Moved ... and grateful

I am at a Starbucks in Austin. Took my laptop, equipped with wi-fi antenna (part of why I bought it years ago) when I drove into Cedar Park, suburban Austin, to turn in my rental truck, not knowing if I would get back to the Starbucks in Marble Falls before it closed tonight, not having checked hours before I left there.

That said, I'm grateful for a Starbucks there. I'm grateful that, on the phone connection, Verizon got out this afternoon, said it had fixed what was outside, and contacted my apartment complex to do what it needed to do inside. So, between high-speed at work, wi-fi at Starbucks, and good old dial-up at home, assuming it's fixed by early next week, I'll be fine on Internet.

I'm grateful for not only Whole Foods but the even better Central Market (a Texas-only chain) in Austin. I've stocked up on good coffee, great dehydrated split pea soup, black bean stew and curry lentil stew mixes, three types of curry powder, charsalt-type dry hickory smoke flavor, some sparkling waters, some high-ginger ginger ale and such. (And, the bulk food stuff I mentioned is actually relatively inexpensive.) Oh, and I had to get some non-inexpensive cheese, an indulgence of mine.

Halfway between Marble Falls and Cedar Park, northwest suburban Austin, is the Balcones National Wildlife Refuge. So, you can guess where I will do some hiking! The road winds a bit, in a good sense, following Texas' Colorado River through hills, with a mix of red oaks, white oaks, live oaks and cedars (could get rid of a few of those!).

I have tuned in Austin's 24-hour classical music station. I've already visited the Austin Symphony website. The Austin Classical Guitar Society, I knew about years ago.

I am grateful; grateful enough to start tearing up when I got in. I don't have to make a lot of money in life, if I can have amenities like this.

Marble Falls is not your typical small town, either. There's old Texas rancher money and at least reasonable-money retirees there. Not many towns of 7,000 have a Home Depot and a Lowe's. And two Thai restaurants, as I discovered today. So, even without going into Austin, I think life will be at least OK if not better there.

I'm grateful the job came open and other things, to make this possible.

Finally, I am grateful for the people on this list, some of whom go beyond acquaintances to friends, whether I've met you in person or not.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Splendid Saturnalia and best of the new year to everyone.

Our little boxes of life

Thinking about moving, going to a new job, but within the same career path, my post on David Brooks’ new column about America’s “advantages” over other Western countries having its price, and, lo and behold, an e-mail from a friend sums this up well. From that e-mail …

Not my poem, but the song that used to intro the HBO series “Weeds.” Malvina Reynolds wrote it in 1962:

Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky tacky,1
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

And the people in the houses
All went to the university,
Where they were put in boxes
And they came out all the same,
And there's doctors and lawyers,
And business executives,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

And they all play on the golf course
And drink their martinis dry,
And they all have pretty children
And the children go to school,
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university,
Where they are put in boxes
And they come out all the same.

And the boys go into business
And marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

YouTube link here.
-END-

A rap on the knuckles today

And, whether it was "deserved" or not (a word that, like "justice," is more situational, in my opinion, than others may think), I can honestly understand, and accept, where it came from, from my soon-to-be new employers.

Posting volume slowing down? Well, perhaps it has

Maybe I did taper off a bit this weekend. And last weekend; here’s why.

I’ve had stuff on my mind … or my heart … that’s reared up more the last few weeks. Through personal journaling, counselor’s visits, and the (sur)realness of being “here” sinking in further, I’ve had anxiety levels ramping up a lot, especially on weekends. Big sleeping problems, waking up an hour or two early at least half the days of the week. And other emotional issues, as well as my struggles with some other stuff.

I’m in a social network site, now, too. Ning is kind of like MySpace. And a secular recovery program I’m in has a network there now. So, I’ve been getting a bit more into that, as at least some of the people there can relate to a lot of my post traumatic stress disorder issues, the ones even deeper than a recovery program is normally about.

Anyway, I’ll probably be continuing to be a bit more involved with that.

I don’t mean any of the above to sound like I’m “unique” in some way, or that any of you reading are clueless. But, it’s just that you may not have experienced the type of events to produce the reactions to life that I have. Be grateful.

That doesn’t mean I won’t be posting here at all, just that if volume lessens or becomes more erratic, you know why. In addition to provoking political thought, I have to keep my ass from falling off.

You don’t have to apologize when somebody uses you

Or even if it feels like they’ve been using you and they give you no evidence to the contrary, whether it’s a current “using” event or in the past.

Oh, and you can withdraw past apologies, too, or modify them.

I HUNGER FOR SLEEP

The hunger pangs of sleep desired,
Sleep ungot, sleep denied,
Gnaw at my inwards,
At the strings of my psyche,
At the sinews of my being.
The ravenous Titan of sleep
Would devour me
Like Cronus swallowing his children —
If I could be digested.
But the discontents of my anxiety
Lie ill on the ogre’s stomach;
I am vomited up from sleep.

And so it is.
Too often, too many nights,
I am vomited up from sleep,
In a nocturnal indigestion,
Not to fully find its embrace again.

Yes, embrace.
The hungering maw of sleep
Is also the nurturing womb.
And sleep hungers for me
Just as I hunger for nurturing.

An apology of sorts to someone

If anything I posted here around the end of January upset someone, and that person is still reading, I’m sorry. Obviously, I don’t know if that’s the case; I’m not a mind-reader. Nor do I know exactly why, if that’s the case. Anyway, it’s probably water under the bridge and in the Gulf of Mexico by now.

Loneliness vs. aloneness

Definitely for the first time since I moved to Far South Metroplex in January, I really felt not just “aloneness” but “loneliness,” for a couple of minutes earlier tonight.

It wasn’t triggered by any memories or reminisces on childhood life, either. Just my adult self.

A friend of mine, a veteran of the newspaper biz himself, once wrote a column about being older and single, and it got results. Of course, he was in a metropolitan area when he wrote that!

Nonetheless, the idea is percolating in my head — I may continue to mull it over.

What do I want?

Chuck Bloom said he hopes to see more politics being blogged here and not just cryptic personal revelations. Well, Chuck, I’ll try to get back to politics more. Perhaps, though, that’s a sign of how I feel right now. I don’t want to say “depressed,” but let’s just say that maybe my political interest isn’t as urgent or driving right now.

And, maybe I’ll get a bit less cryptic on the personal revelations.
Anyway, the brief dash to Dallas also brings to mind the question of “what do I want?”

That has different meaning depending on whether you accent “what,” “I” or “want.”

The “what,” career-wise or personal relationship-wise, is a mess right now. I just know I want a job and career path that well uses my skills, interests and aptitudes. If that means leaving newspaper journalism, so be it. I also know that, especially as long as I’m single, I am NOT a small-town person, definitely not in this part of the world.

Who is the “I”? Well, that person changes all the time. And I’m not even sure who he is right now.

“Want”? I’m still working on figuring out all of my apparent wants, the psychological drives behind them, how I best meet them, and more. Work on that is one small reason I’ve started counseling sessions.

Visiting Dallas: brief psychological thoughts

I was just in Dallas, and other than being in the northbound lanes of I-35, never was in the Lancaster city limits. Nonetheless, it felt like I was picking at an old, partially-healed scab in some way by coming back to the Metroplex fairly soon after moving. (Yes, I can be introspective.) And, while in both classical music and art, I took in a fair amount of what the Metroplex had to offer, I realized that, even on a journalist’s pay, I may have been a bit too frugal at times. That, though, is water under the bridge, I think.

Visiting Dallas: brief psychological thoughts

I was just in Dallas, and other than being in the northbound lanes of I-35, never was in the Lancaster city limits. Nonetheless, it felt like I was picking at an old, partially-healed scab in some way by coming back to the Metroplex fairly soon after moving. (Yes, I can be introspective.) And, while in both classical music and art, I took in a fair amount of what the Metroplex had to offer, I realized that, even on a journalist’s pay, I may have been a bit too frugal at times. That, though, is water under the bridge, I think.

Anger

I’m just starting to realize how much anger I have buried, as far back as more than 35 years, how intense some of it seems to be, and how deeply it has been buried.

Note that I said “has been.” It — both 35-year-old anger and the confidence, or whatever, to feel free to express anger over events of today — actually started coming out late last fall.

I know other people in the Today editorial office were surprised, maybe even stunned, when they heard me get in a 10-minute shouting match on the phone with Lancaster Superintendent Larry Lewis. (No doubt he was surprised, maybe even stunned, too, especially when I showed myself ready to escalate each time he tried to “push me down.”)

Anyway, that’s the first time in my life I’ve gotten angry at another adult like that. And no, to the best of my memory, that’s not hyperbole.

Now that I’ve found a counselor in Bryan, I will be working on this amongst various issues of my “past history.”

No regrets over regrets if they’re not properly handled

I know holding on to regrets too much can be a dangerous thing. But, I don’t believe anyone can emotionally force himself or herself to just jettison old regrets. I think you have to work through them first. (Emotional “forcing” doesn’t work in general on about anything, for that matter.)

First, I think, finding out how much of the emotion behind the regret is sadness and how much is anger is very important. Then, working through that emotion is helpful, or even necessary. After that, “mourning/grieving” the fact that whatever the issue is didn’t turn out the way I wanted is also helpful. If the issue is big enough, or has sat unresolved enough, this can take a while, just like the stereotyped DABDA, the denial/anger/bargaining/depression/acceptance process of grieving in general.

“Even a poor tailor journalist has some right to happiness”

I just got a remastered DVD version of “Fiddler on the Roof” from Amazon this week. Letterbox version with some add-ons.

It’s one of my top movies of all time, even if folks at the American Film Institute can’t see fit to vote it into their top-100 list.

The undercurrent theme of tragedy, the elements of change, and the way the three romances are played off of that, are all key to why I like it, as is the music.

Anyway, the remastering has cleaned up the soundtrack as well as the video. And, in part due to my current churned-up emotional state, I certainly probably had the most teary viewing of Fiddler ever.

The quote (the original quote, not with the strikethrough) is actually first from Tevye’s oldest daughter, Tzeitel. Motel the tailor, her childhood sweetheart, repeats it when finally getting the nerve to tell Tevye he wants to marry Tzeitel himself. It resonates a lot with me.

Fear of “getting stuck” or “getting trapped”

That was the “fear beneath the fear” that hit me when I moved to Far South Lancaster.

For those of you who know me well, and know my “story” well enough, the fears of getting stuck, whether in a place that I don’t want to relate to as a place (or don’t relate to it well), or with a point in my job or career path, or with people in or not in my life, or what I’m doing or not doing about that, and fears about all that …

It should be no surprise that this fear of “getting trapped” relates to much more concrete fears of getting trapped … literally. Which often happened.

POIGNANCY

Poignancy is
A gentle sadness tingeing life
A gentle, tender, humble sadness
One that does not diminish joys when they come
But knows that every joy has seeds of pain
Of limitation, of human frailty,
A caressing sadness, too,
One of connection
Of oneness with this world.
And so I am poignant
Upon seeing near-bare trees
Of late fall, or
Pale, thin sunsets
In February.
Or a love grown old and cold,
Faded out of my life.
I embrace poignancy,
Knowing that my feelings, from my gentle
Sadness-tinged soul,
Are from my heart
And if I let them,
As I walk the path of growth,
They can help my healing.

2000/2007

“Bloom where you are planted”? Not always the best analogy

What if you start with a different biological analogy, by viewing yourself as a spore, rather than a flowering plant? Spores can survive not just extremes in temperature and such, but even high doses of radiation.

They do this while remaining dormant. Then, when conditions are right, they lose their protective coat and take off.

So:

“Bloom when and where it’s right to plant yourself. Until then, be safe and survive.”

Valentine’s Day thoughts on love, relationships and singlehood

I’m going to start by throwing out my idea of what intimate love involves, what its basis is.

I think it includes trust, nurturing emotional sharing and literacy in that, communication in general, emotional and psychological honesty, intrapersonal and interpersonal integrity, growth of each individual and growth together as lovers, sharing in all the things I just mentioned, a certain degree of common values, world viewpoints, ideas, and ideals, and touching, sensuality and more in the way of various types of physical affection.

It is not lust, infatuation or falling in love.

Now, all that said, being single is not all it’s cracked up to be. Especially for men. From a purely utilitarian point, being married adds several years to the average man’s life.

That said, in turn, regular readers and friends may recognize (closer friends should recognize) that for much of my life, being and staying single was not usually a conscious choice. To the degree the choice itself was conscious, the reasons why I was choosing singleness were unconscious ones, including fear of perpetuating old childhood family dysfunctions, fear for my own emotional and psychological safety (I learned at a very young age the safety value of being alone), and even deeper reasons that are more personal and not being shared here. These “drives” weren’t conscious.

So, at the age of 43 and no relationships of more than one year, I have what I call “past history,” and that other people might, or have, called “old baggage.” (To the degree I’m not only conscious of it but conscious of and working on its past causes, it isn’t “old baggage,” just as the degree to which I’m aware of a need and desire for more emotional depth isn’t “old baggage” either.)

Besides, without trying to be terminally single or terminally unique, I know who I am looking for, as far as a general “profile” of common emotional personality, and common interests, values, etc. And my “match list” isn’t the broadest in the world.

Now, back to the main theme of this post. I recognize that to continually be in, or trying to continue to develop, a good love relationship, with that giving and receiving I mentioned above, involves some degree of mental, emotional and psychological work. I don’t have a problem with that, and am ready to do that work, should I get the opportunity to do so. That said, I guess I’m a bit wary if someone heavily stresses the “work” of a relationship, especially fairly early, or even pre-relationship.

To me, a job and career analogy perfectly describes my thoughts. There’s the old cliché that says, “Find what you like to do and you won’t have to work.” While it’s idealistic, it certainly has a fair-sized grain of truth.

So, , if you can find who to do be yourself with, it shouldn’t be so much work, either. Yes, a relationship is more complicated than a job. But, a relationship, or even the idea of one, can be overcomplicated, too, I say from my somewhat limited experience.

In conclusion, consider this a personals ad on my own personal site. Click the link to my profile near the top right, if you’re interested. I’m reasonably ready, and looking, to share myself and be myself with the right person.

I’m asking. For more on asking, see this post.

Patience … oh, I hate that word at times

I recognize it’s something I need more of, not only, or even necessarily primarily, with other people.

It’s patience with me… on accepting that I can never replace “lost years,” and can only try to heal the damage at a certain rate today. Of course, the more patience I find for myself, the more I am likely to find for other people, too.

Childhood abuses: Survivors vs. victims

I am not a victim (any more) of the various “slings and arrows of an outrageous childhood,” to riff on Shakespeare — I am a survivor. None of my previous personal posts have been meant to convey that I am a victim, let alone a “martyr.”

That includes my mentioning of my diagnosis several years ago with post-traumatic stress disorder. Rather, that was meant to explain a little more about “where I come from”; in other words, it’s a request for understanding, as have been the other more personal posts I have made here. With PTSD, it’s the same request as adult veterans of combat, especially hairy combat that can trigger PTSD for them; I just say I fought in a different war.

That said, it’s my impression that a lot of people are afraid to talk about, face, think about or feel about child abuse in its various forms, sexual abuse above all. Perhaps they’re afraid of seeing or hearing about its ugliness, especially if they know the adult survivor personally.

If I wanted to talk about ugliness with more personal detail, I could, but this is not the place to do into detail, for self-protection; nor do I have a desire to “get in anybody’s face.” Between professionals, group support and close friends who have listened without “flinching,” I have the avenues I need to talk, and talk through, issues in detail.

That then said, to people who may not be so comfortable with this type of talk, about physical, emotional and especially sexual abuse — I encourage you to open the door a little bit more. I’m not asking anybody to go out and buy some trauma recovery books or anything like that; I’m just hoping a few more people can face more of the more tragic realities of life without “flinching.”

And that’s not necessarily for my sake, especially for more casual readers here. You may never know when such openness comes in handy elsewhere in your life, though.

Finally, the question of why some, not others. Why do some people react more strongly and bear more scars from abuse?

Part of it is a genetic influence on temperament. In my case, it seems clear that a high anxiety thermostat runs through my dad’s side of the family, back further into Snyder males.

Of course, so does alcoholism, which raises other questions.

The other main factors as to why some are hurt worse by child abuse appear to be primarily based on the abuse itself. How severe was it, how chronic/ongoing was it, and how early did it start are the biggies.

Let’s just say that PTSD isn’t likely to develop from a one-time, relatively mild incident later in childhood.

With that, while I continue more personal posts for a while, I’ll be headed back to more political posting down the road. For obvious reasons, not much of it will be about where I am at now.