How To Escape A Drama-Filled Society

Living in a drama-filled society can be exhausting and draining for anyone. It’s no secret that drama often causes unnecessary stress, anxiety, confusion, distraction and it can be difficult to escape. But not impossible. There are a few steps you can take to remove yourself from the morass of drama and create a more peaceful, stress-free life.

1. Identify the sources of drama:
   The first step in escaping the drama of your society is to identify its sources. It may be certain friends, family members, or co-workers who create drama. Alternatively, it could be social media or news outlets that stir up emotions and create angst. When you identify the causes of drama, it’s easier to avoid them.
2. Limit your exposure to drama:
   Now that you’ve identified the sources of drama, take steps to limit your exposure to them. For example, if you have a mentally unstable sister who constantly involves herself in your drama thus creating even more drama for yourself, you may need to distance yourself from her or set solid boundaries. Similarly, if social media causes negative emotions or triggers drama, delete the app or take a few days off.
3. Surround yourself with positivity:
   To counteract the negativity and drama of your society, focus on surrounding yourself with positive people who bring you joy and make you feel good about yourself. I realize that positive people can be superficial and dull. This may mean eliminating friends who don’t share your values and interests or making time for self-care activities that lift your mood and counteract all the soul-destroying drama.
4. Practice mindfulness and self-care:
   Mindfulness practices such as meditation and deep breathing can be helpful in reducing stress and anxiety. Self-care activities like taking a hot bath, reading a book, journaling, stretching, cleaning, listening to music, being naked with another human, hanging-out/doing nothing or going for a ponderous walk can also help reduce the impact of deadening drama on your life.
5. Focus on what you can control:
   Finally, remember that while you can’t control the drama in your society, you can control your reactions to it. You may feel like being distracted from everything but focus on the things you can control, such as how much time and energy you devote to drama, and let go of things you cannot control. By taking ownership of your own life, you’ll reduce the impact of drama and create a more peaceful and interesting existence.

Escaping the drama of society takes effort, diligence and discipline but it’s worth it to create a more fulfilling and stress-free existence. By identifying the sources of drama, limiting your exposure to them, surrounding yourself with positivity (that is not superficial or dull), practicing mindfulness and self-care, and focusing on what you can control, you can escape the drama and create a more relaxed living situation for yourself.

The Phoner (Post #400)

I can’t stop thinking about my iPhone. I’m thinking about it all the time now. I crave it when it is not there. I feel sad when it is not around. “Who might be trying to get in touch with me?” I think. “Do I have any new text messages or emails?” I wonder. It is a constant thing- morning, noon and night. Few things feel better that picking up my iPhone after a few minutes away.

 

When I am having conversations with other people I can’t wait for them to shut up so that I can check my phone. The conversations with real people bore me. It is the conversations or interactions that happen on my iPhone that feel the most important to me. I can be more myself, do what I want. I do not have to pretend to be interested if I am not. Short and to the point. The less talking the better. This is how I like to keep my interactions when on my phone. Real people just talk too much.

 

I would rather be on my phone than doing any thing else. I long for it. When I am working, driving, exercising- I can‘t wait for an opportunity to check my phone. Red lights, breaks from work, breaks in conversations, the end of a work out (which I always end too soon) are all great reliefs for me because it is then that I get to check my iPhone. I don’t really enjoy hanging out with other people anymore only because they get in the way of time with my iPhone. When I do check my iPhone while around other people, I always end up feeling like I am doing something bad. I feel judged and guilty. I prefer just to be left alone with my iPhone. Then I don’t have to deal with that.

 

They say that texting while driving is dangerous. Maybe so. They also say that drinking and driving is dangerous but almost everyone does it. I’m not going to stop driving and texting. There is just no way that I could do that. I would have too much anxiety. I need to check my phone regularly. I have important things to attend to. My iPhone demands constant attention. I can’t let driving get in the way of that. I have developed the skills needed to text and drive. I know what I am doing while texting and driving and the fact that I have not yet been in an accident is proof of that.

 

The on-line world has become just as important if not more important than the so-called “real world.” Most of my relationship and business interactions occur on-line. I shop on-line. My reading material is on-line. My music is on-line. I watch films on-line. I go to school on-line. I am even dating someone on-line. Why would I not want to be on-line? It is the direction the world is heading in and if you are not on-line most of the time you are already far behind.

 

Some people tell me that my interest in “real world” things has fallen behind. So what? I no longer make art or read books. I no longer use handwriting (something I was once very good at). I was once an avid collector of clocks and watches but now clocks and watches are unnecessary because the time is right there on my phone. My father tells me that I was once so creative and that since I have been using my iPhone it has all gone away. I don’t know about that. I think my creativity has changed with the times. I am just creative in other ways now. How that is I do not know. Maybe it is true that most of my life is spent staring into a screen, preoccupying myself with an unnecessary world. Who knows? But I can’t get enough. I need my iPhone in the same way that a junky needs her junk. The other day I thought that I lost my iPhone. I freaked out and was hyperventilating. I became possessed in a crazed search to find my phone. Fortunately, I did find it before things got really bad.

 

I love my iPhone. I love it so much. It has become my closest friend. More important than anything else. I used to love sex but now sex is just a distraction from my iPhone. The last thing that I see before falling asleep at night is my phone and the first thing that I see when I wake up in the morning is my phone. I used to fall asleep in my lovers arms but now I fall to sleep with my phone in my hands. There is so much to find out about, so many people trying to communicate with me. There are so many things going on on-line. Why would I stay away from my iPhone? I once was miserably lonely. I felt like I had no purpose in my life. I was always stressed out. Now I have my iPhone and I no longer feel any of that. I now have things to do. No time is wasted. I am always engaging in something on-line or through texting. The answer to the emptiness that I used to feel inside has been my iPhone. Why would I want to get rid of that?

 

I can even write this while on my iPhone. Someone is trying to talk to me but I am writing this! I wish they would go away. My house is a mess. I should go exercise or be outside. But none of that matters. I am perfectly happy, sitting here on my phone. I just wish that the “real world” would go away so that I can be undisturbed while on-line. Why do I feel guilty about that? Once I publish this on my blog I will go and see what everyone is up to on Facebook. Then Instagram. Then Twitter. Maybe first I should check the weather? I wonder if it will be sunny all week? Is anyone trying to text me? Did I forget to return any texts or emails? I should go to Amazon and buy those pair of shoes I have been wanting. I wonder what the top stories in the news are? I have had this pimple on my butt for weeks now, maybe I should Google about it and find out what is going on. I should also Google about finding out if there are any negative side-effects from being on my phone as much as I am. I don’t think so. First I need to reply to some emails then I can do all of that. What time is it anyways?

The Anxious Therapist

In a world where a nine-year-old girl accidentally shoots her instructor in the head with an uzi, one human being publicly beheads another and where the “terror” alert in the UK has been raised to severe- I suppose the problem of the anxious therapist is not such an important cultural issue. But the anxious therapist is a kind of conundrum that is a stark commentary upon the times in which we are living.

The psychotherapist is often perceived by the general public as being a professional person who is the pillar of mental health, wisdom and neutrality. A kind of modern-day Socrates. The therapist plays into this persona because it is a luxury (and for some a curse) that their profession affords them. The position they hold comes with a kind of enlightened status, even though most of us know deep down this is rarely ever the case. The therapist is symbolic of a wide-spread misrepresentation that puts into question all of  our perceptual abilities. If we perceive the therapist as someone or something they are not, what does that say about the state of our own minds? After all if we really were able to be accurate in our perception of the therapist, we may no longer elect to pay them for their time. And then who would objectively help us through the struggles that haunt our souls?

The anxious therapist is a threat to the entire sanctity and effectiveness of the healing potential of psychotherapy. I am not telling you anything that the anxious therapist does not already know deep within themselves. They represent everything which is false about the claims that they make. At least this is what we may think at first glance, but as we go deeper into the conundrum of the anxious therapist maybe we will find the opposite to be true.

During a session in the anxious therapist’s office, the client and the anxious therapist sit across from each other. The anxious therapist sits in a reclining chair and the client on a couch or in a chair. As the client talks to the anxious therapist about whatever issue they are dealing with, the anxious therapist is struggling to pay attention. To the client, the anxious therapist appears to be deeply listening, but what appears to be true to the client (even though the client may suspect that something is not quite right) is far from the truth.

The truth is that the anxious therapist is trapped in her chair. Her body is doing incredibly strange things to her, which causes her to be fearing that life could slip away from her at any moment. As the client talks, the therapist is stuck in a hypervigilant and panicked negative thought process. She is thinking about ways that she can excuse herself from the room without losing the client and all her credibility. She is using every fiber of her being to remain composed, despite the ominous feeling that within her body their is something terribly wrong and at any second she is going to lose all control. Without moving, the anxious therapist is enduring a kind of arduous inner work out, which causes her palms to sweat, staining her pants with a salty liquid in the areas where she plants her hands. In this very moment, the anxious therapist is working harder than 99% of human beings on earth to not only remain attentive but to also avoid a complete freak out. Even though there is an unlocked door and the anxious therapist is not confined to her chair, the client sitting just across from her causes her to feel painfully stuck.

The phenomena of the anxious therapist is hardly an isolated one. The anxious therapist has been around for as long as the practice of psychotherapy has. Sigmund Freud is the most well-known anxious therapist. He wrote a lot about the various terrors that he struggled with. Freud would often break out into fits of sweating during his psychotherapy sessions, due to the onset of the sudden fear of dying that would come upon him in his sessions. Freud used a plethora of drugs to try to control his anxiety, but besides having his dog besides him during psychotherapy sessions, was not able to find much relief. This resulted in Freud’s life long struggle with depression.

In the field of psychotherapy, a few researchers believe that the phenomena of the anxious therapist is much more wide-spread than is documented. It is only natural that most therapists would not come forward about their struggles with anxiety during sessions with clients. It is embarrassing to admit that during a session with a client the anxious therapist is often struggling with mental health issues much more than her client is. With all the education and training that the anxious therapist has had to go through in order to get to where they are at, publicly admitting their struggle with anxiety threatens to diminish the credibility that keeps them in practice. As a result, most anxious therapists struggle silently through a kind of inner hell from which they see no chance of rescue on the horizon. It is a miserable and unpredictable fate that they have to endure.

But is the anxious therapist really a discredit to the field of psychotherapy? Is the anxious therapist really presenting to his clients as a kind of fraud? Or is the anxious therapist a living example of how a person can struggle through the darkest and most frightening experiences, but still remain calm and composed (for the most part)? After all, in life shit happens and at some point all of us will find ourselves faced with absolute terror. Maybe the anxious therapist is like a shaman because they are silently and energetically imparting the most valuable lesson that a client can learn from psychotherapy: the ability to remain calm and composed in the face of absolute fear.

Personally, as a therapist myself, I believe that the anxious therapist is a kind of hero. In a situation where most people would run to an emergency room or doctor and need to take a Valium or something stronger in order to feel some sense of safety and relief, the anxious therapist silently wrestles with immense fear and physical discomfort while remaining calm enough to continue to engage with her clients without giving much notice (other than the sweat spots on his pants) that something is terribly wrong. This is a skill or ability that even some of the most disciplined meditators struggle to posses.

Most of us are way behind on the current scientific and psychological research into the neurological explanations for anxiety. The scientifically validated explanation for the development of anxiety disorder is that it goes back to the individual’s parents (or primary care-givers) and the psychological and emotional environment that their parents raised them in. It is well documented that a person is not created with a mental illness (mental illness is not genetically pre-determined). Mental illness is created by the environment that the child grows up in (environment begins to have its effect in the fetal stage of development). From a nuerobiological perspective the root of the crippling anxiety that shows up in the anxious therapist’s life can be directly traced back to how she was parented, but knowing this does not make the anxious therapist’s struggle with anxiety during her sessions (and outside his sessions) any easier. All the anxious therapist can do is take full responsibility for her current situation and practice various techniques that can help her navigate her way through the terrifyingly uncomfortable terrain of anxiety. You can not change the roots of a tree, but you can give a tree water, which will hopefully help its leaves to hang on.

It is well documented that Freud’s anxiety often drove him to the edge of isolation and despair. The isolation and despair that he experienced (which he described as a “disappearance of hope”) caused him to often contemplate suicide as a solution. After the potentially life threatening bout of anxiety, which always leaves the anxious therapist thoroughly exhausted, depleted and depressed for days, the anxious therapist finds herself feeling what some could describe as suicidal. The anxious therapist does not necessarily think about ways to kill herself, but feels hopeless up against the anxiety which she knows will soon reappear. Once the anxiety has run its course, the anxious therapist knows that it is only a matter of time before she has to go through it all over again. She knows this because it has been this way for her entire life.

In the end, the most difficult hurdle for the anxious therapist to get beyond, is to accept that no matter how hard they work on themselves, they are not the model of mental health that their clients and profession raises them up to be. The anxious therapist is surviving with a mental illness, that effects their life just as much (if not more) as whatever issues their clients are struggling through. In a profession that demands that the anxious therapist not publicly admit their personal struggles for fear of losing credibility and the luxury of appearing better off than they really are, the fate of the anxious therapist is to feel terribly alone. They live with an inner contradiction that can not be fully expressed in the work they do in the world. If it is expressed, chances are they will lose a lot of the luxuries their profession affords. What pains the anxious therapist most, is that as much as they are able to help their clients to get well, they seem unable to help themselves. Every time the terrifying anxiety returns during a therapy session, they are reminded of just how ill they still are.

For the anxious therapist there is no greater relief in the world than when they look up at the clock and notice that it is time for the session to end. They have made it through the session without freaking or passing out. What a great relief to have not been exposed! But like all temporary rewards, the price to pay for this feeling of great relief is the terrifying and imprisoning feelings that rise back up when the anxious therapist realizes that her next client is sitting in the waiting room. For fifty minutes she must endure all over again the exhausting fight to remain alive.

 

 

 

Am I An Anarchist?

I have always thought of myself as an anarchist. I don’t like being told what to do, I disdain the word Boss (I like to say: “no free person has a boss”), I think that government is a huge failed experiment in the endless possibilities inherent in the human condition, I do not trust people who wear uniforms, when I hear media people or politicians saying things like “Americans believe…” I know they are not talking about me, I am not a big fan of capital, sports, pop culture or competition, I think voting is a scam that the mass of mislead people still think actually matters, I feel that soldiers have been terribly manipulated and indoctrinated by those in power, I don’t watch television or identify with any “leader,” I think the president is a limp puppet and every time I see a police officer I have to hold back from shouting out, “Wake up!”

But am I an anarchist?

The last time I confessed to being an anarchist was over dinner with my Republican father. That was a mistake. Fortunately, I had been practicing meditation regularly at that time and was able to not get caught up in the hundreds of angry thoughts that were steam rolling through my mind as my father told me that I was not an anarchistic and that anarchy was a bunch of bullshit. “Anarchy is an impossible dream, it is violent, misinformed and could never work. You are much more intelligent than that son,” my father said as everyone picked at the cheese plate and Caesar salad that sat in the center of the table. That night was one night that I wise enough to realize it is futile to argue with someone who thinks they know everything but really knows nothing at all.

But now several years later I am starting to wonder if my father was right? Shit. I have been reading a small book that I picked up at a zine fair called, “The Anarchist Tension,” by Alfredo M. Bonanno. In this little book Bonanno speaks of anarchy as having nothing to do with what we traditional consider as political and more to do with a way of being, a way of existing in a conformist world. What threw me into doubt about my own anarchistic identity was this sentence: “Instead, the anarchist is someone who really puts themselves in doubt as such, as a person, and asks themselves: what connection do I manage to maintain each day in everything I do, a way of being an anarchist continually and not coming to agreements, making little daily compromises, etc?”

Shit.

I like nice things. I like the home that I own with my wife. I am grateful to have a job where I can help others and make a decent income but for the past year or so I have been struggling with one question that I keep asking myself: Am I living authentically, true to my beliefs, true to who I really am? I keep coming up with the same answer: I’m trying but not really.

All throughout my twenties and thirties I wanted to exist as a writer and an artist. I wanted to be my own agent and not have to go outside of myself to earn a living. This was real anarchy as far as I was concerned. I admired the plethora of artists, musicians and writers who were able to build a life out of their true selves without having to compromise their own identity. This is what I wanted for myself- problem was that I was always broke and had to work at various low paying jobs that I did not really like. I had to have a boss.

After working as a high school teacher who also tended bar I realized that I could not do this anymore. I chickened out. I came to terms with the fact that there was no way that I was ever going to be able to support my desired lifestyle as an artist and writer, so I went back to graduate school and became a psychotherapist (a painful process). And now that I am working as a “professional” in a government regulated, very conservative profession- I can not not help but wonder, is this really me?

Bonanno writes that “for the true anarchist the secret of life is to never ever separate thought from action, the things we know, the things we understand, from the things we do, the things with which we carry out our actions.” So many of the individuals who come to see me for psychotherapy are suffering from deep depressions because they are stuck in careers that they want to get out of but can not. They are experiencing what Sartre called, “No Exit.” They are stuck living a life where thought and action are completely separated. For years they have been trying hard to connect the two but it just does not seem to be working out. Is this happening to me also? Is this the fate of the majority of Americans who live in a capitalist system? Could this be the main cause of mental illness in our first world, highly sophisticated and systematized society?

Maybe so.

But even more importantly- now that I have a legitimate and professional career that demands that I appear in a fairly standardized, conservative and professional manner- am I still an anarchist? Even though I have gained more cultural legitimacy, credibility from people like my parents and financial security have I lost that way of being that characterizes living authentically as an anarchist? Have I become what I always used to refer to as a sell out? Maybe not. Maybe there is a way to function within the system that keeps a person’s autonomy, truth and freedom in tact.

But if I can’t find that way………..

is it possible that I can at least be an anarchist on the side?

28 or 29 and Lost

I am 42 now and I awoke early this morning with an all too familiar feeling. It felt like seeing a person from your past who you hoped you would never see again. The feeling slowly traveled from my toes up into the center of my chest. I could feel it nudging itself right up against my heart. I thought to myself: What the hell is this? Oh that’s what it is. It was that dreadful what am I going to do if? feeling. What am I going to do if I run out of money? What am I going to do if my job does not work out? What am I going to do if I can’t afford to pay back my debts? What am I going to do if I go broke? I’m not sure where this feeling originated, since I feel more financially secure now than I have ever felt in my entire adult life. Maybe it was triggered by a traumatic dream about my youth. Whatever its cause, I remember waking up feeling this way everyday when I was 28 or 29.

I like to live in the moment now. I have no use for walking the dead (except when writing things like this). The only thing I confidently believe in is the practice of not thinking about tomorrow. I trust that tomorrow will take care of itself and I don’t need to worry about it. When I was 28 or 29 I worried about tomorrow ALL THE TIME. I wore all black in order to let others know that I existed in a state of worry. I was continually tormented by an untreatable condition called what am I going to do if:

I don’t amount to anything?

I can’t pay my rent?

I run out of money?

I can’t figure out how to hold down a job?

I am unable to earn a living through writing and painting?

I die young?

I can’t ever get my anxiety under control?

I have a fatal sexually transmitted disease?

I have to depend on my parents for the rest of my life?

I never succeed?

When I was 28 or 29, this was the narrative that was continually looping around in my head: What am I going to do if?, what am I going to do if?, what am I going to do if? I was living in my x-girlfriend’s walk-in closet in the ghetto section of downtown Oakland. I set up a small futon just beneath her hanging dresses, pants and shirts. Every night I fell asleep to the earthy scent of body odor that clung to her clothes. Radiohead had recently released their fifth album, Amnesiac. I listened to the album ALL THE TIME. I listened to it when I went for walks. I listened to it when I drew, painted or wrote. I listened to it when I spent afternoons lounging around on my futon. I listened to it before going out and before going to bed. It was my anthem of despair. It prevented me from bleeding to death. In that album I found a bandage. A group of musicians who were around my age and who understood what I was going through. At least it felt that way. I felt like the only difference between them and myself was that they could afford to buy a house and all I could afford was to rent space in my x-girlfriends walk-in closet.

I drank much too much. I smoked much too much. I was stoned much too much. All of these methods of intoxication interfered with my motivation levels. Rather than spending my days making an effort towards some kind of productivity, I preferred hanging out in and around a coffee shop, reading, smoking and talking with the locals. I was happy in my unhappiness. Content maintaining my own status quo. All that I knew for certain was that I wanted to be nothing like my father. Aside from my appreciation of writers and artists, I presume that the main reason why I wanted to live my life as a writer and artist was because it was as far away as I could get from good old dad.

I tried. I tried terribly hard to make certain compromises with my father’s world of licenses, degrees, work ethics, status, cultural legitimacy and financial drive. I started but was never able to finish:

Medical school

A Masters degree program in English Literature

Ayurveda school

Podiatry school

An architecture apprenticeship

A well-paid position as a stockbroker

(There may be other things I can’t recall at the moment.)

Along with my fathers urging and hostile support, I tried to find a balance between his world and the world I envisioned for myself- but was never able to feel comfortable in this common ground. Even then I knew that life was short and should not be spent doing things for the sake of money and prestige. Growing up I watched my father work hard and earn a lot of money but he was often angry, stressed out and deeply unhappy. I consider myself fortunate to have learned young that hard work, making money and happiness do not often go together. When I was 28 or 29 I didn’t mind so much living in my x-girlfriends walk-in closet. I figured that it was what all great artists and writers did at the beginning of their “career.” I saw it as a kind of initiation.

My grandfather ended up dying just in time (I am forever grateful to him for this). I ended up inheriting his Lincoln Continental Town Car, which was put on the back of a truck and driven from the suburbs of Philadelphia to the ghetto of downtown Oakland. My grandfather was a failed musician and I think he saw me stumbling down a similar path. He took pity on me because he saw a lot of himself in me and as a result left me his car. The problem was that I could not get his smell out of the car and every time I drove around I felt like his ghost. So I did what felt logical to me- I sold the car to a very friendly older gentleman who put $6,000 in the palm of my swollen hands (I had been taking too high of a dosage of Paxil, which caused my body to retain fluid and bloat. As a result my hands, feet and face where often ballooning out). When my parents found out about what I had done, they were furious. It was if I had stolen something very precious from them. I had deceived them by selling my mother’s, father’s car without their consent (meanwhile they were building a mansion and traveling to Europe while I was broke and living in a closet in the ghetto).

I used the $6,000 to move myself up in the world. I was able to move out of the closet and into a legitimate (but small) fifth floor one-bedroom apartment in a better neighborhood of Oakland. I bought myself some new socks, underwear and shoes. I also bought a well preserved 1988 silver Honda Accord. My dead grandfather’s car had given me back some dignity. I began to feel confident enough again to meet women. But I still had no idea about what I was going to do, so I got stoned and made art. I waited and was lonely. I did not know it at the time but I was struggling with generalized anxiety disorder. I was 28 or 29 and lost.

When I got out of bed this morning I went into the front room where I lit a fire in the fireplace. I looked around at my beautiful home and smiled at my two German Shepherds who were looking at me through the large window, which separates my front room from the outside redwood deck. My heaven-sent-wife was still asleep in bed. The house was quiet. I looked out into the backyard where a large, strong, branchy maple tree was shedding its leaves. As I looked around my house I told myself that everything was all right now, that I was perfectly ok, that everything had somehow managed to work itself out. I smiled, felt my heart lighten, got off the couch and went into the kitchen to make myself some tea.

Where The Hell Is Everyone Going?

I have always preferred to stay in one place. I enjoy the comforts and security of home. I enjoy travel books about going nowhere. Like an eel in a small fish tank I roam around all the various corners of my small home and seem to be quite content not going much further. Sure I walk into downtown or occasionally go on various excursions with my wife to areas within a 50 or so mile range from my house, but for the most part I remain in one place. There are lots to do at home. Boredom is not an affliction that effects me (although I have plenty of afflictions). During the course of a day when I do not have to leave my home and go to work, my greatest dilemma is often where to sit. Whether it is in the backyard, the front yard or someplace inside, my home is filled with wonderful areas to sit. Each seating area has been carefully curated by my wife and I. Often I will spend the entire day trying to spend an hour or so sitting in the various spaces around my house.

Everyone I know or hear about seems to be always going somewhere. I notice airplanes continually traversing through the sky. There is an Amtrak train station not far from my house that seems to be spiting out more trains every hour than I am able to keep track of. Continually I will talk with a friend or an acquaintance and hear about how they are traveling to some far off place. My parents and my wife’s parents are continually on the go between their various homes. When I go for long walks around my neighborhood it seems like no one is ever home. The homes have landscaped yards, which appear to have taken a lot of time to create yet I never see anyone passing the day in them. The neighborhood around my house is moderately affluent yet there is this empty feeling all around (sometimes the only life forms that I see in this neighborhood are the various animals and birds hanging out in the trees). It is as if the people who live in these houses are too busy going places to spend the day hanging out in their yard. But where the hell is everyone going?

I appreciated reading in Gaston Bachelard’s “The Poetics Of Space” the discussion about the primacy of space. Bachelard talks about how in order to thoroughly know oneself, one needs to be very familiar with the spaces in their immediate environment. The problem of modernity for Bachelard is that human beings are continually going away from the spaces in which they live and pursuing places outside of themselves. This he said leads to a kind of inner fracturing where the individual never feels comfortable in any one place for an extended period of time. When I read Bachelard’s book I was reminded of a particular Aborigine community I visited in Australia many, many years ago. These particular Aboriginal people believed in the sacredness of the place in which they lived and felt so connected with the place that they had no need to venture out unless various survival needs took them away. As one Aboriginal man said to me “there is so much to see and investigate in my own backyard, a hundred years would not be enough time to become familiar with everything there is to meet here.”

In our Western culture it seems as if we are obsessed with being someplace else. We are always on the go.  If we stay at home for too long of a period of time we become irritable and feel like we are missing out. There are so many places to go, things to do and sights to see. Massive advertising campaigns waged by various companies in the travel industry bombard us with images of various places in the world that we are told will make life more interesting if we just hop on board. The quiet life of desperation can be remedied if we just get up and go someplace new. I even notice this tendency in myself. Often times I will see an airplane fly overhead or hear a train in the distance and be filled with a longing to travel to some exotic place. Suddenly I will feel like where I am is not good enough. It is too stressful- if I just go away for a week or so I will be able to relax, explore and have fun. I will feel fulfilled. “What a blast it would be to wonder the beaches of Hawaii or travel around Spain,” my mind tells me. All over the television and internet are photos and videos of celebrities traveling. They are hanging out in Hawaii, wondering the streets of some European country or on a boat in a place where the water is blue enough to reflect the clear sky above. Wherever the place where these celebrities are hanging out, all the rest of us see these photos and think, “we should travel like them, why should they have all the fun?” “Honey book a flight for Rome.” “I am tired of hanging out at home. Lets go somewhere new.”

Granted in our “modern world” speed is king. If you spend a day just sitting on your front porch or in your backyard you cannot help escape from the sound of speed going on all around you. Even if you live in the remote woods eventually you will hear the sounds of an airplane engine racing through the sky. Living in a more urban area exposes you more to this continual flurry of people on the go. Cars speeding to get someplace. Neighbors always on the go. Fire engines and ambulances racing by. Garbage trucks roaring. Airplanes jetting across the sky. Being surrounded by all of this transportation makes trying to achieve some stillness very challenging. Often times I will want to spend my afternoon sitting in my study or on my front porch but after a half hour or so I notice that I become restless. I can hear the sounds of cars and busses driving pass. In the distance I can hear the hummmmm of the freeway. I tell myself to just remain still but something seems to be going on at a psychic level. Everyone around me seems to be on the go. As I try and stay put just reading my book I notice that the restlessness grows more and more. My mind begins to suggest various places that I can go. Suddenly I notice that I am seized by this uncomfortable need to get up and do something else. To join the rest of the world and go somewhere.

Interview #6: Death, Depression, Existential Hang-Ups and the Unbearable Beauty of Life.

It is 10:48am when this interview begins. I am again sitting at the round kitchen table and am dressed in the clothes that I have slept in. I have not looked in the mirror but I presume my hair is a mess. I meditated for a few minutes this morning and then proceeded to make myself some cereal and green tea for breakfast. I “surfed” around the internet, wasted time on facebook and youtube and am now ready to begin the interview. Outside my window it looks as if the day is going to be filled with blue skies, sun and heat. Strange weather for mid October.

 

Interviewer: Good morning Randall.

Randall: Good morning.

Interviewer: Did you sleep well?

Randall: I had a hard time getting to sleep but once I feel asleep I believe that I slept well. I remember getting up a lot to pee though.

Interviewer: Did you drink alcohol last night?

Randall: Not much- I had a pint of beer.

Interviewer: How was it?

Randall: Delicious. Beer is very grounding for me and even though it has drastically increased the size of my stomach I have a hard time staying away too long from my beloved beer.

Interviewer: I see.  How have you been feeling lately?

Randall: To be honest the past few days I have felt what can only be described as a kind of negative, bleak, depressed feeling.

Interviewer: Really?

Randall: Yes, you say that as if you are surprised?

Interviewer: Well I know that you are prone to bouts of depression but I am surprised because it seems as if things are going so well in your life.

Randall: It may appear that way but you know that old cliché adage: “Wherever you go there you are.”

Interviewer: But just a month ago you were infused with the greatest feeling of happiness that you have ever felt. What happened to this feeling?

Depression: Wish I knew. Trust me I am looking for it. Depression is kind of like a weather system. It gets triggered by something and then moves in over you like a rain cloud. It is tough to get away from and all I can really do is wait for it to pass. It is true I have a lot to be happy about- my beautiful wife, my new home, my great dog, my life and on and on. It is true- so why am I not feeling “happy?”

Interviewer: This is what I was going to ask you. Do you have any idea what the cause of this depression is?

Randall: I think that it is a combination of things. One is that I am worried about my finances. To be blunt I don’t have much money and I live in fear of going broke. Why am I 41 years old and still so financially strapped and why am I not more ambitious about changing my financial situation? I suppose in this regard a part of me feels stuck and like a failure. Yes I have everything and more that I could ever want but there is this one thing missing. This thing is this inner satisfaction that I can take care of myself financially. That I do not need to depend on others for economic help. As I think I have said before- in our culture manhood is all tied up with economic success and somehow there is this feeling that has been conditioned into men that if they are not able to be economically independent they are somehow less of a man.

Interviewer: Yeah I have noticed this myself.

Randall: The second part of my depression I think stems from the fact that my life has not turned out the way I thought it would. I never imagined that I would be starting a career as a psychotherapists and have so more financial aid debt to pay off as a result. When I was younger my dream was to succeed as a writer and painter but this is not how things have turned out. Even though it is very difficult to make a living this way I thought I could do it. I never really wanted to be “a professional” with financial aid debt. Seems very mediocre and unremarkable to me. I envy artists who are able to make a living doing their art, to be themselves and get paid for it and the fact that this is not how things have worked out for me depresses me.

Interviewer: Well out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Randall: What is that supposed to mean?

Interviewer: Not sure but it seemed like the right thing to say in the moment.

Randall: I see.

Interviewer: (smiles)

Randall: The third reason I feel depressed is because I feel like I am not able to please my wife sexually at as a result I feel as if I am letting her down. I seem to be sexually inhibited and it requires a lot of effort for me to be intimate. My wife has a very healthy sexual appetite and if I was in the mood we would be having sex at least five times a week. But the problem is that I am often not in the mood and I just don’t understand why. I think my sexuality is all fucked up. I know that I am shy sexually but I just don’t understand why I can not be sexually intimate with my wife more often. My wife is one of the sexiest women I have even had the pleasure of having sex with but still this does not seem like enough. There is something deeply rooted in my sexuality that keeps me from being uninhibited and consistently sexually active and I wish I could find out what it was and change it.

Interviewer: As far as your sexuality is concerned this is a big topic and I would like to spend the next interview discussing it if possible. For now I would like to stay focused on discussing your depression if you don’t mind?

Randall: No I don’t mind but I think that I have said everything I need to say on this topic.

Interviewer: Do you talk with your wife about your depression?

Randall: Kind of. I think she gets what is going on and I try and talk about it but it is often difficult for me to open up and discuss it. It’s embarrassing that I feel this way and plus I just would rather not talk about it. It is a complex problem.

Interviewer: Complex how?

Randall: Well I know there are so many factors involved. There is also the fact that I don’t have a job at the moment. I am trying to start a psychotherapy practice but things are very slow. I also went a few days ago to a memorial service which kind of confronted me with the facts of life and death. At a deeper existential level I think I am depressed because I know that everything we work for, everything we own and love passes away. The cars, homes, art, furnitures all these things remain when we pass away but we are gone. The suddenness and finality of death make life, for me at least, seem very beautiful but also very tragic and sad.

Interviewer: Seems as if you are having a kind of existential crisis?

Randall: I have been having an existential crisis most of my life. I have been aware of these things to a degree which is probably not healthy. Whereas most people spend their lives working and trying to avoid the fact of their mortality, I have confronted it head on. It is scary to think that all of this can disappear in an instant and it is this awareness which has led to my life long struggles with anxiety, hair-raising anxiety.

Interviewer: So it seems as if while you are living you are in a perpetual state of mourning?

Randall: I do not know if it is mourning but I know it all vanishes in a second, that we age and deteriorate and for some reason this scares me and makes me sad.

Interviewer: Yeah I find it a bit depressing myself but at the same time it makes life that much more beautiful. It makes life something I want to cherish, be present with and really drink in.

Randall: It also really makes me want to do things that have meaning, to accomplish things that will out live me. I guess I get depressed when I see artists who are engaged in this process and I know that right now I am not. Having a career, having to pay bills puts a person in a situation where they are investing in things that vanish and do not stand the test of time whereas when you make art you are involved in a process that is much greater than you and the things you own.

Interviewer: But even art eventually will turn to dust.

Randall: Yeah, but if it touches enough people it will be around for a long, long time and there is something deeply gratifying about knowing that you are involved in this process.

Interviewer: So why don’t you involve yourself more in this process?

Randall: I am trying but it seems as if the motivation is just not there. I am also confused. A part of me would rather spend my days on earth working in the garden, wandering around, listening to music, sitting on benches, writing in my journal, walking my dog and just being. I have spent many years of my life making art and now a part of me just wants to do very little and be. Enjoy my life and work on myself.

Interviewer: That does not sound so bad to me.

Randall (shakes his head in agreement).

Interviewer: Well I certainly hope your depression passes soon.  I need to get going but I hope that we can continue this conversation at another time.

Randall: Sure. Thanks for listening.

Interviewer: Try to enjoy your day today. Make an effort to be positive and not think too much. Listen to music, walk around- do whatever it takes to just enjoy your day and get that feeling of happiness you spoke of earlier back.

Randall: Ok

Interviewer: Ok.

Randall: Thank you.

Interviewer: Thank you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Interview With Myself

My interview with myself is taking place on Monday morning at 8:43am in my kitchen. I am sitting at my round kitchen table, which looks out into my backyard where there is a large lawn and an even larger Mulberry tree. My German shepherd, who is obsessed with the frenetic squirrels running around in the trees, is currently hyper-focused upon one squirrel in particular and cannot stop chasing it around. I am feeling rather annoyed that my dog cannot just sit still, relax and enjoy the morning. There is an empty bowl of brown rice cereal on the kitchen table with the spoon still resting inside the bowl. There is also an empty mug, sitting besides the bowl, which earlier was filled with green tea. My hair is not brushed and I am still wearing the same clothes that I slept in.

 

Interviewer: Good morning Randall. Thank you for meeting with me at such an early time. I know that you are not a morning person.

Randall: Good morning. Not a problem. It is true that I am not much of a morning person but it is a pleasure to be here. I am sorry that I am not more dressed up for our interview but since it is taking place in our home I did not think you would mind.

Interviewer: No I do not mind at all. Is there anything that you need before we begin this interview?

Randall: Actually a little bit more green tea would be nice and if it is at all possible to get our dog to stop running around outside that would be helpful also.

Interviewer: Well let me see what I can do.

[Interviewer and Randall take a five-minute or so break to boil some more hot water and to try and get the dog to relax. Randall suggests that I feed the dog since Randall has not done that yet.]

Interviewer: Ok, so I have given our dog a raw hide to chew on which seems to have calmed her down. Is the green tea to your liking?

Randall: Yes it is is. Thanks for taking care of these things.

Interviewer: Not a problem. So should we begin the interview?

Randall: Why not.

Interviewer: I guess my first question for us is why did you want to conduct an interview with yourself? Some people might see this as a very strange, unstable and even selfish thing to do.

Randall: Well first off, if people chose to view my interviewing myself as strange, selfish, unstable or even ridiculous that is ok with me. I have always encouraged people to think for themselves and I welcome adversity or negative criticism. I think that divergent points of view are important for intelligent and interesting discourse. If I needed everyone to think like I do, or to agree with me- what a bore. As far as wanting to interview myself- why not? I have lived for 41 years now and have been waiting for someone to want to interview me. No one has come along wanting to do so, so I have decided to hell with it, why not just go ahead and interview myself. Plus I am tired of watching other people being interviewed. I wanted to see what it is like being the one being interviewed.

Interviewer: Well you make a good point. One can wait an entire lifetime for a person to come along who wants to interview them- for most people that person never comes. I think that every human on the planet should be interviewed at least once in his or her lifetime, since it is my belief that every person has a unique and captivating life story to tell. If you had to summarize what your unique and captivating life story would be what would you say?

Randall: Hmmmm. That is a good question Randall. I guess I would say that it would be how I developed into the man that I am today. As you know it has been a bizarre journey. We have been many different people in our lifetime and I find it interesting to have ended up where we have. I grew up in a rather economically privileged situation. I was raised in a country club where my worst fear was getting hit in the head with a golf ball. That is not actually true but I think it is funny to say. Even though I grew up in a seemingly safe and privileged home I feared many things. Probably more things than I should have. I wanted to be a professional tennis player but that did not work out. I almost did not graduate high school. I went to a very expensive private college where I was totally disinterred in school and obsessed with fitting in, women and partying. When I got out of college I was lost and managed to spend my graduation gift of $10,000 dollars in less than three or four months. Thus began a decade and a half of living in what I consider to be hand to mouth conditions and working at odd minimum wage jobs. I worked as a mortician’s assistant, a shoe salesman, a waiter, a bartender, a suitcase salesman, a supermarket checker, a physical therapists assistant and eventually a high school teacher. During this time I wanted to be an artist and a writer but the problem was that I spent more time reading and hanging out than I did making actual work (even though I did make a good deal of work). At one point I was obsessed with wanting to be my generations greatest writer and painter but now I think it is fair to state that I was very misguided, confused and often intoxicated.

Interviewer: Who do you blame for putting these strange and romantic literary and artistic ideals and expectations into our head?

Randall: I mainly blame Jack Kerouac, Henry Miller and Charles Burkowski.

Interviewer: How about Franz Kafka, Rimbaud and Artaud?

Randall: Yes them also.

Interview: So is it fair to say that our life story is one of from riches to rags?

Randall: Maybe not rags but definitely used clothes and cheap food (if you do not count the nice meals we ate with my parents and the occasional and generous shopping sprees that my father would take me on). I would also add that it is a story of from riches to rags but also back again to maybe not riches but a kind of comfortability and dignity.

Interviewer: I know this is not often discussed but is it true that when you were 28 and just a few months away from finishing your master’s degree in English Literature you dropped out?

Randall: It is true. I lost interest. Jane Austen, Virginia Woolf, Robert Browning, E.M. Forester and other English writers burned me out. Even though I excelled in the graduate program, when it was time for me to write my thesis I realized I did not want the degree anymore. I thought it was too pretentious for me to call myself a master of anything and as a young, idealistic man who had big dreams of worldwide literary recognition- a master’s degree seemed futile and too conventional.  So I just stopped working on my thesis and went on with my life.

Interviewer: Do you regret not finishing?

Randall: I do. I suppose that is the main reason why I went back to graduate school much later in life to get my masters degree in Psychology. I no longer consider myself to be much of an idealist and my dreams of worldwide literary recognition have faded away thus allowing me the room within which to pursue other things.

Interviewer: More normal, real world things?

Randall: I suppose so.

[The dog has finished her raw hide and is now pacing around on the deck. Randall seems to be a bit distracted by the dog]

Randall: I just do not understand why she cannot sit down and relax. I love our dog but she paces and paces around all day long. It drives me nuts.

Interviewer: You understand that she is not even a year old yet right?

Randall: I do but still it drives me nuts.

Interviewer: Why?

Randall: I don’t know.

Interviewer: Is it fair to say that you are a person who spends a lot of his time in a relaxed state, that you have figured out the art of relaxation and when others cannot relax it annoys you?

Randall: Are you suggesting that I get annoyed with others, dogs and humans, when they are not more like me?

Interviewer: I guess that is what I am getting at. If other people do not behave as you would want them to behave, or even behave like you behave then you are annoyed with them. They drive you nuts?

Randall: I am sure there is some truth to that. What you are suggesting is that I am not a tolerant person.

Interviewer: No, I think you are a very tolerant person- just a bit intolerant towards behavior that is different from your own.

Randall: Hmmmm. Well I would like to think that this is not true but I suppose that there is some truth to it.

Interviewer: Have you had people in your life who have not been tolerant of your behavior? Who have gotten annoyed or angry at you because you have behaved differently than they wanted you to behave?

Randall: I have.

Interview: Well maybe that is where you have learned not to not be tolerant of other people’s behavior that is different from your own.

Randall: You are probably right. Did you come here to interview me or to psychoanalyze me?

Interviewer: I am sorry. I suppose that I am just interested in the kind of person that we are.

Randall: I think that to find out “who we are” is biting off much too much of a subject matter for this short interview.

Interviewer: I suppose you are correct. Lets move on. I know that recently you moved to LA, moved into a new home, got married and began your internship working as a therapist in private practice. How do you feel about all of these big life transitions?

Randall: Well to be honest I am someone who has struggled for a long time. I have had a few really difficult relationships in my life, had serious financial concerns and have suffered from a chronic anxiety condition. For the first time in as long as I can remember, maybe even the first time in my life I can actually say with a firm conviction that my life is blessed. Things are really, really good. My relationships all feel healthy, my marriage is remarkable in every way and moving to LA feels like what it must feel like for someone who has been in jail for 41 years to finally get released. As you know, I moved from the area in which we grew up. I really did not think I was ever going to get out.

Interviewer: Well that is great. I am really happy for us that things are going so well.

Randall: They are and I am happy for us to. I am aware that the flip side of the coin is always there. Things can go horribly wrong horribly at any moment. This is why I am enjoying my life right now, drinking it in so to speak since for most of my life I feel like I was on the other side of the coin. I imagine that one of the greatest feelings in life is to end up in a place that you always wanted to be, but never imagined was possible. I’m enjoying this feeling at the moment.

Interviewer: How is our health holding up?

Randall: Well I must say that it is better than it has been in a long time. Years of struggle and anxiety have certainly weakened me but my Zen meditation practice and the love and support that I receive from my wife has without a doubt saved my life. She waters me with so much love that my roots have become stronger. My anxiety and worry is much less than it has ever been and all in all I feel good. I still struggle with breathing difficulties, restless leg syndrome and occasional obsessive frightening thoughts but things are not nearly as bad as when I lived up north.

Interviewer: I agree with you. I have noticed this as well. I think our wife is some kind of divine intervention. A miracle.

Randall: True. I am grateful for her existence in our life. Where would we be without her?

Interviewer: In a very different place. Probably still anxious and stuck up north.

Randall: Yeah.

Interviewer: Well I suppose that it is probably time for us to wrap up this interview. We need to take a shower, get dressed and get on with our day. I have a few final question for you before I go.

Randall: Ask away.

Interviewer: Do you have any big projects in the works? Anything that you are working on for the future?

Randall: You know for so many years I worked on things for the sake of bettering my future. I painted and wrote with future hopes, dreams and expectations in mind. Day after day I worried about how I was going to survive economically and what I was going to do with my life. It was torture. Now I am at a place in my life where I am really taking it one day at a time. I am not as driven to be a successful writer and/or painter as I was two or three years ago. I am now just taking it one day at a time. Today I want to read, work in my garden and go for a walk with my dog. Tomorrow I may decide to write an essay, work on a novel or make a painting. Or maybe not. I am no longer as tortured by the expectations of others and my own expectations. I don’t worry about what I am going to do with my life because I am doing my life right now.

Interviewer: Are you still as worried about money as you once were?

Randall: Maybe a bit but not as much. I may run out of money tomorrow. Ten years ago I would have had tremendous anxiety about this. Now I try to budget my money the best I can and leave the rest up to fate. I am doing my part to create a situation for myself where I have the potential to make a good income. I am just not worrying about the future as much as I used to because I am much more in the moment of my life and for the first time in a long time- I feel that it is the place I deserve to be.

Interviewer: Do you still suffer from feeling like a failure, as you once did?

Randall: Not so much. It is really interesting to me how life evolves, how we change as human beings. Sure I wish that today I was an accomplished writer and artists who was able to pay his bills and be economically comfortable as a result of his art. But I no longer feel like a failure because I have not attained this status. Sometimes when I watch a musician or artist being interviewed I get jealous. I feel envious that they have been able to create a life for themselves, which is a result of doing their art. Just the other day I was watching an interview with my generation’s most successful writer and I felt envious. It must be nice owning a home and eating food that you earned from doing your art. But this is not how my life has worked out and I think I am in the process of making peace with this. It is a tough one though.

Interviewer: Do you still think about writing and making art as much as you used to?

Randall: I thought you said that you only had a few more questions?

Interviewer: I did but as you know we can be very impulsive and when things come up in our mind we usually have to go with it.

Randall: This is true. Yes I think about art and painting all the time. If ideas for stories and paintings were dollar bills I would be a very rich man. Fortunately I have no shortage of ideas. I suppose what I lack most is the motivation to turn these ideas into things. Most days I would rather hang out with my wife, work in the garden, play with my dog, meditate and/or read a book.

Interviewer: I think you give yourself a tough time. You have created a lot of great things and it is ok that you may not be as motivated to make art or write at the moment. You may become motivated again at some point but now is your time to enjoy things as they are in your life and cultivate your next chapter. I actually much prefer your life now to when you were continually worried about what you were going to do with your life.

Randall: I like how you think.

Interviewer: Thank you Randall. I like how you think also.

Randall: Well I suppose we should put away the pen and paper and go get dressed now.

Interviewer: Sounds good.

At the End of a Rainbow (re-post, gosh I love this one)

Ever wonder if there is really a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow?

It had been raining for a week straight. Streets had become shallow rivers and plants were drowning in excess water. A dusty shade of gray had colored the sky until yesterday and then the clouds decided to break. I was sitting at my desk trying to keep my mind off the dismal weather outside. A pen drawing of a nude woman sat unfinished on my desk for hours because I was having difficulty staying interested in it. I had the radio on and repeatedly looked up from the drawing and stared out the window. I watched the slight drizzle and my aching eyes took delight in the birds sliding across the wet sky. Then it happened. The sun began cracking through the gray colored sky and off to my right I noticed something that I was not used to seeing through my window. What was taking shape right before my tired eyes was the birth of the most incandescent rainbow I had ever seen.

The colors of the rainbow began to form gradually and then grew into bright vibrating hues of red, yellow, blue, green and violet. I sat mesmerized at my desk watching this creation of nature unfold in front of me. For a moment I was reminded of the rainbow flag that was used in the German peasants war in the 16th century as a sign of a new era, of hope and change. So much awe overcame me that I had to go outside and watch the birth of this rainbow without the obstruction of a window. I noticed other residents of my neighborhood coming outside their homes and observing the same thing that was mesmerizing me. Bicyclists, dog walkers and joggers all stopped to watch the uncanny sight. The luminous rainbow covered the entire length of the city in which I live and owned the sky like a majestic doorway into some unknown place.

After ten minutes or so of staring at the rainbow, I slowly lost interest and decided to come back inside and finish my nude drawing. Even though what I should have been doing was spending my day looking for a job, I am a master procrastinator who will find the most obscure ways to distract myself from what really needs to get done. As I worked on the women’s hips the idea that there is a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow, popped into my mind. As a child my mother, my grandmother, a baby sitter and several of my teachers had often told me this but as I grew older other adults told me this idea was just a myth or a superstition. I believed these adults without ever really checking for myself to see if they were right or wrong. Now I was in a different predicament. I was a thirty-eight-year-old man, a victim of the great recession who was out of work and unable to pay next months rent if I did not find some money fast. When the thought occurred to me that I should go check and see if there really was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow– I said to myself “what the hell- I got nothing to lose.”

I am an average, lower middle-class man. I am a dull man with very few friends. A man who would rather not work and be left alone so I can read books, draw and roam around town. When I found myself putting on warm clothes to go on a long journey in the cold and emptying out my backpack to take with me (just in case I did find gold) the thought did occur to me that maybe I had lost my mind. “Maybe I already lost my sanity months ago and this is the real reason why I am broke and having a hard time finding a job?” I thought to myself. I tried not to listen to this judgmental voice of mine and just focused my attention on what I remember my grandmother saying to me many years ago when she showed me my first rainbow. “The end of the rainbow is further way than you think, but if you keep on walking really far you will be rewarded by finding the most beautiful pot of gold right where all those brilliant colors touch the ground,” she said to me.

It must have been below fifty degrees outside when I began my “end of the rainbow” search. I threw away the naked drawing I had been working on and fed the cat before I left. I had an empty backpack on my back, thick gloves on my hands, a wool hat covering my ears and the anticipation of an excited child inside my rapidly beating heart. As I walked I imagined to myself what my life could really be like if I found a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I would be able to not only pay my rent next month but also never again have to spend sleepless nights terrified by what I was going to do if I ran out of money. I would not have to eat beans out of a can anymore or tell my wife that I cannot afford to meet her for lunch or dinner. No more frozen food. No more ripped socks and old underwear. No more jobs and bosses I cannot stand. No more suffocating anxiety every time I spend more than a dollar. If there is a pot of gold at the end of this rainbow, I told myself, I will be free.

These thoughts caused me to walk faster. I could feel anticipation in my feet. As I walked I noticed more people stopped in the streets, watching the rainbow in a state of awe. I however did not bother to look up. I had both my eyes set on one place, and one place only- where the colors of the rainbow touched the ground. My grandmother was not wrong when she told me that I would have to walk really far. The closer I thought I was getting to the end of the rainbow the further away that it seemed to be. When I finally felt as if I had reached the end- the rainbow moved a little further from me. After an hour or so of walking frantically I was exhausted but determined not to give up. The thought did not occur to me that the end of the rainbow could be an optical illusion, like a pool of water in the middle of a hot desert. Had that thought come into my mind- I may have given up.

One belief that I have never let go of is that all perseverance is rewarded in the end. It must be! With this belief buried deep in my heart I kept on walking towards the end of the rainbow no matter how many times it seemed to change directions. I walked off road and went through horse stables, ravines, cornfields and forest areas with thick overgrown shrubbery. I felt like a warrior on the war path when in reality I was just a man who really needed money.

As I walked out from a claustrophobic cornfield that threatened to burry me alive, I finally came upon the end of the rainbow. There it was before me touching down in the middle of a dirt field in the middle of nowhere. All around was nothing but miles and miles of wide-open farmland. The end of the rainbow was not more than half a mile away from me and without a moments hesitation I began to run across the field with the slow speed and tight muscles of someone who has not exercised in months. I was willing to die for what could be at the end of that rainbow. I felt terribly out of breath as I ran but I forced myself to run faster because I was afraid that the end of the rainbow would get away. But all my determination paid off, because right when I could run no more I stood directly in front of the radiant colors of refracted light. I had made it to the place where “the brilliant colors touch the ground.” But my grandmother failed to tell me about what would happen next.

It was not until I was finally able to catch my breath that I was able to see what was in front of me. A young woman, no older then twenty-six or twenty seven, was rainbow bathing in the nude in the center of the rainbow. It took me a moment to see whether or not what I was seeing was real or just the result of my exhausted mind. Sure enough, when she sat up and looked at me with a bright smile I could see that what I was seeing was not an illusion. She was lying on a red towel that had the word Hawaii all over it. She watched me as I watched her until I finally got the courage to say, “excuse me. Ah….I do not mean to bother you…. but did you by chance…. find a pot of gold in there?” I knew that what I was saying must have sounded ridiculous, a little insane but she did not laugh or seem in the slightest bit surprised by my question. She just stood up and said to me “why don’t you get undressed and come in here and see for yourself.”

I felt my throat tighten up. I was shocked. The young woman was too beautiful, so perfect in every way that I felt like something had to be wrong. Things like this just do not happen to me. I was much older than her and could not understand why she would want to see me naked. I was slightly embarrassed but again I reminded myself that I had nothing to lose. The young lady stood there in all her nudity, patiently waiting for me to make up my confused mind. I was still thinking about the pot of gold. I so badly wanted the money. Maybe it is hidden someplace in there, maybe she is hiding it, I thought to myself. So like any desperate person would do- I said what the hell, got undressed and walked into a rainbow. She reached out her hand for me and I walked in just as naked as the day I was born- except for my wedding ring and the backpack in my hand (just in case I was going to find the pot of gold).

I remember reading someplace that the ultraviolet light put off by rainbows was beneficial for skin cells and blood. The light was filled with vitamins D, K, E, C and numerous antioxidants. I was comforted by the thoughts of these health benefits (since I have been struggling with some health challenges) as the young woman held my hand and escorted me towards her Hawaii towel. One of the only things she said to me during our time together was “there is no need to talk. Just feel and allow yourself to let go.” When we sat down side by side on the towel I tried not to stare at her naked body. I could not tell what mesmerized me more- being besides an exquisite naked young lady or being inside a rainbow. I also could not tell if it was the warm rays of a rainbow heating up my body or if it was my nervousness that was making me warm. The young woman started to rub my back with the palm of her warm hand and then whispered into my ear “lay back, let go and feel.” It was at this moment that the thought- maybe she is an angel, ran through my mind.

I followed her directions since I was in no condition to argue. I was a little concerned about getting an erection but I took my mind of off any sexual thoughts by visualizing a pound of ground beef. She lay down besides me- so close that I could feel her skin breathing. Together we lied there, not saying anything to one another, just feeling the warmth of the rainbow. Slowly I felt my eyes close and my heart slow. For the first time in months I felt my mind become still and my body felt at ease. I was hovering someplace between bliss and relaxation, feeling the individual colors and mist of the rainbow nurturing my skin. I was not cold and there were no thoughts about needing money frantically swimming around in my mind. I could swear the sun was shinning and the sky was a brilliant shade of blue. I did not worry about anything. For the first time in months- I did not think about how I was going to find a job or what I was going to do. Everything seemed to become silent except the exquisite sounds of the vibrating rainbow. The last thing I remember saying was this is fantastic before I finally let go.

When I opened my eyes I was lying naked in the middle of dirt field. I did not know if an hour or days had passed. Cold rain was falling on my body and there was no longer even an inch of sun in the sky. I looked around and all I could see was miles and miles of farmland. Besides me was my empty backpack and a few feet from me were all of my clothes neatly folded and placed in a pile. The young girl was gone and so was the rainbow. I was shivering from the cold when I got up to put on my wet pants, shirt, sweater, and shoes. I looked around to see if anyone else had witnessed what had just happened. No one. I put on my wool hat, gloves and backpack and started walking out of the dirt field. I did not feel sad, frustrated or confused. In fact I did not feel any negative emotion at all. I simply felt each step I took and listened to the raindrops as they fell all around me with a deep sense of satisfaction. When I finally made it back to the road I turned around and looked at the field that I had been lying naked in. It was at that point that I thought to myself, so that is what they mean by a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. I smiled, took a deep breath and began my long journey home.

The Nose Picker

My grandfather was a nose picker and so was my father. Most of my memories of both my father and my grandfather is of them picking their noses. My grandfather used to roll his boogers up in to small balls and flick them across the room. My father would continually pick his nose while talking on the phone, reading the newspaper, having a conversation or while watching television. As a child I would watch him pick his nose and swear that I would never be like that. I imagined how repulsed my mother must of been while watching her sexual mate go fishing into his swollen nostrils. The other day when my girlfriend said to me, “you are such a nose picker,” you can image the degree of shame and disappointment that I felt upon realizing that I had become the kind of man I swore that I would never be.

You know that saying that the fruit does not fall far from the tree? Well, the entire theory of genetic inheritance is based upon the idea that we acquire many of the same biological and character traits as our parents. Shit. I thought that I could somehow out run this reality. I spent the majority of my teenage years and my adult life working hard at being nothing like my grandfather and father. I spent hundreds of hours in therapy, read hundreds of books that I hoped would implant into my brain a thought process that was antithetical to the ideas of my father. I constructed my entire life out of using my father as a model of what not to be in this world. I have even spent hours looking at myself in the mirror trying to make sure that my facial expressions and my posture looked nothing like his. But I realize that when there are cracks things slip through- and I have a lot of cracks so it was destined to happen someway, sometime. For years I have been a chronic nose picker. What scares me most is that nose picking is so deep in my DNA that most of the time I am unaware of the fact that I am indeed picking my nose.

However, with all of this said, I recognize that having a genetic predisposition to nose picking is not entirely to blame for my chronic nose picking habits. I blame a lot of my nose picking on environmental conditions and stress/anxiety. I realize that I live in a dirty world. The air is dirty and so are most other things that I come into contact with on a daily basis. Dirty, dirty, dirty. Also I do have a rather large Jewish nose, which makes it easier for the snot to get in and collect. Nose picking is not just some mindless act that I am doing because my father and grandfather conditioned the act into my mind. I pick my nose to clean out the pipes, to relieve the pressure that the booger build up creates. I pick my nose for the same reasons that a person sweeps dust off of the kitchen floor or scrubs grime and grease off of the kitchen sink or bathtub- I want to keep things clean.

I have recently also realized that I pick my nose to distract myself from symptoms of anxiety that I am feeling. Nose picking takes my mind off of whatever anxious thoughts that I am having. I preoccupy myself with my finger in my nose. Nose picking allows me to become grounded in the present moment and to distract myself from the fear of impending doom which often causes my body to go into fight or flight mode. I have learned to use the act of nose picking as a kind of ant-anxiety medication. Having my finger in my nose calms my mind, rolling my boogers into nice rounded balls gives me something to do other than worry. Nose picking gives me much needed relief.

I have found that one of the more difficult things about growing older is coming to terms with who I really am (behind the chronic day dreams). Having to make peace with the fact that I too pick my nose when driving, watching television, reading and having a conversation has not been an easy undertaking (the other evening my girlfriend caught me picking my nose while having sex with her. I am so concerned and bothered that I did this without any awareness that I do not want to discuss it any further here. I mean when else am I picking my nose and unaware? What if I do it while working with clients? Or while in other public places? Very concerning.). I am trying to accept that when it comes to nose picking my fruit does not fall far from my father and grandfathers tree. I know that I need to do something about this ailment because I am starting to find boogers lying around the house. This feels very unsanitary. Plus my girlfriend is starting to become concerned about my habit. She bought me a Neti pot, which is supposed to help with cleaning the sludge out from my nasal passages but I am uncomfortable running salt water up my nose. Makes me feel like I am drowning. I do confess to enjoying the act of nose picking. It is a simple pleasure and I need all the simple pleasures that I can get. However, I realize that it is a simple pleasure that has gone a bit too far. If some day I ever end up having a son or a daughter, nose picking is not a disorder that I want to pass onto him or her. So I realize that it is of utmost importance that I break this negative and often disturbing family cycle now. I just picked my nose as I wrote that. Shit.

The Meat Sweats

I have been abstaining from eating meat for sometime. Often I am asked why I am doing such a thing and the best answer I can come up with is “because I feel like it.” I wish there was a political, spiritual or dietary motivation for my decision to abstain from ingesting flesh but I am unable to resonate with any of these motivators. I did have a conversation with a very thin vegan a few months back who told me that ever since he stopped eating meat his hair began to thicken and he continually was experiencing a unbearable lightness of being. Maybe this is what motivated me most- the idea that the weight of the world that I carry around could be lessened by not eating meat. My hair has also been thinning and the idea that I could have a second chance at a full head of thick hair I assume also tempted me into abstaining from eating meat.

I have never been any good at pushing away the temporary delights that most temptations offer. Like my dog I have a tendency to indulge without taking into consideration the consequences. I tell myself that life is for the living and in these moments when I give way to temptation I am well aware that it is often the experience of gastronomical pleasure that I live for. So I have no better excuse for the massive amounts of meat that I ate last night other than I was in the wrong place at the right time. A friend of mine, who is a daily red meat-eater and a rancher, was having a labor day weekend barbecue and even though I do not often engage in social events I felt like some mindless fun could be a good antidote for my blues. If I am being honest with myself I have to realize that social gatherings in the form of barbecues are for me an opportunity to eat free food and medicate my social anxieties with large amounts of booze. It’s a kind of group ritual since usually I am not getting drunk alone but am instead imbibing with a group of strangers who seem to become better friends the more we drink. So I longed for this intoxicated sense of community and I went to the barbecue with a personal vow to not eat any meat.

But there was only meat to eat. The carcass of a slaughtered cow was being ingested by an army of flies while its inner flesh sat slowly grilling on top of a large barbecue pit. besides the cow’s but, thigh and chest meat were the small fowl that once roamed the fields with it. There was chicken, duck and buffalo meat all grilling away to the sounds of crackling charcoal. As disinterested as I was by the idea of eating the meat that filled my friends large backyard with a smell that made me salivate I felt a longing for protein that made me shake. In my mind I convinced myself that the cause of my fatigue, low sex drive and weakness over the past few months was the result of not getting enough protein. I told myself that the meat that was filling my nostrils with the smell of its juices could serve as not only my food but also my medicine. I can talk myself into or out of anything and I do this on a daily basis. When my friend yelled out “meat is ready come and get it” I am embarrassed to admit that I was the first person in line.

I am also embarrassed to admit that I behaved just like my dog with a flesh filled bone in its mouth. I took the one pound new york cut of steak that sat on my paper plate and went into a solitary corner so that I could eat alone. I did not want to be bothered with meat in my mouth. I regressed to a primal like state in which the meat was the most precious object in my life and I did not want to have to worry about others stealing it while I was eating it. I know that this is an irrational fear but meat does strange things to man and as much as I often try to deny it I am as much apart of the human animal race as everyone else.

I ate my steak in a state of bliss. I ate quickly but contentedly. I chewed well so as not to choke to death on the meat. I sipped my red wine and used my hands. I tore the flesh with my teeth and felt a certain manhood slowly return to my body that I had not felt since I stopped eating meat. I returned to the grill for some chicken and I wanted to try the duck. My friend giggled as he placed a few pounds of meat on my paper dish and said “you eat like a man.” I know he was drunk but there was a deep feel of approval that I felt coming from this rugged cowboy as he nodded his head at me and said “well done.” I felt again like a part of a club, a mans club in which the only thing I had to do to prove myself was eat a lot of meat. I took my paper plate filled with a small hill of meat back into my private corner but as soon as I arrived I was joined by other men who also had their plates filled with meat. Together we ate with our hands, chewed ferociously and I no longer felt threatened that another predator was going to steal my meat. I was relaxed. I laughed as I ate. I talked freely to the other men. This was unusual behavior for me but it felt good. The meat was making my testosterone move and I could literally feel the muscles forming in my chest.

“You ok man?” one of the men asked me. I looked at him and with a mouthful of chewed meat. I said “yeah I am fine, why?” All the men in the group were standing around looking strangely at me. “Your drenched in sweat,” one of the men said surprised that I was unaware of the sweat that had caused me to look as if I had just gotten out of a pool. All of a sudden I returned to my body. I felt the rumblings in my stomach and the stench of burnt meat in the back of my throat. I looked down at my shirt and then I ran my hand through my hair. I was drenched in sweat. Suddenly I started to feel weak and began to fear for my life. Had I been poisoned from eating the meat I wondered. My anxiety became visible as I put down my paper plate and gulped down my glass that was filled with red wine. My mind was racing with anxiety and I felt the primal need to flee. But thankfully I had enough sense to realize that I was standing around with a group of men. If I suddenly panicked I would forever be seen as a fool. My heterosexuality would be questioned. So I stood strong in my dread and with a palpable feeling of desperation in my tone I said, “I do not understand what is wrong with me.” One of the men with a cowboy hat on looked at me and started to laugh. He looked at the other men who all also started to laugh. He then took off his cowboy hat to show me his head and hair which was dripping with sweat. I looked at the other men and noticed that they too were covered in sweat. The cowboy looked me in the eyes and said with a giggle in his voice, “dude you ate too much meat and got yourself a case of the meat sweats!”

The Man With A Moving Nipple (from the archives)

I know this may seem strange but I am suffering from a moving nipple. It is my left nipple and it gesticulates and twitches like a firecracker. At the moment, the uncomfortable movements of my nipple have become chronic with little intermission in-between. This discomfort has become a part of my life, another bewildering ailment that I must learn to live with.

My nipple began to move after I was in a very upsetting argument with my father. He was in a hospital bed recovering from a surgery and we managed to fight with one another about what, I cannot remember. Consumed with guilt for upsetting my father during his darkest of hours- I left the hospital in a terrible state of mind. The stress was causing my chest to constrict and I remember having difficulty breathing. It was when I turned on my car engine that I noticed my left nipple beginning to twitch. I placed my right palm upon it, as if I was trying to comfort my broken heart. I drove off into the night trying not to think about my moving nipple. Little did I know then that this was the beginning of what would become a full-blown dis- ease.

As the days passed my nipple picked up speed. The twitches would come in unpredictable spurts and I was often forced to have to sit down and try and relax when the episodes would begin. The twitches turned into strange gesticulations that would wake me up at night and force me to place an ice pack on my chest. The moments that my nipple would not be moving became like tropical vacations for my weary mind, which was being over worked by the torment of my moving nipple. The sensations were like aggravating tickles combined with what felt like pinpricks that seemed to leave me feeling like I was a man being slowly crucified from the inside out.

As the weeks passed my moving nipple became more chronic. It rested little and began to control my every waking hour. I had read some where in Greek mythology of a character that had suffered from a very similar ailment as I was. His moving nipple became so violent that it slowly began to make its way onto his forehead and announce all of his private thoughts to whomever was around. Not only did this character suffer the humiliation of having a talking nipple on the center of his forehead but also he was unable to think without the nipple revealing his every thought! Of course it is not difficult to understand why this character took his life by forcing his lover to cut off his head. Once he was decapitated the nipple did not stop talking for over an hour- it told his lover of all his previous affairs!! Ever since I have read this tale I have been terribly worried that my chronic gesticulating nipple is going to break free from its root and make its way onto my forehead!! If the world were able to hear my every thought I would certainly loose everything that I love!!!

Last week I visited a Doctor who knew not what to make of my condition. He told me that he had never seen anything like this before. He recalled reading in a medical journal many month back about someone who had suffered from a similar ailment for most of his life- but he could not remember which medical journal it was in. The Doctor wanted to put me on some medication to see if he could relax the tissue but the side effects for the medication seemed to great to take the risk. My Doctors conclusion was that I was suffering from a stress-induced ailment that was causing calcium build up around the nerves of my nipple tissue-, which is putting pressure upon my nipple. The ensuing twitching and gesticulation is the result of this pressure. If it did not go away in a month he recommends surgery.

In the mean time I still have to live in this world. I have to make a living so that I can continue to have a roof over my head. As much as I want to hide away in my closet and write poetic lamentations all day- I cannot. I have a mouth to feed.

It is not difficult for you to see my ailment, or what I have come to call my crucifixion. There is what appears to be a constant vibration and rotation under my left shirt pocket. When people notice this they immediately ask me if I am okay. I tell them that I am fine, that what they are witnessing is an annoying muscle spasm. My high school students make fun of me and refer to me as a freak. They all want to touch my nipple and when I let them there are loud uproars of “EEEEEEWWWW,” or “That’s so disgusting!!!!” Whenever I go out into public people stare at my nipple as if they had never seen anything like this before. I feel like an aberration, like all eyes are condemning me to constant judgment. Now I know what it must feel like to be a big-breasted woman.

The only thing that I can do is learn to live with my ailment. Every night before bed I put a chamomile cream upon my nipple, which seems to relax it a bit. I also wrap my chest in a towel before bed, which seems to reduce the annoying vibrations of my moving nipple, allowing me to get some sleep. There is nothing that I can really do (besides having my nipple surgically removed) other than accept my current situation. I see this condition as an opportunity for me to deal with the various causes in my life rather than the effects. If I can learn to change the stressors that have caused my moving nipple than maybe over time my nipple will stop moving. I believe it was Pascal, Socrates or Emerson or maybe Nietzsche- who said that an unexamined life is a life not worth living, so I am examining my self- trying to understand the various ways that I have caused my own dis-ease. Maybe, through this process of self-examination, I will eventually become the only man who can set myself free.

Warning: Lead Poisoning or the Man who Chewed Plastic (From the Archives)

 

I have always been curious why my mind and body have had such a difficult time getting along. The other week I was over at my parent’s house. My mother noticed that I was chewing on a white Bic plastic pen and she said, “You always have loved chewing on plastic.”  I thought nothing of it and continued to masticate my pen. Then, yesterday I heard a report on the radio that was talking about the massive amounts of lead that are in children’s toys made of plastic. I added two and two together in my obsessive compulsive mind and decided to research whether or not there is lead in plastic Bic pens. Of course what I found out horrified me. I decided to call my mother and ask her for how long I have been interested in sticking plastic objects into my mouth. “You had a plastic pacifier and were always sticking your plastic toys in your mouth. When I or your father would take them away- you would go into terrible convulsions of tears,” she replied. I became very concerned that I have been chewing on plastic for my entire life (I am perpetually chewing on Bic pens and have done so since I quit smoking ten years ago) and decided to do research on the health effects of chewing on plastic.

Lead poisoning is the leading health risk associated with chewing on plastic. There are major crusades right now waged by various health and environmental organizations to get lead out of the plastic that manufactures are using to make children’s toys. The health symptoms of lead poisoning for children are:

Various neurological and behavioral problems.
Organ damage
Blood toxicity

This was not good news for me. I researched more trying to investigate what the ramifications could be for an adult who has been chewing on plastic for years. I searched all over the Internet coming up with various symptoms of lead poisoning- but I wanted to know what the health effects on a grown man who chewed on plastic his entire life could be. Then after a few days of searching I found just the information I was looking for.

The information I found is from “A Homeopaths Guide To Detecting And Treating Disease.” I managed to find this book on accident while perusing the health section of a bookstore. In the book there is a page devoted to describing the long-term health effects of chewing on plastic made with lead. The symptoms of lead poisoning from long term exposure to chewing on plastic are:

Neurological disorders: morbid proclivities, perpetual thoughts of impending doom, depression and panic disorder.

Behavioral problems: ADD, Autism, Obsessive Compulsive disorder, Agoraphobia, Addictive Personality Disorder.

Physiological Symptoms: respiratory infections and lung disease, heart ailments, kidney flatulence, liver turpitude and poor circulation (to name a few).

I read these symptoms in disbelief. I could see my hands shivering. It was as if I had just figured out the riddle that had confused my entire life. Each day, always wondering about what is wrong with me has driven me to the brink of insanity and now- I had the answer to all of my health “challenges,” a code by which to understand what is wrong with me. I bought the book and returned home to read and re-read the section on lead poisoning. I did some more research on the Internet and found more information about my condition. Adults who chew on plastic made with lead are also susceptible to ulcers, low ambition, delusions, hysteria and paranoia. It is I; all these symptoms are describing……..me.

I am uncertain about what I am going to do to get rid of the lead poisoning that has turned my life into torment. I have a few ideas. For now, just knowing what I am being affected or infecting by is providing me with relief. The book that I bought has provided me with certain herbs that I can take that will help rid my system of some of the lead that is within me- but for the most part the after affects of lead poisoning are chronic and difficult to recover from. I am accepting myself as I am.

I have however gotten more active in joining campaigns to stop manufacturers from making toys and plastic pens with lead. There are numerous other sustainable materials that could be used to save a young child from ending up like a demented and paranoid person such as myself. One of the greatest joys of childhood is sticking plastic toys into your mouth and I would hate to see childhoods greatest pleasure remain its greatest risk. So today I have contributed a small amount of money to assist an environmental campaign in fighting their anti-lead crusade. I hope that my attempts to safeguard the youth of tomorrow will be good enough karma to change the destiny of man who has been chewing on plastic all his life .

The Counting Man

I count everything. There are 17 dirty dishes in my sink. My bed has 3 unmade sheets on it. I have 7 pair of shoes in my closet, 11 pairs of pants, 4 jackets and 16 black t-shirts. This morning there were 403 oat grains and 82 almond pieces in my bowl of oatmeal. Outside my window there are 9 trees and one of the trees has around 674 leaves on it. Two days ago I sat by the window of my house from 9am until 6 pm and counted how many people and cars passed by. There were 1,209 cars and 11 people on foot. This is how I keep myself pre-occupied during the darkest time of year. I do not know how my need to count things developed since I never particularly enjoyed mathematics. I prefer words over numbers but for some reason around this time of year I have this very deep desire to count things. When I read the New York Times in the morning I will count how many times certain words are used or how many stories there are about violence or the economic recession. Maybe counting is a way for me to feel informed. I am a solitary man and it could be that counting is my connection to a world that exists outside of me.

Every morning when I awake I do a twenty-minute meditation. I count my inhalations and exhalation all the way up to ten. When I get to ten I count backwards until I reach 0. I repeat the process until twenty minutes is up. My therapist believes that my obsessive counting is the result of my morning meditation. She says that the practice ingrains in me a connection between peace of mind and numbers. Maybe she is not wrong because it is true that right before Christmas, when the skies turn black- I notice that I begin to slip into a slight depression. My anxiety seems to be more active than any other time of year and counting everything maybe a way for me to calm myself down. When I finished the therapy session the other day, I told my therapist that she had 94 books on her shelf, 17 pictures on her wall and 12 wrinkles on her forehead.

Yesterday I killed over 3,035 ants that were crawling around in my bathroom. I had no choice. I am not a violent man but ants all over my soap, my towels, my toothbrush and the toilet paper is intolerable. I felt guilt after I killed so many ants so I set a limit for myself today. There are still ants all over my bathroom floor and ceiling but I have decided that I will not kill them all. I will exterminate 2,000 of them. I will spend the afternoon counting and killing. Once I reach 2,000 ants I will let the rest go for the day.

For dinner last night I ate lentil stew and managed to eat 1,023 lentils. It takes longer to eat when I have to count every lentil that enters my mouth. But maybe, just maybe this is why counting is good for me. Whether I am killing, eating or breathing counting forces me to slow down, to become present in the moment and be completely focused on what I am doing. I can not say I dislike this about counting. Normally I go through my life with very little awareness of my present moment experience. I am pre-occupied by what I need to get done, where I need to go, how I need to be- like a hamster chasing its own tail. Counting seems to wake me up from this never-ending dream and forces me to be here now.

My wife has been exercising in the other room for 41 minutes. I have been writing this for the past 28 minutes. I am using two fingers to type. The electrical heater by my feet has been on for 92 minutes. I have tried to count the rain drops that are falling outside of my window but so far it has been nearly impossible for me to get an accurate count. There are just too many rain drops to capture. Today I plan on going for a walk. I will walk for 80 minutes and during that time I want to count every single thought that enters my mind. I will divide these thoughts into two categories positive and negative thoughts. I want to know how many of my thoughts are negative and how many of my thoughts are positive. I can not take credit for this exercise- my therapist had the idea. She has observed that I tend to be a pessimist who sees the glass as half empty. Her idea is that possibly if I can become aware of the flow of negative thoughts through my mind I will be better equipped to turn these negative thoughts into positive ones. Since I want to be a positive person, who exists in joy rather than despair, I have been doing this exercise for the past few days. Yesterday I had 609 negative thoughts and 98 positive ones during an eighty minute walk.

I am assuming that once spring arrives I will no longer have the obsessive need to count- but for now I am surrendering to the obsession. I enjoy counting in the same way that a person enjoys their work. Counting keeps me preoccupied and distracted from thinking about too many other things. Like the Hindus, I also believe that thought is one of the most toxic elements that exist within a human being. Thought torments us and drives us around in the same way that a motor controls a car. When I am fully immersed in counting I am no longer thinking. I am in what certain scientists refer to as a state of flow. Clarity, peace of mind and focus take the place of habitual thought and it is habitual, unconscious thoughts that cause a person to lose control of their life. So I will continue to count. There are 13 unpaid bills, 8 pens and 2 notebooks on my desk. There are 9 plants in my writing room and 11 sticks of incense on the table besides my desk. There are 6 strings on my guitar, 1,902 dollars in my bank account and now at the end of this narrative I have written 1,083 words.

I Am Not Franz Kafka?

All through out my twenties I thought I was Franz Kafka (July 3, 1883- June 3, 1924). He was skinny, tall, introverted, alienated, intellectual, dark-skinned, well dressed, nervous, dramatic and Jewish. So was I. Kafka had a deep longing to be a writer and so did I. He loved literature, his sister, women, exercise and hated his job- just like I did. Kafka had a father, Hermann Kafka (1852-1931), who was a huge, dominating, worldly, loud, overbearing, oppressive and successful business man- just like mine. Kafka wrote “Letter To His Father” in which he spoke of being profoundly affected, both physically and psychologically, by his father’s authoritative and demanding character. I could have written the exact same letter to my father and I often did (I would copy Kafka’s letter and put some sentences in my own words and then mail a shorter version of “Brief an den Vader” to my father). So many things seemed to indicate to me that Kafka was just like I or I was just like him. I deeply related to his short stories and read and re-read his novels America, The Trial and The Castle. His novella, “The Metamorphosis” felt like the perfect metaphor for my life.

One of the difficulties of aging is that as years pass one begins to realize the misguided thinking of ones youth. One sees how much of their behavior was a fervid rebellion or unorganized folly against parents, orthodoxy and attempts to control- no matter how much one thought their behavior was authentic, ideological and revolutionary at the time. The joys of youth are hidden in its naivety, in youth’s ignorance of the root cause of behavior (I miss those days). As I have traveled through my thirties and am nearing my forties (shedding some of the anger and idealisms of my youth) I am beginning to realize that I am not like Kafka at all. At least I don’t think so. On the 18th of June 1906, Franz Kafka received his Doctorate of Law. He went to work for a large Italian insurance company where he worked for a year before quitting. Then he found a job with Worker’s Accident Insurance Institute for the Kingdom of Bohemia where he worked for the next fourteen years of his life. I have never worked this long at any job with such uncompromising dedication as Kafka- nor would I want to. Kafka was a diligent and reliable employee although he often complained that he “despised the job.” His father often referred to his son’s career choice as “Brotberuf,” literally meaning “bread job,” a job done only to pay the bills. I would never want to imagine living like this.

I am not a Zionist. I have difficulty relating to those who are. It is not clear if Franz Kafka was a Zionist (I think he was) even though he sympathized with the Jews whom he thought deserved a homeland in Palestine. I have very little sympathy for Israel whose government and military is committing and has been committing for years daily human rights violations against the Palestinian people. Kafka would certainly not condone Israels current militaristic behavior but we would certainly have differing opinions about the occupation of the West Bank and Gaza and the Jewish diaspora- were Kafka alive today. Even though there is not a lot of “Jewishness” in Kafka’s literary work- Kafka was very interested in Yiddish Theatre and Yiddish Literature, whereas I find these two art forms incredibly dull. Judaism does not appeal to me as it did to Kafka. Kafka read the Talmud daily and the few times that I have tried to read the Talmud I have fallen asleep.

Kafka was a very spiritual man and so am I. However, Kafka’s spirituality was very philosophical whereas mine is metaphysical, almost verging upon the new age. Gustav Janouch, who would often visit Kafka at work and then record the things that they talked about (which was later published as the book “Conversations With Kafka”) said that Kafka was a saint dressed in businessman clothes. Kafka often spoke about the virtues of patience. I have a tendency to be impatient. I have always wanted what I want now but Kafka once said, “Patience is the master-key to every situation. One must have sympathy for everything, surrender to everything, but at the same time remain patient and forbearing.” Kafka was simply talking about the Buddhist idea of “letting go and being in the moment.” Unlike Kafka, who is said to have been a master of being in the moment, I am almost incapable of spending more than a minute or two in the “now.”

Kafka once said to Gustav while they where on a crystalline autumn day walk, “there is no such thing as bending or breaking. It is a question only of overcoming, which begins with overcoming oneself. That cannot be avoided. To abandon the path is always to break into pieces. One must patiently accept everything and let it grow within oneself. The barriers of the fear-ridden can only be broken by love. One must, in the dead leaves that rustle around one, already see the young, fresh green of spring, and wait. Patience is the true foundation on which to make one’s dreams come true.” I happen to completely agree with this sentiment. I often practice this way of being myself and talk about it with others. The major difference between Kafka and I is that when I say something like this to people they look confused or take me for a new age freak. But when Kafka said the exact same thing- it gets recorded and written down in a book! I am not complaining, nor am I jealous of Kafka- I just recognize that Kafka and I obviously have very different ways of enunciating and expressing our ideas.

I have always enjoyed working nights or staying up late into the night. It is strange to me that Kafka would say something like, “working at night is very bad for one’s health. And besides you tear yourself out of the human community. The night side of life becomes the day-side for you, and what is day for other men changes into a dream for you.” I find this strange because I know that Kafka would often return home from work at three or four in the afternoon, take a nap, eat dinner and then write until late in the evening. He had to be at work before the sun came up, six days a week, and he would very often only sleep two or three hours a night because he would stay up slaving away at his stories or novels. I myself often work as a waiter when I cannot find any other way to make economic ends meet (also one benefit to working as a waiter is that I can have my days free to write, paint, read or do whatever I want). I enjoy the nighttime hours that allow me to feel separate from the normalized nine to five “human community.” A writer is often an outsider anyways- and my work as a waiter often confirms my outsider status. Kafka may disagree with my chosen line of work and tell me that I am selling myself short or that it is bad for my health to work late into the night- but I could easily turn the situation around and call him a hypocrite.

No, I am not Kafka. Sure, if someone compared our biographies they would find superficial similarities. Kafka was a health nut and so am I. Kafka was continually dependent on and exhausted by his fathers support, so am I. Kafka had issues with sex, intimacy and choosing between the writing life and the domestic life- so do I. Kafka liked to draw, so do I. Kafka prayed, I meditate. Kafka loved the streets, palaces, gardens and churches of the city where he was born and I love the rolling hills, smells, trees and avenues of the city where I grew up. Kafka was too shy and reserved for friendship and sometimes I think I am as well. Kafka talked about the coming age where the world would be populated with robots, catastrophe, bureaucracy and “chains that can not be broken because there are no chains that can be seen.” I am living in this age. Several years before the holocaust occurred Kafka said “we live in a morass of corroding lies and illusions, in which terrible and monstrous things happen, which journalists report with amused objectivity and thus- without anyone noticing- trample on the lives of millions of people as if they were worthless insects (Fox News comes immediately to mind).” I feel like the same thing could be said about the world in which I currently reside. But even with all these similarities between Kafka and I- I am no Franz Kafka.

“Man does not grow from below upwards but from within outwards. This is a fundamental condition of all freedom in life,” Kafka said to Gustave one day as he was buried in paperwork that was stacked up in piles on his desk. The room in which Kafka worked was filled with rows of desks and Gustav sat in a chair besides Kafka’s desk listening to him talk. “It is not an artificially constructed social environment but an attitude to oneself and to the world, which it is a perpetual struggle to maintain. It is the condition of man’s freedom.” Gustave could not help but think that Kafka could be an enlightened being hidden away in the machinations of the bureaucratic work-a-day world. I myself need to find an “ordinary” job so that I can afford some financial security in my life. Like Kafka’s dreams, my dreams of being a writer have not quite worked out and lately, I have been realizing how much my consciousness or my thoughts determines the reality that I experience. I am starting to get glimpses of how it is my attitude or way of perceiving that creates my reality. As much as my intellectual mind wants to disregard this spiritual truth- I am starting to understand how this is really works. But still- this does not make me Franz Kafka.

Through out my twenties I never saw Kafka as a guru or a beholder of deep spiritual wisdom. Now I do. Instead I saw him as an existentialist- a victim of a society that constantly tried to tear him away from his art. I related to Kafka’s struggle against his father and his constant attempts to be taken seriously as a writer by his family, friends and the surrounding world in which he lived. Kafka only had a few short stories published in his lifetime and was virtually unknown as a writer and human being. Kafka would often go to soirees or intellectual gatherings and read his stories out loud to those few people who were willing to listen. I, on the other hand, keep a blog in which I write stories and essays for the few people who are willing to read my work. Kafka struggled to balance his literary aspirations with his career, his parents and his relationships with women- I do the same. Without question- Kafka suffered and struggled through out his life to create the body of literature, which is now known as some of the greatest writings of the twentieth century. Even though he demanded that all his work be burned upon the time of his death- his friend Max Brod ignored this final wish upon realizing how great his writings really were. I myself would never want my work destroyed after my death and I have every intention of being a well-respected writer long before I am gone.

I am not Kafka? No I am not. The more I write the more I become more aware of the naivety or mistaken thinking in my twenties. Maybe one might disagree with this because the superficial similarities between Kafka and I outweigh the differences. Kafka slept with his window open, and so do I. Kafka believed in the power of prayer and so do I. Kafka tried hard to please his father often sacrificing his true self- so do I. Maybe I am Kafka and maybe I am not- but it is pretty clear to me that I am not. Above my desk hangs a picture of Kafka and a quote from Kafka that I read every day. It brings me comfort and validation to know that someone from the distant past understood the truths that I believe in today. The quote says, “Just be quiet and patient. Let evil and unpleasantness pass quietly over you. Do not try to avoid them. On the contrary, observe them carefully. Let active understanding take the place of reflex irritation, and you will grow out of your trouble. Men can achieve greatness only by surmounting their own littleness.” After reading this I always take a deep breath, hold it and think, no I am definitely not Franz Kafka. Then I exhale.