I've been thinking about the impact of anxiety on our lives. Especially the kind of anxiety that circles around our relationships and attachments. I've been hatching a new theory about how our level of vulnerability to social anxiety (or lack of vulnerability) affects the way we approach relationships and operate within them.
Are you willing to help me test my theory?
First, some background. Let's talk about anxiety. By "anxiety" I mean physical symptoms of anxiety: pounding heart, tightness in your chest, cold sweat, nervousness, a feeling of dread, etc. These are measurable things. Objective and palpable.
Secondly, I'm targeting a specific source of anxiety, namely the kind of anxiety that is sparked by interactions with other people. For example, anxiety about a breakup or your friend getting pissed at you. There are other potent sources of anxiety of course, such as fear of physical violence or going to the dentist. These kinds of anxiety relate to physical pain. I want to steer clear of those in this study.
I've put together a survey to explore how much social anxiety you experience in your life. For each question, rank yourself on a scale of 1 to 10 on the strength of the anxiety you would feel in that particular situation (i.e., the intensity of the physical symptoms). 1 means you feel no anxiety at all. 5 is moderate, but bearable anxiety. 10 is severe and unbearable anxiety compelling you to take immediate action to stop it.
The Questions
How much anxiety do you feel when:
1. Watching movies full of tense drama, conflicts, and heartbreak.
2. In childhood, being yelled at.
3. In childhood, being separated from your parents.
4. When a person acts angry or sad in your presence, but not because of something you did.
5. When a person acts angry or sad in your presence because of something you did.
6. Witnessing strangers arguing/fighting.
7. Someone crying in front of you.
8. Public speaking/group attention.
9. Facing a deadline in work, school, or other commitment.
10. Sitting down to a written test in which your score will be known to others.
11. Getting the silent treatment.
12. Thinking that you might not be invited.
13. Thinking that you might be invited.
14. Being left alone.
15. Being the object of someone's interest.
16. Your partner acts like he/she is disappointed in you or unsatisfied with you.
17. Your partner is angry at you.
18. Revealing the person you are.
19. Failing to meet your parents' expectations.
20. Disagreeing with someone.
For each of these final questions, please indicate whether you either strongly disagree, somewhat disagree, somewhat agree, or strongly agree.
21. If there is a person I want to be with, I am quick to feel anxiety if I feel that the person is drifting away from me or is not liking me.
22. If I ever feel anxiety that the person I want to be with is drifting away from me or is not liking me, the solution is usually to get even closer to the person and let him/her know how I feel. My first thought is to try harder to succeed with that person.
23. If I ever feel anxiety that the person I want to be with is drifting away from me or is not liking me, the solution is usually to distance myself from the person and hide my feelings. My first thought is to protect myself from that person.
I'll let you know how my hypothesis works out. (Feel free to answer anonymously if you'd like.) Thanks for weighing in with your own experiences!!
(Click HERE for the results.)
Friday, February 26, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
SEED, Part 3
(Serial fiction, sci-fi)
Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.
SEED4611 traveled eighty percent of the speed of light. It had been flung from Earth's orbit by the quantum accelerators which spun like gigantic centrifuges and scattered SEED vehicles on thousands of vectors toward the galactic center.
It traveled 72 million kilometers in five minutes. Five irrelevant minutes. But 4.067 seconds and 976,000 kilometers after that five minutes ended, SEED4611 received a signal. The first signal in over 200 years.
The message penetrated the encryption algorithms designed to filter out natural electromagnetic interference. The coding exhibited valid credentials. Mission parameters came on line, and SEED4611 parsed the transmission in preparation for data input.
But the code sidestepped the mission menus and hacked directly into the wake systems. It matched the machine-level syntax and embedded a false wake command. SEED4611 prepared to revive the cargo in the desolation of interstellar space.
Valid wake signals originated in the navigation and gravity cores. These guided the vehicle into a gently decaying planetary orbit once an objective was reached. Then, the wake command would activate. But this signal had been broadcast from outside the vehicle.
Offline processors in the main computer lit and flowed with electricity.
Programs booted.
Circuits prepared for the flurry that would initialize the three-month resuscitation process.
After the intricate warming and induction period, the young woman would open her eyes. She would open her eyes to nothing but a pin-prick sky of stars. And she would die sixteen minutes later when the pod's power drained and the absolute cold froze her for the final time.
But the wake circuits winked out.
And the warming protocol did not execute.
A low level subroutine not expected by the hacking signal aborted the process. A failsafe. Not enough light registered on the pod's photocells to indicate that a solar body was close by. The forgotten bit of programming was added as an afterthought to help prevent a tragic loss of cargo in space.
So SEED4611 traveled on.
And covered another span of space.
Another hacking signal hit the wake cycle, and again the failsafe terminated it.
A third signal arrived. A fourth. A fifth.
Then, the listening subroutines of antenna deactivated.
It was another base-level failsafe. In the event of cosmic interference or hardware failure, the antenna was designed to power down for six months to prevent repetitive and catastrophic power drains.
The wake signals continued.
One after the other.
SEED4611 was indifferent and unhindered by the attacks. It sped onward, a speck on an ocean of black oceans.
On to Part 4.
Go back to Part 2.
Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.
SEED4611 traveled eighty percent of the speed of light. It had been flung from Earth's orbit by the quantum accelerators which spun like gigantic centrifuges and scattered SEED vehicles on thousands of vectors toward the galactic center.
It traveled 72 million kilometers in five minutes. Five irrelevant minutes. But 4.067 seconds and 976,000 kilometers after that five minutes ended, SEED4611 received a signal. The first signal in over 200 years.
The message penetrated the encryption algorithms designed to filter out natural electromagnetic interference. The coding exhibited valid credentials. Mission parameters came on line, and SEED4611 parsed the transmission in preparation for data input.
But the code sidestepped the mission menus and hacked directly into the wake systems. It matched the machine-level syntax and embedded a false wake command. SEED4611 prepared to revive the cargo in the desolation of interstellar space.
Valid wake signals originated in the navigation and gravity cores. These guided the vehicle into a gently decaying planetary orbit once an objective was reached. Then, the wake command would activate. But this signal had been broadcast from outside the vehicle.
Offline processors in the main computer lit and flowed with electricity.
Programs booted.
Circuits prepared for the flurry that would initialize the three-month resuscitation process.
After the intricate warming and induction period, the young woman would open her eyes. She would open her eyes to nothing but a pin-prick sky of stars. And she would die sixteen minutes later when the pod's power drained and the absolute cold froze her for the final time.
But the wake circuits winked out.
And the warming protocol did not execute.
A low level subroutine not expected by the hacking signal aborted the process. A failsafe. Not enough light registered on the pod's photocells to indicate that a solar body was close by. The forgotten bit of programming was added as an afterthought to help prevent a tragic loss of cargo in space.
So SEED4611 traveled on.
And covered another span of space.
Another hacking signal hit the wake cycle, and again the failsafe terminated it.
A third signal arrived. A fourth. A fifth.
Then, the listening subroutines of antenna deactivated.
It was another base-level failsafe. In the event of cosmic interference or hardware failure, the antenna was designed to power down for six months to prevent repetitive and catastrophic power drains.
The wake signals continued.
One after the other.
SEED4611 was indifferent and unhindered by the attacks. It sped onward, a speck on an ocean of black oceans.
On to Part 4.
Go back to Part 2.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Red Skies Coming
put you to bed
with a knife
and pussy willows
breathings airs
when there were trees
on the other hillside
you waited
with the first spring peeper
chirping at the fringe
of your nightgown
and your hand reached down
dark and tangled
melting hot
with the landscape
and the feet that would join you
lift the hair
from your shoulder
will cleave
your winter
into earth and mud
and open
your tendrilled
spring
Friday, February 19, 2010
SEED, Part 2
(Serial fiction, sci-fi)
Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.
Jax slogged through the black curtains of a strange sleep. A pain was wriggling in the darkness.
Throbbing.
Growing.
Dragging him awake.
His conscious mind struggled to assemble itself. To reconnect sensations, thoughts, limbs.
It was....
In his arms. Yes. He was sitting, and the pain was in his arms. Bad pain. Cramps digging into the muscles. He tried to pull his hands close to his body, but they wouldn't come.
He groaned, waking more.
Waking more.
He concentrated on the thick weight on his eyelids and willed them to open. Weak light smeared with the darkness. He blinked, but couldn't rub without his hands. His consciousness slipped and slid. He was so groggy. Like something trying to swim out of a pool of tar.
Hot pain knifed in his wrists.
He groaned louder.
The cramps hardened.
"The subject will relax," an amplified voice said from somewhere in front of him. It was all dark beyond the blurred shape of his arms.
The pain now boiled over.
Agonizing.
Unbearable.
Jax shook. Rocketed the rest of the way awake. "It hurts!" he screamed.
"The subject will relax."
A muddy warmth flowed into Jax's wrists and ran like syrup through his arms. It climbed his neck, then spread drowsy comfort up the sides of his skull. When the pleasing sensations met in the middle, the steely contractions released. It was so abrupt, his body jerked in the opposite direction.
He sucked in deep breaths as the lazy euphoria deepened. He tried to lift his arms again, but they were still pinned. His heart felt like it was beating miles away.
"You are awake," the cold voice said.
Not a question. A statement.
Jax swirled with the tumble of thoughts loose in his head.
Awake? Had he been dreaming? When did he go to bed? What day was it? What was the last thing he had been doing?
But there was nothing. Just a cloud of tattered connections.
Seconds passed, and Jax's focus sharpened a little more. He turned his head and perceived something. A thin, milky white line snaked down his shoulders to his forearms. He could feel a light pressure down there. A pull on the hairs of his skin.
"What's going on?" he said, murky.
The voice didn't respond.
A little louder, more agitated. "What's going on here?"
The objects on his arms were tubes. He squinted to see little green wings taped to his wrists. Needles. Intravenous lines.
Had he been injured? Fallen ill? But this was no hospital. Below the IVs, his wrists were belted to a black metal chair.
He attempted to get his legs under him, but his ankles resisted too. And something tight around his middle.
"Let me up!"
Animal panic sparked. Claustrophobia. Trapped.
"The subject will relax," the voice said.
"LET ME UP!!"
"The subject will relax."
Jax thrashed.
"The subject will be...punished."
Heat like hot peppers radiated from his wrists and spread. When it hit his skull, his mouth opened. When it hit his abdomen, a crippling earthquake of nausea slammed into his gut.
The reflex threw him hard against the restraints, and a deep, guttural sound ripped from his throat. He vomited a violent stream. Splashes pattered all over the floor.
The convulsion eased a moment, and he choked in a breath. It was cut by another horrifying heave.
He bent against the restraints. Rock hard. Fuzzy sparkles erupted in his vision. He was frozen in agony. Nothing going in or out.
His mind screamed for the voice. Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP! But his eyes just swelled in their sockets.
"The subject will relax," the voice said.
The change started at the wrists again. Some kind of drug was being pumped into his bloodstream. The euphoria marched back. The hideous, dying paralysis dissolved.
This time when the pain was gone, Jax found himself sobbing. Like he hadn't done since childhood. The magnitude of the pain his body could feel left him in disbelief.
"Don't," Jax said, squeezing tears. "Don't...."
"The subject will confirm information."
Jax looked up. His face streamed and wet.
"You are Jax Hyrysn," the voice said. "You are the Director of the SEED program."
The voice sounded kinder. Almost apologetic.
Jax straightened in the chair. The wave of relief was physical. He was distantly aware of urinating.
He nodded. Fast and eager.
The tears still flowed, but they were hysterical and happy now.
Yes!
Yes, he could confirm that!
And he could do more. Anything more. Anything to keep the pain away.
On to Part 3.
Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.
Jax slogged through the black curtains of a strange sleep. A pain was wriggling in the darkness.
Throbbing.
Growing.
Dragging him awake.
His conscious mind struggled to assemble itself. To reconnect sensations, thoughts, limbs.
It was....
In his arms. Yes. He was sitting, and the pain was in his arms. Bad pain. Cramps digging into the muscles. He tried to pull his hands close to his body, but they wouldn't come.
He groaned, waking more.
Waking more.
He concentrated on the thick weight on his eyelids and willed them to open. Weak light smeared with the darkness. He blinked, but couldn't rub without his hands. His consciousness slipped and slid. He was so groggy. Like something trying to swim out of a pool of tar.
Hot pain knifed in his wrists.
He groaned louder.
The cramps hardened.
"The subject will relax," an amplified voice said from somewhere in front of him. It was all dark beyond the blurred shape of his arms.
The pain now boiled over.
Agonizing.
Unbearable.
Jax shook. Rocketed the rest of the way awake. "It hurts!" he screamed.
"The subject will relax."
A muddy warmth flowed into Jax's wrists and ran like syrup through his arms. It climbed his neck, then spread drowsy comfort up the sides of his skull. When the pleasing sensations met in the middle, the steely contractions released. It was so abrupt, his body jerked in the opposite direction.
He sucked in deep breaths as the lazy euphoria deepened. He tried to lift his arms again, but they were still pinned. His heart felt like it was beating miles away.
"You are awake," the cold voice said.
Not a question. A statement.
Jax swirled with the tumble of thoughts loose in his head.
Awake? Had he been dreaming? When did he go to bed? What day was it? What was the last thing he had been doing?
But there was nothing. Just a cloud of tattered connections.
Seconds passed, and Jax's focus sharpened a little more. He turned his head and perceived something. A thin, milky white line snaked down his shoulders to his forearms. He could feel a light pressure down there. A pull on the hairs of his skin.
"What's going on?" he said, murky.
The voice didn't respond.
A little louder, more agitated. "What's going on here?"
The objects on his arms were tubes. He squinted to see little green wings taped to his wrists. Needles. Intravenous lines.
Had he been injured? Fallen ill? But this was no hospital. Below the IVs, his wrists were belted to a black metal chair.
He attempted to get his legs under him, but his ankles resisted too. And something tight around his middle.
"Let me up!"
Animal panic sparked. Claustrophobia. Trapped.
"The subject will relax," the voice said.
"LET ME UP!!"
"The subject will relax."
Jax thrashed.
"The subject will be...punished."
Heat like hot peppers radiated from his wrists and spread. When it hit his skull, his mouth opened. When it hit his abdomen, a crippling earthquake of nausea slammed into his gut.
The reflex threw him hard against the restraints, and a deep, guttural sound ripped from his throat. He vomited a violent stream. Splashes pattered all over the floor.
The convulsion eased a moment, and he choked in a breath. It was cut by another horrifying heave.
He bent against the restraints. Rock hard. Fuzzy sparkles erupted in his vision. He was frozen in agony. Nothing going in or out.
His mind screamed for the voice. Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP! But his eyes just swelled in their sockets.
"The subject will relax," the voice said.
The change started at the wrists again. Some kind of drug was being pumped into his bloodstream. The euphoria marched back. The hideous, dying paralysis dissolved.
This time when the pain was gone, Jax found himself sobbing. Like he hadn't done since childhood. The magnitude of the pain his body could feel left him in disbelief.
"Don't," Jax said, squeezing tears. "Don't...."
"The subject will confirm information."
Jax looked up. His face streamed and wet.
"You are Jax Hyrysn," the voice said. "You are the Director of the SEED program."
The voice sounded kinder. Almost apologetic.
Jax straightened in the chair. The wave of relief was physical. He was distantly aware of urinating.
He nodded. Fast and eager.
The tears still flowed, but they were hysterical and happy now.
Yes!
Yes, he could confirm that!
And he could do more. Anything more. Anything to keep the pain away.
On to Part 3.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
SEED, Part 1
(Serial fiction, sci-fi)
In interstellar space, nothing moved. Nothing changed.
One atom per cubic mile, and so many dark miles. More than the human brain could fathom.
Yet, in all directions, there was light. Billions of years of nuclear fires dotted the universe like brilliant lonely islands. Stars hugged their planets. Gravity swept the vast distances clean.
But in the tiniest speck of the tiniest fraction of the tiniest sliver of space, something did move. A small vehicle like a bloated coffin arrowed forward at terrifying speed. Of course, in interstellar space, terrifying speed felt like the tick of a second in the course of a year. Insignificant. Pointless. A race standing still. But back on Earth, that kind of speed would vaporize the craft in a millisecond if it ever touched the atmosphere again.
Inside SEED4611, the cargo slept. (If the near-arrest of molecules could be called sleep.) A sixteen year old woman. Her womb impregnated with a male fetus unrelated to her. The systems didn't maintain the cold. The nothingness provided the absolute freeze.
SEED4611 was launched with energy for one purpose alone. The on-board system processed one burst of data each year. Two hundred and fifty seven years ago, the light of one star in the look-zone registered a tiny increase in magnitude. A tiny increase greater than the other stars. SEED4611 used the stored energy to delicately steer toward it, slower than a glacier on Earth. Now, it only had to maintain. Now, it only had to collect the thin streams photons striking its dark, metal skin. Now, it only had to wait.
On to Part 2.
In interstellar space, nothing moved. Nothing changed.
One atom per cubic mile, and so many dark miles. More than the human brain could fathom.
Yet, in all directions, there was light. Billions of years of nuclear fires dotted the universe like brilliant lonely islands. Stars hugged their planets. Gravity swept the vast distances clean.
But in the tiniest speck of the tiniest fraction of the tiniest sliver of space, something did move. A small vehicle like a bloated coffin arrowed forward at terrifying speed. Of course, in interstellar space, terrifying speed felt like the tick of a second in the course of a year. Insignificant. Pointless. A race standing still. But back on Earth, that kind of speed would vaporize the craft in a millisecond if it ever touched the atmosphere again.
Inside SEED4611, the cargo slept. (If the near-arrest of molecules could be called sleep.) A sixteen year old woman. Her womb impregnated with a male fetus unrelated to her. The systems didn't maintain the cold. The nothingness provided the absolute freeze.
SEED4611 was launched with energy for one purpose alone. The on-board system processed one burst of data each year. Two hundred and fifty seven years ago, the light of one star in the look-zone registered a tiny increase in magnitude. A tiny increase greater than the other stars. SEED4611 used the stored energy to delicately steer toward it, slower than a glacier on Earth. Now, it only had to maintain. Now, it only had to collect the thin streams photons striking its dark, metal skin. Now, it only had to wait.
On to Part 2.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Game Friday: Soup-er Stars
We're digging out from "Snowmageddon" here in the Mid-Atlantic. Two feet of snow yesterday on top of two feet from Saturday. Our driveway is mostly a bobsled chute now. Seems like a good opportunity to talk about soup.
Yes. Soup.
That's the game for today!
What are your views on soup? Do you get hot for it? Have a fav? Or do you file it under whatever?
Personally, I worship soup. (Well, maybe that's a slight exaggeration.) But I really can't help myself from sampling the offerings when we're out in restaurants. I also make it at home the old-fashioned way. Bones, parts, meaty odds and ends, vegetables. I particularly like to whip up French Onion, Vichyssoise, forest mushroom, and even gumbo (that's with the multi-hour roasted roux). I have yet to do New England Clam Chowder. But I want to.
Tell us your soup stories. Any comfort food aficionados out there?
Yes. Soup.
That's the game for today!
What are your views on soup? Do you get hot for it? Have a fav? Or do you file it under whatever?
Personally, I worship soup. (Well, maybe that's a slight exaggeration.) But I really can't help myself from sampling the offerings when we're out in restaurants. I also make it at home the old-fashioned way. Bones, parts, meaty odds and ends, vegetables. I particularly like to whip up French Onion, Vichyssoise, forest mushroom, and even gumbo (that's with the multi-hour roasted roux). I have yet to do New England Clam Chowder. But I want to.
Tell us your soup stories. Any comfort food aficionados out there?
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Look
(This poem is probably the most personally delving that I've posted here. It's addressed to a dynamic that has been with me since childhood. Although it wasn't my fault originally, I understand that I am solely responsible for perpetuating it. I post the poem in case you see shades of yourself in my words (but most won't). Maybe my self-reflections can help you break your own destructive cycles.)
I don't look at you anymore
not in the eye
you've noticed
even if you don't say
I used to think it was no big deal
to look away
just something I sometimes need
in order to think
or to keep my thoughts orderly
like a quirk
or a bad habit
but
for the first time
I understand
it's more
because I've learned
(mis-learned)
there are two kinds of people in my life
#1-the few I hope will help me
(when I admit I need it)
#2-all of the #1's once they've failed
(by hurting more than helping)
and I think you know
where you fall
because I see (imagine) a world of
saviors and enemies
and I avoid your face, your eyes
because you are my (emotional) enemy
if I look
I might falter
and put the knife in your hand
when you've already shown
such a zest for cutlery
but now
my look away
means more to me
because I've learned phrases like
disorganized attachment
and biological paradox
because so many times I've been misdirected
the child-parent by the parent-child
me
wobbling on a tiny iceberg
baited and switched
picked free by your needs
on an icy sea
I've tried
too hard
(crazy hard)
because I know how to try
but not to receive without strings attached
and the only solace
is to be the savior
because who doesn't love a savior?
(well, most people
don't love a savior
in the end
because help tends to crimp
your style)
and I'm so good
at chosing people
unprepared to really give
so I don't look at you
even if I talk to you
because
the feeling
I don't understand
is fear
--my fear at your fear--
and what it will ask of me
because
I was always a means to an end
and it's going to drag me down again
I won't let you
drag me down
again
but in the not letting
maybe I've forgotten
how to really look
at anyone anymore
but now that I know
(un-learning)
I sure as hell
am going to
try
I don't look at you anymore
not in the eye
you've noticed
even if you don't say
I used to think it was no big deal
to look away
just something I sometimes need
in order to think
or to keep my thoughts orderly
like a quirk
or a bad habit
but
for the first time
I understand
it's more
because I've learned
(mis-learned)
there are two kinds of people in my life
#1-the few I hope will help me
(when I admit I need it)
#2-all of the #1's once they've failed
(by hurting more than helping)
and I think you know
where you fall
because I see (imagine) a world of
saviors and enemies
and I avoid your face, your eyes
because you are my (emotional) enemy
if I look
I might falter
and put the knife in your hand
when you've already shown
such a zest for cutlery
but now
my look away
means more to me
because I've learned phrases like
disorganized attachment
and biological paradox
because so many times I've been misdirected
the child-parent by the parent-child
me
wobbling on a tiny iceberg
baited and switched
picked free by your needs
on an icy sea
I've tried
too hard
(crazy hard)
because I know how to try
but not to receive without strings attached
and the only solace
is to be the savior
because who doesn't love a savior?
(well, most people
don't love a savior
in the end
because help tends to crimp
your style)
and I'm so good
at chosing people
unprepared to really give
so I don't look at you
even if I talk to you
because
the feeling
I don't understand
is fear
--my fear at your fear--
and what it will ask of me
because
I was always a means to an end
and it's going to drag me down again
I won't let you
drag me down
again
but in the not letting
maybe I've forgotten
how to really look
at anyone anymore
but now that I know
(un-learning)
I sure as hell
am going to
try
Monday, February 08, 2010
The Beer Philosophers #5
(We join Dude 1 and Dude 2 with beers in progress, feet on the coffee table, watching a old episode of Bay Watch with the sound turned low.)
"Dude, I didn't get to tell you what happened this morning."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. I was on the subway going to work. You know how most people are half asleep in the morning?"
"Yeah."
"Reading their newspapers? Sleeping even?"
"I hate newspapers."
"So there's this woman. Middle-aged I guess. Everyone's quiet. Everyone's doing their thing. But I notice her kind of looking around. Looking uncomfortable."
"Uncomfortable?"
"Yeah, like she's in some kind of pain. Or trying to hold something in. Then, as I'm watching, she snatches something out of her purse. Does a little side maneuver, then it's gone. Back in her purse."
"What the hell?"
"And now she acting like nothing's out of the ordinary. But it's painfully obvious."
(Twists the cap off another beer.)
"But something IS out of the ordinary. This fucking smell hits me."
"Smell?"
"Oh yeah."
"What? Like, perfume?"
"Good guess. I thought perfume at first, but it was so bad. Too strong. Too wacky. I'm trying not to choke and figure it out at the same time. That's when it finally hit me."
(Misses the trash can with the cap.)
"Air freshener."
"What?"
"Yeah, I know. You don't expect to smell air freshener on a subway, but that's what it was. I'm thinking, what the fuck? Just whip out a tiny can of Glade and give a little spritz? I've seen a lot of things, but I haven't seen that before."
"Me neither."
"But then...oh yeah...then, it all becomes clear. Another smell mixes in. Now it's not just the wildflower vomit and battery acid. It's got an undertone of nasty."
(??)
"She totally let one loose man!"
"She farted?"
"Uh huh. It's totally that air-freshener-in-the-bathroom-after-nuclear-war smell."
"Damn."
"Tell me about it."
"Wait. You mean, she blasts a couple dead tacos and then does a little ninja spray to neutralize?"
"Indeed. Travel size can, even."
"Whoa."
"Yep."
"I don't know whether to be horrified or impressed."
"You usually do that shit in stealth mode. Everybody will just blame each other anyway."
"Yeah. Might as well shove a microphone up your ass and broadcast it."
"So people start looking up from their papers. Noses wrinkle. I even saw one old lady start shaking her head."
"Hey bro?"
"Yeah?"
"Um, you got one of those cans?"
(...)
(Grins.)
"Jesus!"
"Dude, I didn't get to tell you what happened this morning."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. I was on the subway going to work. You know how most people are half asleep in the morning?"
"Yeah."
"Reading their newspapers? Sleeping even?"
"I hate newspapers."
"So there's this woman. Middle-aged I guess. Everyone's quiet. Everyone's doing their thing. But I notice her kind of looking around. Looking uncomfortable."
"Uncomfortable?"
"Yeah, like she's in some kind of pain. Or trying to hold something in. Then, as I'm watching, she snatches something out of her purse. Does a little side maneuver, then it's gone. Back in her purse."
"What the hell?"
"And now she acting like nothing's out of the ordinary. But it's painfully obvious."
(Twists the cap off another beer.)
"But something IS out of the ordinary. This fucking smell hits me."
"Smell?"
"Oh yeah."
"What? Like, perfume?"
"Good guess. I thought perfume at first, but it was so bad. Too strong. Too wacky. I'm trying not to choke and figure it out at the same time. That's when it finally hit me."
(Misses the trash can with the cap.)
"Air freshener."
"What?"
"Yeah, I know. You don't expect to smell air freshener on a subway, but that's what it was. I'm thinking, what the fuck? Just whip out a tiny can of Glade and give a little spritz? I've seen a lot of things, but I haven't seen that before."
"Me neither."
"But then...oh yeah...then, it all becomes clear. Another smell mixes in. Now it's not just the wildflower vomit and battery acid. It's got an undertone of nasty."
(??)
"She totally let one loose man!"
"She farted?"
"Uh huh. It's totally that air-freshener-in-the-bathroom-after-nuclear-war smell."
"Damn."
"Tell me about it."
"Wait. You mean, she blasts a couple dead tacos and then does a little ninja spray to neutralize?"
"Indeed. Travel size can, even."
"Whoa."
"Yep."
"I don't know whether to be horrified or impressed."
"You usually do that shit in stealth mode. Everybody will just blame each other anyway."
"Yeah. Might as well shove a microphone up your ass and broadcast it."
"So people start looking up from their papers. Noses wrinkle. I even saw one old lady start shaking her head."
"Hey bro?"
"Yeah?"
"Um, you got one of those cans?"
(...)
(Grins.)
"Jesus!"
Friday, February 05, 2010
A Spring Haunting
there's always a sidewalk
with bricks
and maybe a hedge
and it's warm
the kind of warm
that only comes after
a long cold
the coming night is soft
and a couple hours away
and the yards are mostly deserted
and the streets
except for traffic
which doesn't matter
because traffic never matters
other than to remind me
that the world is still alive
beyond what I know how to touch
but maybe it's not really the light
or the warm
or time of day
that tells me
something changed
tells me something is present
that rarely is present
anymore
maybe it's the door
or the shadow of the trees
or the dark windows
or maybe it's the door and the shadows and the windows
because I am the shadow
and you are the window
on the other side of dark
and the door
between the two
is always
enticingly
closed
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Overheard (Almost)
"He's the kind of friend you want to have. Whatever you need, he's there."
"Okay."
"Not many people realize there's a big difference between intending to do something for someone, and actually doing it."
"Yep. Amen."
"No, really. I'm serious. He's one of those people who does it, every single time."
Nodding with a wobble to the left. "Cool." Then to the right. "I guess."
Monday, February 01, 2010
Step by Step
(Fiction)
The number one mistake people make is panic. You can't panic.
Not that I don't understand panic. How easy it flicks on. Once it starts, it spreads like fire, and before you know it, you're making mistakes left and right. Mistakes mean a trail. And a trail will lead straight to you.
But you won't do that.
The number two mistake is going down on someone too close to you. See, I don't care how careful you are. They've got this space-aged shit these days. Lights and scanners and dogs trained at NORAD or something. If you go down on someone right where you live, you're a goner. Game over. Fucking seriously. No one gets away with that shit. I mean, come on. If the person is close, you have to explore other avenues. It's that simple. That's the deal. No use whining about it.
But I'm not close.
Distance is good. But too much distance is not good. When you have to go far, you leave traces. Like tolls. Credit cards. Security cameras. You want to be far enough not be on anyone's radar, but close enough to cover it in two hours or less. Back roads, of course. I know you're not stupid enough to pay tolls and get your picture taken.
I won't cover the merchandise. I have faith in you. That part will come natural. If I have to tell you, then I'm wasting my time. So once you have the merchandise, that's when the panic will want to strike a match and light your ass. That's when you need to buckle down and hold on tight to your calm. After you get the merchandise, your emotions are going to want to boil over. You're going to want to scream, laugh, cry, vomit. But it's not over. The real work is just getting started. Remote is good. You can't go too wrong with remote. But water...forget it. Just forget that shit right now. Water is not your friend. Think about it. Water flows all over the planet. Put a thing here, and water moves it there. But I don't have to tell you that.
Go with remote. But not just remote. Here is where people make another mistake. Remote does not mean inaccessible. It just means not-visited-very-often. You're just playing the odds if you pick any old wide open space. Put some effort into it. The work will pay off. Believe me, I know. Low, tangled bushes are the best, in my opinion. Stuff you'd never think to walk through. But what most people don't realize is that you can get down and drag through. No one else would have a reason to crawl in there.
Drag your merchandise deep in. Don't skimp on that part. If you can time it before a good rain, that's even better. Lastly, don't underestimate what it will take to dig. I even suggest that you do it first. In the pre-planning stage. This isn't like planting posies in the backyard. You've got roots, rocks, clay, and other geological shit I can't even pronounce. Take a week. Get a short shovel. Go deep. This is where you need persistence. You're not going to make six feet. Not in the back country. But shoot for four at least. The blisters and blood are well worth it. They heal.
I'm sure you can fill in the rest. (Fill in...get it? Ha! Get it?? You always loved my sense of humor.)
I watch TV from eight to midnight every night. I don't lock the front door. My neighbors keep to themselves. They're too stupid to notice anything short of a volcano erupting in their front yard anyway. (Wasn't there a volcano that formed in Mexico after some farmer noticed some smoke venting in a field? But I digress.) Now all you have to do is go step by step.
Step by step.
I'm tired. And I know you're hot to settle the score.
You know where to find me. Between eight and midnight. Maybe I'll even be napping. I nap a lot.
Yeah, I'm tired. It's a crap-infested world anyway.
Hey, you want to know something? You know what's worse than being alone?
(Yeah, I know you don't care.)
Being alone so long you're even sick of your own pathetic company....
So that's it. See you soon.
Peace out.
Fucker.
The number one mistake people make is panic. You can't panic.
Not that I don't understand panic. How easy it flicks on. Once it starts, it spreads like fire, and before you know it, you're making mistakes left and right. Mistakes mean a trail. And a trail will lead straight to you.
But you won't do that.
The number two mistake is going down on someone too close to you. See, I don't care how careful you are. They've got this space-aged shit these days. Lights and scanners and dogs trained at NORAD or something. If you go down on someone right where you live, you're a goner. Game over. Fucking seriously. No one gets away with that shit. I mean, come on. If the person is close, you have to explore other avenues. It's that simple. That's the deal. No use whining about it.
But I'm not close.
Distance is good. But too much distance is not good. When you have to go far, you leave traces. Like tolls. Credit cards. Security cameras. You want to be far enough not be on anyone's radar, but close enough to cover it in two hours or less. Back roads, of course. I know you're not stupid enough to pay tolls and get your picture taken.
I won't cover the merchandise. I have faith in you. That part will come natural. If I have to tell you, then I'm wasting my time. So once you have the merchandise, that's when the panic will want to strike a match and light your ass. That's when you need to buckle down and hold on tight to your calm. After you get the merchandise, your emotions are going to want to boil over. You're going to want to scream, laugh, cry, vomit. But it's not over. The real work is just getting started. Remote is good. You can't go too wrong with remote. But water...forget it. Just forget that shit right now. Water is not your friend. Think about it. Water flows all over the planet. Put a thing here, and water moves it there. But I don't have to tell you that.
Go with remote. But not just remote. Here is where people make another mistake. Remote does not mean inaccessible. It just means not-visited-very-often. You're just playing the odds if you pick any old wide open space. Put some effort into it. The work will pay off. Believe me, I know. Low, tangled bushes are the best, in my opinion. Stuff you'd never think to walk through. But what most people don't realize is that you can get down and drag through. No one else would have a reason to crawl in there.
Drag your merchandise deep in. Don't skimp on that part. If you can time it before a good rain, that's even better. Lastly, don't underestimate what it will take to dig. I even suggest that you do it first. In the pre-planning stage. This isn't like planting posies in the backyard. You've got roots, rocks, clay, and other geological shit I can't even pronounce. Take a week. Get a short shovel. Go deep. This is where you need persistence. You're not going to make six feet. Not in the back country. But shoot for four at least. The blisters and blood are well worth it. They heal.
I'm sure you can fill in the rest. (Fill in...get it? Ha! Get it?? You always loved my sense of humor.)
I watch TV from eight to midnight every night. I don't lock the front door. My neighbors keep to themselves. They're too stupid to notice anything short of a volcano erupting in their front yard anyway. (Wasn't there a volcano that formed in Mexico after some farmer noticed some smoke venting in a field? But I digress.) Now all you have to do is go step by step.
Step by step.
I'm tired. And I know you're hot to settle the score.
You know where to find me. Between eight and midnight. Maybe I'll even be napping. I nap a lot.
Yeah, I'm tired. It's a crap-infested world anyway.
Hey, you want to know something? You know what's worse than being alone?
(Yeah, I know you don't care.)
Being alone so long you're even sick of your own pathetic company....
So that's it. See you soon.
Peace out.
Fucker.
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