The title of this blog will be weird for some people I know. My darling wife has anxieties, mostly about public speaking, but all based upon public embarrassment. There is nothing good about her experience of anxiety. A friend of mine who loves to play music gets panic attacks. One of my sisters spends large amounts of her life with a feeling of undefinable anxiety. But this last Monday I had the opportunity to play a gig with my band, Sam's Cross, for the first time in nearly a year, and felt the good anxiety again.
The good anxiety is a feeling of your nervous system at a higher level, a feeling of being excited and alive, taking risks to achieve something really worthwhile. I have on several occasions made a complete arse of myself on stage, and that piercing feeling of failure and shame is not something quickly forgotten. But that very risk adds to the feeling of joy when you do well, particularly when what you are doing makes people happy.
The gig in question occurred in the basement bar that a guy named Bill had built for himself in the house that he grew up in. The bar actually is in the exact same part of the house as his bed when he was a boy. On Mondays this bar is open to friends, and friends of friends, and one of our band members is at least a friend of a friend. In fact, this is a public house in the very original sense of the word, supported by donations, policed simply by the people in the bar, and a very nice place it is too.
The last time the band played we had a drummer and a banjo player, both who have gone from the band, one quitting and one being ousted for not showing up. They have been replaced by an accordion player, and this was therefore her first gig with us. The nervousness therefore is not simply for myself, but for others as well. Those who have played sports, or sailed a ship, or been part of any group that has to work together is aware of the connection and fondness that develops within a group (if it goes well) but I submit that nothing builds that bond more than a band. In a song everyone in the band relies on everyone else completely, and at every moment throughout the song. Everyone must share a feeling, a rhythm, everyone shares the telling of a story. If it falls apart everyone shares the shame ("Play something you know" has been yelled at me on stage) but if it works everyone shares in the explosion of applause that washes over you and makes everything feel good.
So, that moment before the first song, looking out over a crowd of strangers and a few special friends is a glorious one for me, it is the best of life about to happen. As a result, for the last week I have felt somehow more complete as a human being, a feeling of correctness. Is this the thing that I'm supposed to do? Probably. So I should get off me arse and practice some more.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Genuine People
Twice in the last few weeks that I can recall my darling wife and I have been called "Genuine people." This is a complement, and we were grateful for it at the time, although as with many ordinary phrases I found myself baffled by it. What is a genuine person? Surely everyone is a genuine person, an actual real-life human being? There must be some deeper meaning to this.
I suppose the opposite of a genuine person is a faker, someone who pretends to be someone they are not. So perhaps a genuine person is someone who simply does not try to be someone, but simply is someone. But how could you tell? How can you tell that the actions of a person are genuinely themselves or an attempt to be someone else? Perhaps the genuine nature of someone is that they try to appear in the best light? Are not those people who spend large amounts of time and effort on their appearance, who try to say only the most impressive things, who are excited by connection to fame and celebrity genuinely interested in looking good, being cool and famous?
Perhaps what constitutes a genuine person is someone who simply does not change very much from situation to situation? I think that might well be true of myself, and although it is well documented that I am moody that seems to be internal rather than externally driven. I do not try very hard to be someone different in different situations, but I fail to see how that benefits myself very much. Some adaptability might well be advantageous for me, but I can see how that is helpful for others.
So, the compliment of being a genuine person might well simply come down to that the other person is pleased that you are extremely predictable.
I suppose the opposite of a genuine person is a faker, someone who pretends to be someone they are not. So perhaps a genuine person is someone who simply does not try to be someone, but simply is someone. But how could you tell? How can you tell that the actions of a person are genuinely themselves or an attempt to be someone else? Perhaps the genuine nature of someone is that they try to appear in the best light? Are not those people who spend large amounts of time and effort on their appearance, who try to say only the most impressive things, who are excited by connection to fame and celebrity genuinely interested in looking good, being cool and famous?
Perhaps what constitutes a genuine person is someone who simply does not change very much from situation to situation? I think that might well be true of myself, and although it is well documented that I am moody that seems to be internal rather than externally driven. I do not try very hard to be someone different in different situations, but I fail to see how that benefits myself very much. Some adaptability might well be advantageous for me, but I can see how that is helpful for others.
So, the compliment of being a genuine person might well simply come down to that the other person is pleased that you are extremely predictable.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Hope.
At the last election I decided to vote for hope. I chose to vote for someone with little political experience, almost no experience in running anything because he had a message of hope. He thought things could be made better, and he had ideas that he said he would implement that I agreed would make things better. I didn't know that he would do so, I didn't know if he would win, but I wanted to hope.
Today I read my friend Dade's blog, in which he put on his doomsday hat. While reading Dade's blog is always worthwhile I don't want to really go into his post in detail (although I like it). I want to discuss humanity's fascination with doomsday, the End of it All. I think this fascination has been with us from the beginning of thought, the first myths of most peoples all talk about the Good Old Days when men were gods and people were moral and so on. There's a thought that seems constant throughout history that things are in decline.
This feeling of decline has led to predictions of doomsday throughout history, as you can tell from our present situation, they've all been wrong. Here's a handy-dandy list for some perspective. But when you look at the history of humanity it is largely a story of steady progress in terms of rights, standards of living, longevity, health, education, freedom and peace. Right now is the best ever time to be alive, I truly believe it to be so. Here and here are my reasons for thinking so, and they seem to be good reasons for me. The crises we are facing are far lesser crises than we have faced before, with greater resources with which to face them.
This is The Hopeful Muser, I voted for hope, I choose to hope and I highly recommend it. If you are worried about global warming, do what you can about it and let go of worry. If you are terrified about over-population, don't have kids and support third world education for women and feel good that you are helping. If you are doing what you can then worrying achieves nothing. If you are worrying and not doing anything, then frankly, you are a blowhard. if you aren't worried and aren't doing anything, then you are probably happy.
Today I read my friend Dade's blog, in which he put on his doomsday hat. While reading Dade's blog is always worthwhile I don't want to really go into his post in detail (although I like it). I want to discuss humanity's fascination with doomsday, the End of it All. I think this fascination has been with us from the beginning of thought, the first myths of most peoples all talk about the Good Old Days when men were gods and people were moral and so on. There's a thought that seems constant throughout history that things are in decline.
This feeling of decline has led to predictions of doomsday throughout history, as you can tell from our present situation, they've all been wrong. Here's a handy-dandy list for some perspective. But when you look at the history of humanity it is largely a story of steady progress in terms of rights, standards of living, longevity, health, education, freedom and peace. Right now is the best ever time to be alive, I truly believe it to be so. Here and here are my reasons for thinking so, and they seem to be good reasons for me. The crises we are facing are far lesser crises than we have faced before, with greater resources with which to face them.
This is The Hopeful Muser, I voted for hope, I choose to hope and I highly recommend it. If you are worried about global warming, do what you can about it and let go of worry. If you are terrified about over-population, don't have kids and support third world education for women and feel good that you are helping. If you are doing what you can then worrying achieves nothing. If you are worrying and not doing anything, then frankly, you are a blowhard. if you aren't worried and aren't doing anything, then you are probably happy.
Friday, January 23, 2009
The New Bohemians
Don't worry, there will be no Edie Brickell.
Yesterday, during a nice, peaceful day without TFOE I spent time discussing religion on an open forum. http://www.oregonlive.com/forums/religion/index.ssf I have spent a fair amount of time on this forum, and it has taught me quite a bit about how religious people think. Anyhoo, it got me into a bit of a spiritual mood and I thought to go for a walk and experience the grandeur of the world. People wear clothing to display their group, their character, their personality and their mood. Modern people are just as tribal in this regard as anyone else, a suburban high school being a perfect example. So I decided to dress to suit my spiritual mood in flowing clothes, a silly hat and bright red socks. As I went to dress up in this outfit I found myself second guessing myself, worrying that I would look silly.
Silly is exactly what I looked like as I went for a walk in my neighborhood, a neighborhood that has transformed dramatically in the past few years. There are cookie-cutter new houses, identical in shape, in drab rows between the collection of older houses in their myriad shapes colors and states of repair. The house values in the area have doubled, the race mixture has moved towards white, the economic class has risen, and the homeless have been replaced by mothers with children. With one exception on my walk not a person met my eyes. I was indeed thought of as weird, strange, and as such was not necessarily shunned, but avoided.
The exception, a middle-aged man in his crumbling house on a quadruple lot, decorated with self-made art and with an american flag upside down over his front door. He took one look at me, smiled and wished me a good day. I suppose he instantly recognised me as one of his tribe, one who didn't conform to general society (but I suppose we conformed enough with each other to see it.) It was good for both of us in this changing environment to see a little resistance, a little strangeness, a little courage.
Because courage is what it takes for me to be like this. To choose how I wish to look rather than to look the way that is easiest. The United States taught me not to fear people, to have courage in myself, to be who I wanted to be. The country is about personal freedom, to choose for ourselves what we want. This seems basic, but it is a relatively recent concept in history and one that is always under attack. Social pressure to conform is inherent in humanity, and so is the desire to be free.
Portland taught me, through a group of people who were once my friends, the value of silliness. Silliness is the act of enjoying being different, enjoying being free. This group of friends delighted in constructing grand schemes, racing chariots, building a dome for a single party, shooting roman candles on a beach, burning political figures in effigy, dressing up in bizarre outfits. They delighted in being free, being silly, being noticeably different. There's a lot of that about in Portland, one of the qualities I like best about the place.
This concept is not new. The early punks in London did not have a uniform, they were anti-uniform. The instantly recognizable clothing, accent, art and attitude of what is today called "punk" is the opposite of what the origins of the movement were about. The original hippies wore clothing that they liked, they grew their hair to NOT fit in. They were about finding a different way, thinking for themselves, being better than the past. The modern tribe of hippies will dress the same, listen to the same music, all smoke pot, and all state the same philosophy to which they adhere with remarkable ill effect. The flappers were the same, the romantics of the 18th century in England, the drunken taoist sages of a thousand years ago were no different. These are the Bohemians, those who love art, beauty, independent thought. Those who want to milk life for its emotion and passion. Those unafraid to risk censure.
Those friends are no longer my friends because at a traditional trip to the coast (originally to celebrate Guy Fawkes Day) I called them boring. I called them boring because they were watching tv (in three seperate rooms). Because they didn't discuss, act, argue, create, do. They were in every way not silly. They were passive. Since then this group has shunned me. I am no longer their friends through their choice. This group of people that I met ten years ago, that delighted in the disturbing of the bland and cowardly now cannot tolerate that behavior anymore. Through age, responsibility, fatigue, laziness, and illness, they have entered the word of conformity. They are no longer bohemian. I thoroughly understand the reasons, but I am stubborn and will continue to fight this fight.
This is particularly important to me now, as I make the preparations for moving to Houston. Our realtor has the task of transforming our house to a more conformist image in order for it to sell for more money. Our realtor in Houston is taken aback by my wllingness to live in a neighborhood she would consider, "Not decent." The professional mover who took inventory of our belongings today was an excellent professional, but his aura of disgust for our shabby things and the mess in which we live was palpable. The town to which we will be moving prides itself on its "Traditional family values." It's hard to find a house in Houston that is not part of a neighborhood association, institutionalized social pressure to conform.
I must somehow find a way to be me, and yet not be dragged into the streets and beaten. This is a legitimate worry in my mind.
Yesterday, during a nice, peaceful day without TFOE I spent time discussing religion on an open forum. http://www.oregonlive.com/forums/religion/index.ssf I have spent a fair amount of time on this forum, and it has taught me quite a bit about how religious people think. Anyhoo, it got me into a bit of a spiritual mood and I thought to go for a walk and experience the grandeur of the world. People wear clothing to display their group, their character, their personality and their mood. Modern people are just as tribal in this regard as anyone else, a suburban high school being a perfect example. So I decided to dress to suit my spiritual mood in flowing clothes, a silly hat and bright red socks. As I went to dress up in this outfit I found myself second guessing myself, worrying that I would look silly.
Silly is exactly what I looked like as I went for a walk in my neighborhood, a neighborhood that has transformed dramatically in the past few years. There are cookie-cutter new houses, identical in shape, in drab rows between the collection of older houses in their myriad shapes colors and states of repair. The house values in the area have doubled, the race mixture has moved towards white, the economic class has risen, and the homeless have been replaced by mothers with children. With one exception on my walk not a person met my eyes. I was indeed thought of as weird, strange, and as such was not necessarily shunned, but avoided.
The exception, a middle-aged man in his crumbling house on a quadruple lot, decorated with self-made art and with an american flag upside down over his front door. He took one look at me, smiled and wished me a good day. I suppose he instantly recognised me as one of his tribe, one who didn't conform to general society (but I suppose we conformed enough with each other to see it.) It was good for both of us in this changing environment to see a little resistance, a little strangeness, a little courage.
Because courage is what it takes for me to be like this. To choose how I wish to look rather than to look the way that is easiest. The United States taught me not to fear people, to have courage in myself, to be who I wanted to be. The country is about personal freedom, to choose for ourselves what we want. This seems basic, but it is a relatively recent concept in history and one that is always under attack. Social pressure to conform is inherent in humanity, and so is the desire to be free.
Portland taught me, through a group of people who were once my friends, the value of silliness. Silliness is the act of enjoying being different, enjoying being free. This group of friends delighted in constructing grand schemes, racing chariots, building a dome for a single party, shooting roman candles on a beach, burning political figures in effigy, dressing up in bizarre outfits. They delighted in being free, being silly, being noticeably different. There's a lot of that about in Portland, one of the qualities I like best about the place.
This concept is not new. The early punks in London did not have a uniform, they were anti-uniform. The instantly recognizable clothing, accent, art and attitude of what is today called "punk" is the opposite of what the origins of the movement were about. The original hippies wore clothing that they liked, they grew their hair to NOT fit in. They were about finding a different way, thinking for themselves, being better than the past. The modern tribe of hippies will dress the same, listen to the same music, all smoke pot, and all state the same philosophy to which they adhere with remarkable ill effect. The flappers were the same, the romantics of the 18th century in England, the drunken taoist sages of a thousand years ago were no different. These are the Bohemians, those who love art, beauty, independent thought. Those who want to milk life for its emotion and passion. Those unafraid to risk censure.
Those friends are no longer my friends because at a traditional trip to the coast (originally to celebrate Guy Fawkes Day) I called them boring. I called them boring because they were watching tv (in three seperate rooms). Because they didn't discuss, act, argue, create, do. They were in every way not silly. They were passive. Since then this group has shunned me. I am no longer their friends through their choice. This group of people that I met ten years ago, that delighted in the disturbing of the bland and cowardly now cannot tolerate that behavior anymore. Through age, responsibility, fatigue, laziness, and illness, they have entered the word of conformity. They are no longer bohemian. I thoroughly understand the reasons, but I am stubborn and will continue to fight this fight.
This is particularly important to me now, as I make the preparations for moving to Houston. Our realtor has the task of transforming our house to a more conformist image in order for it to sell for more money. Our realtor in Houston is taken aback by my wllingness to live in a neighborhood she would consider, "Not decent." The professional mover who took inventory of our belongings today was an excellent professional, but his aura of disgust for our shabby things and the mess in which we live was palpable. The town to which we will be moving prides itself on its "Traditional family values." It's hard to find a house in Houston that is not part of a neighborhood association, institutionalized social pressure to conform.
I must somehow find a way to be me, and yet not be dragged into the streets and beaten. This is a legitimate worry in my mind.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
What Now?
A theme of my life has been the continuity of themes, the questions and thoughts that concern me appearing repeatedly. One of those big themes has been what to do next, and specifically what to do now that the basics problems have been sold. Existential question such as this do not occur to people who really have existential problems, if you need to get a job to eat and find shelter then what to do next doesn't have this same flavor, you need to get a job. But once you have proven an ability to find employment and pay your bills other questions arise.
The next level tends to be social, friends and lovers. After food and shelter, removing loneliness is the next step. I am fortunate enough to be married and very glad of that fact (although our relationship enters year seven this spring, year seven is the third most likely year for break-ups after the first and second years). My experience with friendships has been that they appear and then go, and the feelings I get from them are largely replaceable by other people. Repeatedly groups of people who were close friends have gone away. I have found that relying on the consistent friendship of people does not work for me, as friends change and leave. This is certainly connected to me being a difficult person to deal with, but I also think it is largely connected to me changing less than others as I age. My interests and behavior is not substantially different than they were fifteen years ago, just slower, with less stamina. But I don't need more from friends, I don't need to go find more friends rather I should probably spend more time contacting those who would still talk to me.
The last part of what now? looks to the point of life, what interests you and makes life worth living. I feel like I have won the battles of survival, love, comfort, satisfaction. I don't have external motivations, things pushing me to do something. I've been very lucky, but I have more than half of my life to go (statistically) and no real point.
People say to follow your dreams, which is fine if you have the sort of dreams that outline something to do with real life. People don't want me to follow the dreams that consist of random, hallucinogenic nonsense, or the dreams of sudden violence and bizarre sexual imagery. I'm not going to set out to recreate the dreams of last night that strung together old friends and acquaintances in an incoherent plot to steal unspecified sums of money in a summer camp environment, that's just silly. Do people really have dreams that describe something to do and it faithfully describing what would make you happy?
What people mean by following your dreams is thinking about what you like to do, and then organizing how to do that all the time. There are people for whom this would work. But if I look at the things that I have enjoyed over the last week not one of those things wouldn't drive me absolutely batty if I did it for eight hours straight. As I have stated in here before, there is no point to life, you make up your own points, and appreciating what is happening now is the real key. But I still find myself repeating this cycle, the cycle that starts with, "What now?" and ends with "Appreciate now?" before starting over again.
The next level tends to be social, friends and lovers. After food and shelter, removing loneliness is the next step. I am fortunate enough to be married and very glad of that fact (although our relationship enters year seven this spring, year seven is the third most likely year for break-ups after the first and second years). My experience with friendships has been that they appear and then go, and the feelings I get from them are largely replaceable by other people. Repeatedly groups of people who were close friends have gone away. I have found that relying on the consistent friendship of people does not work for me, as friends change and leave. This is certainly connected to me being a difficult person to deal with, but I also think it is largely connected to me changing less than others as I age. My interests and behavior is not substantially different than they were fifteen years ago, just slower, with less stamina. But I don't need more from friends, I don't need to go find more friends rather I should probably spend more time contacting those who would still talk to me.
The last part of what now? looks to the point of life, what interests you and makes life worth living. I feel like I have won the battles of survival, love, comfort, satisfaction. I don't have external motivations, things pushing me to do something. I've been very lucky, but I have more than half of my life to go (statistically) and no real point.
People say to follow your dreams, which is fine if you have the sort of dreams that outline something to do with real life. People don't want me to follow the dreams that consist of random, hallucinogenic nonsense, or the dreams of sudden violence and bizarre sexual imagery. I'm not going to set out to recreate the dreams of last night that strung together old friends and acquaintances in an incoherent plot to steal unspecified sums of money in a summer camp environment, that's just silly. Do people really have dreams that describe something to do and it faithfully describing what would make you happy?
What people mean by following your dreams is thinking about what you like to do, and then organizing how to do that all the time. There are people for whom this would work. But if I look at the things that I have enjoyed over the last week not one of those things wouldn't drive me absolutely batty if I did it for eight hours straight. As I have stated in here before, there is no point to life, you make up your own points, and appreciating what is happening now is the real key. But I still find myself repeating this cycle, the cycle that starts with, "What now?" and ends with "Appreciate now?" before starting over again.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
A Binmore Among The Nice People
It's been a couple of days since I've returned from Christmas in a wood cabin in the snowy wilderness of the Adirondacks and I nearly feel like myself again. As I think everyone who reads this is aware of the once-in-a-century snowstorm that hit Portland on the day we were living I won't go into the trials of the trip out there. Just start off with the understanding that the six days in the cabin started with me in a state of exhaustion.
The cabin is owned by my parents-in-law, two gentle, kind caring people who clearly love the place, who clearly love their family and whose greatest joy was to spend the holidays with their family. These are nice people. Not just nice people, but Nice People. They smile a lot, they like sweaters, gentle music, uplifting stories. They love where they are from and don't really feel the need to be anywhere else, they know what they like and are going to keep doing it for the rest of their lives. They volunteer, they give, they cause no harm, they care about the environment, they are highly educated, they have raised lovely daughters. These are the sort of people that the world needs.
My family argues. We have tempers. We are strong, independent characters, restless people. We have opinions, moods, flights of fancy and dark depressions. We discuss and debate philosophy, politics, love, and hate as a basic level of our beings. We need to hide from people in solitary caves, exhausted by other people and frightened of what we might do or say. In groups we tend to lead or rebel. When my family is together it is the most interesting thing going on in the vicinity, but we do not change, submit, or follow. It is hard to be with the members of my family.
The cabin is a two story structure, but open inside with a gorgeous spiral staircase wound tightly through the center. The dimensions are, at a guess fifty feet by thirty feet, and there are three doors inside the building, two bedrooms and the bathroom. There is no place within the building that a conversation above a whisper cannot be heard anywhere else in the building. Because of the small space there is a specific place for everything, cups, dishes, cleaning supplies. You name it and it's in that cabin in a specific place. Towels are rolled, not folded, and hung with washcloth. The water is on-demand electric heat and septic tank, so you can't take a shower and have dishes done, or wash your hands, or anything else at the same time. Dishes cannot be done with running water. Wood for the fire is stacked in a particular order to dry and fetched from the special shed with a bag, emptied into a box, placed in the stove in a particular fashion and completely burned. This provides temperatures of near 80 degrees until the stove is left for a while and the freezing air from outside leaks in. Clothing is flannel nightgowns, pajamas, wool sweaters, slippers or snow boots. Each person has their own glass (marked with a tag) their own napkin (marked with a napkin holder) throughout the week. Before supper hands are held around the table and grace is said (or even sung!). Outside are drifts of snow, winds, and no people, shops or bars within reach. Within this cabin were six adults and a baby.
What I'm trying to point out is that even niceness can be oppressive and exhausting when it is not your niceness. At every single moment I felt the pressure that every culture on the earth exerts to get people to conform. There is not a single group of people on the planet that does not unconsciously do things in a certain way without thinking why, and that reacts to otherness with a certain amount of distaste. There was a right way to do every single thing, and every single time it was not the way I would have done it, and every time I got something wrong I felt the discomfort. I also felt the discomfort at my discomfort. I gave myself a C, a passing grade, having only made a complete arse of myself on three or four occasions of which I am aware an not permanently ruining any relationships. My hosts certainly did better than I.
The people at the cabin all read this blog. I'm sure none of them would have written about this subject, but I'm home, on my blog and I'm free to do what I want again.
The cabin is owned by my parents-in-law, two gentle, kind caring people who clearly love the place, who clearly love their family and whose greatest joy was to spend the holidays with their family. These are nice people. Not just nice people, but Nice People. They smile a lot, they like sweaters, gentle music, uplifting stories. They love where they are from and don't really feel the need to be anywhere else, they know what they like and are going to keep doing it for the rest of their lives. They volunteer, they give, they cause no harm, they care about the environment, they are highly educated, they have raised lovely daughters. These are the sort of people that the world needs.
My family argues. We have tempers. We are strong, independent characters, restless people. We have opinions, moods, flights of fancy and dark depressions. We discuss and debate philosophy, politics, love, and hate as a basic level of our beings. We need to hide from people in solitary caves, exhausted by other people and frightened of what we might do or say. In groups we tend to lead or rebel. When my family is together it is the most interesting thing going on in the vicinity, but we do not change, submit, or follow. It is hard to be with the members of my family.
The cabin is a two story structure, but open inside with a gorgeous spiral staircase wound tightly through the center. The dimensions are, at a guess fifty feet by thirty feet, and there are three doors inside the building, two bedrooms and the bathroom. There is no place within the building that a conversation above a whisper cannot be heard anywhere else in the building. Because of the small space there is a specific place for everything, cups, dishes, cleaning supplies. You name it and it's in that cabin in a specific place. Towels are rolled, not folded, and hung with washcloth. The water is on-demand electric heat and septic tank, so you can't take a shower and have dishes done, or wash your hands, or anything else at the same time. Dishes cannot be done with running water. Wood for the fire is stacked in a particular order to dry and fetched from the special shed with a bag, emptied into a box, placed in the stove in a particular fashion and completely burned. This provides temperatures of near 80 degrees until the stove is left for a while and the freezing air from outside leaks in. Clothing is flannel nightgowns, pajamas, wool sweaters, slippers or snow boots. Each person has their own glass (marked with a tag) their own napkin (marked with a napkin holder) throughout the week. Before supper hands are held around the table and grace is said (or even sung!). Outside are drifts of snow, winds, and no people, shops or bars within reach. Within this cabin were six adults and a baby.
What I'm trying to point out is that even niceness can be oppressive and exhausting when it is not your niceness. At every single moment I felt the pressure that every culture on the earth exerts to get people to conform. There is not a single group of people on the planet that does not unconsciously do things in a certain way without thinking why, and that reacts to otherness with a certain amount of distaste. There was a right way to do every single thing, and every single time it was not the way I would have done it, and every time I got something wrong I felt the discomfort. I also felt the discomfort at my discomfort. I gave myself a C, a passing grade, having only made a complete arse of myself on three or four occasions of which I am aware an not permanently ruining any relationships. My hosts certainly did better than I.
The people at the cabin all read this blog. I'm sure none of them would have written about this subject, but I'm home, on my blog and I'm free to do what I want again.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
TFOE Update: The Hounds of Winter
There has been a delay in posting an update on The Face of Evil. I know he's watching me, and so I have to be very careful. The last time I tried to post on the Beast he ate my camera. But I have snuck off and got a new one, he's sleeping now so I think may be able to get this one in without him tearing me apart. If you read this, you know that I've been successful.
The Face of Evil's plan is still in the section of biding his time and gathering his strength. He's now the size of a wildebeest, with fangs that can crush bone and steel. Wait! He stirs! Keep very quiet.
An unnatural winter has descended upon Portland, coating the world in a silent blanket of death. Seeing TFOE in what can only be his natural habitat fills me with dread.
Immune to the cold he revels in theft, intimidation, frolicking in his power. It is clear that he is akin to the great timberwolves of the past, but with demonic powers and infinite cunning. I plan to escape on the holy day approaching, but hes always watching, always watching, and always hungry.....
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