To see the world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wildflower:
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.
-William Blake
Friday, June 30, 2006
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Emotional arithmetic
(or the meaning of “We”)
Jared and I have known eachother for 4.5 months now, and there’s a lot of “we” going on. Then there’s conflict about that “we”ing. For example, before getting into Jared’s car to drive to LA, I said: “How do we feel about food?” which was code for “do you want to pick up some snacks to eat in the car or would you prefer to stop for food along the way? It doesn’t make sense to do both.” He must have been tired, bc he wasn’t able to decode my message. But that’s another issue all together.
I think the sounds of “we” eclipsed his ability to translate my question into plan English. Later, he was speaking on the phone, arranging for us to meet someone for dinner. He said, “I will be coming from the airport.” After he got off the phone, I asked “Will we be traveling separately?” bc it wasn’t clear to me why he couldn’t say “we will be coming from the airport,” which is likely more accurate. How did plain language become so loaded? If Jared and I are traveling in the car together, the correct pronoun is “we”.
Likewise, if _I_ feel someway and _he_ feels the same way, then _we_ feel that way. Of course, we had to pick this apart late into the night. As part of this process, he came up with the concept of emotional arithmetic, although now that I type this up, it makes less sense to me.
He likened “we” to truth tables: if A is true, AND B is true, then A+B is true. Actually, it can be used for AND, OR, NOT and a variety of other ways. So, when I say “we like whole grain bread” it’s not that I’m usurping his authority on his own preferences. It’s that I know that I prefer whole grain bread, and Jared prefers whole grain bread. Therefore I can safely say that WE prefer whole grain bread.
So, what I was asking about food and the car we for him to negotiate with me about how we would handle food in the car. I was not simply asking how he wanted to feed himself. Two people made the journey. I feel that I can safely speak for both us when I say that we both require nutriance. Therefore, I think it’s also fair to discuss each of our preferences and come up with a consensus.
It seems I can’t win on this “we” issue. Not only does Jared have issues with me speaking for him (“we went to the movies.” Well, we did! We also both road in the car. Ugh!) He also has issues when I use “we” in reference to myself and other people. “The last time I was in LA, we went to a restaurant on Wilshire.” Now, I think it should be pretty clear that the “we” I mean does not include Jared. But now, he has to say “I wasn’t here…?” and wants to know who I’m talking about.
When we discussed this the other night, I said, “this would make a great blog post on relationships.” But now that I’m trying to type it up, I’m thinking maybe not. Maybe I’m sharing just a little too much about this relationship. I think I’ll mull it over for a while before posting.
***
It’s the next day, and I talked with Jared about this post and my feelings about it. I suggested perhaps the “we” issue is his form of what we call an “oatmeal moment”. He said that’s possible, but he wants to make it clear that he just wants to understand what the decision tree is for what “we feel”. He thinks it’s unnecessarily complicated to feel things collectively.
Over the past few months, we have developed a bit of our own language. The joke/fear is that, shortly, none of our friends will understand us. But then, it provides the opportunity to explain our language, which can be fun. But you’re still wondering, what is an “oatmeal moment”? Well, it’s pretty much the opposite of what it sounds like.
The Oatmeal Moment
We’d been dating only a few weeks (and been on maybe 4 or 5 dates only) when it came up that I like to eat oatmeal for breakfast. The next time we saw each other, he told me that he’d been looking at oatmeal in the grocery store (he didn’t buy any bc they didn’t have the right kind). My reaction? Well, I kinda freak out in the line of “we only just started seeing each other. It’s way too early for you to be shopping for me.” I took some deep breaths and it passed, but an “oatmeal moment” is basically a moment of commitment phobia where you think “this is going too fast”.
What Do You Think About This Relationship? (Don’t answer, read on for explanation….)
We have another one we call “what do you think about this relationship?” which is roughly the opposite of an oatmeal moment. Around the same time (date 5 or so), I mentioned that 2 of the artists at Creative Growth appeared to be dating and described them a little. At this point in the conversation, there was some environmental distraction (likely a good looking bike, knowing us). When it passed, Jared paused and then said “So, what do you think about this relationship?”
I, then, wrongly assumed that he meant the relationship between him and me and not the relationship between these artists at Creative Growth. I thought to myself “he’s about to break up with me” and began racking my brain for any additional evidence that that was possible. Except there wasn’t any. I turned and looked into his face, mine filled with anxiety. He, of course, read this in my face and began stammering to clarify. So, “what do you think about this relationship?” is that moment when you misinterpret what someone has said to mean that they are about to leave you when that’s not what they meant at all. It happens more than you might think.
Jared and I have known eachother for 4.5 months now, and there’s a lot of “we” going on. Then there’s conflict about that “we”ing. For example, before getting into Jared’s car to drive to LA, I said: “How do we feel about food?” which was code for “do you want to pick up some snacks to eat in the car or would you prefer to stop for food along the way? It doesn’t make sense to do both.” He must have been tired, bc he wasn’t able to decode my message. But that’s another issue all together.
I think the sounds of “we” eclipsed his ability to translate my question into plan English. Later, he was speaking on the phone, arranging for us to meet someone for dinner. He said, “I will be coming from the airport.” After he got off the phone, I asked “Will we be traveling separately?” bc it wasn’t clear to me why he couldn’t say “we will be coming from the airport,” which is likely more accurate. How did plain language become so loaded? If Jared and I are traveling in the car together, the correct pronoun is “we”.
Likewise, if _I_ feel someway and _he_ feels the same way, then _we_ feel that way. Of course, we had to pick this apart late into the night. As part of this process, he came up with the concept of emotional arithmetic, although now that I type this up, it makes less sense to me.
He likened “we” to truth tables: if A is true, AND B is true, then A+B is true. Actually, it can be used for AND, OR, NOT and a variety of other ways. So, when I say “we like whole grain bread” it’s not that I’m usurping his authority on his own preferences. It’s that I know that I prefer whole grain bread, and Jared prefers whole grain bread. Therefore I can safely say that WE prefer whole grain bread.
So, what I was asking about food and the car we for him to negotiate with me about how we would handle food in the car. I was not simply asking how he wanted to feed himself. Two people made the journey. I feel that I can safely speak for both us when I say that we both require nutriance. Therefore, I think it’s also fair to discuss each of our preferences and come up with a consensus.
It seems I can’t win on this “we” issue. Not only does Jared have issues with me speaking for him (“we went to the movies.” Well, we did! We also both road in the car. Ugh!) He also has issues when I use “we” in reference to myself and other people. “The last time I was in LA, we went to a restaurant on Wilshire.” Now, I think it should be pretty clear that the “we” I mean does not include Jared. But now, he has to say “I wasn’t here…?” and wants to know who I’m talking about.
When we discussed this the other night, I said, “this would make a great blog post on relationships.” But now that I’m trying to type it up, I’m thinking maybe not. Maybe I’m sharing just a little too much about this relationship. I think I’ll mull it over for a while before posting.
***
It’s the next day, and I talked with Jared about this post and my feelings about it. I suggested perhaps the “we” issue is his form of what we call an “oatmeal moment”. He said that’s possible, but he wants to make it clear that he just wants to understand what the decision tree is for what “we feel”. He thinks it’s unnecessarily complicated to feel things collectively.
Over the past few months, we have developed a bit of our own language. The joke/fear is that, shortly, none of our friends will understand us. But then, it provides the opportunity to explain our language, which can be fun. But you’re still wondering, what is an “oatmeal moment”? Well, it’s pretty much the opposite of what it sounds like.
The Oatmeal Moment
We’d been dating only a few weeks (and been on maybe 4 or 5 dates only) when it came up that I like to eat oatmeal for breakfast. The next time we saw each other, he told me that he’d been looking at oatmeal in the grocery store (he didn’t buy any bc they didn’t have the right kind). My reaction? Well, I kinda freak out in the line of “we only just started seeing each other. It’s way too early for you to be shopping for me.” I took some deep breaths and it passed, but an “oatmeal moment” is basically a moment of commitment phobia where you think “this is going too fast”.
What Do You Think About This Relationship? (Don’t answer, read on for explanation….)
We have another one we call “what do you think about this relationship?” which is roughly the opposite of an oatmeal moment. Around the same time (date 5 or so), I mentioned that 2 of the artists at Creative Growth appeared to be dating and described them a little. At this point in the conversation, there was some environmental distraction (likely a good looking bike, knowing us). When it passed, Jared paused and then said “So, what do you think about this relationship?”
I, then, wrongly assumed that he meant the relationship between him and me and not the relationship between these artists at Creative Growth. I thought to myself “he’s about to break up with me” and began racking my brain for any additional evidence that that was possible. Except there wasn’t any. I turned and looked into his face, mine filled with anxiety. He, of course, read this in my face and began stammering to clarify. So, “what do you think about this relationship?” is that moment when you misinterpret what someone has said to mean that they are about to leave you when that’s not what they meant at all. It happens more than you might think.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
[Los Angeles] Another kind of Greek Island
(Written 3 days ago)
As planned, I did nothing yesterday. That is, I blogged. I worked out. I hung out by the pool. I waited for Jared. Oh, and I went to the ATM.
It’s amazing the way they’ve managed to take a pool surrounded by parking lots, plant a few trees, and make it very pleasant. I read and swam, swam and read and easedropped. A mother with 4 young boys played in the pool (after the kids couldn’t entertain themselves anymore and the mother had to give up her sunbathing). Parents and their lovely grown daughter sunbathed. Two 20-something men, who did not appear to be lovers, discussed their childhoods and their experiences with their fathers and their backyard pools. One drank a Midori sour, the other beer.
I wasn’t sure if I was finished when I left the poolside, but I wanted to have time to do some research and shower before Jared returned. It was too much time.
When he returned from class and taking care of business, it turned out Jared was jealous. He wanted to do nothing too. So, we decided not to go anywhere last night either – to stay in the airport complex. Between the hotel and the self-parking area there’s a sign that reads “California Pizza”, and we thought that sounded like an excellent low-key dinner option.
However, we’d read the sign wrong. The sign indicated the “California Pizza” restaurant supply headquarters. We were back to square one. So, we began walking down the “street”. It has about 4 lanes in each direction, a grassy area, and a sidewalk. The street serves office-park-style hotels and the occasional… office building. We walked about a mile along it, and then down a similar street that also served a lot of surface parking facilities and a Burger King. We were not hopeful. We began weighing our options: Burger King or the hotel restaurant. Ugh!
As we followed the roadway away from the airport, the hotels got lower-brow. We passed a Super 8 with a sign that it also had a Greek Restaurant. Hmm… We peered inside. Nothing promising. But then we rounded the corner and found our place. It was a divey little place with Greek tourism posters on the white walls. Maybe it was a converted garage or fast food joint – the building was a strange shape. Keep in mind that we were completely surrounded by surface parking lots for airport parking and cheap hotels for at least a mile in each direction.
The service was very slow – I was just as likely to get up and get us whatever we needed as the waiter was – and the food was fine. After a while, when the other patrons had left (it was well after 9 PM at this point) they changed the music from whatever strange soft rock they were playing (I’d never heard any of those songs before) to heavy metal, which we figured was our cue to leave. It turned out to be one of those odd experiences you only have when you have no idea where you are or where you’re going… when you don’t plan. It was fun.
As planned, I did nothing yesterday. That is, I blogged. I worked out. I hung out by the pool. I waited for Jared. Oh, and I went to the ATM.
It’s amazing the way they’ve managed to take a pool surrounded by parking lots, plant a few trees, and make it very pleasant. I read and swam, swam and read and easedropped. A mother with 4 young boys played in the pool (after the kids couldn’t entertain themselves anymore and the mother had to give up her sunbathing). Parents and their lovely grown daughter sunbathed. Two 20-something men, who did not appear to be lovers, discussed their childhoods and their experiences with their fathers and their backyard pools. One drank a Midori sour, the other beer.
I wasn’t sure if I was finished when I left the poolside, but I wanted to have time to do some research and shower before Jared returned. It was too much time.
When he returned from class and taking care of business, it turned out Jared was jealous. He wanted to do nothing too. So, we decided not to go anywhere last night either – to stay in the airport complex. Between the hotel and the self-parking area there’s a sign that reads “California Pizza”, and we thought that sounded like an excellent low-key dinner option.
However, we’d read the sign wrong. The sign indicated the “California Pizza” restaurant supply headquarters. We were back to square one. So, we began walking down the “street”. It has about 4 lanes in each direction, a grassy area, and a sidewalk. The street serves office-park-style hotels and the occasional… office building. We walked about a mile along it, and then down a similar street that also served a lot of surface parking facilities and a Burger King. We were not hopeful. We began weighing our options: Burger King or the hotel restaurant. Ugh!
As we followed the roadway away from the airport, the hotels got lower-brow. We passed a Super 8 with a sign that it also had a Greek Restaurant. Hmm… We peered inside. Nothing promising. But then we rounded the corner and found our place. It was a divey little place with Greek tourism posters on the white walls. Maybe it was a converted garage or fast food joint – the building was a strange shape. Keep in mind that we were completely surrounded by surface parking lots for airport parking and cheap hotels for at least a mile in each direction.
The service was very slow – I was just as likely to get up and get us whatever we needed as the waiter was – and the food was fine. After a while, when the other patrons had left (it was well after 9 PM at this point) they changed the music from whatever strange soft rock they were playing (I’d never heard any of those songs before) to heavy metal, which we figured was our cue to leave. It turned out to be one of those odd experiences you only have when you have no idea where you are or where you’re going… when you don’t plan. It was fun.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
[Los Angeles] Toxic Waste
Today, I’ve pretty much decided not to do anything. I’m in my swim suit and Jared’s running shorts – I’m planning some exercise. But I might not leave the airport complex. My justification? I have some research to do, and I don’t mean google-stalking.
After much agonizing, I decided to go to the Santa Monica Museum of Art at the Bergamot Station yesterday, where many galleries are also located. I started with the MTA web site, to figure out how to get there on public transportation. Alas, apparently you can’t get there from here. This is funny for a few reasons including that Santa Monica is a relatively small city, and it is reputed to have the best public transit system in the US. But no, you can’t get to their Art Museum on the bus. You have to drive.
So, my bike and I took the #3 Big Blue Bus from the LAX Transit Center to Pico and Lincoln (Hwy 1 – which will take you the entire length of this country, and beyond, along the coast). There, I tootled down some residential streets, ventured a somewhat tenuous freeway crossing, and finally found the art center next to the toxic waste dump.
Of course, the first thing that jumps into your head is “is that what Santa Monica thinks of its art scene? Toxic waste?” But here’s another thought: There’s a long tradition linking industrial and otherwise undesirable land uses with the arts: there’s no money in art (unless you’re Rauschenberg, I guess). So, it makes sense for art uses to occupy these spaces in our cities. This also explains why there’s no public transportation access to the Art Museum. Art is like the least favorite child of a wealthy family (the city): They’ll let him have a car, because they have extras lying around, but not any space in the better areas. The affluent fall on hard times thru art and never the other way around.
Here’s another way of thinking about it: artists struggle, and find cheap space to work to get by. Others admire their work and their pluck. It then becomes a sort of “hip-to-be-square” type of thing. Suddenly, you have to look for new cheap areas to work, bc the previously affordable industrial areas are now made cool by the artists and have become expensive. The part that bothers me about this is that Museums are for the people. Museums are not cute little art galleries that only rich people drive to. They are like libraries – a service of the city to its residents and visitors. If you put it in the middle of nowhere, the museum’s no longer a service to all.
I got the feeling that these galleries are pretty “mainstream”. They mostly featured old works (made interesting by their age), bad works by well-known artists (specifically, Rauschenberg, but not the good stuff), and stuff with weird gimmicks (like this one guy did a series of large painting of the same little Asian girl, multiple times per painting, naked, doing different, sometimes strange, things, like whipping another of herself, having sex with another of herself, running with a group of herselves to play soccer, etc.). I saw some good, skillfully-made art, but it was generally hung at the back or side of the gallery, hard to find.
The museum had a few exhibitions: one by an anthropologist who collects things (Ken Brecher: The Little Room of Epiphanies). It included jars of sand, soil, water, etc. from various places, buttons, flags, etc., all artfully displayed and a video of him talking with his son about what collecting means to him. He believes that collecting is a way of making the world richer, of experiencing the world in an exciting and engaged way. He told a story about going to Syria with his wife, people said it was dangerous to go, but when they got there, they just found other people, people who wanted to tell their side of the story. He said it wasn’t dangerous, but he wouldn’t take his son there just in case. He would, however, take his son places where he can collect things, because that’s how you roll up your sleeves and live in the world (my words) and they want that for their son. The other exhibition was much larger and less interesting, of a Portuguese architect’s work (ALVARO SIZA/ARCHITECT: DRAWINGS, MODELS, PHOTOGRAPHS). I found myself reacting to his work like this: “that’s beautiful… it’s weird… I don’t think I like it.”
I took the bus back to the hotel to meet Jared. We had a near miss with a nap, and then rushed off to Hollywood to see Rachel and Damon at their new place. We went to Thai Town for dinner (they also live near the Armenian district), and then back to their place for homemade ice cream sandwiches (yum!). Their apartment is super cute, and their company, as always, excellent. I would have taken pictures but my camera battery was used up, which reminds me: I’ll plug that in now… and then go for a swim….
After much agonizing, I decided to go to the Santa Monica Museum of Art at the Bergamot Station yesterday, where many galleries are also located. I started with the MTA web site, to figure out how to get there on public transportation. Alas, apparently you can’t get there from here. This is funny for a few reasons including that Santa Monica is a relatively small city, and it is reputed to have the best public transit system in the US. But no, you can’t get to their Art Museum on the bus. You have to drive.
So, my bike and I took the #3 Big Blue Bus from the LAX Transit Center to Pico and Lincoln (Hwy 1 – which will take you the entire length of this country, and beyond, along the coast). There, I tootled down some residential streets, ventured a somewhat tenuous freeway crossing, and finally found the art center next to the toxic waste dump.
Of course, the first thing that jumps into your head is “is that what Santa Monica thinks of its art scene? Toxic waste?” But here’s another thought: There’s a long tradition linking industrial and otherwise undesirable land uses with the arts: there’s no money in art (unless you’re Rauschenberg, I guess). So, it makes sense for art uses to occupy these spaces in our cities. This also explains why there’s no public transportation access to the Art Museum. Art is like the least favorite child of a wealthy family (the city): They’ll let him have a car, because they have extras lying around, but not any space in the better areas. The affluent fall on hard times thru art and never the other way around.
Here’s another way of thinking about it: artists struggle, and find cheap space to work to get by. Others admire their work and their pluck. It then becomes a sort of “hip-to-be-square” type of thing. Suddenly, you have to look for new cheap areas to work, bc the previously affordable industrial areas are now made cool by the artists and have become expensive. The part that bothers me about this is that Museums are for the people. Museums are not cute little art galleries that only rich people drive to. They are like libraries – a service of the city to its residents and visitors. If you put it in the middle of nowhere, the museum’s no longer a service to all.
I got the feeling that these galleries are pretty “mainstream”. They mostly featured old works (made interesting by their age), bad works by well-known artists (specifically, Rauschenberg, but not the good stuff), and stuff with weird gimmicks (like this one guy did a series of large painting of the same little Asian girl, multiple times per painting, naked, doing different, sometimes strange, things, like whipping another of herself, having sex with another of herself, running with a group of herselves to play soccer, etc.). I saw some good, skillfully-made art, but it was generally hung at the back or side of the gallery, hard to find.
The museum had a few exhibitions: one by an anthropologist who collects things (Ken Brecher: The Little Room of Epiphanies). It included jars of sand, soil, water, etc. from various places, buttons, flags, etc., all artfully displayed and a video of him talking with his son about what collecting means to him. He believes that collecting is a way of making the world richer, of experiencing the world in an exciting and engaged way. He told a story about going to Syria with his wife, people said it was dangerous to go, but when they got there, they just found other people, people who wanted to tell their side of the story. He said it wasn’t dangerous, but he wouldn’t take his son there just in case. He would, however, take his son places where he can collect things, because that’s how you roll up your sleeves and live in the world (my words) and they want that for their son. The other exhibition was much larger and less interesting, of a Portuguese architect’s work (ALVARO SIZA/ARCHITECT: DRAWINGS, MODELS, PHOTOGRAPHS). I found myself reacting to his work like this: “that’s beautiful… it’s weird… I don’t think I like it.”
I took the bus back to the hotel to meet Jared. We had a near miss with a nap, and then rushed off to Hollywood to see Rachel and Damon at their new place. We went to Thai Town for dinner (they also live near the Armenian district), and then back to their place for homemade ice cream sandwiches (yum!). Their apartment is super cute, and their company, as always, excellent. I would have taken pictures but my camera battery was used up, which reminds me: I’ll plug that in now… and then go for a swim….
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
[Los Angeles]From the belly of the beast***
*** This post has been edited since its original posting to reflect actual events.
I’m writing from Los Angeles, where Jared has come for a class and I tagged along for the company. I brought my bike, and the idea is to keep myself entertained with art. LA has a lot of art to see, it turns out.
In other news, my ALC “tan” on my right leg is peeling. Also, I forgot to tell you about the time a bird pooped on me mid-ride.
We drove down here on Sunday afternoon. It went pretty quickly (the company was good), but did take longer than the Google estimated 6 hours. We stopped a couple times in “America” for milkshakes and Starbucks coffee. Jared said “I would have thought that you’d have a problem with Starbucks.”
I replied “I do, but there aren’t any other options. Anyway, what’s great about Starbucks is that now you can get good coffee anywhere in the world.”
Jared: “Yeah, there was a while there when, in parts of the country, the coffee was really bad. It was as if we were in the coffee Dark Ages, and Starbucks started the Renaissance.”
Me: “Sometimes I like bad coffee. You know, it’s bad coffee about being bad coffee.” And, to my surprise, he shook his head.
Yesterday I went to the Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA) downtown. It was funny because it appears you can't get there on foot. I took the bus, which took an hour, and then walked a couple blocks to the underground loading area where I took an elevator to the main entrance thru a parking garage. Anyway, the art was good.
They have a Rauschenberg exhibit going now. I read recently that he is the most successful living artist, based on the kind of money he gets for his work. I’ve always liked the way he “combines” every day items into his painting, and way he uses color, to create these seemingly random but really quite compelling canvasses. Of course, it helps that he likes chickens and goats (and puts stuffed ones into his work).
I watched the film on him for a short while and learned some interesting things. One friend told a story about Rauschenberg having a bunch of bamboo polls up on the wall in his studio. The friend said, I really like your work here, but I don’t get what’s going on with the bamboo polls. Rauschenberg replied, I bet you’ve put things up on the wall before that you don’t know what they mean. To that I say: LET’S ALL PUT SOMETHING UNEXPECTED UP ON THE WALL THIS MONTH. Maybe it will change your life. Rauschenberg said he works for maximum lack of control so that something might happen that he didn’t think of. This seems like a great idea to keep life unexpected and work fresh.
Also at the museum, I saw a film called “call waiting” where several characters show a story by talking on the phone, in their native languages (subtitles) and English, in various locations. They are working, at home in their kitchen, in a bar, etc., and they receive other calls, either thru call waiting or on other phones there. Between the languages and phone lines, the piece was an interesting fairytale on contemporary American communication.
While riding the bus back to the hotel to meet Jared, a woman asked the bus driver in Spanish which bus she should ride to get home. They had an extended conversation where she spoke Spanish and he responded in English. Eventually, it became clear to her that he didn’t even speak Spanish; he spoke Italian. It also turned out that she was on the wrong bus.
Mid-intersection where the bus was attempting to turn left (it took a while), I noticed a woman attempted to cross the street. She was speaking on her mobile phone and pushing the pedestrian signal activation button constantly. I thought to myself “that’s how those things get broken.” But on the other hand, I understood her frustration. She can’t jaywalk because this is LA and there are too many cars. Her only recourse to having to wait too long at the corner is to keep pressing the button. It’s no consolation to her that it took the bus a long time to make a left turn there too….
We went to Santa Monica last night and Venice the night before. SM was a hit. We walked along the beach with our shoes off. I’ve got this idea that I want to be able to move each of my toes independently, and I heard that walking in sand is a good way to teach those muscles. I waded and forced Jared to get his feet (and pant legs) wet too, and the water was warm and soft.
We decided we wanted tacos, and of course there’s a problem with deciding exactly what you want to eat when you’re in a city and neighborhood you don’t know. SM is pretty up-scale, and we walked along pedestrianized 3rd Street, where street performers dominate and there are white Christmas lights on all the trees. It took some trial and error, but we found a place with tasty fish tacos. Jared said it was even better than what he had imagined.
Venice appears not to be much of a night spot. We found this place on citysearch which people said had excellent sushi and a relaxed “beachy” ambiance. On the real beach, the stalls stood empty and dark, looking kind of dirty and pathetic.
We're staying at the airport, which kinda sucks, but it does mean there are a lot of buses for me to take around. The hotel has a decent gym, pool and hot tub in addition to a view of the runway. I spent some time yesterday morning enjoying the fitness facilities. But today, alas, I just slept in. For some reason we didn’t get the lights off for sleeping until after 1 AM.
I’m writing from Los Angeles, where Jared has come for a class and I tagged along for the company. I brought my bike, and the idea is to keep myself entertained with art. LA has a lot of art to see, it turns out.
In other news, my ALC “tan” on my right leg is peeling. Also, I forgot to tell you about the time a bird pooped on me mid-ride.
We drove down here on Sunday afternoon. It went pretty quickly (the company was good), but did take longer than the Google estimated 6 hours. We stopped a couple times in “America” for milkshakes and Starbucks coffee. Jared said “I would have thought that you’d have a problem with Starbucks.”
I replied “I do, but there aren’t any other options. Anyway, what’s great about Starbucks is that now you can get good coffee anywhere in the world.”
Jared: “Yeah, there was a while there when, in parts of the country, the coffee was really bad. It was as if we were in the coffee Dark Ages, and Starbucks started the Renaissance.”
Me: “Sometimes I like bad coffee. You know, it’s bad coffee about being bad coffee.” And, to my surprise, he shook his head.
Yesterday I went to the Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA) downtown. It was funny because it appears you can't get there on foot. I took the bus, which took an hour, and then walked a couple blocks to the underground loading area where I took an elevator to the main entrance thru a parking garage. Anyway, the art was good.
They have a Rauschenberg exhibit going now. I read recently that he is the most successful living artist, based on the kind of money he gets for his work. I’ve always liked the way he “combines” every day items into his painting, and way he uses color, to create these seemingly random but really quite compelling canvasses. Of course, it helps that he likes chickens and goats (and puts stuffed ones into his work).
I watched the film on him for a short while and learned some interesting things. One friend told a story about Rauschenberg having a bunch of bamboo polls up on the wall in his studio. The friend said, I really like your work here, but I don’t get what’s going on with the bamboo polls. Rauschenberg replied, I bet you’ve put things up on the wall before that you don’t know what they mean. To that I say: LET’S ALL PUT SOMETHING UNEXPECTED UP ON THE WALL THIS MONTH. Maybe it will change your life. Rauschenberg said he works for maximum lack of control so that something might happen that he didn’t think of. This seems like a great idea to keep life unexpected and work fresh.
Also at the museum, I saw a film called “call waiting” where several characters show a story by talking on the phone, in their native languages (subtitles) and English, in various locations. They are working, at home in their kitchen, in a bar, etc., and they receive other calls, either thru call waiting or on other phones there. Between the languages and phone lines, the piece was an interesting fairytale on contemporary American communication.
While riding the bus back to the hotel to meet Jared, a woman asked the bus driver in Spanish which bus she should ride to get home. They had an extended conversation where she spoke Spanish and he responded in English. Eventually, it became clear to her that he didn’t even speak Spanish; he spoke Italian. It also turned out that she was on the wrong bus.
Mid-intersection where the bus was attempting to turn left (it took a while), I noticed a woman attempted to cross the street. She was speaking on her mobile phone and pushing the pedestrian signal activation button constantly. I thought to myself “that’s how those things get broken.” But on the other hand, I understood her frustration. She can’t jaywalk because this is LA and there are too many cars. Her only recourse to having to wait too long at the corner is to keep pressing the button. It’s no consolation to her that it took the bus a long time to make a left turn there too….
We went to Santa Monica last night and Venice the night before. SM was a hit. We walked along the beach with our shoes off. I’ve got this idea that I want to be able to move each of my toes independently, and I heard that walking in sand is a good way to teach those muscles. I waded and forced Jared to get his feet (and pant legs) wet too, and the water was warm and soft.
We decided we wanted tacos, and of course there’s a problem with deciding exactly what you want to eat when you’re in a city and neighborhood you don’t know. SM is pretty up-scale, and we walked along pedestrianized 3rd Street, where street performers dominate and there are white Christmas lights on all the trees. It took some trial and error, but we found a place with tasty fish tacos. Jared said it was even better than what he had imagined.
Venice appears not to be much of a night spot. We found this place on citysearch which people said had excellent sushi and a relaxed “beachy” ambiance. On the real beach, the stalls stood empty and dark, looking kind of dirty and pathetic.
We're staying at the airport, which kinda sucks, but it does mean there are a lot of buses for me to take around. The hotel has a decent gym, pool and hot tub in addition to a view of the runway. I spent some time yesterday morning enjoying the fitness facilities. But today, alas, I just slept in. For some reason we didn’t get the lights off for sleeping until after 1 AM.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
ALC overview
Snapfish: Share:Registration
This year on AIDS/LifeCycle, 1,840 riders raised $8M to end AIDS. People rode for all sorts of reasons: the physical challenge of the ride, a personal experience with AIDS such as the loss of a loved one, or being HIV+ themselves. On the night of the talent show, one man read a devastating poem about the loss or his partner, bringing the entire audience to tears. HIV+ riders had a special club, wore jerseys identifying themselves, and had preferential bike parking. The food was excellent and the entire event extremely well-organized. (In fact, I didn’t have a logistical problem until my first interface with the outside world, when I attempted to ride the Super Shuttle to the airport.) The follow describes a bit of my own experience:
Highlights:
• The peanut-chocolate thing from the top of the first hill, and the pie later that day (day 1) (See Note 1)
• Deep fried artichoke hearts with garlic mayo (day 2)
• Swimming in the river on the longest day (day 3) (See Note 2)
• Half-way to LA and the views from the top, and, honestly, climbing the “evil twins” of which there appeared to me to be 4 (day 4)
• Red dress day and dancing in the street of Casmalia (day 5) (See Note 3)
• Random conversations and learning about people (most days)
• No knee pain (See Note 4)
• “Mom and Dad” (See Note 5)
• Communication with the outside world (See Note 6)
Low points:
• Butt rash (despite at least one application of Chamois Butt’r every day) (See Note 4)
• Back and shoulder pain (See Note 4)
• PMS (See Note 7)
Note 1: We started from the Cow Palace in San Francisco early Sunday morning, and then rode over Hwy 92 to the coast. There’s a hill along that route. I was riding with the pig ladies (cyclists with pink seat covers and curly tails and pink helmet covers with little pink ears). That is, I was trying to keep up with them. We began the climb, and one said “Here comes the hill.”
Not noticing much, I said “this isn’t a hill.”
But she disagreed: “You’ll see.” And then she went on the say something encouraging like: “You’re looking good, looking strong.”
Anyway, there isn’t much to this story, other than for some reason they were very impressed with my climbing. They knicknamed me “frisky girl.” We reached the top, where volunteers generally hand out treats to the riders. I declined the red vines and chips ahoy, but then I saw a man handing out something that looked good. It was a kind of peanut shortbread dipped in really nice chocolate.
The next day, someone was talking about some treat they’d had. They wanted to marry its producer. I mentioned these peanut-chocolate treats. “Oh, I know that guy. But he has a boyfriend. You can’t marry him.” I tried to argue with her, but, well, you can probably guess that it went nowhere.
Note 2: I heard about the swimming that morning, and I wanted to make sure not to miss it. People assured me that that wouldn’t happen. The day was long, and my need for a cool dip increased as it passed.
Before the swimming hole, you cross a bridge. I looked over the edge of the bridge as I rode and saw only men. Now, they’re all gay; so, what difference does it make? But I didn’t want to be the only one in there with different parts. Once I stopped my bike, I realized that the ladies had self-segregated and were bathing under the bridge instead of beside it. I joined them.
The conversation quickly came to this self-segregation phenomenon. One woman had been reading about the “red tent” where women in biblical times would segregate themselves when they menstruated and tell stories similar to the ones in the bible but from women’s perspective. We quickly began to formulate our own adages: “one must wash one’s bottom 3 times before one puts back on one’s bike shorts after bathing if one has sat on a rock.” (The reason being to remove all sand from places where it may cause discomfort before locking it in place with bike shorts.) I was struck by how beautiful all these fit bodies looked – bike clothes don’t do anyone any favors, but this did.
Note 3: I had heard about red dress day before I left for the ride, but I didn’t realize how important it was. The idea began that riders should all wear red so that as they snaked up this one hill they would look like the red ribbon of solidarity with victims of AIDS. You can imagine how this quickly changed from “dress in red” day to wear a “red dress” day. I’ve heard that straight men who do the ride as much for the physical challenge as anything else begin by brushing off this tradition, but by their second year, they’re as decked out as anyone else.
But I only brought a red jersey, alas! I felt left out of the fun and like a disappointment to my fellow riders. Appearances ranged from gorgeous to comic in various get-ups. Someone observed that since the ride goes thru the same towns on day 5 every year, the locals probably think that the AIDS riders dress this way every day.
Day 5 is also by far the shortest day with only 45 miles to ride. So, when, in Casmalia, the second break stop and a small town with Erin-Brockovich-type problems, the general store piped dance music onto the street, I joined the dancers. Dancing in bike cleats is no small task, but we were more than up to it. And I thought to myself, these folks who have been bike touring hard for so many days, trying to raise money to end a pandemic, and are now disco dancing in the street in the middle of the day… these are my people.
Note 4: This is probably more information than some of you want…. But, when training, I had 3 physical complaints: my knees, my shoulders, and my butt. Well, at least one went away and was replaced with a new one: my mid-back. By the end of the ride, I started to notice entirely new pains, in my feet, for example. I heard many people complain of their “crotch” being “on fire” after a week in the saddle. But, strangely, that ended for all of us when we entered the LA City Limit. It’s as if our butts knew we were almost finished.
Note 5: One rider’s Mom and Dad follow the route each year and are somewhere along it every day to cheers us on. They have a sign that says “Mom and Dad” and they wear name tags to that effect as well. They look like any of our Mom and Dad’s – they’re super cute, and they play little drums for us (probably bc it can get tiring cheering for so many hours). I can imagine how much this must mean to some riders whose parents aren’t supportive of them (because they’re riding to end AIDS? because they’re gay?). Every time I saw them, I told them how much it meant to me to have their support.
Note 6: I had my mobile phone turned off during the day, and used it only between when I rolled into camp (between 3 and 7 PM, depending on the day’s mileage) and when I went to sleep (9 PM). I turned on my phone to find voice messages from my mother in France and texts from Jared. They always made me smile.
Note 7: One morning, the breakfast people sang to me as they served my breakfast. If you know me at all, you know how this went over. But I kept my jaw clenched shut and said nothing as I collected my oatmeal, eggs, fruit and breakfast meat. Fortunately, they didn’t have a problem with my silence. I decided it was wise to sit at a table alone and eat my breakfast quietly, avoiding any dangerous interactions.
But it only took a few moments for a couple of chipper women to join me. They bantered pleasantly and asked me how my ride was going. (Note, on the ride, no one says “How was your day?” or “Have a nice day.” Instead the word “day” is always replaced with “ride”.) I said OK, and then I added: “I’m sorry. I’m a non-talking morning person. It’s not personal, and I’m really a very nice person. I just don’t talk in the morning.” They were fine with that, and after a few minutes I was able to talk.
Just to bring the conversation full circle, on day 7 (some time later), I sat down with a group of women at lunch. I remembered one of them from lunch on day 1, but not the other two. One of them said: “I remember you. You were apologizing for your hair the other morning.”
“That doesn’t sound like me, but it’s possible,” I replied.
The second woman laughed, “No, I remember how we know you.” She laughed harder, “You’re the one who doesn’t talk in the morning. You were so funny.”
I guess I managed not to offend.
Around the same time as the breakfast singers, we rode our longest day. It was 105 miles, 5 miles more than the Wine Country Century I did with Jared about a month earlier. By the end of the day, I had had it. I rode into camp and, as usual, dozens of people cheered and welcomed me home. They had no right to do that. I scowled at them, and headed for the bike parking. One person even had the nerve to tell me to “smile, you made it!” I tried to comply, failed, and continued along my way with my mouth clenched tightly shut.
This reminded me of one of the opening speeches, at 5 AM the previous Sunday. Mark Cloutier, the executive director of the SF AIDS Foundation said (I paraphrase): “Over the next week you will be experiencing many emotions. One emotion that people don’t talk about is the grumpy bitch emotion. Riders, grumpiness is not a victimless crime. On day 4, when you find that you have just yelled at the woman trying to hand you a banana, you will think ‘why did I do that? I’m not a bitch.’ So, when you feel the grumpy bitch coming on, I want you to think instead ‘I’m a kitty. You’re a kitty.’” And he made stroking motions with his hand in the air.
I didn’t use Mark’s mantra suggestion, but I still wanted to share it with you. I’m proud that I rode my bicycle from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Now that I’ve done it, I realize that it’s a very very long way to ride a bike. Possibly even more impressive is that, through that process, I didn’t say anything unkind out loud.
THANK YOU to ALL my sponsors. An additional special thanks goes to Alison, for driving me to the Cow Palace at 5 AM Sunday morning (!), and to my mother, for the songs and voice messages of encouragement from France every day of the ride and for her un-equaled assistance with my fundraising efforts. I couldn’t have done it without you!
I’ll add other stories if I remember them.
This year on AIDS/LifeCycle, 1,840 riders raised $8M to end AIDS. People rode for all sorts of reasons: the physical challenge of the ride, a personal experience with AIDS such as the loss of a loved one, or being HIV+ themselves. On the night of the talent show, one man read a devastating poem about the loss or his partner, bringing the entire audience to tears. HIV+ riders had a special club, wore jerseys identifying themselves, and had preferential bike parking. The food was excellent and the entire event extremely well-organized. (In fact, I didn’t have a logistical problem until my first interface with the outside world, when I attempted to ride the Super Shuttle to the airport.) The follow describes a bit of my own experience:
Highlights:
• The peanut-chocolate thing from the top of the first hill, and the pie later that day (day 1) (See Note 1)
• Deep fried artichoke hearts with garlic mayo (day 2)
• Swimming in the river on the longest day (day 3) (See Note 2)
• Half-way to LA and the views from the top, and, honestly, climbing the “evil twins” of which there appeared to me to be 4 (day 4)
• Red dress day and dancing in the street of Casmalia (day 5) (See Note 3)
• Random conversations and learning about people (most days)
• No knee pain (See Note 4)
• “Mom and Dad” (See Note 5)
• Communication with the outside world (See Note 6)
Low points:
• Butt rash (despite at least one application of Chamois Butt’r every day) (See Note 4)
• Back and shoulder pain (See Note 4)
• PMS (See Note 7)
Note 1: We started from the Cow Palace in San Francisco early Sunday morning, and then rode over Hwy 92 to the coast. There’s a hill along that route. I was riding with the pig ladies (cyclists with pink seat covers and curly tails and pink helmet covers with little pink ears). That is, I was trying to keep up with them. We began the climb, and one said “Here comes the hill.”
Not noticing much, I said “this isn’t a hill.”
But she disagreed: “You’ll see.” And then she went on the say something encouraging like: “You’re looking good, looking strong.”
Anyway, there isn’t much to this story, other than for some reason they were very impressed with my climbing. They knicknamed me “frisky girl.” We reached the top, where volunteers generally hand out treats to the riders. I declined the red vines and chips ahoy, but then I saw a man handing out something that looked good. It was a kind of peanut shortbread dipped in really nice chocolate.
The next day, someone was talking about some treat they’d had. They wanted to marry its producer. I mentioned these peanut-chocolate treats. “Oh, I know that guy. But he has a boyfriend. You can’t marry him.” I tried to argue with her, but, well, you can probably guess that it went nowhere.
Note 2: I heard about the swimming that morning, and I wanted to make sure not to miss it. People assured me that that wouldn’t happen. The day was long, and my need for a cool dip increased as it passed.
Before the swimming hole, you cross a bridge. I looked over the edge of the bridge as I rode and saw only men. Now, they’re all gay; so, what difference does it make? But I didn’t want to be the only one in there with different parts. Once I stopped my bike, I realized that the ladies had self-segregated and were bathing under the bridge instead of beside it. I joined them.
The conversation quickly came to this self-segregation phenomenon. One woman had been reading about the “red tent” where women in biblical times would segregate themselves when they menstruated and tell stories similar to the ones in the bible but from women’s perspective. We quickly began to formulate our own adages: “one must wash one’s bottom 3 times before one puts back on one’s bike shorts after bathing if one has sat on a rock.” (The reason being to remove all sand from places where it may cause discomfort before locking it in place with bike shorts.) I was struck by how beautiful all these fit bodies looked – bike clothes don’t do anyone any favors, but this did.
Note 3: I had heard about red dress day before I left for the ride, but I didn’t realize how important it was. The idea began that riders should all wear red so that as they snaked up this one hill they would look like the red ribbon of solidarity with victims of AIDS. You can imagine how this quickly changed from “dress in red” day to wear a “red dress” day. I’ve heard that straight men who do the ride as much for the physical challenge as anything else begin by brushing off this tradition, but by their second year, they’re as decked out as anyone else.
But I only brought a red jersey, alas! I felt left out of the fun and like a disappointment to my fellow riders. Appearances ranged from gorgeous to comic in various get-ups. Someone observed that since the ride goes thru the same towns on day 5 every year, the locals probably think that the AIDS riders dress this way every day.
Day 5 is also by far the shortest day with only 45 miles to ride. So, when, in Casmalia, the second break stop and a small town with Erin-Brockovich-type problems, the general store piped dance music onto the street, I joined the dancers. Dancing in bike cleats is no small task, but we were more than up to it. And I thought to myself, these folks who have been bike touring hard for so many days, trying to raise money to end a pandemic, and are now disco dancing in the street in the middle of the day… these are my people.
Note 4: This is probably more information than some of you want…. But, when training, I had 3 physical complaints: my knees, my shoulders, and my butt. Well, at least one went away and was replaced with a new one: my mid-back. By the end of the ride, I started to notice entirely new pains, in my feet, for example. I heard many people complain of their “crotch” being “on fire” after a week in the saddle. But, strangely, that ended for all of us when we entered the LA City Limit. It’s as if our butts knew we were almost finished.
Note 5: One rider’s Mom and Dad follow the route each year and are somewhere along it every day to cheers us on. They have a sign that says “Mom and Dad” and they wear name tags to that effect as well. They look like any of our Mom and Dad’s – they’re super cute, and they play little drums for us (probably bc it can get tiring cheering for so many hours). I can imagine how much this must mean to some riders whose parents aren’t supportive of them (because they’re riding to end AIDS? because they’re gay?). Every time I saw them, I told them how much it meant to me to have their support.
Note 6: I had my mobile phone turned off during the day, and used it only between when I rolled into camp (between 3 and 7 PM, depending on the day’s mileage) and when I went to sleep (9 PM). I turned on my phone to find voice messages from my mother in France and texts from Jared. They always made me smile.
Note 7: One morning, the breakfast people sang to me as they served my breakfast. If you know me at all, you know how this went over. But I kept my jaw clenched shut and said nothing as I collected my oatmeal, eggs, fruit and breakfast meat. Fortunately, they didn’t have a problem with my silence. I decided it was wise to sit at a table alone and eat my breakfast quietly, avoiding any dangerous interactions.
But it only took a few moments for a couple of chipper women to join me. They bantered pleasantly and asked me how my ride was going. (Note, on the ride, no one says “How was your day?” or “Have a nice day.” Instead the word “day” is always replaced with “ride”.) I said OK, and then I added: “I’m sorry. I’m a non-talking morning person. It’s not personal, and I’m really a very nice person. I just don’t talk in the morning.” They were fine with that, and after a few minutes I was able to talk.
Just to bring the conversation full circle, on day 7 (some time later), I sat down with a group of women at lunch. I remembered one of them from lunch on day 1, but not the other two. One of them said: “I remember you. You were apologizing for your hair the other morning.”
“That doesn’t sound like me, but it’s possible,” I replied.
The second woman laughed, “No, I remember how we know you.” She laughed harder, “You’re the one who doesn’t talk in the morning. You were so funny.”
I guess I managed not to offend.
Around the same time as the breakfast singers, we rode our longest day. It was 105 miles, 5 miles more than the Wine Country Century I did with Jared about a month earlier. By the end of the day, I had had it. I rode into camp and, as usual, dozens of people cheered and welcomed me home. They had no right to do that. I scowled at them, and headed for the bike parking. One person even had the nerve to tell me to “smile, you made it!” I tried to comply, failed, and continued along my way with my mouth clenched tightly shut.
This reminded me of one of the opening speeches, at 5 AM the previous Sunday. Mark Cloutier, the executive director of the SF AIDS Foundation said (I paraphrase): “Over the next week you will be experiencing many emotions. One emotion that people don’t talk about is the grumpy bitch emotion. Riders, grumpiness is not a victimless crime. On day 4, when you find that you have just yelled at the woman trying to hand you a banana, you will think ‘why did I do that? I’m not a bitch.’ So, when you feel the grumpy bitch coming on, I want you to think instead ‘I’m a kitty. You’re a kitty.’” And he made stroking motions with his hand in the air.
I didn’t use Mark’s mantra suggestion, but I still wanted to share it with you. I’m proud that I rode my bicycle from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Now that I’ve done it, I realize that it’s a very very long way to ride a bike. Possibly even more impressive is that, through that process, I didn’t say anything unkind out loud.
THANK YOU to ALL my sponsors. An additional special thanks goes to Alison, for driving me to the Cow Palace at 5 AM Sunday morning (!), and to my mother, for the songs and voice messages of encouragement from France every day of the ride and for her un-equaled assistance with my fundraising efforts. I couldn’t have done it without you!
I’ll add other stories if I remember them.
Email correspondence this morning on Life Purpose(s)
Lilia to Alison
…
Do you ever wonder if there's something you were born to do, and if you're on the right path to do it?
Alison to me
All the time! And about once a month I think I'm on the right career path. The rest of the time I think I am completely off. And you?
Lilia to Alison
Jared and I were discussing this late into the night last night. I feel, rightfully, a bit scattered. Things I have been told over my life that I am talented at:
Singing (yeah, that's a lost cause, of course)
Drawing
Math
Getting information from people (both individually and in surveys)
Project management
Analysis, bringing concepts from one type of analysis into another
Well, those last 2, I decided I was good at, but I still think I'm right.
But how does that work together? And what should I be offering the world? I'm reading this book about Van Gogh, and he really struggled to find the right career path. When he finally decided on art, he failed through out his life to make a living or be recognized. Even his brother Theo, who supported him his entire life as an artist, didn't like his work.
My aunt Judy is another example. What if she had never been handed a ball of yarn? She would never have discovered this amazing talent, but probably lived an equally contented life. What is my ball of yarn?
Joseph Campbell told us to "follow your bliss and the money will come" but what is my bliss?
Alison to me
Joseph Campbell is full of BS.
… I'm pretty cynical; after many years of trying to figure it all out, I'm not necessarily any closer, and my greatest happiness comes from other things in my life (having a partner is on the top of the list). Despite this morning’s hysterics, and still wanting to do a good job and believing in the mission of the organization, it’s still work and a means for me to be able to do other things.
So there.
Lilia to Alison
…
Yeah, I guess I think that it's partly a matter of definitions. Obviously, you can't make any money by being a good partner and having a deep and fulfilling loving relationship. Someone has to bring home the bacon, and in this modern age (in the Bay Area, anyway), probably you both do. But there might be some other thing you will feel compelled to do in your life.
Sometimes I wonder if all of our agonizing about what to do with our lives was exactly the wrong approach. Maybe, sometimes, the right thing is just obvious. It's like relationships. Years ago, I remember complaining to someone I knew about some boy who was giving me mixed messages. She said: "If you're asking yourself these questions. Well, that's your answer. (It's not happening.)" This has certainly been supported by my experience with relationships.
I'm not sorry I do what I do, am trained to do what I'm trained to do. I love it, and what's more, I really believe in it. That said, I don't think it's my highest calling (or at least I haven't found the aspect of it that is my highest calling). I think there's something else I have to offer the world. But, I've decided that agonizing isn't the right approach. I refuse to be tortured. My plan is to go about my business, and, well, see what reveals itself to me. I expect the universe to surprise me.
Alison to me
…
Have you read Po Bronson’s "What should I do with my life?" …
…
Do you ever wonder if there's something you were born to do, and if you're on the right path to do it?
Alison to me
All the time! And about once a month I think I'm on the right career path. The rest of the time I think I am completely off. And you?
Lilia to Alison
Jared and I were discussing this late into the night last night. I feel, rightfully, a bit scattered. Things I have been told over my life that I am talented at:
Singing (yeah, that's a lost cause, of course)
Drawing
Math
Getting information from people (both individually and in surveys)
Project management
Analysis, bringing concepts from one type of analysis into another
Well, those last 2, I decided I was good at, but I still think I'm right.
But how does that work together? And what should I be offering the world? I'm reading this book about Van Gogh, and he really struggled to find the right career path. When he finally decided on art, he failed through out his life to make a living or be recognized. Even his brother Theo, who supported him his entire life as an artist, didn't like his work.
My aunt Judy is another example. What if she had never been handed a ball of yarn? She would never have discovered this amazing talent, but probably lived an equally contented life. What is my ball of yarn?
Joseph Campbell told us to "follow your bliss and the money will come" but what is my bliss?
Alison to me
Joseph Campbell is full of BS.
… I'm pretty cynical; after many years of trying to figure it all out, I'm not necessarily any closer, and my greatest happiness comes from other things in my life (having a partner is on the top of the list). Despite this morning’s hysterics, and still wanting to do a good job and believing in the mission of the organization, it’s still work and a means for me to be able to do other things.
So there.
Lilia to Alison
…
Yeah, I guess I think that it's partly a matter of definitions. Obviously, you can't make any money by being a good partner and having a deep and fulfilling loving relationship. Someone has to bring home the bacon, and in this modern age (in the Bay Area, anyway), probably you both do. But there might be some other thing you will feel compelled to do in your life.
Sometimes I wonder if all of our agonizing about what to do with our lives was exactly the wrong approach. Maybe, sometimes, the right thing is just obvious. It's like relationships. Years ago, I remember complaining to someone I knew about some boy who was giving me mixed messages. She said: "If you're asking yourself these questions. Well, that's your answer. (It's not happening.)" This has certainly been supported by my experience with relationships.
I'm not sorry I do what I do, am trained to do what I'm trained to do. I love it, and what's more, I really believe in it. That said, I don't think it's my highest calling (or at least I haven't found the aspect of it that is my highest calling). I think there's something else I have to offer the world. But, I've decided that agonizing isn't the right approach. I refuse to be tortured. My plan is to go about my business, and, well, see what reveals itself to me. I expect the universe to surprise me.
Alison to me
…
Have you read Po Bronson’s "What should I do with my life?" …
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