Altered State of Mind.

It occurs to me that many of the world's most influential writers were alcoholics, drug addicts, or severely depressed. I've even been told that in order to succeed in the writing field these conditions are prerequisites.  I wonder if this is true. These three conditions have something in common. All three involve a sort of hypersensitivity. An understanding of the state of consciousness that cannot be reached by the sane, sober self. (I must admit I've never been on drugs, but I understand from others that this is the case.) There is a complete focus on every thought and every notion. One picks up on things that might otherwise be overlooked, assumed stupid and unimportant. But isn't this what most of the great writers focus on? The seemingly silly and unimportant things, which experienced at a different level are actually highly interesting and remarkable?

The questions of motivation--why we do things--are suddenly obvious. Completely obvious and no longer complicated by the excuses of the sane. Every motivation is clear and obvious. We are at peace with our base selves. Or if not at peace, we at least admit their existence--the fact that it is impossible to ignore the most embarrassing faults of our inner selves. They are real and unavoidable.

I'm not saying that I want to be an alcoholic, drug addict, or severely depressed. But I do think that they are interesting states of being. And perhaps more in tune with the desires and thoughts that drive us on a deep level. Thus they are what make us think and consider on the basest level of sobriety.

Oh, Summer Days

I went biking in the PA Grand Canyon today. It's one of my favorite places to be, to tell you the truth. Especially at this time of year, when tourist season is still in its beginning stages and the trail is still a little rutted from the winter, discouraging the tourists who are around from going too far. My friend Heather was with me: just the two of us. We rode in silence for most of the trip, only stopping once to watch a doe bent over drinking in the middle of the river. I couldn't help but revel in the memories that flowed along like the river next to me.

A good portion of my high school and college summers were spent at the canyon. There was a group of five or six of us who would go every week or so, as often as we could. Given the small town we lived in, it was one of the few places we could go to just hang out, and we often had it to ourselves. I would make the rounds, picking up various friends along the way (I had my dad's SUV and a bike rack, making me automatic designated driver). We almost always unloaded in the Darling Run vicinity and biked to the bottom of the Turkey Path, where there was prime access to the river (because, let's be honest, playing in the water was really the highlight of the trip). 

As I rode along today, I remembered many games of bike tag, usually started out of the blue and wavered on and off as we rode, the best strategy being to ride along until everyone forget who was it and sneaking up behind someone. No tag-backs, of course. I recalled the year three of us came in March, anxious to get the summer underway, only to find snow still covering the trail. Biking in snow, let me tell you, is extremely difficult, but makes for some great stories. Certain places reminded me of one accident-prone friend who always brought a first aid kit with him, just in case he skidded out on the gravel or managed to fly over his handle bars in one way or another. And of course the summer nights after a canyon trip: rinsing off in Catherine's pool and inevitably running around the perimeter until we had created a whirlpool, hunting for raspberries on Casey's property, a bonfire at my house, or lying in someone's yard on the sleeping bags we kept in our cars all summer, watching for shooting stars.

But the most vivid memories were more centered on what summer meant back then: our first tastes of freedom, late nights, and true friends of the opposite sex. The sticky red flush of skin under the hot sun; the salty smell of sweat mingling with the pungent odors of bug repellent and Coppertone Sport; the warm yet strangely refreshing breeze in our faces. The inevitable ache in butt, legs, and arms after a winter away from bikes and hiking. Dust, earth, the occasional rotting fish. Everything that makes summer the most magical season for kids and teens alike.

The friendships that came about as a result of those summer canyon trips are still some of my strongest and most treasured relationships. I'll never forget the boys struggling along with the red Radio Flyer wagon rigged up to the back of their bikes, carrying a picnic lunch we ate on a large rock in the middle of the Turkey Path waterfall. "Yellow Submarine" will always reserve a special place in my heart for the summer we found a plastic yellow submarine floating in the river. Rocks piled high in the middle of a river will send a shiver of dread through my spine as my mind's eye watches a friend narrowly avoid being hit by a tumbling tower of rocks he built.

Even though it was just Heather and me this time, and the bottom of the Turkey Path was swarming with pesky flies so we couldn't stand to stay too long, I feel as though my summer has finally, really begun. And that makes me indescribably happy.

Jump

There's a time in everyone's life that comes just as you're about to embark on a new project or journey. You can't wait to get started, but at the same time you're just not totally into it yet. You find yourself holding back, unsure of how to start. It doesn't matter how many times you remind yourself that it's easy: you just have to take that first step, and you'll be fine from there. Sometimes you can make yourself do it; close your eyes, plug your nose, and plunge into the cold waters of uncertainty. Other times you need someone else to push you, assuring you that they're there to catch you just in case you need some help. It's a very frustrating place to be. You're excited, anxious, ready, and uncertain all at the same time. You know in your heart that somehow you're going to get into that water. It's just a matter of how long you stand there trying to convince yourself to just get it over with, so you can move on and have fun. Sometimes it's just so much easier if someone comes up behind you and pushes you with no warning and no chance to look back. You may have to fight your way up for a little while, but in the end things will calm down, and you'll be in a better place.

And you know this. But you still can't bring yourself to jump.

I Was Thinking...

I've been jolted back into the world of blogging, it seems, thanks to a good friend's recent decision to launch herself into the world of internet words. I admit that I'm cheating a little, because I'm going to steal her thoughts and add on to them with my own. You can see her original post here. She begins with a quoted ad that's really a poem about thoughts and the importance of thinking them. We all think; whether our thoughts are average, subconscious, grandiose, or just plain bizarre. Some people argue that the capacity to think is what makes us humans distinctly different from all the other species of the world. I have no idea if that's true or not, but thinking is a pretty incredible thing.

I often have conversations with myself in my head. Or I have conversations with other people. I recite poetry, sing songs, compose fiction, yell at myself, curse others, obsessively repeat words or phrases that strike my fancy, and count my breaths. I see pictures, hear voices, remember past events. A teacher once told me she thought I did a lot of living in my head. It's true. My head is a sounding board for real life. Before I say anything, write anything, or do anything, I think it through first. (And if I don't, I usually regret it almost immediately.) Sometimes my brain is so wired I can't sleep at night. At times I wish I could just shut it off and stop thinking for a while. But overall, I love to think.

Some of my most productive thinking takes place in my bed late at night when I should be falling asleep. That's when I come up with solutions to life's problems, stories that need to be written, conversations that must be had. It's dark and quiet and there are no distractions to lure my thoughts away from where they should be. (This post is being written as I lie in bed.) Another place I do a lot of thinking is in the car when I'm driving. My most creative thoughts come through then, which is unfortunate, because most of them then disappear before I have the chance to write them down.

My brain is also supercharged by theatre and concerts. After watching (or better yet, performing) I feel like I can do anything I want. I can write that novel or play. I could change the world for the better. I'm not sure exactly what it is about performance that charges me so powerfully, but my brain churns out the thoughts left and right in the hour or two after a performance. It's a creative high that is really quite impossible to describe, but one of the most extraordinary experiences I've ever had. If it wasn't 2 a.m., I might do a better job of explaining, but as it is, my brain is slowing down bit by bit.

I wonder, though, where do you do your best thinking? And what charges your brain?

Insomnia

It’s a dream, this life. A dream of the morning, a half-awake dream. There is something more, something clearer and sharper and more real, but the heavy comfort of sleep prevents a full recognition and understanding of the real life just a step away. And so we live on the edge, on the brink of consciousness, too overcome by the fluffy, cottony dream world to care much about what there really is, what there is meant to be just beyond our waking (dreaming?) reality.

There is something so much more important beyond oneself. Those brief moments when I realize, “This is me, I am living and alive and doing these things.” What does it all mean? What is the point? There has to be a reason I survived. Those are moments of truth, and more than that, of hope. Hope for the future, that I will break out of the dream and accomplish something, realize something, do something. Something that is more important than the day-to-day antics we busy ourselves with and consider so important. They aren’t, really. What is important is the other being, the being that can only be channeled randomly, unexpectedly, saying, “This is me. I’m alive and I’m doing these things. Why? I should be…”

But then the channel ends, and there is only this dream world, and it’s too comforting, too suffocatingly soft to leave room for anything else. Maybe that’s all there is, after all. Maybe that’s all there’s meant to be.


***

The words wouldn’t come anymore. They stuttered, faltered. Never the right word. Gone was the vocabulary, the vernacular; no living-walking-breathing dictionary. Not anymore. Writing was no longer an outlet for that which could never be expressed in spoken word. The brain-to-finger connection as faulty as that to the mouth, the vocal chords. Stutters, stops, painful pauses, disruptions. No clear thoughts nothing perfect anymore. So much to get out that it doesn’t know how to come. Fitful, fretful, in bursts. Not fluid. Gone are Flannery and James, no more to be found. Too much work writing, not enough for her. Words and thoughts like sloughed-off hair and soap scum and toothpaste down the bathroom sink. Rigid and dougy and clunky. Like play-doh or clay. Rigid, unbudging. Only blown out in chunks in unidentifiable shrapnel, word-shrapnel. Sharp and stinging and bludgeoning. No flowers or purple patches, just word shit. Use enough drain-o, write long enough, push out enough of the crap until the words start flowing more smoothly, with only a few chunks here and there a rush of words at once. But then more liquid, smooth, wet, words flowing out, just a few flakes here and there, nothing more of the rot and harried stabs at words that blocked the tunnel, the tube, that channel to the fingers. Finally, at last, the words flow smoothly, unobstructed, effortlessly. And once again the brain-world is right, and that is all that matters.

Reflections on Anger

Anger. You know, that tightness that starts with a lurch of the stomach and claws its way up your chest. The glinting eyes, pursed lips, and flared nostrils. Hands that ball into fists, fingernails digging into fleshy palm. The lump in your throat that prohibits you from talking, because you know if you do, you'll spray a vulgar, biting venom that's best left locked in a leak-proof box somewhere near your kidneys.

I hate being angry. I just really, really don't like it. Luckily, I don't get angry easily. There are only a few times in my life that I can remember being really, truly angry to the point where I burst and spewed that venom like a wild banchee. My brothers used to be able to make me angry to the point of screaming, slamming doors, and sobbing in my room for an hour. (The biggest problem is that they both enjoy the sport of argumentation. Me...not so much.) The only other time I remember getting that angry was in high school. I was sitting at the lunch table with a group of friends who I had come to realize talked behind each other's backs incessantly. One of them said something (jokingly) to another one's face, and I blew up. "CAN'T YOU GUYS JUST BE NICE TO EACH OTHER FOR A CHANGE?!?" I proceeded to get up from the table and stalk away, leaving behind a very shocked group of teenagers. ("Have you ever heard Laura yell before?" "No way, not like that." "Wow. What's up with her? She never gets mad.") I ate lunch in the band room instrument storage closet that day.

Up until last week, that was the last time I remember being really angry over something. To be honest, I knew that this fit of anger was coming. I had felt the annoyances and frustrations building up for months. I had hoped to contain it as just that, though: a feeling of annoyance and frustration, but not full-blown anger. But then something happened that just threw all inhibitions to the wind, and I got angry. I won't go into details, since this is a public forum, but basically I had had enough of a certain person's complete lack of responsibility and consideration for other people. This individual continually put things off and avoided problems they had created, causing issues for everyone around them and never bothering to say, "Hey, I'm sorry. My bad, I should have done that sooner." Instead, this person just blamed everything on other people (read: me). It wasn't the incident itself that so upset me. It was absence of any sort of consideration of other people's time, feelings, and schedules, as well as blatant lies told to cover up their fault.

But I digress. I got angry. I didn't blow up this time, as that would have been inappropriate given the circumstances, but I did fume. Everyone else who saw me knew I was spitting mad and stayed far away. I vented to family and friends, and eventually got over it. But one thing kept running through my mind: I really hate being angry.

I like to think of myself as a very laid back, easy-going kind of girl. It takes a lot to phase me to the point of agitation, and I get along with just about everyone. So if you succeed in getting me angry (other than my brothers, because that's just a sibling's prerogative {huh, never knew that had two "r"s}), you had to have done something pretty extensively anger-worthy. I don't like the unbalanced, irrational feeling of being angry. I think there's probably a good reason the word "mad" has a double entendre: anger often leads to a feeling of insanity. And that's just no fun. Also, getting angry accomplishes nothing. A friend told me today that a little anger is a good thing, because it protects your sense of injustice, which is an important aspect of anyone's well-being: no one wants to be a pushover doormat. While I see her point, I think frustration can take care of that, without resorting to full-blown anger. Anger will only lead to regrets. (Crimes of passion, anyone?)

So I guess my point to all of this is it's important to stay happy and calm. Anger is pointless and makes you feel bad. Whatever caused the anger in the first place will dissipate with a positive attitude and a relativity check. (In the long run, does it really matter that this person thinks my shirt is ugly?)

Stay happy, friends.

Robin Hood Ethics

When you're young, ethical behavior was black and white: stealing - bad; God - good; swearing - bad; helping others - good; homosexuality - bad; church - good; abortion - bad; priests - good. Our elders tell us what is bad and what is good, and we believe them. Because they are our elders, so of course they're right. We take it all for face value and move on with our lives.

But what happens when our brains develop enough to where we can begin thinking for ourselves? When "Robin Hood" ethics take over: when stealing from the rich and giving it to those who have nothing might not be so bad after all? What happens when your friends and cousin are gay? When your brothers and best friends don't go to church? When your teachers and those you look up to don't believe in God and priests are caught doing horrible things? Suddenly we no longer have our black-and-white childhood to fall back on. Everything is a varied shade of gray: some things still almost completely black and others mostly white, but nothing is absolute in its ethical standing, and more often than not, things are a dreary, confusing shade of gray, right in the middle of black and white, bad and good. What do we do then?

For some people this moment never seems to come. They continue on with their childhood ethics system, either because they are miraculously blessed with immediate communication with God or because their system was never tested or they just blind themselves to the tests and obstinately insist that they are right and there is no need to even think about where they may be wrong. In some ways I envy these people. I miss knowing right away what is right and what is wrong. When people ask me what I believe, I'd like to be able to tell them: A is good, B is bad, C is unspeakable. But I can't, because the fact is I don't know what I believe, and it's all Robin Hood's fault.

He's made me think about things. He's introduced me to different viewpoints and new ideas; different ways of thinking. And some of them make a whole lot of sense, even though they are sometimes polar opposites of what I was raised to think in my black and white world. Jewish law says abortion is not only legal, but sometimes it is legally mandated. Because the Jews believe that life begins with the first breath, since Adam was created when God breathed the breath of life into him. So until that baby is born, it is important, but not as important as the mother's life, because she is already breathing. So if the mother's life is in jeopardy, the pregnancy must be terminated, according to Jewish law. In general, I agree that abortion is bad. But sometimes, there may be circumstances where it is necessary, or at least something to consider. What if a single mother with three children is raped, and giving birth to the rapist's child will result in complications that will kill her, sending her three living children into a fatally flawed foster care system which will turn them out at the age of 18 to fend for themselves, perhaps even before they've graduated from high school? Are the unborn baby's rights greater than those of the mother and her three children?

To some extent, I can see the importance of bringing the abortion debate into politics, even though it is a largely moral issue. If you believe that personhood begins at conception, then it is important to stand up for the unborn child's rights. I am not denying that, and to some extent I sympathize with it. But things like homosexuality--whether you believe it's right or wrong, it's not hurting anyone. What happened to Jesus's teaching: "Let the one among you who is free from sin throw the first stone." If it is a sin, (and I'm not convinced it is, personally), then that is between that person and God. But what about the sanctity of marriage and the family, some people ask. I don't know. I'm not that worried about it. Maybe I should be, but I'm not. I think that within the Church, it isn't an issue. They will never allow gay marriage (and I'm not saying they should, either.) But as far as homosexuals having the same rights and privileges in the political world, I see no harm.

I guess the moral (no pun intended) of all of this, is that I am helplessly lost and confused about what is right and what is wrong. I have some convictions, but they are far from concrete.  And actually, I'm not sure that I would have it any other way. Because despite the confusion and frustration, I think it is generally a good thing to be open to different ideas and ways of thinking. Once you're "sure" about something, you fall into the closed-minded ways that allowed slavery and other racially or socio-economically motivated injustices to take such widespread control of today's societies. I hope I never fall into that trap.

And yet, I wish I knew where I stood. Is it wrong to be too open minded? Am I overcompensating for my uncertainties and "sinning" in ways that I should know better than to do? Am I becoming too defensive and closed minded against the Church, when I really only want to remain a little bit distanced, a little bit unsure? Has Robin Hood taken too complete a hold on my ethics, to the point where I'm sliding too far the other way? Am I a God-forsaken liberal Commie, as I've been told? I like to think I'm not. But really, who knows?