You might have remembered my earlier, little story about a pair of pigeons wanting to hang out at my kitchen window. More pigeons ensue.
As I walked my block and a half homeward from the bus, I spotted a silly pigeon nesting in the middle of the sidewalk. Yes, nesting. She had a madonna like calm going on which was enabled, I think, by her feathery partner who charged at me to force me onto another path.
On Capitol Hill, I expect all kinds of behaviors. I welcome these diligent attempts to join the Otherworld. I've seen many forms here: the young man whose only hair remnant was a hot pink, one inch tight pony tale with a big black rubber band on the front top of his head. He looked like he had a wireless antenna attached just like an upscale car. Bizarre. A recent favorite was the guy with the fashion combo of the Hassidim (especially the string sideburns) and Cowboy, including the spurs. Oh, and the Spongebob t-shirt. Weirdness is the expected so how do you out-weird weird?
The beatific nesting on the sidewalk was weird. The gallant charge of the pigeon brigade was weird. Pigeons, genuinely strange, win. One being protecting another looked strange to me without any additional plumage. I think I might need to get out less or more. I can't say which.
I work next to a food factory that must specialize in adding a nose to products. Everyday, there's a different whaff to be had. On my morning walking breaks, I get to experience the chemical thrill of encountering a near-life experience.
Today, it was fake strawberries. Yesterday, quite convincingly, it was coconuts. Sometime last week, it was angel food cake smell. It's possible that they're a small bakery but I don't think so. They'd be done by the time I go for a walk.
I once lived with a chemistry post-doc who spent his life creating molecules that imitated food smells. He was a witty, urbane man who referred to all smells by their molecular name. This wasn't a problem of not knowing the english word. He didn't tend to use the italian word for the associated smell either. I always loved that. He'd say "Feel, this is xxxxx-ester-xxx-ide-o. How do you say in English?"
Part of my walking territory includes a downhill whose sidewalk has a flying buttress of blackberries. Ripe, big and they taste great! But since birds seemed to have abandoned this area, the berries taunt the humans who wander by.
The berries mostly remain on the bushes. The slope is so severe and high that only a couple of feet of berries are accessible. A good 10' by 15' lot of berries are protected by the incline and the formidible prickers. So they sit there, pregnant with promise, while each day, the food factory invites me to experience something that doesn't exist. Sounds like a problem that you enounter in Philosophy 101, doesn't it?
I learned that I live in a port rim city. It's a fancy way of aligning Seattle with San Diego, Los Angeles, and San Francisco. The pitch was that of all the port rim cities, Seattle property is undervalued. It has the least amount of land to live on but we're #4 on the port rim list. So just buy something as soon as you can or you'll get priced out of the market. That was the message.
This somehow seemed less than reassuring to us marginal potential homebuyers. But what do I know, this was just my first class.
Abundant a.m. emotions, vibrant. Floyd Landis made a remarkable comeback and has won the Tour! Wow! A prison artist creates paintings using M&Ms. Wow! I could see Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains from my bus seat. Wow!
What I really want to say is that I was just as emotional that I am divorced. The other stuff I mentioned was true. That made for a rich morning. I have spent the past couple of weeks with a new routine which would provide some poignant divorce wows!
The jolts include: the woman in my training class who had the same wristwatch. The woman driving the mini who smiled at me. The person who wasn't going to get a call in the case of an emergency. You get the picture.
The picture isn't empty, just different, I realize that. But please excuse me for looking directly at it and not seeing it at all.
My new gig provides a ton of training. That's good! Instills a sense of culture, you learn things, meet new people. Tons of good things in exchange for a tiny dose of institutional boredom.
All of today comprised day one of three of sales training. (Stay with me here. There's a point about this. I'm not just going to kill you with stuff about sales.)
Most selling systems have at their core, a diagnostic orientation. The idea is to use questions to understand the business thoroughly before you can think about selling products or solutions to problems. Thoughts about sales technique, of course, weren't what was on my mind at the end of the day. It was that the interviewing techniques seemed completely adaptable to everyday life. The overall inquiry, questions and conversational techniques presented accomplish a kind of understand that I'd like to have with my friends and family. The unspoken bonds are a gift but I want to offer more of myself when I can. I found myself discouraged that I've not been very able to use language to build a bridge to others. So many years, so many reasons.
Certainly I'm improving this. Mundane or not, the sales training stuff is a useful reminder of what I think I value in relationships.
These training systems always have different names for the evolving character of sales professionals. To my relief, I can say that I've moved out of the "Opportunistic Traveler" stage in both settings.
Last night I attended a Q & A for the six candidates of my district who are running for a state House seat. The 43rd District is a hotbed of Democrats who believe, sensibly, that everyone should be educated, have access to health care and be able to breathe the air.
The candidates were really terrific. If five of them had been randomly abducted by flag burners or abortionists, the remaining one would have been a strong candidate. The Speaker of the Statehouse gave a wonderful opening talk as well.
For me, three highlights.
Bill Sherman, who served in Clinton's Dept of the Interior, shamed the all-Democrat audience by mentioned that the performance of Washington's schools is ranked with those of Alabama! A hush descended on the Town Hall: even Laptops and Blackberries stopped clicking. Such audible pain. Alabama! Oh. My. Goddess.
Candidate Jim Street was dedicated to being the candidate focused on transportation. To his credit, he didn't make ONE joke about his name.
The Speaker of the House, Frank Something, watched the proceedings from the wing where he was pestered by intern types. He was whipping out his card like deadly ninja stars in a Jet Li film. His highlight was the question that he asked the candidates: "In the nearly unavoidable event of a severe budget shortfall, what programs would you cut?" The poor sucker who fielded that first must have been anticipating a softball. He spent, no kidding, fifteen seconds doing the very painful "I'm-a-fish-out-of-water" cheek sucking action getting his answer together.
A screaming fastball at your own teammate's head- now that's my kind of politics.
You might tire of reading about my feats of strength. Well, click out now because here comes another one.
Methodical. That's the new, low-key trick. From a to b or a to c in extremis. I am now interested in the steps that it takes to go from here to there. You might scoff but I've never had the patience for taking the steps. There's probably a ream of whys. Go head and fill in the blank. Most of you know me well enough to just nod your heads.
This leap of faith in the methodical began in writing this fairly sporadic blog. Nice: "sporadic blog." Isn't that a tar pit near La Brea? My hope was that I'd become more attuned to some of the subtle whispers in my life. That takes faith and trust that the whispers are there, that I can hear them and that they might be meaningful.
Many events have slowed me down in this past crawling year. Slowed me enough that I found a once elusive, small opening. I might be able to step through it without shearing my head off.
The good folks have fixed him up, I have a Club-like device that attaches to his clutch (don't even ask) and all that's left is to shove a stereo deck into his maw.
My surprise was that when I took the key, I was happy and excited to have my old pal back. Funny that I could have such a reaction to a rolling tool. But, I also have spent a couple of days in rapture over my sugar bowl. You know that there's a lot more science and research put into making cars psychologically appealing.
I don't think that the outstanding interior detailing had anything to do with my reaction. That was more a classic double take after I saw how well his wound had healed. I walked outside just to look at it again today.
There isn't any lesson here. Just gratitude that everything has come out fine. Soon he'll be able to sing again. What could be finer than having a friend who takes you where you want to go and sings to you? No wonder I am moved to have him back.
Very good day at work today. Don't worry, not all my warblings will be about work. Just wanted you to know I'm back on a good roll. Sesame, I think.
Well, maybe my posts should be about work. Today at the end of the day, I saw two of my fellow (girl fellows) workers watching the same soap opera (Passions, I think) on their computers. Both right around 4:45. Help me out here. Is this about addiction or what?
The best thing was the flutter of secrecy that surrounded this. Furtive glances to, furtive glances fro.
Much better day today! Props to me for wrestling yesterday's misconceptions to the ground. It's a big deal for me to face this so quickly and without the aid of a net. The direct result of my persistence was a good day today.
Because of my workday fright yesterday, you didn't hear about the time I spent swinging a battle ax on Saturday in my friends' house, destroying their precious kitchen. Thankfully, this was something that they wanted since they coincidentally planned on remodeling their kitchen. What are the odds of that?
The best thing was that my left claw could almost keep up with the right one. It could pick up a bag of plaster turds and lift them onto a truck at chest height. That is really amazing and my tendonitis continues to yield ground. Ha, take that, forces of evil!
Because of my job obsession, you didn't hear about the lovely bruschetta plate that I had at Serafina's on Saturday with Janeen. Simple. Fine Italian bread, grilled, and oiled, with tiny bowls of a green olive tapenade, a mild goaty cheese with spicy hungarian peppers and a tuna/caper thingie. I could have eaten three times as much as the massive antipasto portion they brought. That would have resulted in a trip to the vomitorium, but that is some authentic old-school Italian action.
We rolled down the hill to South Lake Union after the feast to watergaze. I have to tell you that I won a brief argument about the purity of the water. After I had made my case against, a doggie went into the water and peed. Doggie Smile! Then, a few moments later, she went back in and crapped. This for some reason delighted the Seattletonians who witnessed the hind quarters of this cur spewing its doggie business into our waterway. I was less than happy to win my argument with this kind of help. I saw the pup as a kind of Karl Rove figure who helped me win my argument. Not a fan of that kind of smear campaign victory.
So I'm better, dear reader. I knew that I would face challenges getting my emotional self back into the world. First challenge was well met. I have to say that I am very grateful that I have you folks who care about me. That helps keep me hanging in there when things get wacky. It really does.
Today at work, it was the words. They made me tired. I had to listen to a lot of them. I don't think that there is some optimal number that can fit into my head. It's more that some words are better than others. The words that people used today to prepare me for my new work reality were supposed to strengthen me. Instead, they've stirred a brooding anxiety.
It's an old story. How many times in your life has a well-intended parent, friend, spouse offered some helpful dose of reality that unfortunately left a bitter flavor for years?
One early mysterious example of well-meaning words concerned an Uncle. He died when I was young, maybe six or seven. I barely knew this guy so to this day I find my reaction to how the news broke weird. There was a bit of an upset, a fuss. I was reassured that it was okay because "my uncle Bill was in Heaven with the angels." That was apparently very creepy to me. I burst into tears and was quite upset. That's my vivid sensory memory and I have very few childhood memories. I remember being on our stair's landing, above whoever told me. Maybe I was too close to the angels for comfort.
So why did I react so strongly to words that were meant to soften one of life's inevitable blows? It took years for me to understand that communication is a complex, deep thing. My antennae picked up the real message that day: "please don't let him know that everything dies and it is a terrible thing." We animals are very good at sensing the hidden monster. Thanks! Like that's something that we want!
Any ambiguous situation puts my limbic system on alert for those monsters. Words alone can turn into an ambiguous situation for me. If I don't know what's true, then I have to devote a lot of energy to defining what's lurking in the periphery.
My recent default has been to name every ambiguity or quiver: "monster." That misnaming has been damaging my life but I am getting better at understanding this harmful pattern. That's good, of course. Identification of the monster, no matter the size, is always helpful- unless you're a second away from being eaten! (Oops. Sorry, that's my old self talking.) My gloomy default had created a reality that became unbearable. If today's monster was my colleagues thinking that life can be difficult, that's a small, mundane monster indeed. I'm working hard to prevent myself from changing any random words or twitches into flesh. There are enough true contenders for the title "monster" out there already.
Ten feet from my desk there's a rack of both of the Seattle papers. You can take copies of both: they're free! The question for me now is how much newsprint should I read? One of my singular pleasures in life is coffee, breakfast and a newspaper to read. This is the Trifecta, a winner every time. My, the, newspaper of record is The New York Times. I'd like to keep that habit. Since I live on the third floor, falling down three flights of stairs to get the morning paper and then back up contributes to my physical maintenance. Governor Arnold would be proud.
Tell me, just how much newspaper reading should I do? New York Times: Koko Love That! Is it my duty to read both the locals? I wouldn't mind. Most days it would not take much time. But something tells me that being known around the office as "Smudgy, the Ink-Laden Boy" might be best to avoid.
The consumption of newpapers, magazines and any crumpled piece of paper pleases me. But is that how I ought to use my time? Don't know, don't care for now. That's my answer. I have tons of newspapers FREE each day. TONS FREE! Let all four of my eyes enjoy themselves for a while before I train them elsewhere.
Compliments on how sharp I was came in a distant second to my joy over getting my Seattle Times bus pass (good for one year). I've never commuted by bus or had a pass like this before. I was as impressed and excited as any kiddle getting their first library card.
I had to wonder why so irrationally giddy. I kept thinking of my ancient grandma's last years where she gently reclaimed a childhood that was ripped from her. She indulged herself in ice cream, insisted on the same large soda glass as everyone else, and let her nemesis -the weed- grow without a fight. My hope is that I am regaining some of the joy that I let go so early in my life. At least a couple of times today, if you could have peeked into my world, you would have witnessed something wonderful, maybe a bit strange. You'd have seen a little boy who had collapsed his world into a little space that consisted of his glowing face, a bus card in his hands and thoughts of free rides wherever he wanted to go.
First day, good day. I maintained my even keel; that was quite encouraging. My food day featured a light salad for lunch, with a dotting of almonds at 10 and 2. And the cheese stick. Thank you Trader Joe's. Nice people, enough organization, training and I can now get daily newsprint at a discount. My smudgy fingers are all twitchy. The folks in my group are inordinately nice and professional. Just as important, the environment was relaxed and jolly. I think I'll fit right in.
The numbers and bolts that drive this activity are mind-numbing and fascinating. Whether I'll continue to find this attractive is why I'm here. If I don't, then I'll probably become a dirt farmer. I'd grow me one of those crops that they'd pay me not to grow. That is a pretty good gig, I think. No idea of what the work will be like and how I'll feel about it. I do very much like the idea of what I'll be doing. It's hard to evaluate until you're six or nine months in. By then, I'll realize that I need a bigger computer monitor, that the breakroom smells like stale crackers and advertising is the devil hisself. Wow, that last thing sounds pretty exciting.
I'll keep at my day gig in addition to my real job of becoming a writer. I've never before said, "I make money doing X but what I really do is...." Maybe my time has come.
Tomorrow I start my new gig at the Seattle Times. They rescheduled to start after the HR department thought that a July 3rd start was a bit silly.
After so much time with myself, how would I feel about taking a step toward making my life here another type of real? Would anxiety and pressure start to percolate through me as it always had before?
I had anticipated a small echo of loss. There was a bit of sadness as I had suspected, but nothing the least bit major. Nonetheless, I have a new respect for the little clues that offer themselves and it resulted in seeing ahead of the curve. Most of my time in the past few weeks has been spent feeling good, being happy. I am relaxed to the point of not wanting to use contractions.
In my past, preventing feelings was my old favorite tactic to face anything new. Didn't work, mostly hurt. I have enough trust in myself to see what it's like when I see what it's like. My evaluation process will not consist of the sum of one orientation day or any coming successes or failures.
I am no longer using the rearview mirror to find my destination. The windshield provides a lovely, clear view into the distance.
Capitol Hill is easier to leave on a bike than to get to. Even when fueled by Top Pot Donuts.
That is what I have learned over the past few days. Locals have mapped specific, less taxing routes or hop onto city buses to port their bikes up the hills. Beats the embarrassment of having your heart explode.
In retrospect, a TV (the liquid crystal Sharp Aquos) woundn't have hurt my feet. What was I thinking?
The mind will focus. You can either direct it or you'll get whatever it focuses on. Meditation, in this scheme, helps train the mind so you have a bit of control. So goes the argument and it makes sense to me.
This has led to thinking about where I put my attention, mindfulness. I'm also questioning how much of my belief structure is an accretion of mindless focus as well as the good stuff I've learned. If I have picked up a lot of belief noise, then what happens when I quiet it? What happens if I can direct my life?
It's humbling to me that I've started to feel at home in this mental terrority. The changes have been incremental and a surprise every time. This momentum isn't so much forward-leaning or progressive; it's not an accumulation of successes. More like taking off your clothes on a hot summer day to go skinny dipping. I feel lighter. It's slippery to describe.
Pigeons, a completely other belief system, have started to hang out on my window ledges. Something has drawn them to my windows. The pair is especially metallic and sheeny. They seem to like to peer into my kitchen with their perfect sunset eyes. What they're up to isn't clear. I encourage them in their inquiries.
