Other Stuff

Addled. Exhausted. Yet, somehow ready to surge into the next activity. For, you do what the universe instructs you to do. Flip a card, follow its lead despite how crushed you felt by the relentless mandates that the deck had decreed earlier. You knew that what would follow would consist of more of the same. It’s a pattern, even if its exact shape remains a mystery. The construct, as a whole, as a structure has boundaries. Rules. Terms. Within this framework, you navigate. An endpoint sat ahead. You could glimpse it. The beauty of toil is that it terminates. You endure.

At this snapshot moment in time, that spell that followed the near-consecutive jokers, was unlike the span of time that had come before them. Stunned. Hexed. Clueless. That’s what happens when a magician summons lightning to throttle you. Prior to the jokers, things had been going smoothly enough. Then the jokers arrived. They broke me. We had been flipping through a deck of cards. Royals indicated specific minute-long exercises. Non-face cards required us to complete reps equal to their value, each suit a different exercise. Aces are effectively royals. Jokers, they’re where you lose touch with thought; life becomes reminiscent of a non-lucid dream, in that things happen and then afterward you look back with a hazy memory.

The word “fluid” served as an apt descriptor of how my muscles felt. Water might feel more solid than I considered myself to be following the second joker. A desire to flow along the floor to the nearest corner leg of my bed arose. Along that pillar, I could reach the mattress by leveraging some manner of capillary action reliant on physical laws rather than anything a kinesiologist might label as human motion. Not sure that I had worked myself this thoroughly in some time. The front stretches of my shoulders ached. My hips creaked. I hungered for a salt lick. I fantasized about coconut water or some permutation of liquid that could replenish me beyond the capabilities of water. My lungs through diaphragmatic gasps informed me that breathes alone could not supply the oxygen that my blood flow desperately required so as to transport nutrients to refill my depleting reserves. My brain failed to retain much of what followed.

Gloria Gaynor says “survive” in “I Will Survive” fewer times than I had anticipated. For the joker, we did bicycles (the ab workout) throughout the song. Whenever she said the word’ survive,” we’d launch into v-ups. V-ups are awful. They hurt. Say v-ups and the word cloud of responses to the exercise would include “Intense.” Yet, bicycles start to burn more quickly than you anticipate. That a v-up becomes a rest activity demonstrates how difficult it is to maintain bicycles for about four minutes. That Gloria sings “survive” about ten times during the song shocked me. I anticipated more talk of survival. I thought of Roxanne. So much “Roxanne” in Roxanne. Not nearly as much surviving in a song dedicated to keeping on keeping on. I longed for “survive.” I mentally begged for v-ups.

Two jokers. The second joker involved the same song. This time we maintained front plank as Gloria sang. On “survive,” we would do a push-up. I longed for the push-ups. They were an escape. A break. Before the song concluded, I could barely plank. This is the liquified moment. That line following when I had given it my all. When my face surely looked possessed. Demonic. Call a priest. That my head was not rotating fully must shock people more than my head would have had it so turned. Some terrible manner of grimace must have overtaken my expression.

And, that, is how you do a workout.

How terrified people become unnerves me. Their fears reveal how malleable they can become; they can cause absurd if not detrimental behavior. An image locked itself into my mind. When the minor earthquake struck several years ago, most of us had no idea what was happening. It was bizarre to feel the building heave, to see water in my glass resemble waves crashing at the shore. A coworker cried, “what’s happening.” Trembling of the earth let to perturbations of the mind. As I headed toward the stairwell, for we all went to leave the building, unaware of what else to do, I spied this guy head into the elevator. We made eye contact before he vanished from sight. Having seen the grim reaper come for him, would surely have invoked less fear than I saw emitting from his expression. I tried to tell him that he should take the stairs, but how inhuman he looked, how lost and astray he appeared, left me speechless.

When we first began to shutter ourselves to slow the spread of COVID-19, news articles circulated that ibuprofen may intensify the disease’s impact. The articles shared this perspective, apparently arising from some preliminary statements issued by certain French authorities Earlier, while also conveying that no one else of note understood what prompted the such a claim. That weekend while in Giant, I needed to grab some Advil. The OTC shelf for painkillers was emptied, that is, except for ibuprofen. Those pills were fully stocked. Perfect.

Returning from a run, I held the door for a person struggling to move her bike into the building. The side entrance requires a fob. The scanner sits to the left of the door. The door, which is somewhat heavy ,is hinged on the right side so that it swings toward you as you enter. Strong springs press to close the door, thus requiring you to apply some effort whenever you come or go. While ferrying goods, you must exhibit some finesse lest the door slams into you or what you’re carrying. She didn’t seem happy that I was helping.

Another person approached. I tried to do the thing where you hold the door open so that the person behind you can maintain the door’s position as you continue onward. She refused to touch the door. She also endeavored to maintain as much distance between herself and me as she could. That she didn’t simply say, “let it close, I’ll follow,” confuses me given how much effort she applied trying to sideway limbo herself through the opening as she forced me to prop open the passageway (or let the door slam into her) while also maximizing the distance between us. Fear – palpable anxiety that looking at her forced you to internalize and experience as well – widened her eyes, tightened her cheeks, and sucked all air from the room. She looked more of an addled beast than human.

When I was running, I passed by homes. Many are for sale. The idea of not renting appeals to me, though the desire to remain in the DC area doesn’t appeal to me. Mountains call to me. Rivers. Backpacking and climbing destinations that are not so far away that they are “destinations” in the big notion sense of the word. I long to renew those days spent in Portland, when I could escape to an alpine lake for a weekend, weekend after weekend. Not that I need Portland, for many locations provide such proximate splendor. Yet, if this region continues to serve as my nest, then to move to a house does appeal to me. A yard for a garden and bird houses. A larger kitchen. Space for various activities. An office, and a room for games. And so on.

Also, the way this nation seems to be heading, I foresee chaotic descents into societal madness, as seen in books like The Road or The Parable of the Sower. People with guns behaving horrendously. Distribution systems shuttered. Electricity perhaps lost as well. I picture lunatics sieging my apartment building for goods. They could post themselves at each of the exits to slaughter people as they seek to flee. Meanwhile, their crew could go door-to-door, taking on an apartment at a time. The fearful will let this happen to them. Sans ability to uprise together, we’ll die alone. These thoughts play out in my mind as I imagine opportunities to band together, to escape. I imagine such scenarios play out in the little suburban area where the houses are, through which I run. With such thoughts in play, I witness this strange, horrified person eschew anything close to contact, with anything or anyone. She disturbs me more than the nightmare scenarios that plague my mind, for her fears appear as actions whereas mine are fleeting visions of a world gone wrong. Her anxieties and concerns have transformed our world. Mine, remind me that we must sift the irrational from the actual, even if it’s not clear at times how to do so.

A friend suffered a setback the other day. It’s his story, not mine, so I won’t go into the details. However, as context, image that you rejiggered your life. We’re talking big picture stuff. Vocational and geographical shifts underlain by the complexities of family life. There’s something that must be accomplished, and life is sort of on pause for this thing to occur, and it’s up to you to make it so. Failure equals an extension of your current limbo, which means the ongoing pressures will continue to build. That the outcome desired did not equal the outcome earned would be a fate most people would not wish to communicate due to it being a bummer, though even more so that it’d be embarrassing. What struck me about this person, and one of the things that I find remarkable about him, is that this person willing volunteered news of this setback. “This thing happened, and it’s a bummer.” I love people who are secure in themselves and their situation. It’s refreshing, for many people live in worlds built upon doubt and cladded with avoidance.

Back in college and graduate school, in creative writing classes no one would ever provide useful feedback. Everyone wanted to be kind and friendly. Tear apart the writing; explain what doesn’t work. Convey what’s effective, if anything. Only by showing what fails can I learn to overcome these deficiencies. My value and self-view are not in those lines that you read. If I’m working out, correct my form. It’s not personal; I don’t want to injure myself. I may not understand, or I might lack the ability to perform the motions correctly, but that I am unable to do something correctly does not diminish me.

In fact, the other day Kelly was concerned that I had felt targeted or embarrassed or something in response to her advice regarding the proper form for squats. No, it was simply that I had thought that what I was doing aligned with what she had conveyed – stand up fully, thus I had claimed that I was doing just what she had suggested. Though, I was glad that she raised the topic, for once I regained my breathe, it struck me that, surely, she had seen something askew since she had brought up the topic. Once I understood she meant that I needed to stand fully erect again, not to lean forward at all, did I manage to transform a suggestion into practice.

Same scenario with games, it’s ok to lose; to get trounced. To never win. It’s frustrating if luck goes against you, or you make a poor decision, but these things are not reflections on you. Sometimes people’s plans work out better than yours. Sometimes, it’s just that another person better understands the nuances of the game. Roll with your weaknesses. Accept that it’s ok to be middling at times, if not always. In the end, these things are meaningless, and to ascribe import to them to the extent that you become angered or self-disappointed or embarrassed is to lose a race that isn’t even a race.

I’m sadden by my friend’s bad news. Some other friends also suffered a tragedy the same day. Problems piling onto problems. Given how bad things can go, it’s important to maintain perspective. I’m pleased to have friends in my life, pursuits to pursue, and food to consume. With the rest, my goal is to learn how to be a better person to myself and to my friends, even if it requires being reminded of the many things at which I shall flail, if not fail at as well.

With everyone hunkered within their homes, distance has become fluid. Someone a few miles away can feel as remote as a person hundreds of miles up the road. Suddenly, friends who had fallen away due to distance have resurfaced. An element of not wanting to lose touch completely has summoned them back from the recesses, especially given the dire feeling of what we’re traversing, yet there’s also some element that this situation has leveled the playing field. Proximity is an Internet connection away. Time zones somehow matter less, only momentarily confusing the mind should background window views appear different. Daylight and darkness conflict across video feeds, but it’s all virtual anyway, and some people provide virtual backdrops anyway.

Some friends refuse to leave their homes. It’s unnerving how sheltered a person can become. One person, who does go for runs and walks, mentioned that he needs outdoors space. Apartment living has gotten rough. Without a balcony, that the building shuttered the outside common areas leaves him sans opportunity to relax outside. His excursions take him past yards where people read, play games, drink, and generally bask in the fresh air. Their joy as reminders that for most hours he exists entombed within concrete, with only a window from which to gaze at outdoors splendors. I wonder whether some sharing app could allow you borrow lawns. “I live at 235 2^nd Street; no plans to dawdle hours in my lawn, open to someone from 1pm through 3pm.” I foresee opportunity here.

Call me naïve, but, now that the roads are largely empty, I would have hoped that people would drive less like maniacs. Apparently without being fettered by traffic, people drive more recklessly than ever. Traffic buffered motorists; forced them to slow. Now, without a natural regulator, they speed and then try to navigate setbacks and uncertainty at high speeds. It’s terrifying. Maybe one day we as a species will recognize the terrifying nature of automobiles – these are heavy machines with power that can devastate bodies, crush lives. Respect them. Respect each other. Again, label me as naïve.

As an absurd side note, impatience demonstrated by drivers often amuses me, in that someone will freak out if another person’s cautious, or perhaps confused (if not inept), handling of a dangerous piece of machinery causes them to lose seconds of their day. Given that most people squander ample minutes, if not hours, doing essentially nothing, that ire raises to momentous degrees in response to slight setbacks while driving tickles me. As if all perspective vanishes upon placing oneself behind a steering wheel. I’d rather a motorist drive cautiously then misapprehend a situation and inadvertently kill someone as a result.

What, I would wonder, does this tic of a delay prevent this person from doing? I’d picture the innumerable moments we all spend squandering time, whether watching bad TV, sitting on the couch staring off toward the wall, or twiddling thumbs during any other meaningless expanse of seconds accruing into moments and then try to weigh it against the handful of seconds lost due to the person who slowed down to assess potential risk on the road ahead. Now, based on Facebook posts, I can surmise that if not for these fleeting delays, some of those irate drivers might have had time to share incendiary posts online.

Political posts have always been rampant on Facebook. COVID-19 seems to have amped their frequency for certain people. Uncertainty and an uptick of free time leads to prolific reposting of memes, it seems. Consequently, liberal friends have upped their sharing of their political memes. And, conservative friends are firing off their social media post buttons as if they’re operating a machine gun.

Generally, these posts convey a combative, angry tone more than seek to engender reconsideration or debate. They seem to say, “look at these peoples’ hypocrisy” and “wow, what dumbasses, check out this stupidity,” among other attacks. Some of my friends only post messages meant to diminish the intellect or forthrightness of another group of people. Tribalism, at its core, I watch these people sail their ships further from each other, all while shooting arrows at the other’s figurative vessels. And, what strikes me are not their barbs but rather their commonalities. In that, both groups behave so similarly, and both seem so blinded to their pushing their angle as if harbingers of the universe’s sole purpose.

I suppose it makes sense that people would turn to this behavior. Like many species, we’re aggressive, and we appear to suffer from a need to feel important, correct, and validated, and thus it’s not surprising that during unpredictable times that feel perilous that some of our baser instincts would manifest. With the first post on the Internet, surely the first troll followed, and thus reasonable people over time will find themselves perpetuating drumbeats toward conflict, even if only in the form of a meme. With more time at home, people can manifest their fear and frustration through simplistic graphics.

Here are some examples, and for this post I’m going to focus on the conservative posts. One person posted a graphic that shows colonial men gathered with one man, presumably meant to be Patrick Henry given his appearance and words, standing with raised fist to declare: “Give me liberty or give me death!! Unless there’s a virus with a 99% recovery rate. In which case, strip me of my freedoms, my job, my constitutional rights and put me under house arrest.” I won’t pick apart the various claims in this text, and I recognize that it’s somewhat meant as exaggerated satire, but I most note the irony of using a slave holder as your figurehead to convey a statement focused on ideals of freedom. Furthermore, states provide most of the restrictions being imposed. Patrick Henry did not support the Constitution, pushing for states to have more power, and the police power and power to protect the general welfare of citizens (which includes responding to disease) is a state power. If you want protection from the state, and if the state courts fail you, your recourse is to gain the federal government’s support. The 10^th Amendment retains certain rights to the states; during this crisis, the federal government is respecting the boundaries of this provision (“The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the states, are reserved to the states respectively, or to the people.”).

Another odd series of posts has to do with minimizing the perceived import of this coronavirus’s danger. An ongoing narrative insists that hospitals fabricate causes of death to secure more funding, since additional federal funds go to COVID-19-related deaths. Thus, the number of people dead from the disease must be magnified. These posts, as far as I’ve seen, fail to indicate what sort of inflation to attribute to the death toll due to this perverse incentive to overstate COVID’s contribution. Though, the intent seems to be that you should discount all accounts since surely some inaccuracies have resulted. These posts never mention that the number of people dying this year is higher than prior yearly averages (I believe this is accounting for population increases, but I could be mistaken).

Similarly, I had been seeing posts highlighting that the US’s per capita death rate for COVID-19 is much lower than many other countries. What these posts seek to accomplish mystifies me. For, the posters seem to share this content to convey that we don’t need to social distance, failing to recognize the possibility that any good news related to fewer deaths is related directly to benefits accrued by social distancing. Similarly, the per capita ratio could change over time, and I believe that it has done so given that I haven’t seen more of these posts as the death numbers have continued to increase (and that’s with social distancing practices being followed). Further, being seventh or whatever place we were on a list of highest per-capita deaths isn’t what I’d label as a hallmark of success. Being seventh of states in the nation for preventable deaths, worst educational systems, or any other undesirable metric isn’t something to celebrate, and on the world state we’re talking of a count well beyond 50 in scope. And, if we’re focused on countries by largest GDP then we’re still looking rough when it comes to COIVD-related deaths.

In terms of progressive posts, I’ve noticed that they often point to the most ludicrous of voices from the right and then equate these words and activities as if representative of all conservatives. “Woke culture” continues to be a thing in that if you’re a white man who has “woke” then it’s really hard to broadcast your perspectives without perpetuating the very thing that you believe yourself to be woke from. You can support non-white, non-male groups by striving to not be an ass and by recognizing their perspectives, perpetuating their messages for them reeks of newfangled imperialism. Also, and this isn’t always true, many woke people end up displaying hypocrisies, and then that undercuts the positive messages because failings even if only tangentially related to the progressive idea prompt people to dismiss all related ideas from the questionable source. This, here, is anecdotal but I recall one guy repeating his claims of being woke yet then sexualizing a server while at a restaurant, in front of coworkers, which was rather awkward and creepy.

Across all of the political spectrum, people fail to post when atrocities occur that conflict with their usual stances. Sometimes, something terrible is just that, and that if the facts were different it might have helped your political slant doesn’t mean that you should ignore this topic. If you’re outraged by wrongdoing or the like, then why not broadcast all such instances of malfeasance. Like the level of interest in Biden’s alleged sexual assault is disturbing. Also, that anger regarding Ahmaud Aubrey’s murder seems to be largely a leftish concern is disappointing.

Purpose. When it’s lacking, it becomes the elephant in the room. Focused and driven, the concern of having purpose does not arise, for you churn through the hours toward a goal. Without purpose, you can drift into and out of activities. A sense of ennui can underlie most motions. This malaise vanishes as you endeavor to complete some task or another. Momentary distractions can supply one’s immediacy. Flare ups of drive can move us forward to accomplishing minor goals. Yet, a critical mind might view this motion as moving from Point A to Point A more than traversing towards a more meaningful Point Z.

Kelly told me yesterday that she needs some goals during this pandemic. Home sequestration provokes a yen to accomplish something. Don’t misunderstand the situation. For, her plunge into exercise since this worldwide crisis began has been remarkable. HIIT workouts are daily, sometimes occurring twice a day. A series of yellow stickies next to our pull-up bar have provided weekly targets. This succession aims at 280. Core workouts intertwine with three runs each week. As of a few days ago, she plans to complete 50 burpees a day for 30 days. Before long she’ll be bench pressing the couch.

And, it’s not like exercising is her sole activity. For she’s been sewing a dress, conversing with friends, cooking through numerous cuisines and baking multitudes of sweets, and blowing through books. I’ve managed to recruit her for games even. We go on evening strolls, on occasion. She, and we, fill our days, each one feeling quite full, so that what we never manage to complete all that we wish to do. Most nights see a new rum cocktail grace our table, one theme followed ginger through various permutations.

Despite these efforts, Kelly indicates that she could do more. My read, which could be wrong and does not reflect how I would label her efforts, is that these activities are functions, she’s merely running scripts that pass the days. That most of these workouts serve as substitutes for her customary source for strength gains and caloric consumption; that is, to say, climbing. Thus, they don’t “count” in the big picture sense – something bigger could accrue, some appreciable difference to point at and say, “if not for COVID-19 I might not have had time to accomplish X.” X being the enigma. That elusive variable we label as “being productive” thereby turning it from mutable form into a constant

I can relate. At times, the most pressing thought I have is whether or not to shave my beard. Part of me never wants to remove it again. This craving resembles my hankering to grow out my hair. Apparently, I quest to become a shaggy Muppet. How they fling up their arms and flail about amuses me, which means every glance at a reflective surface could become quite entertaining. There Dave is again, gyrating his hands as if grasping at the heavens, all while grinning with head uplifted.

Though, given a touch of balding, the character of my hair, and my generally tendency toward being slovenly, I suspect long hair would equal appearing scuzzy. Further, my desire for change means long hair would never last. The urge to cleanse my face of its beard strikes weekly, and I suspect even were split ends to reach my shoulders that their eventual culling would involve more than a mere touch up.

She points to this blog as me being productive. “Dave has been so busy, he’s blogging, writing, etc.” The thing about being productive is that you can always point to what you’re not accomplishing, all of which keys back to the concept of “purpose.” At the moment, my purpose seems to be to fill my days with meaning, laugh with and support friends, maintain my fitness, perform well at work, and explore the peripheries of new hobbies, whether they involve blogging, learning how to film (vlogging?), expanding my breadth of knowledge of board games, and losing myself in the hours spent alongside Kelly as we serve as co-captains of this bizarre suspended animation state of living in which we’ve become embedded.

And, damn, when we release ourselves back into the world, my goal is to shake things up, to get outdoors more, to be kinder to friends, and to rethink where I live, how I live, and where I shall live, for all of these things can be adjusted, fine-tuned, and it’s all going to be exciting to explore, especially considering we are going to be insanely fit, for this month equals 50 burpees a day. I suppose we’ll be doing 100 of them a day, if not more, by the time this COVID insanity all resolves.

None of these days are that bad, at least while we continue to dodge being sick and jobless. Looking back, the terminal years of being a teenager were in some ways harder to navigate, even if it’s absurd to have felt as I had felt given how easy life can be as a child when compared to the days that have followed. However, at the time, boredom had become a theme. And boredom takes an insidious toll on a person’s emotional health. Across my bed I’d lie as I stared at a TV, hours melting into each other, accruing as a congealed mess of visual drivel. The remote would take me past shows like Saved by the Bell, terrible offerings that I saw as vacant representations of my listlessness, as if its form and function had become one in the guise of a terrible sitcom. Oftentimes, the late hours meant Speed Racer provided visual fodder. I recall nausea would build as my languor continued. Eventually, sleep would save me from this self-disgust.

No extended period of time since then has resembled that nadir of melancholy. Though I had friends, an isolation did perturb me, as if I understood that, even though I lacked the words to convey this concept, everything that formed my life would recede, and thus I was awaiting a life ahead rather than living the one at hand. Looking back, not much of what might define me today links with this former incarnation of myself, though, of course, the underlying traits remain intact, for humans rarely change all that much.

We can squash negative behaviors and direct our efforts toward different pursuits, but some core principles of who we are remain indelible. Remarkable, though, is that because we remain quite the same, should we witness ourselves heading down a path from our past, it is possible to recognize the dominoes as they tumble and correct ourselves before everything crashes down. On an individual scale, we can dodge the doom of our historical cycles. Which is to say, we gain the knowhow and tools to prevent our failings from undoing us ad infinitum.

I’m good with having had stretches in my past that I found to be difficult. If not for them, this current spell under which we’ve all been thrust would feel much more difficult. I’m fine with constructing meaning, that is purpose, with whatever tools and toward whatever ends bring me happiness in terms of the immediate as well as the future. When we’re capable of defining our narratives, of telling our stories on our terms, or at least in words that are largely our own, well, that’s something to celebrate. So, in this way, purpose is as purpose does, and I don’t plan to stop doing. Meanwhile, I recognize some minutes spent staring at a TV aren’t horrible; though, with Kelly around, it means that we’ll be on our mats working out as the video dramas play out. Which isn’t bad either.

I’m a liar. Same with you. We are all fibbers. You learn this truth as a child. Not everything your parents say makes sense. You recognize your own misrepresentations as you scheme outcomes favorable to your adolescent urges. People argue all around you. All of it combines to convey that fluidity and positioning serve as our tools, if not our overlords as well, for oftentimes we may not realize that how we perceive situations and opportunities involve blinders, self-deceptions. Add in that the world, or at least its inhabitants, might be feeding us faulty info and it’s remarkable that we have any sense of direction. Thus, we scramble to apply logic secure some sense of footing, ever blind to fallacies that might underpin its tenets.

With many people, I wonder whether they are idiots, liars, or some combination of the two. Oftentimes words shared by another person make little sense, and it’s unclear to me to what extent I’m too simple to grasp what the other person is presenting. This other person is saying these thoughts, and thus seems to understand such words as reality. However, from my perspective it appears that the person is either lying, and bad at it, or simply blind to the incoherencies being said. Self-delusional. Here’s a concrete, yet non-specific, example: “Well, 2 + 4 equals apple, right?” An apple and two and four have nothing to with each other. Yes, we all can derive ways that this sentence makes sense, but humans are creative: see sentences one and two above, above: “I’m a liar. Same with you.”

The issue is that people generally avoid being open with each other. We don’t share. We’re insecure. Embarrassed. We develop elaborate rationales for our avoidant stances. Sometimes we decry intrusive question. Other times, we wish not to hurt another person’s feelings. There’s a slew of reasons people behave as they do, and oftentimes it seems that simply owning up to the facts would save everyone from consternation and ultimately cause less distress overall. Whether this means saying, “I’m depressed and don’t want to do anything,” “I don’t really like doing X with you because of Y,” “Yes, I push my politics the same way those with whom I disagree push theirs, and I don’t really care about the hypocrisy,” or anything of the like. It’d be refreshing for people to own the truth and not convolute the truth with misdirection that only takes us all farther along a dead-end path that expends unnecessary energy in the form of vocal gyrations.

Years ago, while watching Lost, it frustrated me that the characters never shared information with each other. If they’d only open up about their pasts or what they’ve recently witnessed they’d be able to navigate the current crisis. Yet, they refused to divulge. Fear dictated their inaction. It was painful. Just act like humans I thought, for my earnest mind believed I would convey the hidden knowledge, thereby ruining the plot lines. As years have accreted data about how people behave, it strikes me that Lost did a better job conveying us as we are. Our own refusal to be open, to believe that others would share empathy, drives much of our behavior, and thus we’re suffering from ailments and disconnects and anxieties and missed opportunities all the while because we’re not equipping each other with the information we need to make informed decisions, receive aid, or effect whatever ends might improve our lots. At least we’re not running into polar bears on tropical islands or being assailed by “smoke” monsters. We have that going for us, even if we end up being our own best enemies all the while.

I try to keep my eyes open. Though half the time it’s unclear that they’re closed. Easy it is to think you’re aware of things to then realized you hadn’t been viewing a mirage of a reflection, levels of misapprehensions atop each other. It’s been a hard week, at least in some ways, so perhaps a touch of fatigue and frustration underlies my words. So, let me inhale, exhale, and take back a step or two.

A goal of mine remains to practice my skills of observation, to continue to learn and expand. This intention stems across a spectrum of behaviors, whether in regard to paying attention to people, my environment, thought processes, or anything else. Of course, I’m not successful much of the time and there skulks a persistent doubt that when I think I grasp something that I’m tuned into a falsehood rather than an actuality. Yet, can only do what one can do, and see whatever connections the brain can deliver. Much of the time, people seem to be quite oblivious, which makes me wonder just how disconnected I must, in turn, appear to others.

I was pleased with the post on bird facts, Burke Lake, and herons. To me, it did a good job of being silly, informative, expressing curiosity, and relaying mild ideas within a story format. The style arose after reading a post a friend added to his blog. He personalizes his posts, providing updates on his loved ones as well as himself. He shares what they do, their little quirks. Stories. With this style in mind, I tried to invoke it as well. To take that lesson and see what my incarnation of it might resemble, for the style provides a sense of immediacy, a personal touch. For even if don’t know the people, hearing tales on a personal, relatable level improves the reading experience. Incorporating humanity and life details is why we have literature and movies as well as accounts of nonfictional worlds. So, in some posts I’ll try to include such intimacy.

As mentioned above, this past week has been a touch hard. And this topic has been one that I’ve teetered back-and-forth on in terms of whether to mention it. It’s been stressful. I have concerns that something is wrong with me. I mean I’m still doing my life, to the extent that I can at any moment. I go on runs, do push-ups, keep active. Playing games with friends remains a near daily occurrence. But there are these panic moments that intersperse these interactions. For the past four or five days I’ve had a tingling sensation in my fingertips and legs. And I’ve had a kind of thickness and vibration in my head as well. It’s kind of like a headache, but not. While inhaling, sometimes it feels like only the left side of my lungs is working, as if the air doesn’t reach the recesses of the right lung. But this difficulty in breathing is somewhat normal. Being an allergenic asthmatic, I can never count on full use of my nostrils or lungs. Blockades. Discomforts.

A persistent congestion often makes it hard for me to communicate. I feel like I’m talking through mucus and its always pushing down on me. And, that’s normal. So, it’s unclear whether any difficulties arising now are different. As Kelly once witnessed, as we sat in a theater last year watching Cabaret, I can be nonchalant about this malady. I told her during intermission. I can’t breathe. Let’s finish the musical and then I should visit Urgent Care. I can take you home first. It would surprise me if she caught any of the performance when it started back up. I simply gasped and tried to stay lucid as my supply dwindled, knowing all would be fine once they hooked me up to a nebulizer.

So, I wake up at night. My vision blurry because I have dry eyes, not knowing to what extent this is due to my normal issue or something else. Aware of my breathing, aware of the tingling, I enter a state of panic. I work on exercises in terms of breathing, meditations. I get up and walk around a little. Take my temperature. Use the bathroom. Drink water. Read some until sleep overtakes me again. It is during these moments that I feel terribly alone. Even though Kelly is nearby, to some extent I want to keep this tension away from her, but then to some extent I want her to be apprised so that she can monitor me should any of this turn out to be more than a hypochondriac’s fever.

I think I’ll pass. Yesterday, I entered that portion of time where noises hurt me. You might know of it; maybe when you had chills from a fever or even just from a hangover. Everything is calamitous and loud and painful. The skin aches, as if you’re encased in a lining that sparks pain. I was irritable. Kelly tried to be cute by making silly little noises. She sometimes manifest personality similar to GIR from Invader Zim or perhaps a little odd animal-alien-critter that works off of basic concepts and needs. We’ll essentially become strange, simple creatures from maybe some offshoot Muppet or alien race, like tribbles if they were humanoid and sentient in a way that allows for vocalizations of core concepts like hunger or fatigue. Usually we enjoy these moments. Yet, during these off moments, they become painful, jarring. The brutality of their immediacy within the recesses of my head transforms them into clanging annoyances rather than games. So it goes.

Today, I managed to get a virtual appointment with a doctor. I’m pretty sure the diagnosis was hypochondria or panic attacks or something else. We focused on my medicine and coffee intake, both categories capable of causing tingling sensations. I went through the drills for stroke. Arms up. Arms forward. Smile. Etc. Kelly has had me go through these motions. I feel like a monkey performing, but it provides some sense of normality; yes, I’m fine. I suspect tomorrow will be better, and if not tomorrow then the next day. Meanwhile, I’ll keep trying to learn. I look forward to reading any chapter from the book I’ve been reading, and continuing to try to put words on this glowing substitute for paper.