Cockeyed and Curious

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.

There’s music we each enjoy that we recognize as being a guilty pleasure. What’s beautiful about the spectrum of art is that what’s a guilty pleasure for one person might be integral for another person. Like Tom Petty’s unyielding use of the same several chords might cause a person to detest his music, yet that same person might find the immediacy of time slip away as she feels that she, too, is running down a dream while working on a mystery and going wherever it leads. I love Girls Just Want to Have Fun, and had it serve as my “send tune” a couple of years back, delighting in the absurdity of rolling up to a crag with the windows down and screaming along with Cyndi as she laments the boys who hide their girls from the rest of the world. That sort of jam gets the blood pumping and ready to cruise some hard routes, truly. I don’t fault anyone who disses a pleasure of mine, and I get why they’d dislike it. For, I have no interest in your rock-out to Journey; however, I do appreciate that you derive something meaningful from their music.

On this note, I have possessions that are guilty pleasures. Like, my Apple Watch embarrasses me. In the DC area where people seem consumed by ideas of meritocracy, affluence, power, pedigrees, and other constructs of these ilk, you see a good number of people with such watches. They’re not uncommon, and it seems that with each wave of updates to the hardware more people succumb to their allure. When I was in Seattle back in February, that no one seemed to wear smartwatches struck me. I felt like an outlier; it was like I was thrust back a few years when I first secured mine, an outlier of sorts who appears to outsiders to have too much money while also kneeling too much at the altar of Apple.

It’s a frivolous, silly purchase. Not to say it doesn’t provide perks, for it does. Tracking miles during runs is wonderful. Having the device stream info at me as I gasp for air can prompt me to go farther than I might have otherwise traveled. There’s something inspiring about feeling energized, seeing that I have logged X miles, and knowing that I possess the time and energy to accrue Y more miles. It also provides other fleeting benefits, like timing planks or sessions on a systems board. Use of a phone can handle such tracking, but it’s a little more streamlined a process, for me at least, to use the watch. Also, being that I’m a slave to notifications, it keeps me away from my phone, easy it is to see the watch update, and move on with life, rather than finding myself holding my phone and then possibly playing with it, thereby squandering time.

I realize this last example reveals a bigger issue: my battle with distractions and weakness for immediate gratifications. The ability to control music, podcasts, and other media from the wrist has proven quite useful as well. But, again, if applying a stamp that reads “trivial,” “unnecessary,” or “exorbitant trinket,” then you could press such a stamp against the watch. And, then, after having done so, reach for each of those other stamps to press each of them against the device as well.

Anyway, the main reason I want to mention the watch, which apparently “required” an extensive disclaimer regarding the fact that I own it, is that it amuses me with its feedback. Most days I go for a run before noon, but if I’m busy with work then I might not go until later in the day. Around the time I’d have wrapped up the run on a normal day, it’ll display an alert, something like: “Your move and exercise rings are usually further along by now.” For those not in the know, the watch tracks three metrics each day: (1) whether you stood and walked around for 3 minutes each hour, (2) how many minutes you spent exercising, and (3) how many active calories you burned, completion of rings indicates your progress toward a goal that you’ve set for each of metrics. It provides other messages, all along these lines. Some are supportive: way to go, you closed all three rings. Others, usually sent around the time you’re in pajamas, are prodding, “A brisk, X-minute walk should [allow you to close your move ring].”

Eventually, I hope they’ll provide more control over these messages. I picture a range of checkbox or range selector options that allow you fine tune the tone of the messages. Want more snark? Want abusiveness? Passive aggression feedback? Aggressive prodding? Insults? Pleading? “Listen, I know you’re a lazy POS, but maybe you could at least pick up the phone to call the ambulance for what’s surely a coronary in your future.” What also cracks me up is that unless you’re full-on every day, the watch is never satisfied. You could completely crush your targets for ten days straight and then on day eleven you simply wish to rest, for maybe you’re sore, barely able to move, having done ten back-to-back ultramarathons followed by hundreds of push-ups and an hour of abs focused HIIT. Nonetheless, the watch will jab you: “hey, WTF, why’s your move ring look like crap today.” It’s insanity.

A friend from pre-college posted the following message on FB:

• “Get mad at me for saying this if you want, but reading/hearing middle class white people call stay at home orders oppression is HILARIOUS and reminds me that America truly has been a very different place for ethnic minorities.#HonestObservation #ImNOTHereToLieToYou #Privilege. Edit: This is undoubtedly true for all marginalized groups.”

I have a vague memory that involves this friend. It’s of when we were in middle school, mostly during a math class, which was taught by an inept guy who was doomed as a teacher given that he took to heart how his students perceived him. Given that at the age we were at, you shouldn’t put much stock in our opinions and most of us were likely selfish jerks, this guy was a failure at his job. He catered to people who pretended to not understand what he taught, thus his earnest desire to leave no student behind, before that phrase became a political angle, meant we mostly spun around in circles. Or, rather, I recall trying to balance our desks on two and then even one leg. Boredom precipitated tomfoolery.

Part of our shenanigans involved prodding at boundaries. I forget the specifics, but a group of us would jokingly use racial, cultural, and other similarly minded slurs toward each other. Well, not even slurs at times, but rather categories. No malice meant. We, at least this was my take on what we were doing, were mocking the absurdity of these terms, of the ideas behind their use. We’d declare, “Whatever, Jesus Christ worshipper” or, “So says the Jew,” or whatever else. I suspect we may have also used some of the usual suspects when it comes to outright offensive language, and I discretely recall someone receiving a Happy Bar Mitzvah card for a birthday, which isn’t necessarily a religious assault, but, at the same time, isn’t what I’d label as classy. I think this guy, the Facebook poster, was part of this crew, though I may be misremembering. I know that he was in the class, and I believe that we cemented our friendship during this class as we sought purpose, for learning math wasn’t the outcome toward which we were heading.

Of course, at that age, I’m sure that this friend had a better idea of cultural differences than I had at the time. Being black, I suppose that shit hits you on day one. There’s no looking away. It’s like you’re sitting in a chair with an apparatus strapped your face, which provides prongs that hold open your eyelids so that your eyes can stare at a projection and the images that it carries. Your ears, well they hear things, and you’re smart, so you pick up on what’s happening in society on the TV, with your family and friends, and basically every vibration that we call life that happens while you’re alive in this culture. Not that you even need to be smart to pick up on these social constructs, on how the world works, for we’re all pretty smart even if we don’t make use of our intellect at all times. You just have to take a moment to pay attention. At that age, I wasn’t paying attention. I was blind, essentially. Most people don’t pay attention; that’s the first thing you learn once you have a moment to close your eyes and reflect.

I remember, in history class, one of our classmates would lament that the South had lost the Civil War, which caused this particular friend a lot of, hmm, I’ll call it anguish though it manifested as incredulous anger. Like part of him couldn’t believe how dumb her words were, for she seemed to lack all concept that what she was saying. She even said that the south would rise again. I now realize that it’s a miracle that he didn’t smack her. She might has well added that she wished that her family could own his, which, now that I think of it, I think may have been part of our pushing-the-boundaries jokes, “my great-great grandfather owned your great-great grandfather, or something along those lines.” As I said above, that math teacher was a fool. He either had no clue that we were being ridiculous or didn’t have the temerity to do anything about it; I hope he found some sense of dignity before long, for sans a sense of self, the world steamrolls you.

Anyway, I share all of this mostly because I miss this friend, for we’ve been in different states for the bulk of our lives and people sort of do their own things, but we have our memories, and I think of those I shared with him from time-to-time. Sleepovers. Conversations. Sports. Games. A trip with his father to a time share. Various tidbits. I don’t retain the specifics of many things, but a decent chunk of memories that he and I shared I continue to curate, even trivial moments like a time I picked him up for school, which, in retrospect, was a touch absurd given that I had to drive like ten minutes the wrong direction to retrieve him, but he was my friend and it was fun to hang out as we went to that pen that is our educational system.

Though we rarely interact via Facebook, and it’s been years since I’ve seen this guy, I do keep an eye on what he’s up to and what he shares. His life path interests me, and I appreciate things that he says and does, like helping people get to voting stations, regardless of whom they’re voting for. He’s one of the good ones. I guess what I’m trying to explain is that his post—and it being the morning and my having guzzled coffee and, thereby, feeling energy that needed to be focused—provoked me to respond. I wrote the following:

“The world turns, and things change as it revolves. Yet, idiots shall remain idiots, blinded by their hypocrisy. What’s unfortunate is that these people stem from a legacy that instills them a voice, which means their idiocy will continue to pervade our lives for years to come. These open-up jackasses couldn’t see gradations or nuances before COVID and most of them will continue to bump through life without opening their eyes, their feckless helpless blundering a potential harm to us whenever it nears.”

My friend replied with: “I wanted to both love and laugh at this comment. Well said sir.”

To which I responded: “Thanks! Though, add in some tears as well, for the optimist in me ever hopes that things will change despite persistent evidence otherwise.”

Though, I regret having written jackasses. Part of me hopes that these people will engage with others and that they can change; calling them jackasses does not invite circumspection. It’ll tune them out; cause division. I’ve changed in some ways, opened my eyes and reconsidered various facets of my life. Other people have done so as well, and, sure, some people will never change, but I feel that you must keep clear the pathway that can get them to reconsider assumptions and perspectives. One of the most amazing people of whom I’ve learned is Daryl Davis. His story, of which I’ve heard a couple versions of and probably prefer the Snap Judgment account titled The Silver Dollar Lounge, in short, is that he befriended KKK members, which caused them to leave the Klan. That level of faith in humans and desire to give people a chance to improve themselves despite risk to personal safety astounds me. What he managed to do through curiosity and a willingness to put aside his ego and preconceived notions inspires me.

Yes, KKK people and Nazis and all sorts of people who believe, say, and/or do things that I would label as terrible are detrimental to society, they pollute our ears and distract us, as a society, from improving. Yet, I do not know that I can discount humans generally, they suck so often, myself included, but there’s always the chance that some percentage of people can improve, and I find it difficult to simply say, “you’re trash,” and refuse to pull on the rope to which they could cling should they wish to extract themselves from the quicksand that pulls them down. For we’re all sinking in mucks of varying substances and sometimes we can clamber out on our own, but, in the end, much of what saves us from ourselves can be the little insights we notice, such as to extract oneself from the mire you can sometimes use nearby roots rather than a rope thrown to you.

I believe that we can all improve, it just takes a desire to do so, and any deities watching me from the beyond surely know that there are so many ways I, as with all of my fellow denizens of earth, am a jackass. I can see these past faux pas moments stream along as I recollect past moments, innumerable and unyielding they appear. So, in this regard, I hope that I have changed, and recognize that for many of my failings I still endeavor to improve; accordingly, I wish the potential for such evolutions to all.

Paul Coelho’s The Alchemist is written beautifully. That I listened to it as an audiobook made the smooth narrative easy to follow as I ran across suburban streets. I wouldn’t recommend this novel to anyone, unless they’re seeking something light and fast. It reads almost like a self-help tome written, an allegorical tale steeped in South America’s magic realism literary culture. Whereas Marquez’s novels like 100 Years of Solitude require some engagement and thought, Coelho spells most everything out for you. Not to say that efforts to peel beneath its veneer would not reveal additional layers or substance but rather that you’d find much of the veneer to be its substance; the novel spells out much of what it contains. I might have missed a lot, and perhaps its didactic nature beguiled me, shrouding its richer concepts beyond my sight, but I suspect that part of the book’s popularity lies in its accessibility and general message, which are things that I support and appreciate.

I finished listening to the novel during a run. I had planned to time its completion with my return home; however, an urge to add another half mile struck so I put on some music. Given that I was fumbling with my phone while running along streets, which also involves ensuring that I maintain proper distance from passersby, I selected one of the first options I saw. A Touch of Grey sounded, which isn’t a song I listen to frequently, and it has likely been years since I’ve played it. Sometimes it’ll come on while I’m shopping for groceries but then it’s more of a backdrop that does remind me that I’ll survive the store, which, I suppose, I appreciate. At this moment, it was the perfect song. The Alchemist brightened my mood with its general theme and then this cheerful, optimistic song fit this COVID-19 heaviness. “I will survive. I will get by.” “Every silver lining has a touch of grey.” The bouncy nature of the tune meshed with my stride. I sang along, I smiled. I laughed. My pace quickened. It was wonderful. Then Friend of the Devil came on. And then Uncle John’s Band. Ok, so we’re heading through the checklist of pop hits, but, whatever, these songs are nevertheless good and sparkly and they fueled my reserves, bounded me forward, and got me through an additional couple of miles beyond what I had planned. Not a bad way to wean a little love.

A pathetic jade-like plant sits in a small pot amongst an African violet and a dead succulent near the bedroom window. This morning sunlight bathed it. The edges of its tiny thumb-like leaves glowed. Observing these golden hues, I thought of auras. Outside it had rained through much of the morning. Anxiety and life and whatever else had jostled me awake for short bursts throughout the early hours. Fragments of these moments remain retained, thereby counterpointing this floodlit plant with the foggy vapors of the dawn’s heavy rains. Now, as I accept my first motions toward entering the day ahead, this plant strikes me with its beauty. It resembles a bonsai tree in its diminutive state. It grows horizontally, threatening eventual doom should it not expand other directions. We rotate it, but it maintains a consistent path regardless of to which cardinal point this finger-like projection aims. Perhaps this shelf serves as an offering to Osiris, Hel, Hades or whomever plants might worship, for the blooms of the violet have shrived and now decay within the center of the plant’s mass.

We know not the species of the dead succulent, though when alive it sported fine hairs that Kelly would stroke daily while at work. She enjoyed how it felt, finding it odd yet soothing. I never touched the plant for we transported it home once the lockdown began, and it did not survive the transportation. Some plants live to die, in that they grow in unsustainable fashions, branching out in one direction so as to tip their pots or to an extent that their structure cannot handle.

This plant espoused suicide through its growth patterns. Finicky and temperamental, the combination of a self-destructive growth pattern, some temporary neglect due to the work-from-home transition, and a minor calamity when it tipped over while traveling home, thereby ripping it from its dirt bedding, thereby destroying many of its roots. At home, it progressed from green to brown; its integrity softened. One day, it exploded. Or, maybe a better description is deflated for suddenly moisture released, wetting the dirt, leaving behind skin reminiscent more of a snake shedding than of a plant. Light’s warmth dried the soil, desiccated the plant. We let its carcass remain. A sort of chalk outline of a memory of what once was.

One day we’ll replace the dead plant with something new. Perhaps we’ll locate another of the its species and continue its story in the guise of a 2.0 version. For now, we have this triad of fading beauty, bizarre life choices, and extinguished promise. Yet, how the sun strikes the jade makes me rethink how I conceive this shelf. It’s so beautiful, the plant and its illumination. This world can be so splendid, I remember. The sky has taken on pastel hues. Even the water-drenched bricks along the highest portions of the buildings in view conjure a sense of beauty and mystery. I picture the droplets soaking into the bricks, flowing within in a manner reminiscent to a creek cascading down rocky mountain slopes. Some doves swoop past, seeking balconies higher than my window view grants my vision access.

Yesterday I felt a tad overwhelmed by the news. Certain ailments have always caused me distress. As in, the concept of them pains me. To contemplate what causes them and their effects causes me distress. Strokes and heart attacks terrify me. Their prospect cripples me upon thinking of them for I then imagine what it might be like to suffer their brutality. Seeing that blood clots is a manifestation of this enigmatic disease that’s overtaken our world society left me feeling helpless. Strokes. Bodies turned against themselves. The demon inside being literally just that. It’s incapacitating.

What scares me the most is not dying but, rather, thinking about what it would be like for loved ones. They’re the ones that carry any burden of my passing. I think of trivial things such as purchases that are soon arriving in the mail, trinkets that my girlfriend should not need to deal with in terms of donating or selling. Even the surprise of the arrival would remind her of loss. To gain is to remember what you have lost, at times. I think of bank accounts, credit statements, possessions, and all of the associated work. I worry about where my savings will end up, and whom can access it, or, more importantly, who might lack access. These things are trivial, I realize, but they’re ways to ignore the more pressing aspects of loss. To think that the adventures and memories we had planned will be never achieved. To believe that inside jokes will no longer be replicated.

Everyone will forge on, but that I will have become a story of loss saddens me. My solace is that I know that we can adapt, and I guess that’s the paradox of my fear. If one of us were to succumb I’d rather it be me, though I know that I could handle any loss, but I’d rather not wish that need on anyone else. In the confused state that results from this confusion, I know that we must both survive, but that we might not is what terrifies me.

Each person out there would be severely missed if lost, and each day we see the death toll numbers increase. It’s a bit much at times, which is why I stare at the sunlit ovals and reach my fingertips toward Kelly. She murmurs an appreciative noise as she stretches in response to the contact. I glance over to see a slight smile. Upturned lips, always a delightful sight. No idea what comes next, but staying alive to try to spark such wonders, her happiness and all that it brings, shall remain a bedrock of my metaphorical soul.

Reminded of pleasures and of possibilities, I left the bed to make come coffee and pancakes and to take on the world. It’s a lazy Friday full of reading, some gaming, contact with friends via technology, and whatever else shall arrive at our door.