeks of pain fell on each day.
The confusion of the body altering events was nothing compared to the confusion of the new life circumstance in which the catfish found itself. However, over time, it was not the intellectual and emotional confusion that caused the disorientation, weight loss, imbalance and organ failure - it was the now permanent darkness that prevented once normal, daily feeding. Eating now took second stage to foraging which took second stage to sensing which took second stage to swimming which took second stage to attempting any semblance of normalcy.
It is the fish in this unhealthy and unfortunate condition that almost swims onto shore, that rolls over onto its belly uncontrollably, and that is further dying with every ever weaker twitch of its once useful fins. It is the fish in this unhealthy and unfortunate condition that is dying for no other reason than the pervasive impact of the self-important, inconsiderate, short-sighted, destructive and limited pleasure-seeking nature of man.
Man, with its technically advanced, unnatural snag hooks and boat motor propellers, ripped the eyes from the once innocent organism. In doing so, the catfish was instantly transformed into a mirror image of man, complete with its evolving physical deformities and self-mutilations, its blindness to its self, environment and life sources, its confused and chaotic thoughts and emotions, and its slow yet advancing death, to name a few. Blinding the catfish should hopefully allow a rational, empathetic and intelligent man to reveal, and therefore to see, its future. Hope sinks.
Instead the nets get bigger, the guns more powerful, the hooks sharper, the numbness deeper and the denial greater. The immeasurable, the untouchable and the unseen nature of man make the heart, not the water, colder; the soul, not the lake, emptier; and the effort, not the outcome, irrelevant. Although affected from the outside in, it is the inside out that dies once the world around us robs us of what little we need to swim safely from the depths to the surface of every second.
Sunsettled
Eyes sink like sunset,
Anger raises, ruins.
Outlook dims having waited,
Confusion settles, down.
Blood boils while thickening,
Pain reflects, owns.
Misery of a second,
Next no better.
Feeling for a second,
Next no more.
Heavy days.
Light fades.
No Here There
Space dotted with lives,
Footsteps limited to mine.
Sense of less wanting more,
Alone waiting to be asked.
Missing every one and thing,
Limited by errors of desire.
Afar above seen as a whole,
As though there, involved.
Falling back to my ground,
Disconnect from the world.
Mind starving for experience,
Body eating away by time.
Angels fly me above a life,
Never seen nor known.
Small ambition and regret,
Disgust for the simplicity.
Too much little done,
So much being unknown.
The S&M Pinup Girl That Could
I moved to Hollywood in 2002 for mostly superficial reasons like the rest, although it is conveniently centralized for getting around LA. At least now I can tell my grandkids of the amazing robe-wearing prophets wandering the streets, of the crack head whom I gave a pair of boots to before he stole my camera, of meeting Chewie in front of Mann’s, and of The S&M Pinup Girl That Could.
I’m not much of a Club Kid, for life is too short to be corralled by velvet ropes and vapid fauxriends. Instead I lurked at “The Powerhouse”, an old dive across from the Hollywood & Highland maul. Once done chatting with the 50-something, lingerie-as-dress wearing BobbieSue at the bar, one could follow the eyes of the framed velvet clowns as they tracked you among the posers, goths, yuppies, transplants and other clowns with their cheap etc.
Smoke?
On that Wednesday night Ezmerelda sat at the bar alone, and lonely. We drank, she laughed. We drank, I worked. She drank, I poured. I drank, she decided. While traversing the blacktop tundra between the bar the Beautyrest she pulled out her Chai-Kwon-Doody skills and threw me to the pavement. There’s nothing subtle, and everything intriguing about having some strange chick sit on your chest with her knees on your shoulders as she commands and demands. I, urban caribou.
Ezmerelda had a tongue ring, jet black etc, and an air of a good girl gone damaged. She lived in some condo tomb at the top of a nearby Hollywood high-rise. Her roommate landlord was a Neurologist, something between House & Reznor. He let goth dregs ride snakes, dragons & horses in his otherwise trashed mega $$$ dump. Perhaps he liked to not only cure, but to create, patients. Even I am afraid of dark that dark.
One night a girl I’ll call “Buffy” answered the booty phone. Serena (or Ezmerelda when drunk, I learned) was not home. Sensing skank, I lowered the voice, and raised the game. Blonde, petite, underhanded, duplicitous, down-for-it and dumb - here’s my address Buffy, you pay for the taxi. Upon arrival, she was better-than-expected, but still of questionable doitude. She knew what she was doing - betraying and competing with her friend Serena, and overcoming negative self-esteem and self-respect. Me? Anything that wasn’t fat or related. Serena found out later and named her “The Wilde Beast.” I got more some from Serena thereafter.
Then there was the day that Serena needed a ride to work out by LAX. By this time we were almost kinda friends, so I bought her some Chinese food, too. It’s not that I didn’t care, or didn’t want to be “nice” to her, but she was just the kind of girl who didn’t want you to do anything for her, to get close, or to be lied to. I had the Egg Drop Soup.
I was only kinda surprised to learn that Serenamerelda worked at a S&M shop. She had the look. I was not a customer, but I was banging a Dominatrix a couple times a month. Hmmm. OK. Yeah. Ah. So. Gee. Hmmm. She described some of the shit she did to mostly out-of-town married suits, none of which sounded erotic, or legal. For those of you in the know, she described a “CBT”. My reaction? TMI. Call ya later…it wasn’t that it was disturbing or anything close to titillating, but it certainly was boring to hear, and to imagine. Different folks for different strokes.
Everyday is Halloween in LA for a vast majority of people. Transplanted, often damaged innocence puts on a full-body costume and pretends to live some playdream - to compromise themselves for acceptance, subsistence, and prominence. Serena was no exception. She ran with the dark crowd in the dark clothes behind the dark eye shadow, flogging sad, worthy liars like the Uncle who also touched her without permission, perhaps. She would escape into the scene, and from herself. However, in the end, she always said she was more comfortable with the clean-cut, responsible, caring urban caribou who did things like buy her lunch, and drive her to work. Boredom is therapy for the wicked.
She was a S&M pinup girl who pinned me down in a parking lot in Hollywood, grandkids.
