That Which We Do Not See

Even the most intelligent of our species fail, time and again, to appreciate the beauty of the world around them.

They rush from Point A to Point B with their faces in cell phones,


and their heads so far removed from the best of their reality that they dream only of alternates: bigger homes; bigger paychecks; more beautiful spouses.

But what of perfectly formed snowflakes, glistening on windshields? What of shadows and sunspots

-- simple smiles or autumnal leaves forever orange (frozen in ice)?

It has taken me a long time to realize that not everyone sees the world as I do.


Which isn't to say there's anything special about me; only that it's with good reason that words such as "weird" and "quirky" are so often used to describe me.


But it is this same personality trait that compels me to seek out the like-minded,


ever hopeful that I will stop to take a picture and the person beside me will understand precisely why I'm fascinated by complex equations,

or a certain slant of light.


Together we will slay dragons with our laughter, run circles around Lake Michigan, and wiggle our toes through the morning dew.


But emotion, as with life, is a one-sided beast:

a landslide that consumes the very thing it loves, leaving eternity-old lessons in its wake.

You can depend on no one in this world.

Which is to say:

You are alone.

It is this very lesson that I find myself confronting again, even as I try -- perhaps now more than ever -- to disprove lifelong hypotheses.

But am I falling again?

Failing?


Cornering myself into the circumference of infinity?


There's no denying it, I think, staring out of my window and into stained glass: this life is a loop, doomed to repeat itself.

And so I do, the record and the needle bouncing inconsolably between the bitter and the sweet;

the beautiful laughter and the desolate sigh.

Which is to say, there's only one lesson to be had here, and you already know it:


The people you love will not recognize you even as you stand before them:

And yet they will remember you, beautifully and painfully,

when you are gone.

Like That, Like That

And then there is this:

The feeling that those you care most about have let you down in irreconcilable ways, forcing you to confront a reality you'd prefer to go on denying.

Like being told, yes, we are going. Make sure you're ready!

And then waiting at the door, and still waiting, your six-year-old mind unable to fathom a let down so heavy, so thoughtless, so damaging.

And realizing — hours after your mother storms in and tells you it's your fault you're not going — that she never had the tickets in the first place.



There will be moments, I tell you, that your children will never forget. Little lies you tell; promises you make, believing that such a small mind couldn't possibly retain.

But they will, I promise you, and some night years later when they are trying to sleep — tossing and turning to a past doomed to repeat itself — they will recollect these moments with a nauseating clarity. They will come to understand the truth that we go on denying:

Everything is meaningless.

People you love will leave, and the heroes of your youth will haunt you with their future indifference. They will reach out from your past as such a stark contrast to your present that you will fear you never really knew them at all.

And so it goes. And so it goes.

Like that, times two — the disappointments simultaneous and mounting, almost too much to bear.

Almost, you think. Almost.

But there is your alarm, and you force your mind through the fog and begin the rituals of the day, closing — dear God, please turn off the circuits that remind me of them — your thoughts to your present decay.

I have become dispensable, you think, squeezing out the last of the toothpaste.

But then again: was there ever a point when you weren't?

Making the World a Bitter Place

Some days are harder than others.

That's anything but a profound statement, I know. I mean, isn't true for all of us? Aren't we all struggling in our own, little ways? Aren't we all surrounded by such an array of negative energy that, some days, it seems nearly impossible to continue on?

This isn't just the move talking. This isn't just the bathroom lock-in or the slow traffic or the middle fingers or the blank, speechless stares by office-workers when I offer a polite "hello!" in the hallway. This isn't even the years of bad luck culminating in a single diatribe.

Rather, it's all of these things. And the dozens of other things that happen that are just too unspeakable to even post on these pages. It's the accumulation of things that seem reasonable enough in small doses, but that slowly choke us over time — that is, the air that scarcely clears before the next sprinkle of foul weather.

And so I say: some days are easier than others. That's not to say things necessarily improve on those days, but that I'm sufficiently distracted to not think about the way I'm treated on the roadways, in the office, at home, etc. Maybe I've had a day or two without incident. Maybe the endorphins are hitting just right at the gym, or I'm out of the city for a weekend.

But whatever it is, those days — those moments of contentment — have been increasingly difficult to come by over the past couple years.

Maybe it's the city. Maybe it's the situation. Or maybe it's just me.

Only time will tell.

***I read once that people are wired to exist in communities of no more than 200 people. A friend offered an eloquent reminder me of this in a recent post that really got me thinking not only about city-life, but how our wiring impacts the way we treat others — particularly, those who aren't a part of our troop.

Do you remember the first time you ran into a teacher at a grocery store? The first time you saw them in jeans, or caught them holding hands with their significant other? Do you remember the first time you saw your doctor at the movie theatre, or the first time you realized you weren't a "test tube" baby?

It is difficult, at times, for us to see people outside of the roles we have assigned to them. It is difficult for us, as growing children, to realize that our parents aren't just providers, but that they, too, once upon a time had these living, breathing dreams.

It is exponentially difficult for us to imagine the utility of strangers. Or even more so, it is difficult for us to imagine — or, at least, easier for us to not imagine — them laughing and smiling and crying and starving and breathing and living and dying.

We have enough to worry about, after all. Our bills are due Tuesday, the bread is stale and dammit-didn't-I-clean-the-clogged-pipe-just-last-week?

This changes, of course, when we lump these "strangers" into other communities (i.e. slapping a single face onto hundreds of thousands of people). We'll rally together for causes — for hordes of people suffering from any variety of maladies — but we fail, even still, to genuinely care about the individual.

And by that I mean: we fail, religiously, to treat others with a modicum of respect. We fail to recognize the humanness of those around us: do you ever stop to think, for example, about the woman at the grocery store checkout? Do you ever look up at those skyscrapers as you drive past, and marvel at the thousands of lives — the millions of stories — that are unfolding within those walls?

Do you ever stop to think that the person you tailgate on the highway might be on the way back from the hospital — or on their way to picking up their kid from school — or battling a terrible, life-altering illness and your thoughtlessness is somehow impacting their day (their life) in what only seems to you to be a microscopic way?

You don't know these people. You don't know who they are, or what their situation is.

But you may very well be pushing them over a rather steep ledge.

Or is that not what road rage is about? The thoughtlessness of two strangers who insist that they were wronged by the other.

But in a world where everyone is right, no one is.
***We've come to expect this treatment from other people: that's precisely how we justify it when we turn around and do the same unto others — right?

But what of those times when this thoughtlessness infects our very community? Those times when the cold stares and the lack of consideration and the me-first mentalities inhabit our walls like termites thirsty for the soul?

We have nowhere to turn for solace. Living becomes intolerable. So much so, in fact, that some people simply... give up. That's not to necessarily say they make a vertical incision along their wrists, but that — if nothing else — they, too, stop trying.

They become hapless, inconsiderate drones. Just like everyone else.

***

If Thoreau got one thing right, it's this: The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.

I challenge you to people-watch at a mall — or a busy intersection, or a bar — and to not come to that same disheartening conclusion, time and time again.

That's not to say there isn't beauty in life — there is — but that we're too often immune to it.

Or, even worse, we want it strictly for ourselves. Or if we're feeling generous: our community.

***

So the next time you volunteer, or the next time you drop a one-spot into the fireman's boot (both of which I encourage you to do, by the way), don't think for a second that your good deed for the year is done.

There are thousands of people out there relying on you to make their day a little less miserable. Some of them you know. Some of them you don't.

But a fair number of them, I'd wager, could really benefit from some kindness.

Disappointment 101

See? I was right. No tripod + after sunset + reflective surface + lacking ability = bad photo.

At least you can't say I didn't warn you.

Camera Crisis (Update)

OK, so it works sometimes now. But not all. Maybe 30 percent of the time.

In any event, I'll either need to manufacture my own fix... or buy a new camera. And I hesitate to do the latter, as I've grown quite fond of this one. Not to mention, parting with cash is one of my least favorite things to do.

All this to say a photo or two may be on the way.

But not the "Reality Bites" shot. Not only has my camera continued in its fits everytime I've tried for the shot, but if I do capture it, I won't be able to post it.

I worked it up too greatly. Anything I actually take, then, will fall tremendously short of expectations generated by my previous post.

Personal Tragedy for the Moderately Privilegedand Terminally Neurotic

When I returned home from the gym last night, I wasn't in the best of moods. I spent the three-block walk to my apartment waxing contemplative and — as a result of my contemplations — I felt more than a little down.

Which is perhaps why I found it to be rather fortuitous when I saw a random CD in that strip of grass that separates the cracked city sidewalk from the street. Not that the mere sighting was a sign from God himself, but that upon further inspection I saw that it was the soundtrack to Reality Bites. The CD was broken in two, but the title itself was perfectly in tact, taunting my camera-less self from the cold, brown/green, leaf-covered grass.

It was even somewhat propped up, though a little off-balance, by the exposed roots of some random tree, as if begging me to capture it in all of its ironic glory.

(For those of you who make fun of my tendency to carry a camera everywhere I go, this is precisely the sort of picture I'm terrified of missing.)

So I made a note to myself to pack my camera Wednesday morning, which I did rather promptly after getting out of bed.

***But I was in a hurry (as I am most mornings), so I quickly unwrapped my camera from its case while I made the bitter walk to my urban chariot (winter is here at last!).

I got out my three-year-old Sony. Turned it on. And then smiled a crooked little smile when I saw the broken CD supine in its original resting place.

(This all the while a fellow tenant — to whom I've never spoken more than "hey" and "hello" — walked past, turning her head and raising her brow as she tried to figure what on earth I was up to).

But I wasn't so much worried about securing my status as "that strange girl in apartment B" as I was with the task at hand. So I hit the shutter, only to be greeted by a punch in the stomach.

And by that I mean... a heart-wrenching message flashed on the LCD:

NO MEMORY STICK

I confirmed a memory stick was in place, took it out, and put it back in. I tried again.

NO MEMORY STICK

I took the memory stick out again, confirmed it was "unlocked," and then flipped the switch from SIDE A to SIDE B.

NO MEMORY STICK

I tried again. And again. But always to that same, miserable end.

I boarded up my camera, threw it into the car, and drove onward.

***Later it occurred to me to try a different memory stick, since my 256 MB card isn't made by the camera's manufacturer, though the 32 MB backup is.

So I sucked in my breath, uttered a couple hail Mary's, and tried again.

NO MEMORY STICK

OK, I thought. Stay calm. When a laptop acts up, one of the first pieces of advice is to remove all peripheral devices, including all sources of power.

So I took out the battery, and the memory stick. I waited 30 minutes, and put everything back in.

NO MEMORY STICK

I did this again, the next time waiting two hours before re-inserting the battery.

NO MEMORY STICK

It was about then that I acknowledged the cold, hard fact that my camera was likely broken. And these digital dohickeys are as difficult to repair as they are expensive to replace.

Or, to sum it up,

[drumroll please]

REALITY BITES

At Least I'm Not Bitter about It

So I sucked it up and purchased a Far Side desk calendar, fifty percent off, to make up for my previous misguided selection.

But I purchased it last week and threw it in my desk drawer, figuring I'd return it if "Eats, Shoots & Leaves" started to deliver better material. And because I dread to spend more money than is absolutely necessary, I certainly hoped it would.

(not that the calendar is a necessity, but that buying two definitely isn't)

Here's today's entry:

"It's tough being a stickler for punctuation these days. One almost dare not get up in the mornings."

*sigh*

There's only one man who can save me now.

Hornswoggle

I've been misled. Beguiled, even. Duped. Hornswoggled. Bamboozled and flimflammed.

Whatever you call it, I'm disappointed.

You see, one of my favorite New Year's procedures is something I like to call "The Buying of the Discounted Calendar."

I go to a bookstore and pickup a calendar or two for 50% off sometime between December 26 and January 1. This year I'd already purchased a wall calendar in advance for home (and had been gifted one for work), so all I needed was a page-a-day desk calendar to add a bit of humor to the daily grind. So I ventured into a nearby Borders to cash-in a gift card and take advantage of the post-holiday savings.

They had Peanuts. Far Side. The Onion. Know Your Monty Python. Common Grammar Mistakes. Poem-a-Day. French-Lesson-a-Day. Even one of those fun "Survival Guide" calendars that tells you want to do in case of a bizarro emergency (e.g. you've been knifed by a parrot or you're choking on bird feathers).

I grabbed one of each of these and pondered my "Which To Choose" conundrum when a beam of light, promptly followed by a choir of angels, directed my attention towards yet another page-a-day desk calendar.

"Eats, Shoots & Leaves."

It was based on a book I've long wanted to read but have never found the time, so naturally it piqued my interest. I mean, I do find certain grammar mistakes to be especially amusing, and I find the metamorphosis of the English language to be altogether fascinating. And for some reason I thought each "day" on the calendar would reveal a comedic error found in some hifalutin newspaper or — at the very least — an example of how a word, phrase or comma changed history. After all, that's what the back of the box led me to believe.

So I chose it from amongst all the rest, made my purchase, and tucked the calendar into my work desk, awaiting the arrival of the new year.

When I returned to work after the long weekend, my first act of business was to retrieve the calendar, remove its packaging, and tear away the first day.

And that, dear readers, is when disappointment struck, jinxing my 2007 with an unfortunate start.

For it appears that each page reveals not a grammar mistake, semantic nuance or even a bit of British v. American linguistic history, but simply a short passage from the book.

Mind you, the "book" may be great as a whole... but, it only took me from January 2 to January 4 to realize it makes an awfully boring desk calendar. Basically, each day I get 1-3 sentences from the book — taken entirely out of context, mind you.

Here's what the January 3 entry read, for example:

While significant variations exist between British and American usage, these are matters for quite rarefied concern. You say "parentheses" while we say "brackets"... but to people who call an apostrophe "one of them floating comma things" it doesn't matter very much.

I can certainly understand how this might appear clever as part of a larger passage. In which case, it might make an OK page-a-day calendar for someone who has read and worshipped the book and so knows the context.

But for someone like me... For someone who was misled to believe each day was an interesting snippet of misplaced commas and improper usage... For someone who hit every traffic light on her way to work — how is THAT supposed to teach me anything and/or bring a smile to my face on a Thursday morning?

It's going to be a long year.

A Grievance Against the Cyclists, Bladers, Walkers, Joggers and Motorists of this Fine City

"You... shall not... PASS!" ~Gandalf in The Lord of the Rings

---

Spring officially began almost a month ago, but the thermometer is only just beginning to reflect the season. This means the traffic on city bike paths has picked up considerably as people trade in their gym memberships for a little fresh air. While I certainly understand the impetus for the gravitation outdoors, the end result makes me very, very unhappy.

But rather than stand by and suffer in silence, I've opted to use this medium to "speak" to my fellow park-goers:

To walkers oblivious to the menagerie of people around them:
There are cyclists, rollerbladers, joggers, and (sometimes) skateboarders all trying to use this blacktop path. The sidewalks, and lush grass fields — each only a few paces over! — were made for people like you. Use them.

To the parents pushing a stroller while talking on the phone and smoking cigarettes:
It's nice that you're in a park and all... but what sort of mixed messages are you sending that kid? If intelligence is genetic, I bet s/he never grasps the concept of irony.

To joggers wearing headphones who stay in the middle of a lane:
Either take off the headphones so you can hear me when I announce my presence or stick to the gravel path. This isn't an 8-lane highway. I can't get around you if you don't move over.

To roller bladers, in general:
The way you gather speed requires you take up an entire lane. I understand that. But for my purposes, you are the equivalent of two cyclists absolutely ignorant of the world around them. You don't own exclusive rights to the pavement. And, even better, my bike is designed to go faster than your blades. Stand up straight for a minute; glide on the momentum. And LET ME PASS.

To those who rollerblade while talking on cell phones:
How do you do it? I mean, how do you talk on your cell phone while keeping your pace, remaining courteous to other park-goers AND ultra-aware of your surroundings?

Oh, that's right. You don't.

To those cycling — and talking — alongside their friends:
I'm behind you, waiting for one of you to get over. I can't pass because people are coming from the opposite direction. If your conversation is so important that it's worth stopping traffic by never cycling over 8 mph... pull over, finish the conversation, and then resume riding at a normal pace.

To the friends who ride side-by-side even if that requires one person be in the wrong lane:
When I'm heading north in the northbound lane, and I'm passing pedestrians and the like, I won't necessarily see the southbound person in my lane in enough time to avoid a collision. People like you are the reason I got into an accident last year.

To the cyclist who passed me while listening to music:
I slowed down for a pedestrian, who was in the middle of my path. When I said "on your left," he moved over. When I began to pass, you had decided to pass me unannounced. This forced you into the wrong lane, nearly causing you to collide with two others coming in the opposite direction. Disaster was averted only because they — and not you — were paying attention.

Take off the headphones.

To the people who double-park in the bike lane on city streets:
Please, by all means, reclaim the pavement. I don't need that lane, and I'm terribly sorry you couldn't find an empty spot in front of your friend's house. Besides, this will give me the opportunity to ride over car tops — something I've only seen in movies, but have always wanted to try myself.

Or here's another idea: drive your car down another block or two, find a LEGAL place to park, and then walk back. Just a thought.

Together, with your help, we can make the city park experience more pleasant for those cyclists, joggers, walkers and rollerbladers who are cautious, courteous and attempting to get their heart rate — not their blood pressure — above a snail's crawl.

(Excuse the cliche.)

Thank you.


Road sign borrowed from this site.