simple. perfect
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Saturday, March 30, 2013
Friday, March 29, 2013
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Playgrounds
When the alarm sounded, I hit the snooze button. At least I thought I did. I woke up thirty minutes later- fifteen minutes late.
I leapt from bed to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee and scrambled to take a shower, cursing my luck. I nicked myself shaving, and realized only after I’d donned a black shirt that all my black socks were dirty.
I changed out of the black shirt, grabbed my keys, and went to the kitchen, only to discover that the coffeemaker had malfunctioned and overflowed. I cleaned up the mess got in the car at 7:38, twenty minutes later than I normally left.
I got stuck at a train crossing. Some asshole cut me off on the interstate. I had a new pile of papers on my desk when I got to work. I explained to my boss that I didn’t have time for these papers today. Besides, wasn’t this type of thing Joe’s job?
Joe’s sick, and the job needs to get done.
Fuck Joe.
My wife called on the way home. She’d forgotten pesto, and needed me to stop at the store.
Another asshole had rammed a guard rail three miles up. I got stuck in traffic, but at least I could relax a bit. I turned on Zeppelin and closed my eyes.
The phone rang. It was my mother-in-law. I’d never hear the end of it if I didn’t answer.
She talked my ear off for thirty minutes. I tried to end the conversation, but never got a chance to speak. She was too busy telling me about her plans for Easter, and the baskets she’d bought for the kids, and her doctor’s visit last week.
Before I knew it, I was at the grocery store, and I hadn’t had a moment to relax. Zeppelin would have to wait. I got the pesto and went to the self-checkout lane. Four lanes and sixteen people stood before me. My line, of course, moved more slowly than the others. I scanned the jar, and the machine informed me that assistance was required. A cashier had been alerted.
God damn it.
Finally, I made it home. Making my way to the front door, I stepped in dog shit. I left my shoes on the front porch and opened the door to the din of two kids screaming and the dog’s incessant barking. My wife was in the kitchen, making dinner.
“What the hell is wrong with Katie? She looks like she’s on the verge of tears.”
“The boy she likes ignored her today.”
“Oh.”
The dog was still barking.
“Where’s Jake?”
“In his room throwing a fit. He’s mad because I took the iPad away.”
My wife was moving through the kitchen like a woman possessed, whisking, mixing, frying. She hadn’t even turned to look at me.
My eyes fell on the kitchen window. The sunbeams were coming through in waves, lighting up the dust particles in the air.
I took a deep breath.
Then I turned to my wife.
“Honey, how much time before dinner?”
“An hour, maybe. I’m going as fast as I can, dear.” There was some strain in her voice. From behind, I put my hands on her waist, and reached around to kiss her cheek.
“I’ll be back. I’m going to take the kids to the park.”
I changed into jeans and a t-shirt and loaded the kids in the car. I refused to tell them where we were going, so they were reluctant. It was like dragging kid-sized boulders to the car.
We pulled up to the park three minutes later. When it came into view, I heard Jake squeal.
“The park! The park! Daddy brought us to the park, Sissy!”
I turned in my seat to look at my daughter. She fought a smile for a split second, then went with it.
They both ran to the jungle gym first. I sat on the bench and watched as they climbed, both sticking out their tongues, as they always did when they were concentrating.
There were no other kids around.
I pulled out my phone when it vibrated. A new email. I put the phone back in my pocket without opening it.
“Daddy! Daddy! Come play with us!”
I ran to the playground and climbed up the rope that you’re supposed to climb down. I met my daughter at the top. She faked a startled scream, slid down the slide, and ran to the swings, where my son was waiting. We swung.
And I watched the world melt away with each laugh, each glimmer in their eyes.
Not long ago, I said on this very site that I wanted to use it as a sort of reading journal. It was an intriguing idea- I read so many great things, and wanted to remember more of it. A quick post and a little commentary would help me do that, and at the same time, provide a little value to readers. I had some worthwhile things to say, after all.
Then I started experimenting with fiction, which needed to evolve. I felt that I’d said much of what I wanted to say in essay form, and fiction felt like the next step in my evolution as a writer. Or, rather, I felt a compulsion to write stories.
I started to write combination flash fiction and essay pieces, which, to my knowledge, no one else was doing. It was original. That’s a good schtick, right?
Then I started to consider using Wonderisms as a link blog. It would mean more frequent posts, but would require about the same amount of time and work. Lots of others were doing it, and were driving a decent amount of traffic with the format.
That was what I wanted to do, wasn’t it? Drive traffic?
When I asked myself that question, the answer surprised me. No. That wasn’t the aim. How had I forgotten so quickly?
During the day, I write copy. Depending on the subject, it may be incredibly boring, or somewhat satisfying. The research is sometimes enlightening.
Mostly, though, it’s boring. I’m told precisely what to write, then I write it. A lot of it.
Sssimpli was supposed to be the money-maker. Not a lot, but I’d always expected it to serve two functions: as a resume for other tech news sites that may have a paid staff writer opening at some point, and, failing that, to monetize the site itself somehow. Turns out I love doing the work, but it’s still somewhat restricted work. I have a clear vision, and I stick to it.
Then there’s Wonderisms, which was never supposed to make money. It was supposed to be my playground. It was supposed to be the place where I experiment, where I turn to play with words. If I monetized it, I would be restricted. Will readers like this new format? What if traffic drops? I can’t afford that. Better stick to what got me here.
That, of course, would leave me without a playground.
We all need it: that ability to let things slip away. Nothing so nurtures that ability than a playground. Your playground may not be a park, or a jungle gym. It may be a book, or meeting friends for dinner and drinks, or the garage, or the gym. It doesn’t really matter what it is, so long as there’s that one place that you can go to play hard.
This is my word playground. It will remain free of goals, free of vision, free of restriction. This week, it will be what I want it to be. Next week, it will be something different, because next week, I will want something different.
We all work too hard. Isn’t it time we played hard, too?
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Spark Plugs and Pavement
I needed to take a walk. Outside, snow was falling in in large, swirling flurries, but it wasn't coating the ground. I stood in the doorway, watching the flakes fall, and rise again, then flutter to the ground, only to disappear.
I stepped onto the front porch, then descended the steps. A lone lark was singing somewhere in the immensity, and I wondered briefly if birds lived lonely lives. They must, but how much more terrible if they did, without the release of the occasional conversation.
A barking dog interrupted my thoughts.
I walked on, stepping onto the pavement of the road, and wondered at how long man had existed without knowing the feel of concrete beneath his feet. Before roads, before cars, it took days to travel any significant distance, if not weeks, months. Were we better or worse off for having put this unusually hard surface between our feet and the earth?
I walked past many houses in the neighborhood, and thought of the lives of the people who lived so close to me, and whom I did not know. I didn’t see a soul. Everyone had confined themselves to the safety of their homes, warming themselves by the fire, I imagined.
I came to a cul-de-sac which I’d never noticed. At the end, on either side, were two nearly identical houses, though one was brick, and one was wood. Behind them, I saw a clearing in the trees. I walked between the houses, through the path formed by each properties’ wooden fences, and into the woods.
The snow was becoming lighter, but still the sun refused to shine. I walked for hours, with no direction. I watched as a squirrel ran across the path a few feet in front of me, stopping for only a moment to acknowledge my intrusion.
I walked for an hour more, noticing how, with each step, my head became clearer, my burden lighter. I felt something beneath my foot, and stooped to find an old spark plug. Picking it up, I rolled it between my fingers, and thought of the long way that we had come.
Everything we had — our televisions, our iron gates, our shoes, our phones — had come from the earth. At one point, that’s all that had existed: rock, soil, grass, water. Yet from these things, we had built a tool: a simple arrowhead, then a spear. Gradually, we’d made incremental progress, adding a layer of complexity here and there, until, many eons later, we had rubber tires and microchips. Everything, even those microchips, could trace their lineage to the ground upon which I walked. Man’s ingenuity was a remarkable thing. I put the spark plug in my pocket, and walked on.
I came to a clearing, and found three paths. I wondered which one to take.
It didn’t matter, I decided. Eventually, I would find my way. The wind was biting, and stung my cheek. I smiled, and walked on.
If you’ve watched ESPN recently, you’ll have witnessed the Kid President. He’s a cute kid who dresses up in a suit, acts presidential, and dishes out diatribes on any number of subjects (most recently, he tackled March Madness brackets).
In one skit, he recites Robert Frost’s The Road Less Traveled. Then he informs us that he, too, took the road less traveled- and it was filled with thorns and glass. “Not cool, Robert Frost. Not cool,” he says.
We all spend most of our lives searching for answers. We want to find meaning in our lives, we want to be fulfilled. The drive for that meaning leads us to invent questions to which there are no answers.
We divide life up into good and bad decisions. We wonder if the person we’re with is the right person for us, if we’ve chosen the proper career path. It’s understandable. If there is no right or wrong way, no proper path, then how are we to know if we’re headed in the right direction?
Truth is, there is no right direction. There’s no proper way, no correct choices, no fateful trail. There is only the choices you make in this world full of squirrels, spark plugs, and pavement.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Friday, March 15, 2013
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Friday, March 8, 2013
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Ulterior Motive
"What's it been now, Brenda? Six months?"
"Nine."
Brenda slowly chewed her Caesar salad, brushing her long red hair out of her face with every few bites. She loved these lunches with Carol. It was such a quiet place, a hidden oasis in a busy metropolis. Rarely were there more than three or four couples here, and they had the best French onion soup.
"Ooh. It's serious, then?"
Brenda smiled. "Yeah. I think it is."
She dipped her bread into the soup and asked the waiter for another glass of water. Her eyes fell on another couple in the far corner of the bistro. He was seventy, she guessed, and his companion was perhaps ten years younger. They were barely eating, staring into each other's eyes, and seemed oblivious to the world around them.
Brenda thought of Ryan.
It was getting serious. Just that morning, while she was in the shower, he had sung to her: a horrible rendition of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. He was a horrible singer, and besides, she could barely make out a word as he tried to punch out the chorus while brushing his teeth.
This is what it's all been leading up to, she had thought. All the heartbreak, all the failed relationships, all the embarrassment of dating- it had all been for him.
"Brenda!"
Brenda looked up from her soup.
"Hmm?"
"You were off in la-la land. I was asking whether we have enough food for the banquet tonight."
"Oh. We do. I double-checked."
That evening, Brenda lingered in front of the bathroom mirror longer than usual as she donned an elegant blue dress and straightened her hair. It all felt like a dream.
She was curling her lashes when her phone began to vibrate. She grinned as she answered it.
"Hi, baby."
"Hi, sweetheart. I'm running a bit late. I was wondering if we could meet at Dante's for a cup of coffee before your banquet."
She met him an hour later at the cafe where they'd met nine months ago. Her order had been wrong- she'd asked for no whip cream on her latte. She had thought about returning it once she realized the mistake, then thought better of it when she saw the line. They were busy enough. When she turned to go back to her table, she had bumped into Ryan, literally, spilling just a dab of coffee on his shirt. Two minutes later, he returned to her table with a creamless latte.
He was sitting at that same table now, looking quite handsome in his three-piece suit. He didn't dress up often. She paused a moment at the counter, admiring him from a distance, before sitting down.
He shifted in his seat.
"Brenda, we need to talk."
The banquet had been a success, by most accounts, though now it hardly seemed to matter. Brenda walked into her apartment that night and went straight to the wine rack. She didn't look to see which bottle she was reaching for. She poured an extra tall glass, slumped onto her couch, and cried like she hadn't in years.
Ryan had turned out to be just another asshole, after all.
On the other side of town, Ryan was sitting in a bar, in a booth beside the pool table, where two of his best friends shot a game. He sipped his beer slowly.
"You're up, man. Greg's got the table."
"I think I'll sit this one out."
"You still bummed? I don't get it, man. Why the hell did you break it off with her if you still love her?"
"I ran into her old boss last night, from the job she had before this one. She loved that job. Loved her boss, too. The only reason she quit was the company didn't let her travel. She got a bit of wanderlust and took the job she has now so she could travel more." Ryan stared into the bottom of his glass.
"What's that got to do with you?"
Ryan looked up from his glass.
"The company's done pretty well since Brenda left. They've always wanted her back, but they didn't have the leverage to pull her in. Apparently, they're opening a Paris office next year, and they want Brenda to run it. She's always loved Paris. When she was a girl, her whole room was done up in Eiffel Tower stuff. There's no way she'll turn that down... unless she's with me."
"Because you can't go with her."
"No. I can't. My kids are here. I couldn't take them away from their mother, even if I wanted to, which I don't. Besides, my mom's not doing too hot. She's going to have to move in with me soon. She needs someone to take care of her. I didn't have a choice. Brenda deserves this. I can't be the reason she's unhappy."
In the season finale of Downton Abbey (SPOILER ALERT!), Carson refuses to go along with the rest of the staff to a fair that's coming to town. To the other servants, Carson gives the impression that the fair is beneath him. In a private conversation, though, he reveals the true reason: he is the boss, and the rest of the crew won't enjoy themselves if they feel the ever-present gaze of their superior behind them.
As far as the staff knows, Carson is just an old fuddy-duddy who hates fun. His true motivations, though, reveal a far more compassionate nature.
I've written before about the power of context. When we know a person's story - when we know the context - we can empathize. Stories provide the opportunity for connection. We tend to become close to those with whom we share an experience, and a story allows us to share that experience via the written word. Without that context, without that story, we tend to judge. That judgement comes from a lack of understanding. When we know only are our own perspective, we can only sympathize with ourselves, since there is no connection to anyone else in the 'story.'
We can, however, be immersed in a story and still find ourselves with a lack of understanding. Indeed, sometimes it is our very closeness to a story that strips us of that understanding. In the story above, we know nothing of Ryan's motivations when we find Brenda in tears on her couch. All we know is that he broke her heart right before one of the biggest nights of her career.
When we gain an understanding of his motivations, though, we see him differently. He was not out to hurt her; in fact, he sacrificed his own happiness for hers.
I remember a zen technique which I started practicing shortly after reading about it: the idea was to imagine everyone around you as 'enlightened' and having a lesson to teach. So, if someone cuts you off in traffic, they may be trying to teach you a lesson in managing your anger. If you spend fifteen minutes in the checkout line at the grocery store, the people in front of you and the painfully slow cashier are teaching you a lesson in patience.
This slight change in perspective can change your entire outlook, and the change is indeed just that: slight. It is only a repositioning of the psyche. But from that shift comes a tremendous increase in patience, understanding, gratitude, empathy.
The technique really boils down to the same thing as the story above: an understanding of a person's motivation. Why do they behave in such a way? Why did this good person do this thing that hurt us, annoyed us, bewildered us?
We often don't know the underlying motivation in scenarios that play out in our day-to-day lives, and it is for that very reason that we so often blame others for fortunes that befall us. If we endeavor to better understand the motivations, though, we may find not only an increase in empathy, but a lessening of our own suffering. Without knowing Ryan's motivations, Brenda concludes - as most of us would - that Ryan is just an asshole who toyed with her emotions. How would she feel if she knew the true reason for the break-up?
It's not often that we are given an opportunity to get to the heart of a person's actions. We are social animals, true- but our social offerings are rarely so transparent as to be meaningful. Mostly, our social selves offer trivialities: shallow windows into what's going on in our jobs, with our family, with our friends. Rarely do we offer glimpses into our motivations.
So it will be with others. If you wish to understand someone's motivations, it will take an effort on your part. The door into another's soul is often hidden. What we fail to realize, however, is that the keys to that door are often held out for us. We need only reach a bit to take the key that unlocks the door to a better understanding of our fellow man.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Friday, March 1, 2013
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