As my services will not be required much longer at my current employer, I need to figure out what to do with myself next. This is a complex and important decision, and thus requires a moment of reflection.
Let's start with the big picture. What do I want out of life? What is my motivation for, well, doing something rather than nothing? Like all descendants of mitochondrial Eve, I need to keep my belly full, my body warm, and my Internet working. That requires certain resources which are most easily obtained by exchanging money for them.
But that doesn't feel like a pressing concern right now. While I'm not totally satisfied with my current material situation, it does have the advantage that I could probably keep it going for eighteen months before my bank balance dips to zero. Yay for voluntary cheapskatery.
To keep this post short, I'll scale Mt. Maslow in a single bound, straight up to "self-actualization." What do I want to become? What problems should I be engaged in solving? What bits of creativity do I want to send out into the world? In short, what do I need to do to protect this fragile delusion that I am a useful person?
A few options, off the top of my head:
Back to school! Dust the cobwebs off the ol' thinker, try to remember how to analyze a function's algorithmic complexity, read up on the latest research to find out whether P ever ended up equalling NP, and get back to what I was meant to do: create swarms of killer quadrocopters.*
Put solar panels on ALL THE THINGS! This is the route my parents seem to be pushing me to take. Learn the solar installing trade, then get out there and start a small business. The idea has its merits...
Occupy everywhere: Take some time off to do some political activism. Maybe get brutalized by a police dog. I'm not sure that fixing the world one tear gas canister at a time is a sound strategy, but it beats sitting around watching things fall apart.
In my mind, the two worst problems the world is facing right now are global warming and the corrupting influence of money on politics. In some ways, the second is much worse, because it keeps the first problem -- and a long list of other problems -- from getting solved.
Ramblin' Man: Take some time off to see the world (or whatever parts of it I can get to without spending large quantities of cash). India and China are tempting places to visit.
Find interesting words and put them in interesting orders: I'm a decent writer. Possibly decent enough that I could maybe make a living writing fiction. There's something sexy about the writing occupation: sitting around Internet cafes and sipping black coffee, signing books for doe-eyed fans, getting suicidally depressed, drinking yourself into an early grave.... yeah, that's the life.
The thing is, it sounds like a tough full-time gig. Not the sitting around and typing things part, but the getting paid for the resulting word salad part. Nobody seems to know exactly how to make money at writing these days. There are lots of paths to try, from self-publishing on up, but no clear paths. Also, these days shameless self-promotion seems to be an absolute must. It's not enough anymore to let your work speak for itself, but I don't think I'd be much good at that side of the business.
Still, I have tales I want to tell, and working full time leaves little time to tell them.
Code4Life: And oh, yeah, there's this programming thing I know how to do, which I might be able to leverage into something world-changing or at least lucrative. The problem is, I'm way too picky about the projects I want to do, the technologies I want to use, the design decisions that end up getting made, etc. I'm rarely happy doing somebody else's project somebody else's way, and with coding jobs you can rarely expect anything else.
I seem to have run into the Buffet of Life problem. Everything looks pretty good, nothing really stands out, and my tummy is only so big. But I gotta to eat.
It seems I have a couple of months to decide.
* Oh, fine. Let me google that for you. [link]
Friday, December 16, 2011
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Notes from Conduit XXI: This Year Conduit is Old Enough to Drink
Backstory: Conduit is a sci-fi con, mostly centered around books and writing. This was my first year.
Conduit wasn't what I expected. I thought it would be larger, that there would be more costumes, bigger display areas, etc. I'm not complaining. My only frame of reference was the Emerald City Comicon last October, which was easily 20 times larger. So there was a mental shift that I had to make early on.
I always hesitate to wander the book sales area, because I have this gnawing fear that every author I talk to or walk by without buying one of their books will take it as a personal rejection. Also, chatting up strangers isn't my strong suit, even if we do have something in common.
I really need to get over this social anxiety crap. And maybe take my wallet out of the ziplock once in a while.
The point being, I mostly hung out at various panel discussions, which I will recount in excessive detail -- mostly as a memory cue for myself -- ... NOW!
Friday:
Con Ettiquette: A few funny anecdotes, but probably counterproductive for someone whose main problem is being too shy.
What Do You Mean, My Character is in Debtor's Prison?: A bit of economics can lend richness to your writing, and it's easy to screw up by not giving your world or characters a grounding in economic reality. Takeaway: every character needs a job, or a really good excuse for not having one.
Brainstorming with your Subconscious: What do you do when you're not sure what to do with your character? Give them a tarot reading! No, really. It's a powerful cure for writer's block. I should learn to give a good reading.
Screenwriting 101: Learned a bit about the art of writing and selling a screenplay. I'm not interested in doing such a thing, but interesting nonetheless. One big takeaway: You have to write a screenplay with an understanding of your actual role. Movies are a collaborative process between thousands of people, so you have to leave a lot of room for all those people to add their own touches. A screenplay that tells the director every shot to use is a bad screenplay.
Streamlining your Fiction: Less description is usually more. No "clothes porn" (describing in detail the outfit of every character, no matter how incidental) unless that's what your audience wants.
Women in Fantasy: How to make your female characters interesting and well-rounded. Trick: Try reversing the genders of the characters and see what details emerge. Men and women are different, give thought to gender roles in the society you're describing, avoid "dude with breasts" syndrome. I tried asking a question about women and body issues. My question wasn't really clear, but one of the female panelists said that women have a superpower for knowing within seconds who the prettiest woman in the room is.
Hickman on Writing: Lots of material covered fast. Tracy Hickman did a quick primer on archetypal characters and plot pacing. I remember almost none of it.
Then home to watch an episode of Dr. Who with my sissy.
Saturday:
The New Face of Self-Promotion: Drawing a blank at the moment. I'm quite sure I was there.
Writing/Illustrating Graphic Novels: Apparently, you can write screenplays for graphic novels. I had no idea.
Plotting a Novel in an Hour: We ended up with a three-act novel where a farmboy goes off to save his cow from UFOs and winds up becoming king of the Fae Folk and the keeper of a forest of vampire trees. Or something. I was busy filling in the template with a new idea of my own.
The template is as follows: Overall Plot, Main Character Plot, Impact Character Plot, Love Story (if applicable). The plot has three acts. Act I ends with a twist or complication. Act III usually has a "big reveal" that usually launches into the climax. Also helps to keep track of the locations and settings, especially the recurring ones.
First Aid in the Middle Ages (w/Nala): We got there way late, so not much to report. One hint: If a character can display great medical knowledge in an early scene, you can usually cut a lot of detail from later uses of that skill.
The Two Faces of a Samurai (w/Nala): I was so sleepy. But Nala made me an origami cube, and I kinda flushed out the idea I'd been coming up with earlier.
Bad Fairy! You're NOT a Vampire!: An hour spent bashing Twilight cannot be deducted from a man's life. Tracy Hickman had some strong opinions on this one. I think it was a bit of a stretch to say that by defanging vampires to make them love interests, you create an underlying message that women should stay in abusive relationships. But his idea was well-argued, drawing from the early vampire stories to show that they were often warnings to women about the dangers of monstrous men.
In the olden days, I think that Bella's motivations -- desiring to become a vampire in part to achieve eternal beauty and youth -- would have gone completely differently in the olden days. She would have served as a morality tale about the dangers of vanity. Probably a better message than the one that actually comes across.
Sat next to a twelve year old Princess Zelda. Very cool costume.
Then home to watch an episode of Sherlock with sissy and bro. BBC sure knows how to tell a story.
Sunday:
What Makes a Successful Writing Group: Not too big, everyone gets something out of it and everyone contributes, they can be difficult to find and join but hey you've got six or seven people right here. Ideally, have more than one perspective (female/male mentioned specifically, but I think a little genre-bending might be helpful as well). It takes time to learn the quirks of your groupees, to figure out what sort of advice they're able to give (or take).
I got a few e-mail addresses collected. I'll need to get back with those folks.
Writing a Multi-book Series: When is your character, series, or even your world, done? Took a lot of notes here. The only thing I'll pass on here is the phrase I wrote down, "Older than God's dog." I think I may broadcast a little too loudly that my book wants a sequel. Standard romantic arc: Infatuation, romance, hard sloggy bits, distance, reconciliation.
Historical Costuming: Learned the difference between a patina and a bustle, though both look ridiculous. There have been times when men wore corsets. Clothing should be comfortable.
Razor's Edge: How much should you put your characters through, and at what point does it become gratuitous? What's the difference between a challenge and a punishment. "Reality has a well-known liberal bias." #couldawouldashoulda
This got me thinking about my own book. [delete thoughts. spoiler alert.]
Building Your Audience: How to maintain an online presence and find your audience. We may be entering an era where the (extremely risk-averse) publishing industry may demand that new authors bring a proven fan base with them when they submit a book. Need to get you some Twitters, some Facebooks, some bloggy bits, and some website.
Not sure what to do with my own online strategy, since I've already harpooned myself with my arrogant left-wing rantiness, and a fifteen year old anti-Mormon website I built. Also, bryceanderson.com is already taken... by... oh wow that's depressing. Becoming the most famous Bryce Anderson on Google means dethroning some poor couple's dead child. Talk about your ethical dilemmas.
As for the rants? When did we forget our dreams? I'm passionate, opinionated, and easily offended. That will lose me some readers. Hopefully it will gain me others.
Online Publishing: Is a big new world. Stepping around the gatekeepers means stepping into the swamp of self-published crap. Best way out: Write a damned good book.
Conduit wasn't what I expected. I thought it would be larger, that there would be more costumes, bigger display areas, etc. I'm not complaining. My only frame of reference was the Emerald City Comicon last October, which was easily 20 times larger. So there was a mental shift that I had to make early on.
I always hesitate to wander the book sales area, because I have this gnawing fear that every author I talk to or walk by without buying one of their books will take it as a personal rejection. Also, chatting up strangers isn't my strong suit, even if we do have something in common.
I really need to get over this social anxiety crap. And maybe take my wallet out of the ziplock once in a while.
The point being, I mostly hung out at various panel discussions, which I will recount in excessive detail -- mostly as a memory cue for myself -- ... NOW!
Friday:
Con Ettiquette: A few funny anecdotes, but probably counterproductive for someone whose main problem is being too shy.
What Do You Mean, My Character is in Debtor's Prison?: A bit of economics can lend richness to your writing, and it's easy to screw up by not giving your world or characters a grounding in economic reality. Takeaway: every character needs a job, or a really good excuse for not having one.
Brainstorming with your Subconscious: What do you do when you're not sure what to do with your character? Give them a tarot reading! No, really. It's a powerful cure for writer's block. I should learn to give a good reading.
Screenwriting 101: Learned a bit about the art of writing and selling a screenplay. I'm not interested in doing such a thing, but interesting nonetheless. One big takeaway: You have to write a screenplay with an understanding of your actual role. Movies are a collaborative process between thousands of people, so you have to leave a lot of room for all those people to add their own touches. A screenplay that tells the director every shot to use is a bad screenplay.
Streamlining your Fiction: Less description is usually more. No "clothes porn" (describing in detail the outfit of every character, no matter how incidental) unless that's what your audience wants.
Women in Fantasy: How to make your female characters interesting and well-rounded. Trick: Try reversing the genders of the characters and see what details emerge. Men and women are different, give thought to gender roles in the society you're describing, avoid "dude with breasts" syndrome. I tried asking a question about women and body issues. My question wasn't really clear, but one of the female panelists said that women have a superpower for knowing within seconds who the prettiest woman in the room is.
Hickman on Writing: Lots of material covered fast. Tracy Hickman did a quick primer on archetypal characters and plot pacing. I remember almost none of it.
Then home to watch an episode of Dr. Who with my sissy.
Saturday:
The New Face of Self-Promotion: Drawing a blank at the moment. I'm quite sure I was there.
Writing/Illustrating Graphic Novels: Apparently, you can write screenplays for graphic novels. I had no idea.
Plotting a Novel in an Hour: We ended up with a three-act novel where a farmboy goes off to save his cow from UFOs and winds up becoming king of the Fae Folk and the keeper of a forest of vampire trees. Or something. I was busy filling in the template with a new idea of my own.
The template is as follows: Overall Plot, Main Character Plot, Impact Character Plot, Love Story (if applicable). The plot has three acts. Act I ends with a twist or complication. Act III usually has a "big reveal" that usually launches into the climax. Also helps to keep track of the locations and settings, especially the recurring ones.
First Aid in the Middle Ages (w/Nala): We got there way late, so not much to report. One hint: If a character can display great medical knowledge in an early scene, you can usually cut a lot of detail from later uses of that skill.
The Two Faces of a Samurai (w/Nala): I was so sleepy. But Nala made me an origami cube, and I kinda flushed out the idea I'd been coming up with earlier.
Bad Fairy! You're NOT a Vampire!: An hour spent bashing Twilight cannot be deducted from a man's life. Tracy Hickman had some strong opinions on this one. I think it was a bit of a stretch to say that by defanging vampires to make them love interests, you create an underlying message that women should stay in abusive relationships. But his idea was well-argued, drawing from the early vampire stories to show that they were often warnings to women about the dangers of monstrous men.
In the olden days, I think that Bella's motivations -- desiring to become a vampire in part to achieve eternal beauty and youth -- would have gone completely differently in the olden days. She would have served as a morality tale about the dangers of vanity. Probably a better message than the one that actually comes across.
Sat next to a twelve year old Princess Zelda. Very cool costume.
Then home to watch an episode of Sherlock with sissy and bro. BBC sure knows how to tell a story.
Sunday:
What Makes a Successful Writing Group: Not too big, everyone gets something out of it and everyone contributes, they can be difficult to find and join but hey you've got six or seven people right here. Ideally, have more than one perspective (female/male mentioned specifically, but I think a little genre-bending might be helpful as well). It takes time to learn the quirks of your groupees, to figure out what sort of advice they're able to give (or take).
I got a few e-mail addresses collected. I'll need to get back with those folks.
Writing a Multi-book Series: When is your character, series, or even your world, done? Took a lot of notes here. The only thing I'll pass on here is the phrase I wrote down, "Older than God's dog." I think I may broadcast a little too loudly that my book wants a sequel. Standard romantic arc: Infatuation, romance, hard sloggy bits, distance, reconciliation.
Historical Costuming: Learned the difference between a patina and a bustle, though both look ridiculous. There have been times when men wore corsets. Clothing should be comfortable.
Razor's Edge: How much should you put your characters through, and at what point does it become gratuitous? What's the difference between a challenge and a punishment. "Reality has a well-known liberal bias." #couldawouldashoulda
This got me thinking about my own book. [delete thoughts. spoiler alert.]
Building Your Audience: How to maintain an online presence and find your audience. We may be entering an era where the (extremely risk-averse) publishing industry may demand that new authors bring a proven fan base with them when they submit a book. Need to get you some Twitters, some Facebooks, some bloggy bits, and some website.
Not sure what to do with my own online strategy, since I've already harpooned myself with my arrogant left-wing rantiness, and a fifteen year old anti-Mormon website I built. Also, bryceanderson.com is already taken... by... oh wow that's depressing. Becoming the most famous Bryce Anderson on Google means dethroning some poor couple's dead child. Talk about your ethical dilemmas.
As for the rants? When did we forget our dreams? I'm passionate, opinionated, and easily offended. That will lose me some readers. Hopefully it will gain me others.
Online Publishing: Is a big new world. Stepping around the gatekeepers means stepping into the swamp of self-published crap. Best way out: Write a damned good book.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Status Report
Note: If this blog seems to exhibit an unrelenting pattern of sad hopelessness, there is a simple explanation. This is my personal blog. When things are happy, blogging about it is the last thing on my mind.
On with the report.
I've realized for the last couple of weeks that I was in a bit of trouble. There isn't much going on in my life to justify it, but I've felt a creeping depression coming on. Partly, it's that my mood seems to be loosely-but-inversely correlated to the success of the Republican Party. They've had a good run the last little while, doing everything they can to make the country an awful and pitiless place to live.
Work goes not well. As per usual, I seem unable to be satisfied with my own abilities and performance. Objectively, there are areas where I need to improve, things I need to make happen. But nothing to justify that gnawing failure-as-a-human-being feeling that frequently comes. It makes it hard to work, thus qualifying as a self-reinforcing phenomenon.
I feel like the world needs me to be doing something incredible, something that would make it a profoundly better to live. What I'm doing now seems tiny and ineffectual when stood up against the overwhelming, crushing need that exists all around.
I can't seem to shake the feeling that it's all on my shoulders, and I'm failing. I know exactly how irrational that sounds. I really do.
Precisely because it sounds so incredibly stupid and whiny, I've had trouble talking about it. That's my fear talking, telling me that my people don't love me enough to put up with this crap. So I've been trying to figure out how to ask for help, and failing.
Plus, whiny hopelessness doesn't attract the ladies. Trust me. I asked.
On the upside, just writing all this down provides some comfort. It's a nice reality check, just seeing these troubled thoughts made concrete, where they can be subjected to scrutiny (by myself and by others). I don't know if this is the best approach, but it feels more effective than doing nothing about it.
I read over my last post from six months ago. I need to re-learn those lessons. Writing this was a step in the right direction. I think.
On with the report.
I've realized for the last couple of weeks that I was in a bit of trouble. There isn't much going on in my life to justify it, but I've felt a creeping depression coming on. Partly, it's that my mood seems to be loosely-but-inversely correlated to the success of the Republican Party. They've had a good run the last little while, doing everything they can to make the country an awful and pitiless place to live.
Work goes not well. As per usual, I seem unable to be satisfied with my own abilities and performance. Objectively, there are areas where I need to improve, things I need to make happen. But nothing to justify that gnawing failure-as-a-human-being feeling that frequently comes. It makes it hard to work, thus qualifying as a self-reinforcing phenomenon.
I feel like the world needs me to be doing something incredible, something that would make it a profoundly better to live. What I'm doing now seems tiny and ineffectual when stood up against the overwhelming, crushing need that exists all around.
I can't seem to shake the feeling that it's all on my shoulders, and I'm failing. I know exactly how irrational that sounds. I really do.
Precisely because it sounds so incredibly stupid and whiny, I've had trouble talking about it. That's my fear talking, telling me that my people don't love me enough to put up with this crap. So I've been trying to figure out how to ask for help, and failing.
Plus, whiny hopelessness doesn't attract the ladies. Trust me. I asked.
On the upside, just writing all this down provides some comfort. It's a nice reality check, just seeing these troubled thoughts made concrete, where they can be subjected to scrutiny (by myself and by others). I don't know if this is the best approach, but it feels more effective than doing nothing about it.
I read over my last post from six months ago. I need to re-learn those lessons. Writing this was a step in the right direction. I think.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Conversations with Leroy
What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, but what happens at Burning Man can alter the course of your life. The 2010 burn was a difficult one, leading as it did to a long series of damning self-realizations.
Here, in no particular order, and with a suspicious lack of specificity, are a few lessons Leroy* (a.k.a. "The Man") tried to impart last week.
Burning Man is just a place: I've always treated Burning Man as a sort of spiritual journey, and been annoyed that so few seemed to share that sentiment. But this year's theme -- "Metropolis" -- drove the point home. Black Rock City is just that: a city. Cities are for people, not purposes, and single-purpose cities are stale and fragile things.
The purpose of a city is the converging purposes of its inhabitants. It was childish of me to desire to control the hearts and hopes of others. Fortunately, Black Rock City is a very open place, and you can make room for nearly any purpose within it.
I am the plaything of a cold and indifferent universe, and it's time to act like it: After I left the Church, I purported to have set aside all things mystical in favor of an essentially rationalist, materialistic view of the Universe. And yet, when it came to the conduct of my everyday life, I've always behaved as though the Universe and I had some sort of grand bargain. If I would live a moral, compassionate life, the Universe would reward me with the things I wanted out of life: good health, good friends, a beautiful and loving companion, and success and prestige in my career.
Strategy, planning, goals, and risk had no part in that bargain. Subconsciously, I seemed to believe that when I had "earned" the rewards, they would appear.
Though the contract was imaginary, the results weren't entirely disastrous. I've got a far better life than I deserve, in a world that has given so many so little. But there are holes in my life, and rather than trying to fill them through nebulous, poorly planned acts of (self-)righteousness, I intend to grab a shovel.
I am deeply jealous of the happiness that other people find in their lives: This idea is related to the preceding one. When I've seen people happy, when I've seen them getting something that I wish I had, it felt like the Universe was weighing me in the balance and finding me wanting. In fact, the joys and struggles of life are distributed unevenly and capriciously. But the most valuable things in life rarely go to people who stubbornly refuse to ask for them, as I've always done.
Jealousy is an ugly emotion, and one I wish to rid myself of entirely. It especially troubles me that it damages my affection for the people I care about. It's unworthy of the person I would like to be, the one I want to strive harder to become.
Being miserable about the fate of the world doesn't alter the fate of the world: I've always believed that there is something perverse about being well adapted to a sick and troubled world. I still do. But you can see the beauty in the world without hiding from its ugliness, and the best way to tackle our problems is with a spirit of hope and optimism, not crippling fear.
The people I've noticed making a positive impact seem to have an inspiring and infectious enthusiasm for their mission. I want to learn to do that.
This will be a difficult lesson. It may take a lifetime to learn.
The people in my life warrant more trust than I've given them: Deep down, I have this fear. I believe that the people I love will not accept the real me. If I tell them what is really going on in my head, they'll leave me. The carefully constructed facade might be worthy of love, if it weren't held together with bailing wire and duct tape.
But this week, the facade cracked just enough that I knew everyone could see inside. How did they react? Not with horror. Not even with surprise. More of an, "eh, that's how he gets sometimes," followed by warm descriptions of what lay underneath. I learned from this that I'm a horrible liar, and that I'm loved for myself. This hasn't fully sunk in yet.
I need to be more of a jerk: My facade says that I'm an inoffensive person. I go along, I don't pick fights, I help others without thought for myself, and I don't impose. The people around me don't actually believe any of this, but in order to function, I had to believe that they believed it.
Now that I know better, I can give myself permission to impose on others. Nobody will be damaged if I decide to drop by unannounced, or if I ask a girl to dance**, or if I say that something is bothering me. If anything it will be better than keeping things in my head and making people wonder what is wrong. I can treat people with compassion and kindness without assuming that they're fragile and helpless.
So let me impose upon you now: if you've read this far, it's probably because you're someone close to me. Help me to fully embrace these lessons.
* What? You have a better name for him?
** The asking won't harm, but what comes after will leave bruises on feet.
Here, in no particular order, and with a suspicious lack of specificity, are a few lessons Leroy* (a.k.a. "The Man") tried to impart last week.
Burning Man is just a place: I've always treated Burning Man as a sort of spiritual journey, and been annoyed that so few seemed to share that sentiment. But this year's theme -- "Metropolis" -- drove the point home. Black Rock City is just that: a city. Cities are for people, not purposes, and single-purpose cities are stale and fragile things.
The purpose of a city is the converging purposes of its inhabitants. It was childish of me to desire to control the hearts and hopes of others. Fortunately, Black Rock City is a very open place, and you can make room for nearly any purpose within it.
I am the plaything of a cold and indifferent universe, and it's time to act like it: After I left the Church, I purported to have set aside all things mystical in favor of an essentially rationalist, materialistic view of the Universe. And yet, when it came to the conduct of my everyday life, I've always behaved as though the Universe and I had some sort of grand bargain. If I would live a moral, compassionate life, the Universe would reward me with the things I wanted out of life: good health, good friends, a beautiful and loving companion, and success and prestige in my career.
Strategy, planning, goals, and risk had no part in that bargain. Subconsciously, I seemed to believe that when I had "earned" the rewards, they would appear.
Though the contract was imaginary, the results weren't entirely disastrous. I've got a far better life than I deserve, in a world that has given so many so little. But there are holes in my life, and rather than trying to fill them through nebulous, poorly planned acts of (self-)righteousness, I intend to grab a shovel.
I am deeply jealous of the happiness that other people find in their lives: This idea is related to the preceding one. When I've seen people happy, when I've seen them getting something that I wish I had, it felt like the Universe was weighing me in the balance and finding me wanting. In fact, the joys and struggles of life are distributed unevenly and capriciously. But the most valuable things in life rarely go to people who stubbornly refuse to ask for them, as I've always done.
Jealousy is an ugly emotion, and one I wish to rid myself of entirely. It especially troubles me that it damages my affection for the people I care about. It's unworthy of the person I would like to be, the one I want to strive harder to become.
Being miserable about the fate of the world doesn't alter the fate of the world: I've always believed that there is something perverse about being well adapted to a sick and troubled world. I still do. But you can see the beauty in the world without hiding from its ugliness, and the best way to tackle our problems is with a spirit of hope and optimism, not crippling fear.
The people I've noticed making a positive impact seem to have an inspiring and infectious enthusiasm for their mission. I want to learn to do that.
This will be a difficult lesson. It may take a lifetime to learn.
The people in my life warrant more trust than I've given them: Deep down, I have this fear. I believe that the people I love will not accept the real me. If I tell them what is really going on in my head, they'll leave me. The carefully constructed facade might be worthy of love, if it weren't held together with bailing wire and duct tape.
But this week, the facade cracked just enough that I knew everyone could see inside. How did they react? Not with horror. Not even with surprise. More of an, "eh, that's how he gets sometimes," followed by warm descriptions of what lay underneath. I learned from this that I'm a horrible liar, and that I'm loved for myself. This hasn't fully sunk in yet.
I need to be more of a jerk: My facade says that I'm an inoffensive person. I go along, I don't pick fights, I help others without thought for myself, and I don't impose. The people around me don't actually believe any of this, but in order to function, I had to believe that they believed it.
Now that I know better, I can give myself permission to impose on others. Nobody will be damaged if I decide to drop by unannounced, or if I ask a girl to dance**, or if I say that something is bothering me. If anything it will be better than keeping things in my head and making people wonder what is wrong. I can treat people with compassion and kindness without assuming that they're fragile and helpless.
So let me impose upon you now: if you've read this far, it's probably because you're someone close to me. Help me to fully embrace these lessons.
* What? You have a better name for him?
** The asking won't harm, but what comes after will leave bruises on feet.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Burning Man Recap
I think about going to Burning Man every year. When it comes time to start buying tickets, the desert starts whispering to me. "Out here," it murmurs, "you can be anyone, or anything."
In 2006, I followed the voices. With almost no preparation, I cast out for the playa with little but water, food, sunscreen, and some objects to juggle. After a few hours of elation and exploration and explosions, reality hit me hard: the voices lied. I was out in the middle of the desert with a bunch of strangers, most of whom had come prepared with friends and partners. After a couple of days feeling like the loneliest, least interesting person at the world's greatest party, I threw in the towel; I came home and spent the rest of my vacation binging on video games.
This year, I went again. Hell, I doubled down; I bought two tickets, figuring that hey, I had six months to find someone wonderful to share this with. I also figured that it would drive home the lesson I learned the first time around.
Lesson 1: Do not burn alone.
But as Burning Man approached, my efforts proved inadequate. The burners I know are amazingly warm, generous people, but I still didn't feel close enough to them that I felt I could ask for a lot of emotional support. Worse, I was still as unattached as ever.
Fortunately Nala, my girlfriend-turned-ex-girlfriend-turned-good-friend, threw me a lifeline. I was complaining about my ticket dilemma, she said she had always wanted to go, and before I knew it we were negotiating a price for the ticket. I had a campmate.
We took off a bit later than expected, but still hauled our sorry carcasses out to the playa in plenty of time. The trip was long and exhausting, and Nala spent a good portion of it talking about her new love for a bicycle repairman. The girl is smitten, and it's easy to be happy for her.
By the time we rolled in, it was about 1:30AM Thursday morning, and Nala's carcass was particularly sorry. Due to a potent concoction of sleep deprivation and car sickness, her stomach had declared itself an independent nation, and kept trying to eject foreigners from within its borders. We didn't bother to set up the tent that night, but just crashed on a tarp by the car. Once Nala was resting comfortably, I went off to get myself oriented, and to talk to The Man.
It's good to talk to The Man. Despite being but a mirror to view my own thoughts through, The Man is always illuminating (and, I suppose, illuminated). This year, he wore a festive yellow, and stood above a canopy of thornlike trees. I don't remember our exact conversation, but I did get the feeling that people had been asking for his wisdom all day, and that it was time for me to find some of my own.
Lesson 2: All you'll find in the desert are the things people brought with them.
The next morning, I wandered over to Poly Paradise, where I had a few contacts. Within minutes, Scix (a wonderful fellow Utahn whom I'd only met once previously) had not only talked the cmadeamp director into letting me stay and found me a good tent site, but also tried to convince a couple of women that I was very cute. His help in a time of need will not be forgotten.
So we went to set up camp. After about a half hour of struggle, we realized that we had no idea how to set up the tent.
Lesson 3: Do not go out to the playa with a tent you have never set up before, or you will be made to attend new age seminars.
Somebody with a name (Keith? Kevin?) offered to take a look at it, if we would take a look at the workshop he was about to start. We looked at the description, and decided that ninety minutes there were preferable to ninety minutes puzzling out tent poles.
The workshop was weird and fascinating, and I think I liked it. One of the exercises was to go around the room, stand face-to-another-face, and just stare that person in the eye for half a minute or so. I didn't expect to have much of an emotional reaction to it, but I did. There isn't enough staring into each others eyes in the default world. We keep our peepers to ourselves, and for good reason. But once in a while, it's good to be reminded of the cost.
There were other exercises, some good, some downright silly. But by the end of it, I felt something of the human connection I was hoping The Man could guide me to.
Later on, Rubah loaned me a book called Urban Tribes, which I should probably review over at Neon Derby Cars. Short recap: it's about why people my age are delaying marriage, what they're doing in the meantime, and how their social networks function.
Lesson 4: If you read an entire book during Burning Man, you may be doing it wrong. But hey, nobody's judging.
Most of the weekend was spent either seeing the sights with Nala, chatting with people back at camp, or wandering out alone while Nala tried to do homework. During my first solo excursion Thursday afternoon, I was wandering along the Esplanade (the innermost road that surrounds The Giant Field of Big, Artsy Displays) when a topless woman grabbed me by the arm, dragged me off the road, told me that my clothes were wrong, and insisted that I take them off. She seemed very certain, so I didn't argue the point. Once I was down to my boxers, she started handing me clothes off the rack. Within seconds, I was wearing a hideous black and white leopard print shirt and bright pink sweatpants.
The woman said I was greatly improved. I was about to object, but then I remembered that I have the fashion sense of a colorblind orangutan. So I decided to take her word for it, and began the monumental feat of convincing myself that I was totally stylin' in those bright pink sweatpants.
It worked. I felt more at home wearing those godawful clothes. People saw me in those clothes and knew that I feared nothing. Twenty minutes after receiving the upgrade, I was pushing around a giant hamsterball with a gorgeous Asian woman inside. Coincidence? Certainly not.
Lesson 5: The clothes do make the man, even if they also make the man look silly.
That evening, I gained access to the Lair of the Mystic Toad and was inducted into the sacred mystery cult of The God Box. Then I got bear hugged by a large, gay pole dancing instructor. Both were life changing experiences. But neither Nala or I are particularly hard partiers, and so we ended up turning in early.
Having me hanging around borked Nala's mojo. I was definitely emitting some sort of Guy Repulsion Field. Every time I stepped away for a few minutes, I would come back to find her being chatted up by some guy or other. It was awkward, but it made me proud. Since I don't generally attract spontaneous female attention, our proximity didn't really affect my chances, and having a beautiful woman next to me got me into a party that I honestly had no business attending. So for me, there was nothing but upside to the arrangement.
Also, I met the woman of my dreams. She was beautiful, with dark hair and big eyes. She works for a co-op in California. I think she said her name was Io. Of course, I didn't get her contact information. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
We were looking forward to burning The Man. Nala painted awesome wings on my back and I dressed in the most fashionable blanket I had. We were ready, dammit. But after spending an hour waiting for the dust to clear, then another half hour trying to find our way back through the dust storm to get some food from camp (with obligatory bickering along the way), by the time I was back in the tent I said, screw The Man. You can't see anything out there anyways.
From reports the next morning, a half hour after I fell asleep, it cleared up and they burned The Man to the ground. The only way I knew how to redeem myself was to wake up at 5AM and do a naked jog around the whole perimeter of the camp. My calves are still sore. That day, we said goodbye to the camp, and packed it in to head home. We thought we could beat the traffic jam, but we were wrong, and so we spent the next three hours covering a distance of forty miles. By the time we were clear of the mess, I knew we wouldn't be getting home that night, no matter how fast Nala asked me to drive.
A few miles out of Wells, Nevada, I noticed something glowing off to the side of the highway. Hoping for a crash landed flying saucer, I pulled over. No luck. It was in fact a small but slowly expanding circle of fire a few feet off the road. While Nala called 911, I tried pouring water on the fire, then beating it out with a blanket. But the fire kept expanding, and Nala kept pointing out that I was being an idiot. A few singed leg hairs later, I decided that she had a point, and therefore retreated to watch the fire be pretty.
Lesson 6, or 7, or something: Do not try to put out a brush fire with your face, regardless of who you're trying to impress, or how easy it looked in that one movie.
Another night's rest under the stars, a three hour drive, and an extended argument over the practicality of pie and coffee later, we were home. Home sweet boring not-allowed-to-run-around-naked home.
In 2006, I followed the voices. With almost no preparation, I cast out for the playa with little but water, food, sunscreen, and some objects to juggle. After a few hours of elation and exploration and explosions, reality hit me hard: the voices lied. I was out in the middle of the desert with a bunch of strangers, most of whom had come prepared with friends and partners. After a couple of days feeling like the loneliest, least interesting person at the world's greatest party, I threw in the towel; I came home and spent the rest of my vacation binging on video games.
This year, I went again. Hell, I doubled down; I bought two tickets, figuring that hey, I had six months to find someone wonderful to share this with. I also figured that it would drive home the lesson I learned the first time around.
Lesson 1: Do not burn alone.
But as Burning Man approached, my efforts proved inadequate. The burners I know are amazingly warm, generous people, but I still didn't feel close enough to them that I felt I could ask for a lot of emotional support. Worse, I was still as unattached as ever.
Fortunately Nala, my girlfriend-turned-ex-girlfriend-turned-good-friend, threw me a lifeline. I was complaining about my ticket dilemma, she said she had always wanted to go, and before I knew it we were negotiating a price for the ticket. I had a campmate.
We took off a bit later than expected, but still hauled our sorry carcasses out to the playa in plenty of time. The trip was long and exhausting, and Nala spent a good portion of it talking about her new love for a bicycle repairman. The girl is smitten, and it's easy to be happy for her.
By the time we rolled in, it was about 1:30AM Thursday morning, and Nala's carcass was particularly sorry. Due to a potent concoction of sleep deprivation and car sickness, her stomach had declared itself an independent nation, and kept trying to eject foreigners from within its borders. We didn't bother to set up the tent that night, but just crashed on a tarp by the car. Once Nala was resting comfortably, I went off to get myself oriented, and to talk to The Man.
It's good to talk to The Man. Despite being but a mirror to view my own thoughts through, The Man is always illuminating (and, I suppose, illuminated). This year, he wore a festive yellow, and stood above a canopy of thornlike trees. I don't remember our exact conversation, but I did get the feeling that people had been asking for his wisdom all day, and that it was time for me to find some of my own.
Lesson 2: All you'll find in the desert are the things people brought with them.
The next morning, I wandered over to Poly Paradise, where I had a few contacts. Within minutes, Scix (a wonderful fellow Utahn whom I'd only met once previously) had not only talked the cmadeamp director into letting me stay and found me a good tent site, but also tried to convince a couple of women that I was very cute. His help in a time of need will not be forgotten.
So we went to set up camp. After about a half hour of struggle, we realized that we had no idea how to set up the tent.
Lesson 3: Do not go out to the playa with a tent you have never set up before, or you will be made to attend new age seminars.
Somebody with a name (Keith? Kevin?) offered to take a look at it, if we would take a look at the workshop he was about to start. We looked at the description, and decided that ninety minutes there were preferable to ninety minutes puzzling out tent poles.
The workshop was weird and fascinating, and I think I liked it. One of the exercises was to go around the room, stand face-to-another-face, and just stare that person in the eye for half a minute or so. I didn't expect to have much of an emotional reaction to it, but I did. There isn't enough staring into each others eyes in the default world. We keep our peepers to ourselves, and for good reason. But once in a while, it's good to be reminded of the cost.
There were other exercises, some good, some downright silly. But by the end of it, I felt something of the human connection I was hoping The Man could guide me to.
Later on, Rubah loaned me a book called Urban Tribes, which I should probably review over at Neon Derby Cars. Short recap: it's about why people my age are delaying marriage, what they're doing in the meantime, and how their social networks function.
Lesson 4: If you read an entire book during Burning Man, you may be doing it wrong. But hey, nobody's judging.
Most of the weekend was spent either seeing the sights with Nala, chatting with people back at camp, or wandering out alone while Nala tried to do homework. During my first solo excursion Thursday afternoon, I was wandering along the Esplanade (the innermost road that surrounds The Giant Field of Big, Artsy Displays) when a topless woman grabbed me by the arm, dragged me off the road, told me that my clothes were wrong, and insisted that I take them off. She seemed very certain, so I didn't argue the point. Once I was down to my boxers, she started handing me clothes off the rack. Within seconds, I was wearing a hideous black and white leopard print shirt and bright pink sweatpants.
The woman said I was greatly improved. I was about to object, but then I remembered that I have the fashion sense of a colorblind orangutan. So I decided to take her word for it, and began the monumental feat of convincing myself that I was totally stylin' in those bright pink sweatpants.
It worked. I felt more at home wearing those godawful clothes. People saw me in those clothes and knew that I feared nothing. Twenty minutes after receiving the upgrade, I was pushing around a giant hamsterball with a gorgeous Asian woman inside. Coincidence? Certainly not.
Lesson 5: The clothes do make the man, even if they also make the man look silly.
That evening, I gained access to the Lair of the Mystic Toad and was inducted into the sacred mystery cult of The God Box. Then I got bear hugged by a large, gay pole dancing instructor. Both were life changing experiences. But neither Nala or I are particularly hard partiers, and so we ended up turning in early.
Having me hanging around borked Nala's mojo. I was definitely emitting some sort of Guy Repulsion Field. Every time I stepped away for a few minutes, I would come back to find her being chatted up by some guy or other. It was awkward, but it made me proud. Since I don't generally attract spontaneous female attention, our proximity didn't really affect my chances, and having a beautiful woman next to me got me into a party that I honestly had no business attending. So for me, there was nothing but upside to the arrangement.
Also, I met the woman of my dreams. She was beautiful, with dark hair and big eyes. She works for a co-op in California. I think she said her name was Io. Of course, I didn't get her contact information. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
We were looking forward to burning The Man. Nala painted awesome wings on my back and I dressed in the most fashionable blanket I had. We were ready, dammit. But after spending an hour waiting for the dust to clear, then another half hour trying to find our way back through the dust storm to get some food from camp (with obligatory bickering along the way), by the time I was back in the tent I said, screw The Man. You can't see anything out there anyways.
From reports the next morning, a half hour after I fell asleep, it cleared up and they burned The Man to the ground. The only way I knew how to redeem myself was to wake up at 5AM and do a naked jog around the whole perimeter of the camp. My calves are still sore. That day, we said goodbye to the camp, and packed it in to head home. We thought we could beat the traffic jam, but we were wrong, and so we spent the next three hours covering a distance of forty miles. By the time we were clear of the mess, I knew we wouldn't be getting home that night, no matter how fast Nala asked me to drive.
A few miles out of Wells, Nevada, I noticed something glowing off to the side of the highway. Hoping for a crash landed flying saucer, I pulled over. No luck. It was in fact a small but slowly expanding circle of fire a few feet off the road. While Nala called 911, I tried pouring water on the fire, then beating it out with a blanket. But the fire kept expanding, and Nala kept pointing out that I was being an idiot. A few singed leg hairs later, I decided that she had a point, and therefore retreated to watch the fire be pretty.
Lesson 6, or 7, or something: Do not try to put out a brush fire with your face, regardless of who you're trying to impress, or how easy it looked in that one movie.
Another night's rest under the stars, a three hour drive, and an extended argument over the practicality of pie and coffee later, we were home. Home sweet boring not-allowed-to-run-around-naked home.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Our culture is obsessed with youth and beauty. It astonishes us when an average-looking, middle-aged person manages to slip past the gatekeepers and find their way on television. I remember an author on NPR (writing on aging) mentioned that she took a trip to New York, and judging by peoples' reactions to her, she wondered if they'd passed a law against being as old as she was.
It's a depressing state of affairs, which is why there is something inspiring about this clip. Just watch.
It's a depressing state of affairs, which is why there is something inspiring about this clip. Just watch.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Come sail away (part 2 of n)
Five numbers align.
The victor receives great wealth.
Bingo is stupid.
A cruise ship is like a floating city in some ways, and an independent nation in others. It has its own customs and taboos,* its rituals and languages, and a surprisingly complicated legal system. Cruise ship society has a very clear caste system, with most of the population being part of the idle rich class. Idle with a vengeance.
Four of the seven days, we couldn't leave the boat. So there was ample opportunity to study this new culture. The anthropological implications are tremendous, and I'm sure there is no shortage of professors willing to wade in and get their hands dirty (or just manicured) in the name of Science.
I don't have the scholastic background to do it properly, but hopefully someone will find my layman's ramblings useful.
Bingo is... well, I don't care about bingo. Still, I liked the haiku.
Well, this post went nowhere. Sleep now!
* Taboo #1: Do not, under any circumstances, try to unionize the ship's staff. That can get you keelhauled right quick,
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