“Modern man lives in a state of low-grade vitality. Though generally he does not suffer deeply, he also knows little of true creative living. Instead of it, he has become an anxious automaton. His world offers him vast opportunities for enrichment and enjoyment, and yet he wanders around aimlessly, not really knowing what he wants and completely unable, therefore, to figure out how to get it. He does not approach the adventure of living with either excitement or zest. He seems to feel that the time for fun, for pleasure, for growing and learning, is childhood and youth, and he abdicates life itself when he reaches “maturity.” He goes through a lot of motions, but the expression on his face indicates his lack of any real interest in what he is doing. He is usually either poker-faced, bored, aloof, or irritated. He seems to have lost all spontaneity…He spends endless time trying either to recapture the past or to mold the future. His present activities are merely bothersome chores he has to get out of the way.” ~Fritz Perls from "The Gestalt Approach & Eye Witness to Therapy"
Kelsi read this quote to me from a book she’s studying as part of her Masters degree in Holistic Psychology. It struck me because it scares the hell out of me in the way that only true (and truly disturbing) ideas can. Who would want to live this way? And yet who could protest the truth in the statement?
How to avoid the humdrum, the mundane, the mediocre, the settling for what we can convince ourselves is good enough?
I told Kelsi that if I had significant interest, I would invent a new kind of therapy called “Deathbed Therapy,” whose principle tenet is so basic that one need not even include an actual therapist. It’s helped me confront fears and do things that seemed somehow beyond my capacity.
It goes like this: When you think of something you want in life (long-term or immediate) but that seems scary, you just think, ‘If I’m lucky enough to take a graceful, deathbed exit from this life, and I’m lying there reflecting, is this gonna be one of those things that I think about NOT having done and go, “Stupid! Why didn’t I just do that?! And now there’s no going back and what was I so afraid of anyway?…In a few hours I’ll be dead and who cares?!’”
In the past, this exercise has enriched my life in little ways, from allowing me to have a damned good time while making a fool of myself on a dance floor, to bigger ways, like encouraging me to pour my heart out in a secret admirer-like love letter or taking a trip abroad by myself. And I don’t regret those things at all. In fact, I’ve never regretted the things I HAVE done.
Kelsi told me they already invented that kind of therapy: it’s called Existential Psychotherapy. Fair enough. I don’t mind sharing proprietary rights with the likes of Irvin Yalom.
Really, though…isn’t it that simple? Can’t it be? I know we’ve all heard this a hundred times, but that doesn’t make it less true; it simply makes us less open to hearing it because the message has become trite: Life is Short.
As proof, I offer that my 10-year high school reunion is next year already.
My friends are all getting married and having kids.
I refuse to call this a quarterlife crisis.
It’s a recommitment to the idea of living my life
aware,
awake,
fully,
and joyfully.
I want to say the silly thing and make the crazy decision and see the world and not think that because someone or something is different, that someone or something should be avoided, made fun of. Think of the opportunities for fun and growth in opening up one’s mind to new experiences and different people.
Think how much time we’ve already wasted!
I offer this NON-rhetorical question to myself and anyone interested: What is the thing I (you) want out of this life, right now?
What stands in the way of my (your) doing that thing, having that thing, making that thing happen, right now?
…
That’s not a good excuse.
100 years, max. Why wouldn’t I make the most of it?
I remember something an older man once told Kelsi while they shared a seat during a trip on a Greyhound bus:
“Might as well make a good go of it [life], otherwise you’re just turnin’ good food into shit.”
Saturday, February 28, 2004
Saturday, February 07, 2004
I'll Take Two of Your Finest Pennies
Refund checks are the best. A tax refund check is the paramount variety—mine usually hovers around the $300 range and comes exactly when I need some extra cash (ok, that’s always, but still, they come when I Most Especially need some extra cash).
But there are other types of refund checks, of course.
Utility companies are big on these, particularly if the customer discontinues service. They don’t normally exceed, say, 10 bucks, and it can feel pretty silly to cash or deposit one, but they’re nice all the same.
A couple days ago I received a refund check from our utility company, PG&E. I could tell from the envelope that it was a check, which is always exciting, but I tried not to get my hopes up, knowing I couldn’t have overpaid them by much (we’ve been using the heaters with wild abandon).
Still though, I tore open the envelope and sought out the amount, picturing what I could buy (even if only a cup of coffee) with my surprise money.
Surprise indeed!
5 cents.
They sent me a check for 5 cents.
They spent 37 cents to send me a check for 5 cents.
My check was signed by one K.M Harvey, CFO and Treasurer of PG&E, as well as Mr. Michael Donnelly, Assistant Treasurer. I was flattered they both took the time.
First I just threw the check away, but shortly thereafter my friend Nick came by and, in telling him about it, I realized the situation was too ridiculous to simply let pass. I fished the check out of the trash and began brainstorming with him: how best to handle this newfound wealth?
I would definitely be going to the bank with the check, but which action to take?
I could simply deposit it. Or would it be funnier to cash it? Nick thought I should cash it and walk away from the desk smiling, whistling, and flipping my (hopefully) shiny new nickel merrily in the air.
I could also deposit a portion of it and sign for cash back in the presence of the teller. Nick said I should proudly declare, “Yes, and I’ll take two of your finest pennies, please,” pointing to the teller and winking with the word “finest.”
I could sign it over to Nick. How about this: I let him strong-arm me into the bank lobby, making a big show of it. He shoves me against the counter, clearly forcing me to fill out the necessary paperwork and capturing the attention of the guard, who decides he’d better keep an eye on us. He grabs me by the elbow very ostentatiously and leads me to the teller, where I give her his deposit slip and my 5-cent check, making a sad face and scowling at Nick like some little sister who just had her chocolate chip cookie bullied out of her.
5 cents!
There’s a notice on the bottom of the check that reads “Void after 90 days.” How about I take it to the bank on the 91st day and, when they refuse to cash or deposit it, I dramatically throw my hands in the air yelling, “this is bullshit!”
I have nothing more to say about that really.
But there are other types of refund checks, of course.
Utility companies are big on these, particularly if the customer discontinues service. They don’t normally exceed, say, 10 bucks, and it can feel pretty silly to cash or deposit one, but they’re nice all the same.
A couple days ago I received a refund check from our utility company, PG&E. I could tell from the envelope that it was a check, which is always exciting, but I tried not to get my hopes up, knowing I couldn’t have overpaid them by much (we’ve been using the heaters with wild abandon).
Still though, I tore open the envelope and sought out the amount, picturing what I could buy (even if only a cup of coffee) with my surprise money.
Surprise indeed!
5 cents.
They sent me a check for 5 cents.
They spent 37 cents to send me a check for 5 cents.
My check was signed by one K.M Harvey, CFO and Treasurer of PG&E, as well as Mr. Michael Donnelly, Assistant Treasurer. I was flattered they both took the time.
First I just threw the check away, but shortly thereafter my friend Nick came by and, in telling him about it, I realized the situation was too ridiculous to simply let pass. I fished the check out of the trash and began brainstorming with him: how best to handle this newfound wealth?
I would definitely be going to the bank with the check, but which action to take?
I could simply deposit it. Or would it be funnier to cash it? Nick thought I should cash it and walk away from the desk smiling, whistling, and flipping my (hopefully) shiny new nickel merrily in the air.
I could also deposit a portion of it and sign for cash back in the presence of the teller. Nick said I should proudly declare, “Yes, and I’ll take two of your finest pennies, please,” pointing to the teller and winking with the word “finest.”
I could sign it over to Nick. How about this: I let him strong-arm me into the bank lobby, making a big show of it. He shoves me against the counter, clearly forcing me to fill out the necessary paperwork and capturing the attention of the guard, who decides he’d better keep an eye on us. He grabs me by the elbow very ostentatiously and leads me to the teller, where I give her his deposit slip and my 5-cent check, making a sad face and scowling at Nick like some little sister who just had her chocolate chip cookie bullied out of her.
5 cents!
There’s a notice on the bottom of the check that reads “Void after 90 days.” How about I take it to the bank on the 91st day and, when they refuse to cash or deposit it, I dramatically throw my hands in the air yelling, “this is bullshit!”
I have nothing more to say about that really.
Saturday, January 31, 2004
The Big Game
About 6 years ago I made a deliberate trip to a bookstore on Superbowl Sunday. I claimed to be in search of intelligent life, figuring if there were romantic possibilities lurking about the greater metropolitan Denver area (where I was living at the time), they might best be discovered during this crucial moment of unbridled American machismo. Basically, it occurred to me that anyone away from the TV at that moment (especially one whose alternate locale was the bookstore—Tattered Cover—a thriving independent bookstore, at that) was someone worth getting to know.
Oh, the idealism of youth. The self-righteousness, perhaps(?).
I didn’t meet anyone interesting that day. And anyway, how much more worthy was my cause? Instead of being in the bookstore seeking to expand my web of knowledge, I was in there on the make! What a phony baloney. (I’m reminded of a book I saw the other day called When God Winks on Love, subtitled Let the Power of Coincidence Lead You to Love. All I could think was this hypothetical testimonial from readers-turned-devotees to the author’s cause: “The coincidence I masterminded worked out beautifully.” Ridiculous.)
I know what part of my problem was at the time: I had just returned to the States from an extended stay in Mexico, where my new awareness of sub-par living conditions greatly soured my outlook on American wastefulness and decadent self-indulgence. To me, the Superbowl and everything that touched it was evidence of a spoiled rotten population with too much time on its hands and its priorities way, way off-base.
And I still feel that way sometimes. And I don’t plan to watch tomorrow’s game or wager any money on it or even bother to check the score in the next day’s newspaper. But that’s mainly because the Raiders aren’t playing this year (and that’s assuming I’m kind enough to term what they did last year “playing.” Other words that came to mind are “floundering,” [are you guys] “kidding?!,” and, simply, “Sad. So sad.”). It’s not that I care particularly about football (certainly not in the way I care about baseball, not in the way I have elaborate fantasies about meeting the Dodgers’ Paul LoDuca), but I am no longer opposed to the idea of sitting down for an afternoon and enjoying the be-all, end-all, American sporting Super Event.
Please indulge my desire to share a few reasons for the change of heart.
I’ve thought a lot in recent years about the Superbowl in relation to the World Cup. I happened to be in Mexico when the World Cup was here in the United States, and I was struck by the serious devotion to fútbol (soccer) I found among the people there. One day when Mexico was playing Germany (causing me, in my mixed-raced Beanerschnitzel-ness, great inner-conflict), I noticed that the town where I was staying was teeming with young people who would otherwise have been studying at the time. I stopped a young boy and asked, “Why aren’t you all in school? Is there some sort of holiday or something?” to which he answered, “Mexico’s playing,” with a look on his face that said precisely, ‘Like, duh.’
My friend Kelsi was somewhat disgusted by this fanaticism, sparking a great debate between us. I surprised myself by presenting the argument that soccer, while not being the most intellectual of pursuits, was a wonderfully unifying activity. It was the only thing I could think of that so great a percentage of people worldwide took very seriously and agreed upon: The importance of the sport’s outcomes are agreed upon. The rules are agreed upon. That grown men should put their machismo on hold, flop, and cry to their heart’s content if it means drawing the attention of the ref and, ultimately, a yellow card, is absolutely agreed upon.
To me soccer is the innocuous version of war. (Excepting, of course, the unfortunate incidents of murder and mass-suffocation that have resulted from the games more fervent, more overzealous elements—to everything, there are extremes). Countries from all over the world come together once every four years and settle their scores in a forum where the laws are set, the game is timed (though loosely sometimes), and everyone has the chance to cover his privates before any serious damage can be done. Why can’t men always play by the rules in this way?
American football is just a microcosm of this worldwide phenomenon. It’s a less-exciting, heavily padded, far-too-oft-stalled version of soccer, but a version all the same. Black Hole Raider fans excluded, grown men come together to play or to cheer for their favorite teams in a normal, healthy way. We need not kill each other to prove our superiority. Why not just run faster, block better, or have a person on our team whose precise aim and strong “gun” means an extra six points rather than an extra person dead?
And there’s another thing. In all my former pooh-poohing of the Big Game, what I had neglected to consider were the humans who comprised the teams. I had forgotten that, behind every facemask and (behind that) every snarl of threat and audible declaration of dominance, is a man with a dream—a man who has, no doubt, been working day after day and year after year for the chance to be, in this exact moment, on this very field. Who am I to criticize that? Put aside the announcers, the commercials, the millions of dollars exchanging hands, and you’ve got about 100 men who are about to experience the best goddamned day of their lives. And yeah, I support that.
P.S. Please send any comments to scoobisnac2000@yahoo.com
Oh, the idealism of youth. The self-righteousness, perhaps(?).
I didn’t meet anyone interesting that day. And anyway, how much more worthy was my cause? Instead of being in the bookstore seeking to expand my web of knowledge, I was in there on the make! What a phony baloney. (I’m reminded of a book I saw the other day called When God Winks on Love, subtitled Let the Power of Coincidence Lead You to Love. All I could think was this hypothetical testimonial from readers-turned-devotees to the author’s cause: “The coincidence I masterminded worked out beautifully.” Ridiculous.)
I know what part of my problem was at the time: I had just returned to the States from an extended stay in Mexico, where my new awareness of sub-par living conditions greatly soured my outlook on American wastefulness and decadent self-indulgence. To me, the Superbowl and everything that touched it was evidence of a spoiled rotten population with too much time on its hands and its priorities way, way off-base.
And I still feel that way sometimes. And I don’t plan to watch tomorrow’s game or wager any money on it or even bother to check the score in the next day’s newspaper. But that’s mainly because the Raiders aren’t playing this year (and that’s assuming I’m kind enough to term what they did last year “playing.” Other words that came to mind are “floundering,” [are you guys] “kidding?!,” and, simply, “Sad. So sad.”). It’s not that I care particularly about football (certainly not in the way I care about baseball, not in the way I have elaborate fantasies about meeting the Dodgers’ Paul LoDuca), but I am no longer opposed to the idea of sitting down for an afternoon and enjoying the be-all, end-all, American sporting Super Event.
Please indulge my desire to share a few reasons for the change of heart.
I’ve thought a lot in recent years about the Superbowl in relation to the World Cup. I happened to be in Mexico when the World Cup was here in the United States, and I was struck by the serious devotion to fútbol (soccer) I found among the people there. One day when Mexico was playing Germany (causing me, in my mixed-raced Beanerschnitzel-ness, great inner-conflict), I noticed that the town where I was staying was teeming with young people who would otherwise have been studying at the time. I stopped a young boy and asked, “Why aren’t you all in school? Is there some sort of holiday or something?” to which he answered, “Mexico’s playing,” with a look on his face that said precisely, ‘Like, duh.’
My friend Kelsi was somewhat disgusted by this fanaticism, sparking a great debate between us. I surprised myself by presenting the argument that soccer, while not being the most intellectual of pursuits, was a wonderfully unifying activity. It was the only thing I could think of that so great a percentage of people worldwide took very seriously and agreed upon: The importance of the sport’s outcomes are agreed upon. The rules are agreed upon. That grown men should put their machismo on hold, flop, and cry to their heart’s content if it means drawing the attention of the ref and, ultimately, a yellow card, is absolutely agreed upon.
To me soccer is the innocuous version of war. (Excepting, of course, the unfortunate incidents of murder and mass-suffocation that have resulted from the games more fervent, more overzealous elements—to everything, there are extremes). Countries from all over the world come together once every four years and settle their scores in a forum where the laws are set, the game is timed (though loosely sometimes), and everyone has the chance to cover his privates before any serious damage can be done. Why can’t men always play by the rules in this way?
American football is just a microcosm of this worldwide phenomenon. It’s a less-exciting, heavily padded, far-too-oft-stalled version of soccer, but a version all the same. Black Hole Raider fans excluded, grown men come together to play or to cheer for their favorite teams in a normal, healthy way. We need not kill each other to prove our superiority. Why not just run faster, block better, or have a person on our team whose precise aim and strong “gun” means an extra six points rather than an extra person dead?
And there’s another thing. In all my former pooh-poohing of the Big Game, what I had neglected to consider were the humans who comprised the teams. I had forgotten that, behind every facemask and (behind that) every snarl of threat and audible declaration of dominance, is a man with a dream—a man who has, no doubt, been working day after day and year after year for the chance to be, in this exact moment, on this very field. Who am I to criticize that? Put aside the announcers, the commercials, the millions of dollars exchanging hands, and you’ve got about 100 men who are about to experience the best goddamned day of their lives. And yeah, I support that.
P.S. Please send any comments to scoobisnac2000@yahoo.com
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