Part 1 - The Audition
This past Friday, I auditioned for American Idol.
It's silly, I know. The show is questionable and the artists it produces are questionable, I know. Nevertheless, I enjoy watching it. I don't really feel the need to defend myself, but I will say that there's something heart-warming about watching "normal" people with extraordinary talents be recognized for them. That's all.
I sing because it's fun and I like to entertain people, be it on a stage or in my home. I have no delusions of grandeur, but decided to audition anyway for the following reasons:
1. I wouldn't be very disappointed if I was rejected - I'm secure in my limited ability. Also, I would have an answer the next time someone said "Oh my gosh, you should totally try out for American Idol!" Not much to lose.
2. If I made it through even one round of auditions, I'd be thrilled.
3. If I were able to actually be on the show, I'd get to hone my craft, wear fun clothes, and entertain many people. Plus, Steven Tyler might say something creepy to me, and that'd be a story to tell.
Well, the audition came and went and I did not make it through to the next round. A man who had been listening to singers for 10 hours (and who looked like Bono) mustered the minimum requirement of earnestness to explain to me that I had a nice voice, but that I wasn't what they were looking for. (The whole process took 12 hours, but that's a story for another time.)
What did I learn from the American Idol audition? Absolutely nothing.
Part 2 - The Hosts
Rewind a bit. When I knew I was going to the aforementioned audition in Charleston, SC, I also knew that I did not want to get a hotel room for my sister and me. I realize that I'm 25, but the idea of paying $100ish to sleep somewhere hasn't become any easier to deal with. Therefore, I took advantage of my social media connectedness and posted on Facebook, asking if anyone knew of anyone in Charleston who might be willing to host some American Idol hopefuls. My friend, Scotland, with whom I had lived long ago in a faraway land, responded that he had some friends in Charleston and set up a line of communicated between them and me.
The result of that Facebook post was a long weekend staying in the living room of, I feel confident staying, the most hospitable home in Charleston - the home of Kevin, Janice, Tyler and Zack, all young professional twentysomethings. Beyond their home, they shared with us conversation, watermelon, card games, friends, music, french toast, and an ocean river float. Sure, we drove to Charleston for the audition, but that was, though a unique and entertaining experience, one of the least enjoyable activities of the weekend.
What did I learn from staying with Kevin, Janice, Tyler, and Zack? 1) I have friends in Charleston. 2) Hospitality for strangers is not something that mostly exists in records of ancient cultures. 3) Friendship and openness are more valuable to the human spirit than the approval of a Hollywood producer who looks like Bono. Okay, I already knew that last one, but thought it was worth mentioning anyway.
This post is a part of a synchroblog. Click here to peruse other posts on "What we might become if..."
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
fear itself
It was chilly and raining some, the bleak type of fall weather. I was only about 30 minutes into a four or five-hour road trip. I was alone.
Between the swishes of my windshield-wipers, I noticed a dark blob on the right side of the road ahead of me. As I approached the blob, I saw that it was actually three, smaller blobs. It wasn't until I sped past them that I realized they were people, walking beside the highway.
"How miserable." I thought.
Their clothes must have been wet and their bodies must have been freezing.
From what I could tell during the instant that I was able to recognize them as human, they were about my age, two men and a woman, dressed in dark clothing and carrying a cardboard sign I could not read.
I pulled off of the next exit so that I could turn around and pick them up. I don't remember deciding that it was a good idea, I just knew that it was what was going to happen. Kind of like if you see a five dollar-bill on the sidewalk - there is no deliberation, you just pick it up.
During the few minutes that it took me to get off the exit, re-enter the highway in the opposite direction and then repeat that process, I called Jackie.
"Hi. I'm about to pick up some hitchhikers and I thought I should tell someone."
I don't know why I thought that calling a friend who lived 14 hours away would be helpful. Perhaps it was a subconscious effort to involve someone else enough to sooth my anxiety, but not enough to surrender any control.
She urged me to be careful.
I ended the call just as I began to brake and pull off of the road. I stopped the car a bit behind them, but they had noticed me and were facing me now. I got out of the car.
"You guys need a ride?"
"Yeah! Thank you so much."
I popped my trunk and they unloaded their backpacks.
They rode with me for two hours. Apart from the slight smell of hours of highway walking and my own anxiety about which questions were not polite to ask, it was a pleasant ride. They were on their way to New Orleans for Halloween. They were intentionally homeless and traveled the country by hitchhiking and sneaking onto trains.
The whole idea seemed so romantic; in many ways, they were free. I, with my recently earned BA, student loans, and a career to begin, was feeling the ever-mounting pressure of the quarter-life crisis while they were happy to not know where they would sleep that night. What was more fascinating was learning that there is an entire community of people with this same lifestyle for whom Halloween in New Orleans is an a annual reunion, similar to the college homecoming at the end of my road trip.
Part of me would like to say that I sold my car in the next city, bought a black hoodie and joined them, but I did not. I dropped them off at a friend of a friend's house where they could stay the night. They were very grateful for the ride and I was grateful for the experience.
Immediately, as a 22 year-old, what I took from the experience was that I wanted to be a street kid, not have a career or pay rent.
Since then, I've learned the value of staying in one place - how the longer you stay in a place or even in a good relationship, the more clearly you can see your own reflection in it. How can I identify and improve myself if I only ever see my vague likeness through the eyes of people and places who barely know me?
Now, I look back on the experience as a small liberation from fear. It is upsetting how capable I am of letting my life be dictated by fear. Those people needed something: a ride and a place that was not cold or rainy. I had what they needed and it cost me very little to give it to them. I try not to tell this story too much because it is met with much criticism. Sure, they could have pulled out an ax and beheaded me right there in my Altima, but they didn't. I don't want my goal in life to be to live the longest with the least amount of pain. I want to fully engage the world around me without fear. If that means being beheaded, then so be it.
This post was written as part of a synchroblog. Topic: Independence. Here are links to my fellow synchroblogger's posts:
nightsbrightdays: hypothetically speaking
karma's fool: truly local
the rebel i: independence
plow and rain: a thing is itself
art, et cetera by megan e b jones: interbeing
wordshepherd: Escape Velocity, Part III
passionately pensive: Bodily Interruptions
muddleddreamer: Co-dependence
Between the swishes of my windshield-wipers, I noticed a dark blob on the right side of the road ahead of me. As I approached the blob, I saw that it was actually three, smaller blobs. It wasn't until I sped past them that I realized they were people, walking beside the highway.
"How miserable." I thought.
Their clothes must have been wet and their bodies must have been freezing.
From what I could tell during the instant that I was able to recognize them as human, they were about my age, two men and a woman, dressed in dark clothing and carrying a cardboard sign I could not read.
I pulled off of the next exit so that I could turn around and pick them up. I don't remember deciding that it was a good idea, I just knew that it was what was going to happen. Kind of like if you see a five dollar-bill on the sidewalk - there is no deliberation, you just pick it up.
During the few minutes that it took me to get off the exit, re-enter the highway in the opposite direction and then repeat that process, I called Jackie.
"Hi. I'm about to pick up some hitchhikers and I thought I should tell someone."
I don't know why I thought that calling a friend who lived 14 hours away would be helpful. Perhaps it was a subconscious effort to involve someone else enough to sooth my anxiety, but not enough to surrender any control.
She urged me to be careful.
I ended the call just as I began to brake and pull off of the road. I stopped the car a bit behind them, but they had noticed me and were facing me now. I got out of the car.
"You guys need a ride?"
"Yeah! Thank you so much."
I popped my trunk and they unloaded their backpacks.
They rode with me for two hours. Apart from the slight smell of hours of highway walking and my own anxiety about which questions were not polite to ask, it was a pleasant ride. They were on their way to New Orleans for Halloween. They were intentionally homeless and traveled the country by hitchhiking and sneaking onto trains.
The whole idea seemed so romantic; in many ways, they were free. I, with my recently earned BA, student loans, and a career to begin, was feeling the ever-mounting pressure of the quarter-life crisis while they were happy to not know where they would sleep that night. What was more fascinating was learning that there is an entire community of people with this same lifestyle for whom Halloween in New Orleans is an a annual reunion, similar to the college homecoming at the end of my road trip.
Part of me would like to say that I sold my car in the next city, bought a black hoodie and joined them, but I did not. I dropped them off at a friend of a friend's house where they could stay the night. They were very grateful for the ride and I was grateful for the experience.
Immediately, as a 22 year-old, what I took from the experience was that I wanted to be a street kid, not have a career or pay rent.
Since then, I've learned the value of staying in one place - how the longer you stay in a place or even in a good relationship, the more clearly you can see your own reflection in it. How can I identify and improve myself if I only ever see my vague likeness through the eyes of people and places who barely know me?
Now, I look back on the experience as a small liberation from fear. It is upsetting how capable I am of letting my life be dictated by fear. Those people needed something: a ride and a place that was not cold or rainy. I had what they needed and it cost me very little to give it to them. I try not to tell this story too much because it is met with much criticism. Sure, they could have pulled out an ax and beheaded me right there in my Altima, but they didn't. I don't want my goal in life to be to live the longest with the least amount of pain. I want to fully engage the world around me without fear. If that means being beheaded, then so be it.
This post was written as part of a synchroblog. Topic: Independence. Here are links to my fellow synchroblogger's posts:
nightsbrightdays: hypothetically speaking
karma's fool: truly local
the rebel i: independence
plow and rain: a thing is itself
art, et cetera by megan e b jones: interbeing
wordshepherd: Escape Velocity, Part III
passionately pensive: Bodily Interruptions
muddleddreamer: Co-dependence
Thursday, May 26, 2011
they didn't
"So, what is it that you do?"
As a server, and particularly as a server dressed like a firefighter, I would get this question a lot. "Surely," they were really saying, "that red shirt and black suspenders couldn't represent every one of your current ambitions."
"I'm in school," I would respond, with my bright server-smile and nod.
"Oh, wonderful," they would reply, with an even bigger smile.
(I never understood why people were so enthusiastic about my being in school. As far as I knew, it was just what people did when they were my age.)
"What are you going to school for?"
"I'm a Humanities major."
"Oh." And then came that face they all made every time: the smile was still there, but I could always see right through it to the confusion or even skepticism. The slight squint of the eyes is what usually gave them away.
"What will you do with that?" I think they asked this for their own sake more than for mine. They wouldn't be able to sleep that night if they knew there was a young person out there paying money (borrowing, even) for a degree in Humanities and no brilliant idea as to how they would earn that money back.
"I guess I'll teach. Either that or be a very educated homeless person," and we would both laugh as I ran off to get them their sweet tea.
How is someone who has majored in Humanities (yes, in general) supposed to get a job?
This was a funny thing we martyrs of the universities laughed about with each other and I even used as a boilerplate server joke (I apologize to anyone holding onto the idea that their server makes up those jokes just for them).
To be honest, I was never really worried about finding a job while I was in college. That could have something to do with being surrounded by so many others in the same boat. We were like lemmings: surely this wasn't any kind of suicide - there were so many in front of me and behind me.
In the fall of my senior year, I heard of this wonderful program called Teach for America. Program. What a lovely word, especially for a college student who, despite all of the quests for independence, would really like nothing more than for someone to tell them what to do.
As soon as I heard about it, I was sold. I submitted my application in January and by February I had passed my phone interview and was preparing for my day-long interview in Knoxville - writing a lesson for high school students about the social commentary in Oliver Twist.
I chose this topic because I had written an essay on it during my semester in Oxford. That's right, Oxford. These interviewers had no idea what they were in for. I had this. I knew I had this. This was clearly where my life was going. I needed the program and the program needed me. I would teach underprivileged children for two years all while earning a graduate degree, loan forgiveness and, gasp, a salary!
The day on which I was to receive the email containing my school-assignment (where I would teach for two years), I was spring breaking on a large boat in the middle of the ocean, with no internet access that I cared to pay for. I spent the whole week enjoying myself and wondering at the new life I would begin in only a couple of short months.
As soon as the boat docked in Florida, I turned my phone on and called my mom. I had given her my email account login information so that she could check the assignment for me.
"Hi Mom, we're back in Florida. Where are they sending me?" I had no time for small talk about islands and sunburns. I could barely speak through my smile! She didn't answer right away and my mind went wild with thoughts of the possibilities: Boston, San Diego, or even North Carolina. Sure, it was less exciting, but at least I'd be near my family.
She still didn't answer me. It had only been a few seconds, but I was impatient.
"Mom? Where did they offer me a position?" I put my finger in my other ear, in case I just wasn't hearing her.
"They didn't."
Fast forward two months.
Location: A restaurant near my (parents') house, North Carolina
"Would you like toast or an English muffin with your omelet?"
"Oh, toast is fine. So, are you in school?"
"Well, I just graduated a couple of weeks ago."
"Congratulations!"
"Thanks."
"What did you study?"
"Humanities, actually."
"Oh. That's nice. What will you do with that?"
"You're looking at it."
We both laugh.
"I'll be right back with your toast."
This post is part of a synchroblog. Topic: surprise.
Fellow synchrobloggers' posts:
Years That Ask Questions
Surprise Ending
a whale
Fly
This post is part of a synchroblog. Topic: surprise.
Fellow synchrobloggers' posts:
Years That Ask Questions
Surprise Ending
a whale
Fly
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
pince caspeen
"Caelia, I've already kept you up too late, I don't think we should read."
Trying to reason with a six year-old works about 15% of the time, which is a good enough success rate to justify an attempt.
"But dad lets me and Rose stay up to read!" she protests.
<.i>
This would not be among the 15%.
"Okay," I say, but draw out the word with a sigh, so it is very clear that I am making a sacrifice here, "but just for a little while."
I scoot sideways into the bottom bunk next to her while she settles in with a flashlight and her chosen reading material.
"This is Prince Caspian, one of the Chronicles of Narnia."
As soon as she says it, my mind hurls a memory to it's forefront and I smile.
She was only about three at the time, and sitting on my lap in a movie theater. It's one of my fondest memories of her at that age.
The lights dim and the previews start, but Caelia is not participating in the settle-when-it's-dark agreement between movie-goers. Not one bit.
"I'm fursty! I'm so fursty!" she "whispers." For any of you who have heard a three year-old "whisper," you understand how the quieter they try to be, the louder they actually are. (This phenomenon, unfortunately, does not leave us as we grow, but only manifests itself differently.)
Down the row comes the closest community drink cup (Yes, even now, no one gets their own drink cup when my family goes to the movies.) to quench her painful "furst," and, more importantly, to quiet her so as not to disturb our movie-neighbors.
Once the paper cup is in both of her hands, there is quiet, apart from the loud breathing and humming sounds, which escape between large, satisfying, three year-old gulps. I move in my seat, getting comfortable and squeezing her a bit, thinking, "How nice it is to have a three year-old on my lap. She's so sweet."
Silence interrupts my thoughts - the breathing, humming, and gulping has subsided.
"I'm hungy! I'm so hungy!" she, again, "whispers."
Down the row comes one of the two oversized popcorn buckets.
"Om, om, om, om, om, om," she says (yes, says) as she crunches away. At this point, I'm even more concerned about the movie-neighbors - the movie has just begun.
"Caelia, you need to be quieter. People are trying to watch the movie," I whisper, considerately.
"I'm dust eating! Dis is how you eat!" she retorts, apparently offended that I would accuse her of doing anything purposefully disruptive.
I can't really help but laugh.
About ten minutes later, she exclaims, "Who's Pince Caspeen?!", frustrated because the plot is not introducing/developing this character quickly enough for her liking.
Then there are the many lap-changes, demanded as she decides she is bored with her current seat.
"I want to sit with Unkew Mahco!" (Uncle Marco) she says, and we do as she demands - a movie theater is not really a place to start an argument.
Perhaps my favorite is when Susan (the character) tells one of her brothers to "shut up." Caelia, shocked at the explicit nature of the dialogue, announces "Oh, she said a bad word!" It takes me a while to figure out which word, exactly, is "bad." Leave it to a three year-old to expose desensitization.
All of this played in my head until Caelia had finished reading a couple of pages to me. Her eyes were tired because I really had kept her up too late. She put the book away and pulled the covers up to her neck. Then, just as she was starting to doze, and I was looking at her all sentimental-like, she wiped her runny nose with her hand and then, with the same hand, hugged my head.
What a shame it is that we, as adults, retain so little of that natural candor. The older we get, the better actors we become. We learn to eat and drink quietly; question, demand, and judge only in our heads; and use tissues, all so that the world can be protected from both our noises and from our runny noses.
Trying to reason with a six year-old works about 15% of the time, which is a good enough success rate to justify an attempt.
"But dad lets me and Rose stay up to read!" she protests.
<.i>
This would not be among the 15%.
"Okay," I say, but draw out the word with a sigh, so it is very clear that I am making a sacrifice here, "but just for a little while."
I scoot sideways into the bottom bunk next to her while she settles in with a flashlight and her chosen reading material.
"This is Prince Caspian, one of the Chronicles of Narnia."
As soon as she says it, my mind hurls a memory to it's forefront and I smile.
She was only about three at the time, and sitting on my lap in a movie theater. It's one of my fondest memories of her at that age.
The lights dim and the previews start, but Caelia is not participating in the settle-when-it's-dark agreement between movie-goers. Not one bit.
"I'm fursty! I'm so fursty!" she "whispers." For any of you who have heard a three year-old "whisper," you understand how the quieter they try to be, the louder they actually are. (This phenomenon, unfortunately, does not leave us as we grow, but only manifests itself differently.)
Down the row comes the closest community drink cup (Yes, even now, no one gets their own drink cup when my family goes to the movies.) to quench her painful "furst," and, more importantly, to quiet her so as not to disturb our movie-neighbors.
Once the paper cup is in both of her hands, there is quiet, apart from the loud breathing and humming sounds, which escape between large, satisfying, three year-old gulps. I move in my seat, getting comfortable and squeezing her a bit, thinking, "How nice it is to have a three year-old on my lap. She's so sweet."
Silence interrupts my thoughts - the breathing, humming, and gulping has subsided.
"I'm hungy! I'm so hungy!" she, again, "whispers."
Down the row comes one of the two oversized popcorn buckets.
"Om, om, om, om, om, om," she says (yes, says) as she crunches away. At this point, I'm even more concerned about the movie-neighbors - the movie has just begun.
"Caelia, you need to be quieter. People are trying to watch the movie," I whisper, considerately.
"I'm dust eating! Dis is how you eat!" she retorts, apparently offended that I would accuse her of doing anything purposefully disruptive.
I can't really help but laugh.
About ten minutes later, she exclaims, "Who's Pince Caspeen?!", frustrated because the plot is not introducing/developing this character quickly enough for her liking.
Then there are the many lap-changes, demanded as she decides she is bored with her current seat.
"I want to sit with Unkew Mahco!" (Uncle Marco) she says, and we do as she demands - a movie theater is not really a place to start an argument.
Perhaps my favorite is when Susan (the character) tells one of her brothers to "shut up." Caelia, shocked at the explicit nature of the dialogue, announces "Oh, she said a bad word!" It takes me a while to figure out which word, exactly, is "bad." Leave it to a three year-old to expose desensitization.
All of this played in my head until Caelia had finished reading a couple of pages to me. Her eyes were tired because I really had kept her up too late. She put the book away and pulled the covers up to her neck. Then, just as she was starting to doze, and I was looking at her all sentimental-like, she wiped her runny nose with her hand and then, with the same hand, hugged my head.
What a shame it is that we, as adults, retain so little of that natural candor. The older we get, the better actors we become. We learn to eat and drink quietly; question, demand, and judge only in our heads; and use tissues, all so that the world can be protected from both our noises and from our runny noses.
My fellow synchrobloggers' posts:
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
I don't feel too old
I came down hard and heard a pop.
Then there was a sharp pain in my right ankle. My right foot had slyly and selfishly turned in to escape the impact of the landing, failing it's close neighbor, the ankle, which was left to absorb the shock. While feet excel at this, ankles do not. This explains the pain.
I was on a trampoline, which is good because it had more give than any ground I've ever met, though had I been on the ground, I would not have been falling through the air and therefore would not have needed the give.
In any case, the ankle was sprained.
The next day at my office, my supervisor, upon seeing the crutch leaning against the wall near my desk, pointed to it and furrowed her brow.
"I sprained my ankle yesterday," I said. She continued to look at me and her brow continued to be furrowed.
"I was on a trampoline," I went on, expecting this to be enough, expecting her eyebrows to raise, her head to nod, and her feet to take her away from my desk. Perhaps she would even say "ahhh," as she did it, to confirm that she now understood completely.
Instead, her brow was as furrowed as ever, her eyes squinted, her head turned, and her mouth broke into a small smile. It was as if I had just told the punchline of a joke. It was not, however, a joke. My ankle hurt.
I was confused at her reaction. I expected some combination of amusement and compassion at the telling of my tale, but this was more like amusement and skepticism, or even judgement.
"Am I too old for that story?" I asked, joking, of course, but not knowing why else should would be looking at me that way.
"Yes. You're in a new age bracket now, Katie," was her response.
She laughed and walked away.
I was shocked. I'm still shocked.
I've never been too old to do something before, or at least something that I've actually wanted to do. I had come to believe that the changing list of activities that occupies one's time is not related to an external set of rules, but the dynamic interests, desires, and priorities of a growing person. I thought that jumping on a trampoline was an acceptable behavior until my desire to jump on a trampoline had faded, which was not now. But, here I was, being chuckled at. Was my theory incorrect? Is it fantasy to believe that I can do whatever I'd like to do, as long as I'm able?
I certainly hope that she is wrong and not me. If I am wrong, and I am every day losing the ability to participate in youthful activities, I hope there is a guide somewhere - a book that can tell me everyday which activities I should avoid, if I wish to also avoid the chuckles.
fellow synchrobloggers' posts:
breathing
The Next Long Haul
outer door
Then there was a sharp pain in my right ankle. My right foot had slyly and selfishly turned in to escape the impact of the landing, failing it's close neighbor, the ankle, which was left to absorb the shock. While feet excel at this, ankles do not. This explains the pain.
I was on a trampoline, which is good because it had more give than any ground I've ever met, though had I been on the ground, I would not have been falling through the air and therefore would not have needed the give.
In any case, the ankle was sprained.
The next day at my office, my supervisor, upon seeing the crutch leaning against the wall near my desk, pointed to it and furrowed her brow.
"I sprained my ankle yesterday," I said. She continued to look at me and her brow continued to be furrowed.
"I was on a trampoline," I went on, expecting this to be enough, expecting her eyebrows to raise, her head to nod, and her feet to take her away from my desk. Perhaps she would even say "ahhh," as she did it, to confirm that she now understood completely.
Instead, her brow was as furrowed as ever, her eyes squinted, her head turned, and her mouth broke into a small smile. It was as if I had just told the punchline of a joke. It was not, however, a joke. My ankle hurt.
I was confused at her reaction. I expected some combination of amusement and compassion at the telling of my tale, but this was more like amusement and skepticism, or even judgement.
"Am I too old for that story?" I asked, joking, of course, but not knowing why else should would be looking at me that way.
"Yes. You're in a new age bracket now, Katie," was her response.
She laughed and walked away.
I was shocked. I'm still shocked.
I've never been too old to do something before, or at least something that I've actually wanted to do. I had come to believe that the changing list of activities that occupies one's time is not related to an external set of rules, but the dynamic interests, desires, and priorities of a growing person. I thought that jumping on a trampoline was an acceptable behavior until my desire to jump on a trampoline had faded, which was not now. But, here I was, being chuckled at. Was my theory incorrect? Is it fantasy to believe that I can do whatever I'd like to do, as long as I'm able?
I certainly hope that she is wrong and not me. If I am wrong, and I am every day losing the ability to participate in youthful activities, I hope there is a guide somewhere - a book that can tell me everyday which activities I should avoid, if I wish to also avoid the chuckles.
fellow synchrobloggers' posts:
breathing
The Next Long Haul
outer door
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
my baby, the earth
It seems to me that we all take ourselves far too seriously.
Everyone goes around, trying only to give as much as they've gotten. God forbid someone take too much from us, without making up for it later. It's amazing that our heads don't explode from keeping track of who owes what to whom in every relationship we have.
I'm not really talking about money, either, though that can be part of it, but favors, affection, kind words, unsolicited help, and general regard are all parts of it.
I'm not discluding myself. If someone asks me for something, and my internal tabulator cannot make it fit into the economics of our relationship, I am irked. Similarly, if someone offers to help me with something, and I can't find a way in which they somehow owe it to me, I am uncomfortable and, usually, refuse. Unusual debts are more difficult to keep track of and to reconcile. And we all must always be reconciled.
We can't really figure out which is worse - to feel that someone has taken too much from us, or to feel that we have taken too much from someone else. It's all arrogance. We think of ourselves as strong people, no one's doormat, people who draw the line where the line needs to be drawn. We are also offended by the idea of owing something to someone else. We are far too independent for that.
I want to let go. I want all that I have to be fluid, to come and go as the world around me calls for it, like the ocean throwing waves on the shore and then taking them back. I don't want to fight the ocean. I don't want to keep track, either. It gives me anxiety.
It seems that the only human relationship that seems to, on occasion, escape this system is the relationship between parents and children. (Please let me make this romantic generalization. Thanks.) The best parents will give and give and give everything they have to give, including the most earnest and pain-staking decision-making as to what it is, exactly, that their precious little ones need. Do they run dry? Do they ever decide that they've been used up, or that they've somehow lost their worth? Not usually. Not in a fatal way, anyway. They are fueled by love.
Why do we, then, fear so much? If I lend someone money and they don't pay me back, am I somehow less of a person? Have they taken any of my humanness away? No. No. No.
Love. Confidence. Gratitude. Holding on to these things, maybe I can let go of everything else.
fellow synchrobloggers' posts:
Debt, n
Indebted
What Do I Owe You?
debt we debtors
Debt of Lament
Everyone goes around, trying only to give as much as they've gotten. God forbid someone take too much from us, without making up for it later. It's amazing that our heads don't explode from keeping track of who owes what to whom in every relationship we have.
I'm not really talking about money, either, though that can be part of it, but favors, affection, kind words, unsolicited help, and general regard are all parts of it.
I'm not discluding myself. If someone asks me for something, and my internal tabulator cannot make it fit into the economics of our relationship, I am irked. Similarly, if someone offers to help me with something, and I can't find a way in which they somehow owe it to me, I am uncomfortable and, usually, refuse. Unusual debts are more difficult to keep track of and to reconcile. And we all must always be reconciled.
We can't really figure out which is worse - to feel that someone has taken too much from us, or to feel that we have taken too much from someone else. It's all arrogance. We think of ourselves as strong people, no one's doormat, people who draw the line where the line needs to be drawn. We are also offended by the idea of owing something to someone else. We are far too independent for that.
I want to let go. I want all that I have to be fluid, to come and go as the world around me calls for it, like the ocean throwing waves on the shore and then taking them back. I don't want to fight the ocean. I don't want to keep track, either. It gives me anxiety.
It seems that the only human relationship that seems to, on occasion, escape this system is the relationship between parents and children. (Please let me make this romantic generalization. Thanks.) The best parents will give and give and give everything they have to give, including the most earnest and pain-staking decision-making as to what it is, exactly, that their precious little ones need. Do they run dry? Do they ever decide that they've been used up, or that they've somehow lost their worth? Not usually. Not in a fatal way, anyway. They are fueled by love.
Why do we, then, fear so much? If I lend someone money and they don't pay me back, am I somehow less of a person? Have they taken any of my humanness away? No. No. No.
Love. Confidence. Gratitude. Holding on to these things, maybe I can let go of everything else.
fellow synchrobloggers' posts:
Debt, n
Indebted
What Do I Owe You?
debt we debtors
Debt of Lament
Friday, April 1, 2011
I play music at bars sometimes.
I play music at bars sometimes. It's good fun. My friends come out. I meet new people - bar patrons, other musicians, adventurous friends of friends. All of this, I enjoy.
This story is about one of these times.
This story is about one of these times.
I had been looking forward to this show. I liked the venue and it was close to my house. Also, we hadn't played in a while, so the resilient novelty was back.
The sound check was over and so I approached the bar for a free PBR, my favorite of the minimal perks awarded small-time musicians. As I waited, a man entered from the street. His appearance wasn't remarkable, but the way he interacted with his surroundings was slightly alarming. He greeted everyone with great physical and vocal enthusiasm, like he had just arrived at a family reunion. The responses were minimal or nonexistent, which made his behavior seem even that much more out of place.
He approached me and asked a few questions. I, entertained, engaged him for a short period of time.
"Who's in your band?" he asked.
"Those guys over there. " I answered, pointing to a small circle of men across the room.
"Oh, I know those guys." he said as he swung his arms in an "aw shucks" kind of way and began to walk toward the other members of my band. I knew he did not, in fact, know them and so I did not follow him, but instead went on drinking my free PBR.
He didn't approach me again until I was walking from the bar to the stage. I hadn't been playing attention and the out-of-synch strumming and drumming, characteristic of any band's first moment on stage, alerted me to the fact that I was supposed to be there too.
Once we made eye contact before I reached the stage, I knew I had been intercepted. He began to speak, set on another conversation, but I interrupted.
"I have to get on stage now," I said with a smile. (One is always kind to people in bars when they're about to listen to one's music.)
"Who's in your band?" he asked.
"Those guys over there. " I answered, pointing to a small circle of men across the room.
"Oh, I know those guys." he said as he swung his arms in an "aw shucks" kind of way and began to walk toward the other members of my band. I knew he did not, in fact, know them and so I did not follow him, but instead went on drinking my free PBR.
He didn't approach me again until I was walking from the bar to the stage. I hadn't been playing attention and the out-of-synch strumming and drumming, characteristic of any band's first moment on stage, alerted me to the fact that I was supposed to be there too.
Once we made eye contact before I reached the stage, I knew I had been intercepted. He began to speak, set on another conversation, but I interrupted.
"I have to get on stage now," I said with a smile. (One is always kind to people in bars when they're about to listen to one's music.)
"Okay, but I have one more thing for you after," he replied.
"Okay," I said, with another smile that he may or may not have seen before I turned my head away from him.
"Okay," I said, with another smile that he may or may not have seen before I turned my head away from him.
Hopping on stage, I wondered what this "one more thing" would be. And had there been other "things" that would make this new "thing" an addition?
I didn't have too much time to wonder. When I turned around to face the audience, there he was, standing inches from the stage, right in front of me. He was holding his right hand out, palm down, with his fingertips all touching - the way you would carry a dirty diaper. But there was no diaper, or anything else, hanging from his gathered fingers. He looked at me, expectantly, and continued to hold his hand toward me. I decided that there must be something very small in his hand that he was trying to give me.
Not wanting to be rude, I flattened my hand, palm up, and held it under his. He released his fingers and something fell onto my hand. I closed the gap between my face and hand to get a better look.
It was an eyebrow ring. At least, I assumed it was an eyebrow ring because he had a similar silver hoop through his eyebrow.
I was at once confused and disgusted to be holding something that was meant to be pushed through the face of an unsavory stranger. I smiled an anxious smile and said "thank you" as the chords of the first song began to play.
Sustaining the anxious smile, I tilted my still flat hand over the set list on the ground until the questionable object slid off and rested right in the middle of the sheet of paper.
We started to play, and I forgot for a minute what had just happened, but between the first two songs, and every song thereafter, I looked down to check the set list there it was, shiny and upsetting.
The man's behavior during the show was, considering the story until this point, not surprising. Erratic movements and exclamations as well as, I believe, at least some mild disrobing. (He wasn't drinking, but I heard afterward that he was seen taking some pills. That helps a little.)
When we were finished, he approached the stage, but this time, I decided to take a bit more control of the situation. I picked up the load-bearing set list and offered it to him.
"Do you want this back?" I asked, very seriously, looking at the ring.
"No, that's for you because your nose ring is so beautiful." he replied.
(I had switched my nose ring from a stud to a hoop right before the show, to be a little bit cooler. This was not cool.)
"It's okay, I have plenty." I said, bringing the piece of paper closer to him, and tilting it toward him. The ring began to slide and he caught it.
"Thanks, though." I said, my usual smile returning.
fellow synchrobloggers' posts:
Music Ascending
Hail, Music
sing on, michael bolton
I didn't have too much time to wonder. When I turned around to face the audience, there he was, standing inches from the stage, right in front of me. He was holding his right hand out, palm down, with his fingertips all touching - the way you would carry a dirty diaper. But there was no diaper, or anything else, hanging from his gathered fingers. He looked at me, expectantly, and continued to hold his hand toward me. I decided that there must be something very small in his hand that he was trying to give me.
Not wanting to be rude, I flattened my hand, palm up, and held it under his. He released his fingers and something fell onto my hand. I closed the gap between my face and hand to get a better look.
It was an eyebrow ring. At least, I assumed it was an eyebrow ring because he had a similar silver hoop through his eyebrow.
I was at once confused and disgusted to be holding something that was meant to be pushed through the face of an unsavory stranger. I smiled an anxious smile and said "thank you" as the chords of the first song began to play.
Sustaining the anxious smile, I tilted my still flat hand over the set list on the ground until the questionable object slid off and rested right in the middle of the sheet of paper.
We started to play, and I forgot for a minute what had just happened, but between the first two songs, and every song thereafter, I looked down to check the set list there it was, shiny and upsetting.
The man's behavior during the show was, considering the story until this point, not surprising. Erratic movements and exclamations as well as, I believe, at least some mild disrobing. (He wasn't drinking, but I heard afterward that he was seen taking some pills. That helps a little.)
When we were finished, he approached the stage, but this time, I decided to take a bit more control of the situation. I picked up the load-bearing set list and offered it to him.
"Do you want this back?" I asked, very seriously, looking at the ring.
"No, that's for you because your nose ring is so beautiful." he replied.
(I had switched my nose ring from a stud to a hoop right before the show, to be a little bit cooler. This was not cool.)
"It's okay, I have plenty." I said, bringing the piece of paper closer to him, and tilting it toward him. The ring began to slide and he caught it.
"Thanks, though." I said, my usual smile returning.
fellow synchrobloggers' posts:
Music Ascending
Hail, Music
sing on, michael bolton
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)