There's a world outside the box
Apocalyptic dreams
The ping-pong story is finished. Well, kind of. It still doesn’t make much sense, but I guess first drafts don’t always have to make sense. I’ll finalize it tomorrow, rearrange some parts or alter the larger plot points, before posting it.
I also had an idea for my serve in the ping-pong story. I had a dream last night, and I think Chuck will be paying dearly for my weird, apocalyptic dream.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.30 | Diary
There are some unmistakable signs
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.29 | Cast of Horribles | Dream, Earth, Missile, Rocketship, Snowman, Space, Stars
The Red Phone - draft 5
(3,626)
She entered the detectives’ room at the end of my shift. I felt sick when I saw her. I somehow knew that this was going to be a late night. She had that strange look on her face, the type that told me she probably shouldn’t be here. She should be at home, perhaps preparing dinner or taking care of her kids. Or, after I take a closer look at her clothing, she should have been supervising her nanny who would prepare dinner and bathe and put the kids to sleep. In my precinct, we get a lot of her type. I wondered not for the first time whether they paid us to fight crime or to fight these wives’ boredom. It didn’t make much of a difference in the end. Dealing with these wives was what kept the money in the bank and the food on the kids table. Their mother prepared their dinners and was happy to do it. And I was happy for her to do it. She wasn’t a trophy woman. She was a good woman. She did her share and I did my share. It didn’t take a detective to know that the woman before me never did her share.
She walked through the wooden gate and made her way to my desk. I was the only one left. I was here to catch any calls before we called it a night. Her clickity-clackity shoes echoed off the walls. She was more plastic than natural. Good to look at but not look at too closely. “Officer?” she asked as she made her way to the front of my desk.
“Detective, Ma’am. Detective Thomson. What may I do for you this evening?”
“May I sit?” she asked as she sat on the wooden chair. I should have told her that less than an hour before an HIV-positive drug addict sat on that very chair. We caught him lurking around the mansions around Turner’s bend. It was strange that he was in our precinct since no public transportation went anywhere near our precinct. He didn’t tell us, but we figured a drug deal went bad and they dropped him here as an object lesson, knowing how we treat people like him in our station. I guess that makes us the drug dealers’ muscles. We had a job to do and we did it. The addict won’t be heading to these parts again. For all I knew, while we processed him in that very chair, he might have bled a little into the wood. It was an old chair and there were many splinters. The office was one big splinter, when you really got down into it. The fresh coat of paint they threw on the walls each year was as bogus as she was. It was all rotten to the core. I didn’t speak about these types of things when her kind was in earshot. As I said, I was here to put food on my kid’s table, and if I had to baby the likes of her, I was a good father, and I’d do it.
“Please. What’s on your mind?” I asked her. I maintained a bemused look. It was the most serious I could manage at this time of night in front of this type of woman.
She looked me in the eye. She had blue eyes. The type of blue you only see in aquariums and advertisements for tropical beaches in far off islands where I’ll never be able to afford a vacation. I could see why swimming in her waters could be so enticing. It’s too bad that sharks infest her waters. I felt bad for her husband. He probably thought he was getting so much more than a plastic trophy. I guess we always think we’re getting so much more until we get it home and unwrap it.
“I had the strangest call tonight,” she said. “I debated whether I should come here. There are so many prank calls. But he sounded so honest, so sincere.”
I immediately knew that she had fallen for a swindle. This happens more than you can imagine. You couldn’t tell by looking at them, but these trophy wives are very lonely creatures. They have their chatter groups, where they get together and bitch about their help and their shopping. But when they get right down to it, they’re alone. They don’t confide in their husbands or their friends or their family. They don’t confide in anyone. I’ve seen many of them take the opportunity to confide in psychics and swindlers. They think they’ll talk for a chance to put someone down. And that includes telemarketers and swindlers. I saw how this evening was going to go down: she wanted me to pry her out away from whatever they got from her. Perhaps this wouldn’t be a late night after all. We fill out the paper, and she talks to her bank and credit cards and makes everything right. It’s better when they come early on these types of things. I’ve caught a few of these cases where they waited too long and it took hours to get all the paper straight. If she spoke to him on this night, then I might be able to get this all squared away in an hour. There’s a reason their husbands thought to keep these women in trophy cases. Better there than breaking everything in sight. A bull in a china store is no better.
“Tell me about what happened, Ma’am. It’s never worse than you think it is. We’ll take care of it.”
“Protect and serve, eh, officer?” the woman asked. Her head turned to the side and she looked at me sideways. I could see each of her black lashes curled up and away from her eyes. My wife was a good cook and great with the children, but she didn’t have an eyelash to bat an eyelash at, if you see where I’m going. I’m a man, as weak as any other man is. And don’t think I didn’t think about it right there. Finish the paperwork. Maybe she’s feeling lonely. Maybe she likes men in uniform. I have a uniform in the back, in the locker room. It was all very private. Everything was always very private back there.
“That’s what I’m here for. To protect and serve, Ma’am. In all ways.” I turned my bemused look into a meaningful one. If she was going to flirt, I was going to flirt right back at her, food on the kids’ table or not. “What is your name? For the report, I mean. We need to keep good records here.”
“Sandra MacDonald,” she said. She put her left hand on the desk and the huge engagement ring almost blinded me. It was larger than her thumb’s knuckle. I pulled out my notepad and jotted down her name. “That’s with an M-A-C,” she added.
“Okay, Mrs. MacDonald. What happened on your call tonight?”
She laughed nervously. I straightened in the chair and cleaned the ink off the tip of the pen. I chewed the pen cap and waited for her to continue. In any good interrogation, you have to let the witness talk it through first, before you start putting words into their mouth. It makes it seem like those words were their own. It helps them sound more honest since they believe the words are their own. They never are, of course. The words end up being whatever it is we feed them. In this case, I’m already working out the words I will include on the report. I just needed her to say a few keywords and sign the paper. After the paperwork, we can see if there’s anything left between us. I resisted smoothing back my hair.
“He didn’t give me his name,” Sandra started in. “I have a good memory for these things, conversations. I’ll tell it like he said it and I’ll let you think if this is as crazy as it sounded.”
“However you want it. Take your time. Do you want water or coffee or something?”
“That’s okay. He sounded so desperate. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The phone rang late this evening. It was after dinner and the kids were asleep. I was straightening up after our dinner. I don’t spend much time on the phone. I never liked phones and never gave my number out. It surprised me when it rang. Only my mother had the phone number, and she called early in the morning after I see the kids off to school. It was the only time it ever rings and the only time I ever pick it up. That’s why I was so surprised. At first I was worried. My mother isn’t in the best of health, and they know to call me if anything ever happens to her. Thankfully this wasn’t that call. But I did think for a moment that it might be, which is why I grabbed it.”
I pretended to jot down notes as she talked. I nodded often and wrote the L.A. Raider’s schedule in my pad. I almost have the games for the season memorized. Knowing when you’re going to play and who you’re going to play is important in understanding the strategy for your team. The Raiders were going places this year, I knew. I just wanted to make sure I understood how they were going to get there.
“I picked up the phone on the third ring. There was a man on the other side. As soon as I picked up he started saying, ‘hello, hello?’ He kept repeating it, as if not expecting to hear anyone on the other side. He had called me, and it was strange. I greeted him and asked who he was. He said me he didn’t know. I held the phone’s handset at arm’s distance away from and really looked at it. I don’t know what I was expecting. I thought maybe it would tell me who this strange man was. Normally I would have hung up. I think most normal people might have. There was just something in his voice that sounded desperate. It wasn’t only desperation it was also—I don’t know how to say this. He reminded me of someone but I couldn’t really place it. It was like a déją vu moment. You know the type? You are sure you’ve heard it before but you just don’t know when. He kept talking as I held the handset away from my ear. He sounded resigned, as if another person was about to hang up on him, and he kind of understood why we did that and didn’t want to hold it against us.”
I wondered what type of scam she was involved with. This didn’t sound like the typical Nigerian call. The scammers are much smarter now. Either they pretend to be a bank or something to get your information at the beginning of the call. Or the keep you on the phone for a while. They want to build up your trust before they start asking for things. This sounded like the second case. “You heard all of that when not even listening into the phone?”
“I know it sounds strange.” She laughed. “It sounds strange to me too as I describe it. But I knew that voice and I knew what it wanted. I put the phone back on my ear and I said hello again. He stopped talking for a moment. Then he started in. He spoke slowly. It wasn’t like he was choosing his words carefully, it was like he was afraid that if he said things too quickly I would run away, like a dog approaching a bone to see if it’s safe to grab. He said, ‘Do you mind if I go on? There’s just so much I want to tell you. Not many people want to listen once I get into it. I know it’s me and all my talking, and I completely understand if you want to go before I even start in.’ I assured him that I did want to hear what he had to say. At the time it was just curiosity. He reminded me of someone that I couldn’t place I figured if he spoke more I’d be able to put a name on it.”
“Have you placed him now that you’ve had some time to think about it?” I asked, looking for a way to cut this story shorter. Wherever Sandra was trying to get, she certainly was taking her sweet time.
She ignored me, lost in her memories of the strange phone call. “I asked him what his name was. He said he didn’t remember. He didn’t remember a lot of things. I was sure I had heard that voice before. It was why I stayed on the phone. I had to place it. It nagged at me like a mosquito.”
“What did he want?” I asked her. I realized it was time for the leading questions. I needed to lead her somewhere. I was again wrong about her. I thought she had come in to report something. Now I figured she had come in only to talk to someone. And where there’s talk there may be other things. I might have to give the wife a call, let her know that I’d be home late tonight. A late night report. The usual.
“He didn’t want anything, exactly. He seemed relieved to talk to someone. He kept telling me that most of the people he spoke to hung up immediately, or after they heard his story. He told me it was a fantastical story, unbelievably so. And the way he said it, I believed it. He voice was soft and had a roll to it. I could see myself falling on top of that voice and losing my way.”
I lowered my voice. “Did you catch the number when he called?” She wasn’t looking at me anymore. She was staring at the wall behind me, lost in her thoughts.
“At this point he took a long deep breath. I could hear the wind cross over his throat and down into his lungs. He held it for a second a let it out. I thought he might be crazy, perhaps delusional. I didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t that I was entertained, it was that I was enthralled. There was a mystery to it. Something real, and my life is so full of stuff that’s not real, if you know what I mean.”
I decided to take a different tact. There are always lots of ways to crack an oyster, and the more I looked at her, the more juicy I thought of the pearl inside her plastic shell. “Your life at home isn’t real?”
She looked at me with that look that spoke volumes: it was as if I had no idea how difficult her life was. I swallowed down a laugh. This woman was quite something. Her life must be very difficult, with her big house and her help and her judging the common folk. Her oyster tasted sour already, and I hadn’t chucked the shell.
Her eyes flashed with anger as if she had been reading my thoughts. “My husband has been in a coma for the past eight years, officer. So, yes, my home life at times is surreal and at times difficult. When I say that there was something real in the man’s voice, what I was talking about was an emotional connection. It’s something I only have with my children, and it’s one way with children. A parent loves their children so much more than the children love their parent. It’s not their fault. It’s how it is. You love because you give, and children take. But that’s not important. I want to finish my report. I’ll try to leave the emotional asides to the side.”
“I’m sorry about your husband. I didn’t mean anything by it. Please, do go on. I want to finish this report for you and see what we I can do to help you.” After the news about her husband, I downshifted for a moment. What she was saying really got me thinking. But it didn’t take long to return to the subject at hand. She was as good as a widow and clearly not emotionally all here anymore. I judged whether this would be considered taking advantage of someone, and it fell into the line in the middle. I probably shouldn’t do it, but if I did, I wouldn’t go to hell—at least not over this infraction.
“When I told him I’d listen to his story he told me how kind I was. It was like I was giving him something, when just listening to him talk was giving me something. I asked why he chose me. This is where I got my first clue of what was going on. He told me he didn’t call me. Don’t look at me like that, officer. Ever since I walked through those doors, all you’ve been doing is judging the best way to get into my skirt. Just listen to the story first.”
Her last word gave me hope. Maybe once the crazy woman got through her story there might be something else in it for me. I looked longingly at the phone on the desk, only half listening to her words. I was planning the call to my wife. It wasn’t that my wife was suspicious but she was no dummy. Each night I worked late she checked the police blotter. She would know if an investigation ran late tonight. The town was quiet tonight, too quiet to get away with what I had planned. I missed the first part of her words before I pulled myself back over to her conversation.
“He said he was studying the phone. He spent a lot of his time studying the phone when he wasn’t talking on it. Isn’t that the strangest thing? Who studies their phones? I mean, I see lots of business people on their fancy phones checking mail or sending messages. But who stares at a phone, especially an old rotary phone for hours at a time? When he described the phone I began to understand. I hadn’t seen a real phone is so long, it was almost comforting to know that those types of phones still exist.”
I knew I shouldn’t, but how could I resist. “Did he tell you what type of phone it was?”
“Why yes, he did. It was a large red telephone. He described it as very heavy and very large. He was very interested to know how big I thought the phone should be. When I told him about my cell phone, he was amazed. He said he had heard of them before—he had spoken often on the phone to other people—but he had never seen one. He wasn’t only amazed at the phone. He wanted to know about other modern conveniences.”
There had to be a point here. And it was time I started guiding her to it. “You must have found that a bit strange.”
“It was like he had never been outside in modern time. I thought of dementia, of course. He told me that his memory was ‘no longer his friend’ and it played tricks on him from time to time. He sounded so sad and alone. I figured he was trying to call someone else when he got through to me. I started questioning him about who he was trying to reach when he got me.”
She had been talking for twenty minutes already. It was clear from her body language that she was no longer interested in me. I had lost interest when the fraudster turned out to be such an old guy. It’s not that I have anything against old people. My parents were very old and I liked them well enough. It’s that old people scared me. It might have something to do with my job, or maybe I spent too much time hiding from my grandparents when I was younger. The old people have a smell, and it’s a smell I wanted to avoid when possible.
“But his sadness had a curiosity that was deeply embedded in his speech,” she continued. “He found everything so interesting and amazing. He sounded trapped in the past, a place he no longer wanted to be but couldn’t figure out how to escape. That’s why he called people. At least that was what I thought in the beginning. The phone was his window to the outside world. The only when he received his information. He knew things had changed, but it was hard to explain the new things. It was like trying to explain colors to a blind person. They understand at some level, but it’s not the same level as someone who had seen colors.
“It was his description of his room that nagged at me. His phone was not only big, it was also red. It was the only color in the room. He admitted it was a bit of cliché, but he enjoyed the color. The walls and floors in his room were white, as was the table and chair. He said that if it weren’t for the red phone, he would lose the ability to discern colors. There were no other colors in the room. I asked about a window or a door, but he said there were none. Just the table, chair, and phone. I asked how he ate, and he said he didn’t know.”
“And the bathroom,” I asked. It was clear this caller was insane. I still couldn’t figure out why she brought this story to me. The hospital was for the insane people. We were only interested in the criminally insane at the station.
“I asked about that as well. He claimed there was none. It was an empty room with a table and a red phone. I had my doubts about his sanity again. He sounded like such a nice man, a man whose voice I could almost place. It was there, pulling at my furthest memories. But whoever it was, I couldn’t remember at the time. This closed-in room was not the only weird part of his story. He went on to describe how the phone worked.
“The phone had a rotary, with the ten numbers working their way around the dial counterclockwise. He would sit for hours and turn the rotary. It didn’t do anything, though. He would turn it and watch it turn back. It made that clicking sound as it worked its way around the dial. When he lifted the handset, it automatically connected somewhere. He didn’t know who connected him or how they decided on the number. All he did know was that they never called the same number twice. He didn’t know if they listened in on his conversation because they never said anything. When the person on the other line hung up, another call was placed, and then another, until he hung up the handset on the phone.”
“I think I see where you’re going and why you’re here,” I said. “You think he’s trapped somewhere and you want me to investigate into who he is?”
“You make me sound like a crackpot.”
I didn’t say anything. She did sound like a crackpot. She wanted me to investigate a strange call from a man who said he was trapped in a white box with a red phone. He never ate and never shat and she thinks this is the job for the police. I was wrong about her when I said she was a plastic trophy. At least plastic trophies knew to only worry about themselves or perhaps their dogs. This woman worried about crazy people—and crazy people, I began thinking, who might not even exist.
“I’m not done yet, officer.
“Why’d you come to me? Why didn’t you go to the hospital? Isn’t that where your husband is now? Why not talk to doctors about this, why to me?”
“Don’t you think I started at the hospital? My husband was there, and the doctors listened to my story patiently. I could tell he wanted to suggest a psychiatric consult. I could see it in his eyes. He didn’t let me get through the entire story. He kept cutting me off and pushing me to get to the point. I appreciate that you mostly didn’t do that tonight, officer. I came to you because I had to find out whether the old man on the phone was real or not. If his story was true or if he was just a crazy man, then it wasn’t what I thought. Then I am crazy or he’s crazy, and either way it doesn’t get me much closer to my husband. But if it’s not—if he managed to make some connection through a different medium, then I have to know, officer. Will you help me?”
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.29 | Story Drafts, The Red Phone
The story's last legs
Another day and I wrote another 500 words in a story that grows larger if not better. I’m over 4,000 words, and I should finish with the word growth tomorrow. That’ll leave me one day to sit down and see if I can turn this pile of words into something readable for my end of month posting. I imagine Chuck is hunched over his computer pounding out his brilliant ping-pong story.
The snowman storyline in my doodles continue. One more finished snowman awaits posting. I may get around to drawing one last one to call the set complete. Notice the black squiggly lines around the borders. It’s supposed to represent a dream of the little guy. (Since nobody gets it, I figured I’d spell it out.)
Now that I finished my writing and drawing for the evening, Julie and I will head down to watch a bit of a Woody Allen movie before calling it a night.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.29 | Diary
The Red Phone - draft 4
(3,128)
She entered the detectives’ room at the end of my shift. I felt sick when I saw her. I somehow knew that this was going to be a late night. She had that strange look on her face, the type that told me she probably shouldn’t be here. She should be at home, perhaps preparing dinner or taking care of her kids. Or, after I take a closer look at her clothing, she should have been supervising her nanny who would prepare dinner and bathe and put the kids to sleep. In my precinct, we get a lot of her type. I wondered not for the first time whether they paid us to fight crime or to fight these wives’ boredom. It didn’t make much of a difference in the end. Dealing with these wives was what kept the money in the bank and the food on the kids table. Their mother prepared their dinners and was happy to do it. And I was happy for her to do it. She wasn’t a trophy woman. She was a good woman. She did her share and I did my share. It didn’t take a detective to know that the woman before me never did her share.
She walked through the wooden gate and made her way to my desk. I was the only one left. I was here to catch any calls before we called it a night. Her clickity-clackity shoes echoed off the walls. She was more plastic than natural. Good to look at but not look at too closely. “Officer?” she asked as she made her way to the front of my desk.
“Detective, Ma’am. Detective Thomson. What may I do for you this evening?”
“May I sit?” she asked as she sat on the wooden chair. I should have told her that less than an hour before an HIV-positive drug addict sat on that very chair. We caught him lurking around the mansions around Turner’s bend. It was strange that he was in our precinct since no public transportation went anywhere near our precinct. He didn’t tell us, but we figured a drug deal went bad and they dropped him here as an object lesson, knowing how we treat people like him in our station. I guess that makes us the drug dealers’ muscles. We had a job to do and we did it. The addict won’t be heading to these parts again. For all I knew, while we processed him in that very chair, he might have bled a little into the wood. It was an old chair and there were many splinters. The office was one big splinter, when you really got down into it. The fresh coat of paint they threw on the walls each year was as bogus as she was. It was all rotten to the core. I didn’t speak about these types of things when her kind was in earshot. As I said, I was here to put food on my kid’s table, and if I had to baby the likes of her, I was a good father, and I’d do it.
“Please. What’s on your mind?” I asked her. I maintained a bemused look. It was the most serious I could manage at this time of night in front of this type of woman.
She looked me in the eye. She had blue eyes. The type of blue you only see in aquariums and advertisements for tropical beaches in far off islands where I’ll never be able to afford a vacation. I could see why swimming in her waters could be so enticing. It’s too bad that sharks infest her waters. I felt bad for her husband. He probably thought he was getting so much more than a plastic trophy. I guess we always think we’re getting so much more until we get it home and unwrap it.
“I had the strangest call tonight,” she said. “I debated whether I should come here. There are so many prank calls. But he sounded so honest, so sincere.”
I immediately knew that she had fallen for a swindle. This happens more than you can imagine. You couldn’t tell by looking at them, but these trophy wives are very lonely creatures. They have their chatter groups, where they get together and bitch about their help and their shopping. But when they get right down to it, they’re alone. They don’t confide in their husbands or their friends or their family. They don’t confide in anyone. I’ve seen many of them take the opportunity to confide in psychics and swindlers. They think they’ll talk for a chance to put someone down. And that includes telemarketers and swindlers. I saw how this evening was going to go down: she wanted me to pry her out away from whatever they got from her. Perhaps this wouldn’t be a late night after all. We fill out the paper, and she talks to her bank and credit cards and makes everything right. It’s better when they come early on these types of things. I’ve caught a few of these cases where they waited too long and it took hours to get all the paper straight. If she spoke to him on this night, then I might be able to get this all squared away in an hour. There’s a reason their husbands thought to keep these women in trophy cases. Better there than breaking everything in sight. A bull in a china store is no better.
“Tell me about what happened, Ma’am. It’s never worse than you think it is. We’ll take care of it.”
“Protect and serve, eh, officer?” the woman asked. Her head turned to the side and she looked at me sideways. I could see each of her black lashes curled up and away from her eyes. My wife was a good cook and great with the children, but she didn’t have an eyelash to bat an eyelash at, if you see where I’m going. I’m a man, as weak as any other man is. And don’t think I didn’t think about it right there. Finish the paperwork. Maybe she’s feeling lonely. Maybe she likes men in uniform. I have a uniform in the back, in the locker room. It was all very private. Everything was always very private back there.
“That’s what I’m here for. To protect and serve, Ma’am. In all ways.” I turned my bemused look into a meaningful one. If she was going to flirt, I was going to flirt right back at her, food on the kids’ table or not. “What is your name? For the report, I mean. We need to keep good records here.”
“Sandra MacDonald,” she said. She put her left hand on the desk and the huge engagement ring almost blinded me. It was larger than her thumb’s knuckle. I pulled out my notepad and jotted down her name. “That’s with an M-A-C,” she added.
“Okay, Mrs. MacDonald. What happened on your call tonight?”
She laughed nervously. I straightened in the chair and cleaned the ink off the tip of the pen. I chewed the pen cap and waited for her to continue. In any good interrogation, you have to let the witness talk it through first, before you start putting words into their mouth. It makes it seem like those words were their own. It helps them sound more honest since they believe the words are their own. They never are, of course. The words end up being whatever it is we feed them. In this case, I’m already working out the words I will include on the report. I just needed her to say a few keywords and sign the paper. After the paperwork, we can see if there’s anything left between us. I resisted smoothing back my hair.
“He didn’t give me his name,” Sandra started in. “I have a good memory for these things, conversations. I’ll tell it like he said it and I’ll let you think if this is as crazy as it sounded.”
“However you want it. Take your time. Do you want water or coffee or something?”
“That’s okay. He sounded so desperate. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The phone rang late this evening. It was after dinner and the kids were asleep. I was straightening up after our dinner. I don’t spend much time on the phone. I never liked phones and never gave my number out. It surprised me when it rang. Only my mother had the phone number, and she called early in the morning after I see the kids off to school. It was the only time it ever rings and the only time I ever pick it up. That’s why I was so surprised. At first I was worried. My mother isn’t in the best of health, and they know to call me if anything ever happens to her. Thankfully this wasn’t that call. But I did think for a moment that it might be, which is why I grabbed it.”
I pretended to jot down notes as she talked. I nodded often and wrote the L.A. Raider’s schedule in my pad. I almost have the games for the season memorized. Knowing when you’re going to play and who you’re going to play is important in understanding the strategy for your team. The Raiders were going places this year, I knew. I just wanted to make sure I understood how they were going to get there.
“I picked up the phone on the third ring. There was a man on the other side. As soon as I picked up he started saying, ‘hello, hello?’ He kept repeating it, as if not expecting to hear anyone on the other side. He had called me, and it was strange. I greeted him and asked who he was. He said me he didn’t know. I held the phone’s handset at arm’s distance away from and really looked at it. I don’t know what I was expecting. I thought maybe it would tell me who this strange man was. Normally I would have hung up. I think most normal people might have. There was just something in his voice that sounded desperate. It wasn’t only desperation it was also—I don’t know how to say this. He reminded me of someone but I couldn’t really place it. It was like a déją vu moment. You know the type? You are sure you’ve heard it before but you just don’t know when. He kept talking as I held the handset away from my ear. He sounded resigned, as if another person was about to hang up on him, and he kind of understood why we did that and didn’t want to hold it against us.”
I wondered what type of scam she was involved with. This didn’t sound like the typical Nigerian call. The scammers are much smarter now. Either they pretend to be a bank or something to get your information at the beginning of the call. Or the keep you on the phone for a while. They want to build up your trust before they start asking for things. This sounded like the second case. “You heard all of that when not even listening into the phone?”
“I know it sounds strange.” She laughed. “It sounds strange to me too as I describe it. But I knew that voice and I knew what it wanted. I put the phone back on my ear and I said hello again. He stopped talking for a moment. Then he started in. He spoke slowly. It wasn’t like he was choosing his words carefully, it was like he was afraid that if he said things too quickly I would run away, like a dog approaching a bone to see if it’s safe to grab. He said, ‘Do you mind if I go on? There’s just so much I want to tell you. Not many people want to listen once I get into it. I know it’s me and all my talking, and I completely understand if you want to go before I even start in.’ I assured him that I did want to hear what he had to say. At the time it was just curiosity. He reminded me of someone that I couldn’t place I figured if he spoke more I’d be able to put a name on it.”
“Have you placed him now that you’ve had some time to think about it?” I asked, looking for a way to cut this story shorter. Wherever Sandra was trying to get, she certainly was taking her sweet time.
She ignored me, lost in her memories of the strange phone call. “I asked him what his name was. He said he didn’t remember. He didn’t remember a lot of things. I was sure I had heard that voice before. It was why I stayed on the phone. I had to place it. It nagged at me like a mosquito.”
“What did he want?” I asked her. I realized it was time for the leading questions. I needed to lead her somewhere. I was again wrong about her. I thought she had come in to report something. Now I figured she had come in only to talk to someone. And where there’s talk there may be other things. I might have to give the wife a call, let her know that I’d be home late tonight. A late night report. The usual.
“He didn’t want anything, exactly. He seemed relieved to talk to someone. He kept telling me that most of the people he spoke to hung up immediately, or after they heard his story. He told me it was a fantastical story, unbelievably so. And the way he said it, I believed it. He voice was soft and had a roll to it. I could see myself falling on top of that voice and losing my way.”
I lowered my voice. “Did you catch the number when he called?” She wasn’t looking at me anymore. She was staring at the wall behind me, lost in her thoughts.
“At this point he took a long deep breath. I could hear the wind cross over his throat and down into his lungs. He held it for a second a let it out. I thought he might be crazy, perhaps delusional. I didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t that I was entertained, it was that I was enthralled. There was a mystery to it. Something real, and my life is so full of stuff that’s not real, if you know what I mean.”
I decided to take a different tact. There are always lots of ways to crack an oyster, and the more I looked at her, the more juicy I thought of the pearl inside her plastic shell. “Your life at home isn’t real?”
She looked at me with that look that spoke volumes: it was as if I had no idea how difficult her life was. I swallowed down a laugh. This woman was quite something. Her life must be very difficult, with her big house and her help and her judging the common folk. Her oyster tasted sour already, and I hadn’t chucked the shell.
Her eyes flashed with anger as if she had been reading my thoughts. “My husband has been in a coma for the past eight years, officer. So, yes, my home life at times is surreal and at times difficult. When I say that there was something real in the man’s voice, what I was talking about was an emotional connection. It’s something I only have with my children, and it’s one way with children. A parent loves their children so much more than the children love their parent. It’s not their fault. It’s how it is. You love because you give, and children take. But that’s not important. I want to finish my report. I’ll try to leave the emotional asides to the side.”
“I’m sorry about your husband. I didn’t mean anything by it. Please, do go on. I want to finish this report for you and see what we I can do to help you.” After the news about her husband, I downshifted for a moment. What she was saying really got me thinking. But it didn’t take long to return to the subject at hand. She was as good as a widow and clearly not emotionally all here anymore. I judged whether this would be considered taking advantage of someone, and it fell into the line in the middle. I probably shouldn’t do it, but if I did, I wouldn’t go to hell—at least not over this infraction.
“When I told him I’d listen to his story he told me how kind I was. It was like I was giving him something, when just listening to him talk was giving me something. I asked why he chose me. This is where I got my first clue of what was going on. He told me he didn’t call me. Don’t look at me like that, officer. Ever since I walked through those doors, all you’ve been doing is judging the best way to get into my skirt. Just listen to the story first.”
Her last word gave me hope. Maybe once the crazy woman got through her story there might be something else in it for me. I looked longingly at the phone on the desk, only half listening to her words. I was planning the call to my wife. It wasn’t that my wife was suspicious but she was no dummy. Each night I worked late she checked the police blotter. She would know if an investigation ran late tonight. The town was quiet tonight, too quiet to get away with what I had planned. I missed the first part of her words before I pulled myself back over to her conversation.
“He said he was studying the phone. He spent a lot of his time studying the phone when he wasn’t talking on it. Isn’t that the strangest thing? Who studies their phones? I mean, I see lots of business people on their fancy phones checking mail or sending messages. But who stares at a phone, especially an old rotary phone for hours at a time? When he described the phone I began to understand. I hadn’t seen a real phone is so long, it was almost comforting to know that those types of phones still exist.”
“Did he tell you what type of phone it was?”
“It was a large red telephone. He described it as very heavy and very large. He was very in how big I thought the phone should be. When I told him about my cell phone he was amazed. It was like he had never seen a modern day phone. I thought of dementia, of course. He told me his memory was ‘no longer his friend’ and it played tricks on him. He sounded so sad and alone. I figured he was trying to call someone else when he got through to me. I started questioning him about who he was trying to reach when he got me.”
She had been talking for twenty minutes already. It was clear from her body language that she was no longer interested in me. I had lost interest when the fraudster turned out to be such an old guy.
“Oh, that is interesting. That small, really? I’m not doubting you. It’s just this phone is not small. I know things have changed. My little window into the world gives me at least that much information.
It’s a bit of a cliché that I have a big red phone but I enjoy the color. The walls and floor in the room are white, as is the table. The table has a few blue and red speckles as well. The chair at the table is a worn white leather chair. And the toilet and sink are both porcelain white. If it wasn’t for the red phone, I think I would lose the ability to discern colors.
The phone has a rotary, with the ten numbers working their way around the dial counterclockwise. I sometimes sit at the phone and turn the rotary. It doesn’t do anything, mind you. When I lift the headset, it automatically connects somewhere. I don’t know who does connection or who decides on what number. If they listen in on my conversation, they never say anything. When someone hangs up on the other end, another call is placed, and another, until I hang up the phone on the receiver.
“Why’d you come to me? Why didn’t you go to the hospital? Isn’t that where your husband is now? Why not talk to doctors about this, why to me?”
“Don’t you think I started at the hospital? My husband was there, and the doctors listened to my story patiently. I could tell he wanted to suggest a psychiatric consult. I could see it in his eyes. He didn’t let me get through the entire story. He kept cutting me off and pushing me to get to the point. I appreciate that you mostly didn’t do that tonight, officer. I came to you because I had to find out whether the old man on the phone was real or not. If his story was true or if he was just a crazy man, then it wasn’t what I thought. Then I am crazy or he’s crazy, and either way it doesn’t get me much closer to my husband. But if it’s not—if he managed to make some connection through a different medium, then I have to know, officer. Will you help me?”
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.28 | Story Drafts, The Red Phone
Julie's Home Improvement
Today was a home improvement day. I had two weeks to improve the Castle while Julie was gone. Not surprisingly, I failed. I think I needed Julie around for inspiration and a kick in the pants. Things we checked off our list: Cleaned our part of the newly paved back road (David with Julie’s help at the end); Washed our cars (Julie while David was raking and shoveling the road); Fixed the bedroom Tatami door (Julie because David failed at it and hadn’t even put it on the list); and Finally finished fixing the toilet downstairs (David, thanks to a timely stop in Lowes for a large wrench ). As you can see, it was part inspiration and part having Julie here to do some of the work. She’s good that way.
I wrote exactly five hundred words in my ping-pong story today. I decided to throw down the ending in case I ran out of steam over the next couple of days. My internal editor is not happy with the quality, as it’s even lower than my Garden story. I have a few elements in the story that I like, and most I don’t. I just need to keep reminding myself that it’s the first draft, and Chuck will kill me if I don’t finish it by the end of the month.
I’ve been toying with a name for my doodles: “Cast of Horribles.” I reserved the URL a while ago, as I liked the sound of it—it was the title of a so-so story I wrote in 2005. After finishing the redesign of our wedding website (as a warning: it will not be impressive), I will put together a site for my little doodles. It will be very simple. I don’t want a complicated PHP backend as I have for the family of sewcrates sites.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.28 | Diary
Julie in Taiwan
Julie was in for Taiwan preparing for her concert next month.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.28 | Photos | Dr. Julie Show
Julie returns to a changed David
Julie arrived at the airport at around six this evening. A couple from our Jewish conversion class had invited us to a Shabbos dinner early in the week. We had accepted, knowing that the best way to defeat jetlag when returning from Asia was to keep busy. We loaded Julie’s bags into my car and drove from the airport directly to dinner. They served delicious shish kebobs, good red wine, crunchy challah bread, and good conversations.
We made it home a few minutes ago. Julie is unpacking and surveying the mess that I created over the last two weeks. There are times when I am very clean, and times when I am anything but clean. These past two weeks have fallen squarely in the latter category. I don’t know if it was my inner passive-aggressive child attempting to exact revenge on Julie for abandoning me over the past two weeks, or when Julie was gone, I returned to my natural state of lazy dirtiness. Either way, the Castle hasn’t looked this bad in some time. Our housekeeper came last Wednesday. If it weren’t for her, the Castle would be almost unrecognizable. As we returned to the Castle, I left the kitchen lights off, afraid that the shock of the stacks of dirty dishes would be too much for Julie’s jetlagged-laden brain to handle.
The weekend is upon us, and finally I have the Julies back. This probably means that I will no longer have to draw my depressing doodles. Luckily, I have a large stack of them waiting for posting. I had a plan to do one today, but it doesn’t look like I’m going to get to it. I also won’t get back to the story today. I opened up the document and added a sentence, but realized that I didn’t have much left in me. This week has weighed heavily on me. I am looking forward to the weekend for a chance to recover and relax, and, of course, hold the Julies.
I’ve spent the past two weeks growing a beard. It didn’t fill out as much as I had hoped. I misplaced the plastic part of my beard trimmers and it looks scraggily. I did not impress Julie with my attempt at facial hair. I had warned her that I was planning to grow a beard while she was away. She assumed I would shave it off before she returned. She was wrong. I met her at the airport scruffy. She claims not to have recognized me, which I find hard to believe. Personally, I think it makes me look more manly and sophisticated. Our dinning couple agreed with me. We’ll see if the beard stays past my shower tomorrow.
For now, I’m pushing out the last few words before going to sleep. I hope to return to my rare form tomorrow. I’ll probably have plenty of time, as I imagine Julie will sleep through much of the day. Now, if I can only resist the call of the video games.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.26 | Diary
The Red Phone - draft 4
(2,246)
She entered our detectives’ room at the end of my shift. I should have realized this was going to be a late one. She had that strange look on her face, the type that told me she probably shouldn’t be here. She should be at home, perhaps preparing dinner or taking care of her kids. Or, after I take a closer look at her clothing, she should have been supervising her nanny who would prepare dinner and bathe and put the kids to sleep. In my precinct, we get a lot of her type. I wondered not for the first time whether we they paid us to fight crime or to fight these women’s boredom. I guess in the end it didn’t make much of a difference. Talking with her was what kept the money in my bank and the food on my kids table. Their mother prepared their dinners and was happy to do it. And I was happy for her to do it. She wasn’t a kept woman. She was a good woman. She did her share and I did my share. It didn’t take a detective to know that the woman before me never did her share.
She walked through the wooden gate and made her way to my desk. I was the only one left. I was here to catch any calls before we called it a night. Her clickity-clackity shoes echoed off the walls. She was more plastic than natural. Good to look at but not look at too closely. “Officer?” she asked as she made her way to the front of my desk.
“Detective, Ma’am. Detective Thomson. What may I do for you this evening?”
“May I sit?” she asked as she sat on the wooden chair. I should have told her that less than an hour before an HIV-positive drug addict sat on that very chair. We caught him lurking around the mansions around Turner’s bend. We couldn’t figure out how he got there since no public transportation went anywhere near our precinct. He wouldn’t tell us, but we figured a drug deal went bad and they dropped him here as an object lesson, knowing how we treat people like him in our precinct. I guess that makes us the drug dealers’ muscles. We had a job to do and we did it. The addict won’t be heading to these parts again. For all I knew, while we processed him in that very chair, he might have bled a little into the wood. It was an old chair and there were many splinters. The office was one big splinter, when you really got down into it. The fresh coat of paint they threw on the walls each year was as bogus as she was. It was all rotten to the core. I didn’t speak about these types of things when her kind was in earshot. As I said, I was here to put food on my kid’s table, and if I had to baby the likes of her, I was a good father, and I’d do it.
“Please. What’s on your mind?” I asked her. I maintained a bemused look. It was the most serious I could manage at this time of night in front of this type of woman.
She looked me in the eye. She had blue eyes. The type of blue you only see in aquariums and advertisements for tropical beaches in far off islands where I’ll never be able to afford a vacation. I could see why swimming in her waters could be so addicting. It’s too bad that sharks infested her waters. I feel bad for her husband. He probably thought he was getting so much more than a plastic trophy. I guess we always think we’re getting so much more until we get it home and unwrap it.
“I had the strangest call tonight,” she said. “I debated whether I should come here. There are so many prank calls. But he sounded so honest, so sincere.”
I immediately thought she fell for a swindle. This happens more than you can imagine. You couldn’t tell by looking at them, but these trophy wives are the loneliest creatures. They’ll talk to anyone just for the chance to put them down. And that includes telemarketers and swindlers. I saw how this evening was going to go down: she wanted me to pry her out away from whatever they got from her. Perhaps this wouldn’t be a late night after all. We fill out the paper, and she talks to her bank and credit cards and makes everything right. It’s better when they come early on these types of things. I’ve caught a few of these cases where they waited too long and it took hours to get all the paper straight. If she spoke to him on this night, then I might be able to get this all squared away in an hour. There’s a reason their husbands thought to keep these women in trophy cases. Better there than breaking everything in sight. A bull in a china store is no better.
“Tell me about what happened, Ma’am. It’s never worse than you think it is. We’ll take care of it.”
“Protect and serve, eh, officer?” the woman asked. Her head turned to the side and she looked at me sideways. I could see each of her black lashes curled up and away from her eyes. My wife was a good cook and great with the children, but she didn’t have an eyelash to bat an eyelash at, if you see where I’m going. I’m a man, as weak as any other man is. And don’t think I didn’t think about it right there. Finish the paperwork. Maybe she’s feeling lonely. Maybe she likes men in uniform. I have a uniform in the back, in the locker room. It was all very private. Everything was always very private back there.
“That’s what I’m here for. To protect and serve, Ma’am. In all ways.” I turned my bemused look into a meaningful one. If she was going to flirt, I was going to flirt right back at her, food on the kids’ table or not. “What is your name? For the report, I mean. We need to keep good records here.”
“Sandra MacDonald,” she said. She put her left hand on the desk and the huge engagement ring almost blinded me. It was larger than her thumb’s knuckle. I pulled out my notepad and jotted down her name. “That’s with an M-A-C,” she added.
“Okay, Mrs. MacDonald. What happened on that call tonight?”
She laughed nervously. I straightened in the chair and cleaned the ink off the tip of the pen. I chewed the pen cap and waited for her to continue. In any good interrogation, you have to let the witness talk it through first, before you start putting words into their mouth. It makes it seem like those words were their own, and I’m always after honest words: as in honest-sounding words.
“He didn’t give me his name,” Sandra started in. “I have a good memory for these things, conversations. I’ll tell it like he said it and I’ll let you think if this is as crazy as it sounded.”
“However you want it. Take your time. Do you want water or coffee or something?”
“That’s okay. He sounded so desperate. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The phone rang late this evening. It was after dinner and the kids were asleep. I was straightening up after our dinner. I don’t spend much time on the phone. I never liked phones. It surprised me when it rang. My mother called in the morning, after I had seen the kids off to school. That was the only phone call I usually pick up all day. But I had a feeling about this one.”
I jot down notes as she talks. I nod and write the L.A. Raider’s schedule in my pad. I almost have the games for the season memorized. Knowing when you’re going to play who is important in planning strategy for your team. They were going places this year, I knew.
“I picked up the phone on the third ring. There was a man on the other side. As soon as I picked up he started saying, ‘hello, hello?’ He kept repeating it, as if not expecting to hear anyone on the other side. He had called me, and it was strange. I greeted him and asked who he was. He said me he didn’t know. I held the phone’s handset at arm’s distance away from and really looked at it. I don’t know what I was expecting. I thought maybe it would tell me who this strange man was. Normally I would have hung up. I think most normal people might have. There was just something in his voice that sounded desperate. It wasn’t only desperation it was also—I don’t know how to say this. He reminded me of someone but I couldn’t really place it. It was like a déją vu moment. You know the type? You are sure you’ve heard it before but you just don’t know when. He kept talking as I held the handset away from my ear. He sounded resigned, as if another person was about to hang up on him, and he kind of understood why we did that and didn’t want to hold it against us.”
I wondered what type of scam she was involved with. This didn’t sound like the typical Nigerian call. The scammers are much smarter now. Either they pretend to be a bank or something to get your information at the beginning of the call. Or the keep you on the phone for a while. They want to build up your trust before they start asking for things. This sounded like the second case. “You heard all of that when not even listening into the phone?”
“I know it sounds strange.” She laughed. “It sounds strange to me too as I describe it. But I knew that voice and I knew what it wanted. I put the phone back on my ear and I said hello again. He stopped talking for a moment. Then he started in. He spoke slowly. It wasn’t like he was choosing his words carefully, it was like he was afraid that if he said things too quickly I would run away, like a dog approaching a bone to see if it’s safe to grab. He said, ‘Do you mind if I go on? There’s just so much I want to tell you. Not many people want to listen once I get into it. I know it’s me and all my talking, and I completely understand if you want to go before I even start in.’ I assured him that I did want to hear what he had to say. At the time it was just curiosity. He reminded me of someone that I couldn’t place I figured if he spoke more I’d be able to put a name on it.”
“Have you placed him now that you’ve had some time to think about it?” I asked, looking for a way to cut this story shorter. Wherever Sandra was trying to get, she certainly was taking her sweet time.
She ignored me, lost in her memories of the strange phone call. “I asked him what his name was. He said he didn’t remember. He didn’t remember a lot of things. I was sure I had heard that voice before. It was why I stayed on the phone. I had to place it. It nagged at me like a mosquito.”
“What did he want?” I asked her. I realized it was time for the leading questions. I needed to lead her somewhere. I was again wrong about her. I thought she had come in to report something. Now I figured she had come in only to talk to someone. And where there’s talk there may be other things. I might have to give the wife a call, let her know that I’d be home late tonight. A late night report. The usual.
“He didn’t want anything, exactly. He seemed relieved to talk to someone. He kept telling me that most of the people he spoke to hung up immediately, or after they heard his story. He told me it was a fantastical story, unbelievably so. And the way he said it, I believed it. He voice was soft and had a roll to it. I could see myself falling on top of that voice and losing my way.”
I lowered my voice. “Did you catch the number when he called?” She wasn’t looking at me anymore. She was staring at the wall behind me, lost in her thoughts.
“At this point he took a long deep breath. I could heard the wind cross over his throat and down into his lungs. He held it for a second a let it out. I thought he might be crazy, perhaps delusional. I didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t that I was entertained, it was that I was enthralled. There was a mystery to it. Something real, and my life is so full of stuff that’s not real, if you know what I mean.”
I decided to take a different tact. There are always lots of ways to crack an oyster, and the more I looked at her, the more juicy I thought of the pearl inside her plastic shell. “Your life at home isn’t real?”
“When I told him I’d listen to his story he told me how kind I was. It was like I was giving him something, when just listening to him talk was giving me something. I asked why he choose me. This is where I got my first clue of what was going on. He told me he didn’t call me. Don’t look at me like that, officer. Ever since I walked through those doors, all you’ve been doing is judging the best way to get into my skirt. Just listen to the story first.”
Her last word gave me hope. Maybe once the crazy woman got through her story there might be something else in it for me. I looked longingly at the phone on the desk, only half listening to the crazy lady, the rest of me was planning the call to my wife. She checked the police blotter and would know if there was an investigation. The town was quiet, almost too quiet some nights to get away with what I had planned. I missed the first part of the crazy lady’s words before I pulled myself back over to her.
“He said he was studying the phone. He spent a lot of his time studying the phone when he wasn’t talking on it. Isn’t that the strangest thing? Who studies their phones? I mean, I see lots of business people on their fancy phones checking mail or sending messages. But who stares at a phone, especially an old rotary phone for hours at a time? When he described the phone I began to understand. I hadn’t seen a real phone is so long, it was almost comforting to know that those types of phones still exist.
The phone is red and heavy. It is much larger than the phones I remember. Of course, it’s been so long time since I’ve seen other phones, it’s hard to know for sure. My memory is no longer my friend. It tricks me sometimes. Makes me think I remember something that I don’t, or creates a memory that I know couldn’t be real. What do phones look like today?
“Oh, that is interesting. That small, really? I’m not doubting you. It’s just this phone is not small. I know things have changed. My little window into the world gives me at least that much information.
It’s a bit of a cliché that I have a big red phone but I enjoy the color. The walls and floor in the room are white, as is the table. The table has a few blue and red speckles as well. The chair at the table is a worn white leather chair. And the toilet and sink are both porcelain white. If it wasn’t for the red phone, I think I would lose the ability to discern colors.
The phone has a rotary, with the ten numbers working their way around the dial counterclockwise. I sometimes sit at the phone and turn the rotary. It doesn’t do anything, mind you. When I lift the headset, it automatically connects somewhere. I don’t know who does connection or who decides on what number. If they listen in on my conversation, they never say anything. When someone hangs up on the other end, another call is placed, and another, until I hang up the phone on the receiver.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.25 | Story Drafts, The Red Phone
Return of the Snowman (and the Julies!)
I played too many video games when I returned home today. I finished the video games about twenty minutes ago, and spent the rest of the time pounding out another 500 words of Story. It keeps getting longer and not going anywhere. It feels like Marathon writing. But I’ll keep plugging away. I know where I want it to go, and I’ll have to squeeze where I want to go through the tiny hole I created. I doubt it’ll fit but I will arrive at the end. It’ll be a pile of crap, but I hear that’s what first drafts are supposed to be. I’m saving a serve in a few weeks to edit one of our piles of crap.
Julie flies back tomorrow night. I can’t wait to see her. She’s going to cure me of my newfound video game addiction. It’s been a lonely two weeks, but I guess distance does make the heart grow fonder. Or something sappy like that.
Today marks the first return of the Snowman. He makes a couple more comics later in the week. I still have one or two more frames to draw for him.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.25 | Diary
The Red Phone - draft 3
(1314)
She entered our detectives’ room at the end of my shift. I should have realized this was going to be a late one. She had that strange look on her face, the type that told me she probably shouldn’t be here. She should be at home, perhaps preparing dinner or taking care of her kids. Or, after I take a closer look at her clothing, she should have been supervising her nanny who would prepare dinner and bathe and put the kids to sleep. In my precinct, we get a lot of her type. I wondered not for the first time whether we they paid us to fight crime or to fight these women’s boredom. I guess in the end it didn’t make much of a difference. Talking with her was what kept the money in my bank and the food on my kids table. Their mother prepared their dinners and was happy to do it. And I was happy for her to do it. She wasn’t a kept woman. She was a good woman. She did her share and I did my share. It didn’t take a detective to know that the woman before me never did her share.
She walked through the wooden gate and made her way to my desk. I was the only one left. I was here to catch any calls before we called it a night. Her clickity-clackity shoes echoed off the walls. She was more plastic than natural. Good to look at but not look at too closely. “Officer?” she asked as she made her way to the front of my desk.
“Detective, Ma’am. Detective Thomson. What may I do for you this evening?”
“May I sit?” she asked as she sat on the wooden chair. I should have told her that less than an hour before an HIV-positive drug addict sat on that very chair. We caught him lurking around the mansions around Turner’s bend. We couldn’t figure out how he got there since no public transportation went anywhere near our precinct. He wouldn’t tell us, but we figured a drug deal went bad and they dropped him here as an object lesson, knowing how we treat people like him in our precinct. I guess that makes us the drug dealers’ muscles. We had a job to do and we did it. The addict won’t be heading to these parts again. For all I knew, while we processed him in that very chair, he might have bled a little into the wood. It was an old chair and there were many splinters. The office was one big splinter, when you really got down into it. The fresh coat of paint they threw on the walls each year was as bogus as she was. It was all rotten to the core. I didn’t speak about these types of things when her kind was in earshot. As I said, I was here to put food on my kid’s table, and if I had to baby the likes of her, I was a good father, and I’d do it.
“Please. What’s on your mind?” I asked her. I maintained a bemused look. It was the most serious I could manage at this time of night in front of this type of woman.
She looked me in the eye. She had blue eyes. The type of blue you only see in aquariums and advertisements for tropical beaches in far off islands where I’ll never be able to afford a vacation. I could see why swimming in her waters could be so addicting. It’s too bad that sharks infested her waters. I feel bad for her husband. He probably thought he was getting so much more than a plastic trophy. I guess we always think we’re getting so much more until we get it home and unwrap it.
“I had the strangest call tonight,” she said. “I debated whether I should come here. There are so many prank calls. But he sounded so honest, so sincere.”
I immediately thought she fell for a swindle. This happens more than you can imagine. You couldn’t tell by looking at them, but these trophy wives are the loneliest creatures. They’ll talk to anyone just for the chance to put them down. And that includes telemarketers and swindlers. I saw how this evening was going to go down: she wanted me to pry her out away from whatever they got from her. Perhaps this wouldn’t be a late night after all. We fill out the paper, and she talks to her bank and credit cards and makes everything right. It’s better when they come early on these types of things. I’ve caught a few of these cases where they waited too long and it took hours to get all the paper straight. If she spoke to him on this night, then I might be able to get this all squared away in an hour. There’s a reason their husbands thought to keep these women in trophy cases. Better there than breaking everything in sight. A bull in a china store is no better.
“Tell me about what happened, Ma’am. It’s never worse than you think it is. We’ll take care of it.”
“Protect and serve, eh, officer?” the woman asked. Her head turned to the side and she looked at me sideways. I could see each of her black lashes curled up and away from her eyes. My wife was a good cook and great with the children, but she didn’t have an eyelash to bat an eyelash at, if you see where I’m going. I’m a man, as weak as any other man is. And don’t think I didn’t think about it right there. Finish the paperwork. Maybe she’s feeling lonely. Maybe she likes men in uniform. I have a uniform in the back, in the locker room. It was all very private. Everything was always very private back there.
“That’s what I’m here for. To protect and serve, Ma’am. In all ways.” I turned my bemused look into a meaningful one. If she was going to flirt, I was going to flirt right back at her, food on the kids’ table or not. “What is your name? For the report, I mean. We need to keep good records here.”
“Sandra MacDonald,” she said. She put her left hand on the desk and the huge engagement ring almost blinded me. It was larger than her thumb’s knuckle. I pulled out my notepad and jotted down her name. “That’s with an M-A-C,” she added.
“Okay, Mrs. MacDonald. What happened on that call tonight?”
She laughed nervously. I straightened in the chair and cleaned the ink off the tip of the pen. I chewed the pen cap and waited for her to continue. In any good interrogation, you have to let the witness talk it through first, before you start putting words into their mouth. It makes it seem like those words were their own, and I’m always after honest words: as in honest-sounding words.
“He didn’t give me his name,” Sandra started in. “I have a good memory for these things, conversations. I’ll tell it like he said it and I’ll let you think if this is as crazy as it sounded.”
“However you want it. Take your time. Do you want water or coffee or something?”
“That’s okay. He sounded so desperate. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The phone rang late this evening. It was after dinner and the kids were asleep. I was straightening up after our dinner. I don’t spend much time on the phone. I never liked phones. It surprised me when it rang. My mother called in the morning, after I had seen the kids off to school. That was the only phone call I usually pick up all day. But I had a feeling about this one.”
I jot down notes as she talks. I nod and write the L.A. Raider’s schedule in my pad. I almost have the games for the season memorized. Knowing when you’re going to play who is important in planning strategy for your team. They were going places this year, I knew.
“I picked up the phone on the third ring. There was a man on the other side. As soon as I picked up he started saying, ‘hello, hello?’ He kept repeating it, as if not expecting to hear anyone on the other side. He had called me, and it was strange. I greeted him and asked who he was. He said me he didn’t know. I held the phone’s handset at arm’s distance away from and really looked at it. I don’t know what I was expecting. I thought maybe it would tell me who this strange man was. Normally I would have hung up. I think most normal people might have. There was just something in his voice that sounded desperate. It wasn’t only desperation it was also—I don’t know how to say this. He reminded me of someone but I couldn’t really place it. It was like a déją vu moment. You know the type? You are sure you’ve heard it before but you just don’t know when. He kept talking as I held the handset away from my ear. He sounded resigned, as if another person was about to hang up on him, and he kind of understood why we did that and didn’t want to hold it against us.”
I wondered what type of scam she was involved with. This didn’t sound like the typical Nigerian call. The scammers are much smarter now. Either they pretend to be a bank or something to get your information at the beginning of the call. Or the keep you on the phone for a while. They want to build up your trust before they start asking for things. This sounded like the second case. “You heard all of that when not even listening into the phone?”
“I know it sounds strange.” She laughed. “It sounds strange to me too as I describe it. But I knew that voice and I knew what it wanted. I put the phone back on my ear and I said hello again. He stopped talking for a moment. Then he started in. He spoke slowly. It wasn’t like he was choosing his words carefully, it was like he was afraid that if he said things too quickly I would run away, like a dog approaching a bone to see if it’s safe to grab. He said, ‘Do you mind if I go on? There’s just so much I want to tell you. Not many people want to listen once I get into it. I know it’s me and all my talking, and I completely understand if you want to go before I even start in.’ I assured him that I did want to hear what he had to say. At the time it was just curiosity. He reminded me of someone that I couldn’t place I figured if he spoke more I’d be able to put a name on it.”
“Have you placed him now that you’ve had some time to think about it?” I asked, looking for a way to cut this story shorter. Wherever Sandra was trying to get, she certainly was taking her sweet time.
She ignored me, lost in her memories of the strange phone call. “I asked him what his name was.
I know how I must sound. It’s fantastical. Unbelievably so. You’ll be entertained either way: a crazy person’s detailed delusions, or an fantastical and sad story.
“That is kind of you.
“Before I called you? I was studying the phone. When I’m not talking on it, I spend a lot of my time studying the phone. I stare at it for hours at a time, some days. The phone is red and heavy. It is much larger than the phones I remember. Of course, it’s been so long time since I’ve seen other phones, it’s hard to know for sure. My memory is no longer my friend. It tricks me sometimes. Makes me think I remember something that I don’t, or creates a memory that I know couldn’t be real. What do phones look like today?
“Oh, that is interesting. That small, really? I’m not doubting you. It’s just this phone is not small. I know things have changed. My little window into the world gives me at least that much information.
It’s a bit of a cliché that I have a big red phone but I enjoy the color. The walls and floor in the room are white, as is the table. The table has a few blue and red speckles as well. The chair at the table is a worn white leather chair. And the toilet and sink are both porcelain white. If it wasn’t for the red phone, I think I would lose the ability to discern colors.
The phone has a rotary, with the ten numbers working their way around the dial counterclockwise. I sometimes sit at the phone and turn the rotary. It doesn’t do anything, mind you. When I lift the headset, it automatically connects somewhere. I don’t know who does connection or who decides on what number. If they listen in on my conversation, they never say anything. When someone hangs up on the other end, another call is placed, and another, until I hang up the phone on the receiver.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.24 | Story Drafts, The Red Phone
Recording wet thoughts
I wrote another 500 words in the ping-pong story today. I guess I moved it along. While showering this morning, I figured out where it was going. It’s an interesting twist—although I’m not sure if I’ll do it justice in this first draft. I guess we’ll see where it takes me over the next few days.
I figured out why showers are so good for inspiration. It has nothing to do with the hot water. It’s about being alone with nothing to look at and nothing to do. I spend so much of my time being distracted that when I’m alone for fifteen minutes with no internet or meetings or interesting things to look at or listen to, ideas whip at me from all directions. I use a small sound recorder to capture the idea before it runs away. I’ve found my ideas have a very short life if I don’t record them somewhere.
I was feeling wonderful this afternoon. An early morning gym visit along with a warm sunny day left me in a great mood for most of the afternoon. By early evening, I was tired. I managed only one doodle today, and I don’t think it was up to my usual quality. I’ll clean it up in a few weeks when it’s time to post it. Today’s is another in a spattering of “David Sayings” doodles. Similar to the “Go on without me” (which I don’t think I did justice to), I tend to repeat today’s words a lot. I’m nothing if not repetitive and predictable.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.24 | Diary
Why is it all leaking out?
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.23 | Cast of Horribles | Headache, Water, Water Spout
The Red Phone - Draft 2
(383)
She entered our detectives’ room at the end of my shift. I should have realized this was going to be a late one. She had that strange look on her face, the type that told me she probably shouldn’t be here. She should be at home, perhaps preparing dinner or taking care of her kids. Or, after I got a closer look at her clothing, she should have been supervising her nanny who would prepare dinner and bathe and put the kids to sleep. In my precinct, we get a lot of her type. I wondered not for the first time whether we were fighting crime or paid to fight these women’s boredom. I guess in the end it didn’t make a difference. Talking with her was what kept the money in my bank and the food on my kids table. Their mother prepared their dinners and was happy to do it. And I was happy for her to do it. She wasn’t a kept woman. She was a good woman. She did her share and I did my share. It didn’t take a detective to know that the woman before me never did her share.
She walked through the wooden gate and made her way to my desk. I was the only one left. I was here to catch any calls before we called it a night. Her clickity-clackity shoes echoed off the walls. She was more plastic than natural. Good to look at but not look at too closely. “Officer?” she asked as she made her way to the front of my desk.
“Detective, Ma’am. Detective Thomson. What may I do for you this evening?”
“May I sit?” she asked as she sat on the wooden chair. I should have told her that less than an hour before an HIV-positive drug addict sat on that very chair. We caught him lurking around the mansions around Turner’s bend. We couldn’t figure out how he got there since no public transportation went anywhere near our precinct. He wouldn’t tell us, but we figured a drug deal went bad and they dropped him here as a little lesson. I guess that made us the drug dealers’ muscles. We had a job to do and we did it. The addict won’t be heading to these parts again. For all I knew, he might have bled a little into the wood. It was an old chair and there were many splinters. The office was one big splinter, when you really got down into it. The fresh coat of paint they threw on the walls each year was as bogus as she was. It was all rotten to the core.
“Please. What’s on your mind?” I asked her. I maintained a bemused look. It was the most serious I could manage at this time of night in front of these type of woman.
She looked me in the eye. She had blue eyes. The type of blue you only see in aquariums and advertisements for tropical beaches in far off islands where I’ll never be able to afford a vacation. I could see why swimming in her waters could be so addicting. It’s too bad that sharks infested her waters. I feel bad for her husband. He probably thought he was getting so much more than a plastic trophy. I guess we always think we’re getting so much more until we get it home and unwrap it.
“I had the strangest call tonight,” she said. “I debated whether I should come here. There are so many prank calls. But he sounded so honest, so sincere.”
I judged she fell for a swindle, and she wanted me to pry her out away from whatever they got from her. I thought I misjudged. Perhaps this wouldn’t be a late night after all. We fill out the paper, and she talks to her bank and credit cards and makes everything right. It’s better when they come early on this. I’ve caught a few of these cases where they waited too long and it took hours to get all the paper straight. There’s a reason their husbands thought to keep these women in trophy cases. Better there than breaking everything in sight. A bull in a china store is no better.
“Tell me about what happened, Ma’am. It’s never worse than you think it is. We’ll take care of it.”
“Protect and serve, eh, officer?” the woman asked. Her head turned to the side and she looked at me sideways. I could see each of her black lashes curled up and away from her eyes. My wife was a good cook and great with the children, but she didn’t have an eyelash to bat an eyelash at, if you see where I’m going. I’m a man, as weak as any other man. And don’t think I didn’t think about it right there. Finish the paperwork. Maybe she’s feeling lonely. Maybe she likes men in uniform. I have a uniform in the back, in the locker room. It was all very private. Everything was always very private back there.
“That’s what I’m here for. To protect and serve, Ma’am. In all ways. What is your name? For the report, I mean. We need to keep good records here.”
“Sandra MacDonald,” she said. She put her left hand on the desk and the huge engagement ring almost blinded me. It was larger than her thumb’s knuckle. I pulled out my notepad and jotted down her name. “That’s with an M-A-C,” she added.
“Okay, Mrs. MacDonald. What happened on that call tonight?”
“Do you mind if I go on? There’s just so much I want to tell you. Not many people want to listen once I get into it. I know it’s me and all my talking, and I completely understand if you want to go. I know how I must sound. It’s fantastical. Unbelievably so. You’ll be entertained either way: a crazy person’s detailed delusions, or an fantastical and sad story.
“That is kind of you.
“Before I called you? I was studying the phone. When I’m not talking on it, I spend a lot of my time studying the phone. I stare at it for hours at a time, some days. The phone is red and heavy. It is much larger than the phones I remember. Of course, it’s been so long time since I’ve seen other phones, it’s hard to know for sure. My memory is no longer my friend. It tricks me sometimes. Makes me think I remember something that I don’t, or creates a memory that I know couldn’t be real. What do phones look like today?
“Oh, that is interesting. That small, really? I’m not doubting you. It’s just this phone is not small. I know things have changed. My little window into the world gives me at least that much information.
It’s a bit of a cliché that I have a big red phone but I enjoy the color. The walls and floor in the room are white, as is the table. The table has a few blue and red speckles as well. The chair at the table is a worn white leather chair. And the toilet and sink are both porcelain white. If it wasn’t for the red phone, I think I would lose the ability to discern colors.
The phone has a rotary, with the ten numbers working their way around the dial counterclockwise. I sometimes sit at the phone and turn the rotary. It doesn’t do anything, mind you. When I lift the headset, it automatically connects somewhere. I don’t know who does connection or who decides on what number. If they listen in on my conversation, they never say anything. When someone hangs up on the other end, another call is placed, and another, until I hang up the phone on the receiver.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.23 | Story Drafts, The Red Phone
Diagnosis: squiggly depression
After finishing a doodle, I came up to my chair to write some words in my ping-pong story. Chuck had thrown down a challenge after reading my veiled request for an extension yesterday. I knew there was no more ducking Story. The thing was I didn’t feel very good about writing. In truth, I was dreading it. It turns out my dread was misplaced. I steamed through a thousand words of Story. The words weren’t great, but I didn’t have anything planned, and an actual character—okay, a very derivative and almost caricatured character—grabbed my hand and took me for a short spin. I don’t know if anything will come of it, but I do feel more confident about getting a first draft out by the end of the month.
I think my doodling is helping my writing. The doodling puts me in a more creative and less judgmental state of mind. It feels good to write words and not worry about where I’m heading or what I’m saying. We’ll see if I can duplicate this feeling and write Story tomorrow night.
Julie is flying back on Friday, which means only three more days of loneliness. Julie showed her mother my doodles. After looking through the squiggles, Julie’s mother became very concerned about my well-being. She diagnosed me as depressed. Julie assured her that I was always like this. I guess it’s true. There’s a part of me that is always like this. It doesn’t matter how busy or how happy or how tightly I hold the Julies. It’s there, always waiting, distant and alone. Until my monsters, I didn’t have a consistent way to share that part. I guess my consternations were a painful release valve. It’s nice to have other mechanisms that don’t grate so much on my two readers.
It’s growing late and I need to clean up today’s doodle posting, and maybe draw another one. I have a nice pile of doodles waiting for posting. It almost pains me not to post them all immediately. But I like the one-a-day schedule. It allows me a little leeway if I decide to slow my output. It also gives me a chance to touch up the older doodles, and rewrite the titles.
I enjoyed today’s writing, and I don’t want to end this missive. But I won’t bore you with more words when I have nothing left to say.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.23 | Diary
Extension withdrawal
My head feels better today. It was touch and go when I woke this morning. It still hurt but I resisted the early-morning Advil. I have had luck with breakfasting and then riding the van to relieve my headaches. My work-morning Flintstone vitamin (especially the gummy variety) may also have a beneficial effect. Whatever it was, it worked. By the time I arrived at work and dug in to my delicious workload I was fully rested and headache free. It was almost a P.H.D. (it didn’t reach that level since a true P.H.D. starts when I first wake up).
My morning coffee surely didn’t hurt the process. And before you start crying that my headache was yummy caffeine withdrawal, let me point out that you’re wrong on so many levels that I can’t accurately define or explain. I’m slathering all over the keyboard as I type this at the thought that some of you may have this idea burning in your tiny brains. And, no, the levels that you’re wrong on have nothing to do with my addiction levels, as we will disregard the loose fact that I failed to partake of yummy caffeine on Sunday, when, if you remember, my head sprouted talons.
I didn’t manage any story or essay writing today. I’m still tired from this weekend. I only have nine days left in the ping-pong story, and it’s not looking very good. I’m going to pound something out there starting, umm, tomorrow. I might have to ask for an extension. I always hated those people in school: I would work my butt off to finish my papers on time, and those people would saunter up to the professor after class on the day the paper was due, and give a sob story and walk away with an extension. I know I’m not supposed to hate anybody, and that I shouldn’t judge because I don’t know if their sob story was true. For all I know their dog/cat/guinea pig may have died the previous night, and they spent the late evening hours when they would have been putting the finishing touching on their paper/late-term assignment/take-home test wallowing away in a makeshift funeral ceremony for their beloved pet. I just don’t know the truth, and it’s wrong of me to think badly of them. And yet I did. Maybe if I were there now, with those same people and their same sob story, I would think differently. Knowing David, as much as I talk about NEQID, I don’t think I’ve grown much, particularly when I begin talking about those people.
Today I posted my favorite doodle. I’ve been looking forward to this day since I first drew it last Thursday. The perspective, while perhaps not technically accurate, was very satisfying. I started with pencil lines to plan where the walls and window should appear. Everything came together after that. And when I was trying to figure out what to do with the floor space, the slipper struck me. Technically, since his tail/leg falls backward, the slipper should have faced the other direction. When I tried it that way, however, it didn’t look as good. I think they call this artistic license, or, in my case, Dav-tistic license (for obvious, I’m-not-an-artist reasons).
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.22 | Diary
Its another lonely Sunday
Today has not been a good day. A headache descended on me after lunch and hasn’t removed its razor-sharp talons from my skull. Between the clawing I did manage a few more doodles. I’m not happy with today’s posted drawing, but it was better than the original version. I like having a secret stash of doodles that Julie can review. It gives me a chance to go back and rework some of the problems before posting. I’m still a talentless hack, but at least I’m a well-edited talentless hack.
As sad as it sounds, I’m looking forward to returning to work tomorrow. Lonely Sundays are the worst. Especially when my fridge is running low on food and I’ve done a terrible job of managing my Netflix queue. We had rented two discs of anime, which Julie really enjoys. Regrettably, we didn’t get a chance to watch it before Julie left for Taiwan. I resisted watching them this entire week until today. I gave in to the temptation and lost a few hours to their drawn goodness. The anime was “Samurai Champloo,” and except for its fascination with hip-hop, it’s a very good anime. The animation is excellent (probably the best animated series I’ve seen), and the story somewhat intriguing.
Julie and I are getting together our save-the-date cards for the weddings. That means that I have to return and finish the wedding website. I’ve put it on hold to draw doodles during my free time. I might have to cut down to one or so a day. The more complicated ones, which I should begin posting in the next few days, take a good amount of time to get right. I’m still waiting for the addresses for the save-the-date cards from my mother (consider this my nag!). Then we have to print and stamp and lick and mail. It all sounds like a lot of work. I guess it’s time for Julie and me to start working on the wedding. Everyone tells me weddings are not about fun and games. Now eloping, eloping would be about fun and games. Too bad it’s too late for that.
Chuck pointed out that there was a difference between “yay” and “yeah.” In a mail to him, I said that there really should be a way of describing which “yeah” you were talking about (at the time, I thought that you could write “yeah” for either “yay” or “yeah”). Looking back over my writing, I have used “yay” before. I think the problem is that Word does not have “yay” in its dictionary. It’s amazing how powerful spellcheckers are for changing the spelling and writing habits of writers. I know every time I see a squiggly green or red line, I immediately look to change something.
I was talking to a friend the other day and she mentioned that sometimes when she writes in her paper notebook, she pauses for a moment to wait for a squiggly line to show up when she’s not sure of the spelling of the word. Technology is wonderful, it’s just not that wonderful yet.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.21 | Diary
She said she'd join me
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.20 | Cast of Horribles | City, Hot Tub, Suffering, Waiting
Jewish Essay - draft
(2,350)
This Jewish essay has been sitting on my computer a long while. I sat down to finish it, trying to make sense of my scribbles. If you remember, I wrote this essay to lay down principles about Judaism that have been coalescing in my little brain from my Jewish reading and classes. My plan was to apply these principles to my analysis of the Silfkin book, which I have not been reading because I wanted to finish this essay first.[1]
[1] I amaze myself with my convoluted logic. It’s as if when I procrastinate on one project, all related projects somehow attach themselves to that procrastination. I guess it’s true what they say: procrastination has many arms. (Okay, I made that up, and I’ll stop babbling and get back to writing the essay so I can return to analyzing chapter 2 of the Silfkin book with these principles in mind.)
I realized as I went through the principles that this exercise was much more useful for me than just a way to discuss the Silfkin book. These principles present a very interesting view of the world that is slowly bringing order to the world for me. A gentile friend of mine who is converting to the orthodox-brand of Judaism told me that what was amazing about Judaism’s laws and customs was how internally consistent they were. The more you dig, the more sense they make. While I don’t agree that this is always the case, these principles and my readings and discussions are forcing me to rethink what I believe about my religion and about God.
As always, remember, this essays my fabrication from my Jewish readings and my rabbis’ teachings. I’ve taken what they taught and pulled at the edges, tugged at the middles, and for the most part misinterpreted and misunderstood the real teachings. I’m very dense, and I doubt any of this is close to accurate or reliable or useful to anyone except me—and even that is questionable. (Humility is a mitzvah that I’m trying to cultivate. And that winking you imagine me doing when I write this is all part of your highly active and very wrong imagination.) Either way, here it is, in all of its throat-clearing glory.
Principle #1. God doesn’t need anything from us.
My rabbi, who was a late bloomer when it comes to religious study, learned this at his first Jewish lesson in Israel. God does not need anything from us. This is not obvious.
Here’s one basic explanation of this: God does not need anything from us because (a) God is infinite; (b) an infinite being is by definition complete because he has no end or limitation; and (c) a complete being has no need of anything. This is a somewhat simplistic argument as it contains many premises. God is unlike humans because he is infinite. God is not human and he does not share our characteristics. (That “man is created in God’s image” is a lot less literal than it seems.) God does not grow angry or judge or throw lightning bolts. God does not have emotions (or logic for that matter). God doesn’t do anything. But more about that later.
There is a very powerful conclusion that you come to when you accept that God doesn’t need anything from us. What you realize is that we cannot provide anything to God. He doesn’t need our prayers or (and this is sometimes misconstrued, particularly by the newfangled religions), he doesn’t need us to “fix the world.” If he wanted the world fixed, he could do it quite easily through that whole omnipotent thing that God has going for him.
We do not follow God’s commandments for him; we follow his commandments for us. Judaism introduced this basic understanding along with monotheism. (There is a debate as to whether Judaism introduced monotheism or merely popularized it).
Before monotheism there was paganism, which was a human response to man’s inability to understand nature. It was a way for early man to understand a pattern in something chaotic. Humans’ are very good at this: we apply patterns to observations to arrive at explanations.[1] Think of being an ancient person when an earthquake or volcano explodes or the crops die because there are no rains. It’s not only that you can’t do anything to prevent these catastrophes (modern man can’t do much in either case), it’s that you don’t understand why these events happened. Ancient humans lived in perpetual fear of nature. Fear is often more about understanding than it is about control.
[1] While humans are good at creating patterns to explain observations, they are not good at selecting the correct pattern. We can see this by our natural inability to grasp statistics. As a simple example, how often do you find yourself surprised that a person you’ve just met shares the same birthday as you? Many people believe that fate places a heavy bearing on this coincidence[2] (my older sister and her husband share the same birthday—I’m not sure how much of that relationship was based on this simple pattern, but I’d bet that a small part was). The truth is that there are only 365 days every year. From a statistical analysis, that means that one in every will share you exact birthday. Think about that: for every people you meet during a day, __ of them will have your birthday. That’s a rather big number.
[2] Judaism does believe strongly in Divine Providence, or that God’s will influences all events in the world. To observant Jews, a coincidence is not a coincidence, but a divinely influenced event. You will hear observant Jews say, “Baruch Hashem,” or blessed God, often. They say this not to ward off evil, but to acknowledge that God controls every event. In their worldview, there is little in the way of coincidences. (The last part is my understanding based on being around observant Jews, but I’ve never heard them describe it exactly this way.)
Pagans believed that they could appease nature in the form of their gods, by sacrificing for, praying to, and praising them. In return, the gods would not rain misfortune on them. Where paganism differed from monotheism is that the gods enjoyed or gained something from the praying or sacrificing or praising. It was a form of appeasement: you give me five dollars and I don’t punch you in the nose. If you didn’t need the five dollars, then you wouldn’t make the deal.
One of the understandings that monotheism brought to the world was that God does not need anything we can provide him because he infinite. We do not pray or praise or present offerings (the difference between a sacrifice and an offering is important) for his benefit. Everything we do in his name, we do not do for him, but for us. He does not need our five dollars. Counter intuitively, he still wants our five dollars, but it’s not for his benefit but ours.
Some examples: When Jews praise God, they do not praise him because God needs or even enjoys their praises. They praise him because it is the humans that need to praise God to understand whom they stand before. The last part relates partly to humility and partly to our relationship to God and the “meaning of life,” which is discussed at length in principle number 3.
I use the next example because it is so foreign to modern peoples. When Jews presented animal offerings at the holy temple (which was destroyed many thousands of years ago), they did not present these offerings because God enjoyed the smell of burning animals or because the slaughtering of animals amused God. Instead, it was the humans that needed this offering. According to Orthodox belief, at the time of the Messiah, there will be a return to animal offerings. The Orthodox pray for this to happen. The rabbis explain that the term “sacrifice” was mistranslated form the Hebrew. It is not a sacrifice because the animal offerings were not for the benefit of God but for our benefit (why this was they don’t have as good an answer for—it’s something “you have to experience to understand”). This was diametrically opposed to the Pagan sacrifice, where they sacrificed to appease their gods.
This brings us to the obvious question: If God doesn’t need anything from us, then why do we bother praying to him. Before we get there, we need to know more about God.
Principle #2. The only thing humans can know about God is that he is infinite.
I probably should have started with this one. While Jews may describe other aspects of God, we usually do that by referring to human characteristics, e.g., a merciful God, a good God. We use these words because we’re human and we can only understand things in human terms. We do not use these words because they’re an accurate representation of God. (This is somewhat true. The Jewish understanding of God is a merciful, loving, good God. He has those characteristics, just not in the way that we understand them.)
There are huge ramifications to God being infinite that the early Jews realized (the patriarchs and matriarchs of Judaism). First, by being infinite, God must be one. There cannot be two infinite powers in existence.
Additionally, there’s nothing that we could provide an infinite being that he doesn’t already have. That’s the nature of infinity. (Of course, there’s a huge paradox called the creation paradox, one of many paradoxes when you begin discussing an infinite being: how can we and creation exist outside of God if God is infinite. Wouldn’t everything necessarily be part of God and therefore infinite? And, no, I don’t have any answers to that.)
I’ve written about this before, but during college I came up with what I thought was a strikingly original and deep insight into the existence of God. First premise: God is all-powerful. Second premise: God is infinite. First argument: Since God is infinite he must exist outside of the human perception of time. If you think of time as a physical timeline, God would be floating above that timeline. Second argument: If God exists outside of time then he cannot “do” anything, since “doing” something involves changing from one state to another. And changing states requires existing within a timeline. Third argument: God has no power because he cannot change anything. Conclusion: God does not exist because of a contradiction between the first premise and the third argument. Therefore, an infinite, omnipotent God does not exist.
because he is an infinite being. Going further, God doesn’t do anything because “doing” involves existing within our perception of time.
he is infinite and therefore outside of our conception of time. But I’ll return to that in a moment.
Principle #3. The meaning of life is an opportunity to move closer to the infinite.
There you have it. I’ve solved all of your dilemmas, all of the big ticket questions out there. The big question, the one everyone ponders about: according to Jewish tradition, there’s a very simple answer. What we’re on this planet for (and it’s more than just the planet—it’s our entire existence) is to move closer to God. Think of this way: you’re on earth for, what, 70 or 80 years? We’re finite beings with very finite lives. What Judaism teaches is that during that lifespan, you have one real job: to learn about and grow closer to the infinite.
Every challenge in your life is an opportunity to do just that. It’s not that God is testing us. It’s not about testing because God already knows the results (how that meshes with free will is a bit more complicated). God provides the challenges to give you an opportunity to grow closer to him. And when you stand up and meet those challenges? You are rewarded with a chance to move closer to the infinite. The closer you are to the infinite, the more your finite life doesn’t matter as much. It’s not that you die and go to heaven (although the Jews do believe in a variant of that). When you die, it’s your body that dies and your soul goes on. Your soul is a piece of God, and depending on how well your soul and body did while living together, that is how close you’ve moved to God.
This is an important concept, and I don’t think I’m explaining it that well. The world after death isn’t a punishment or reward. It’s a reality. It’s about how close you moved your soul in its direction based on the challenges that God picked out for you during your lifetime. The next world is not the reward, the next world is the reality: your soul can only understand God based on its experiences in this world. The closer it grew to God on this world, the better its understanding of God in the next world after it sheds its body. (Again, there’s so much stuff here to talk about, but at the time of the Messiah, your soul will be reunited with your body, only your body will be different. No longer will it weigh against your soul’s desires to move close to God. It will assist you in that goal. But by then free will is gone and I guess you are left with whatever level your soul reached. There’s no more moving closer at this point. Of course, to move closer to God, something of which you are a part of, is contradictory in and of itself. But that’s for another time.
My rabbi tells a story about a Chassidic rabbi. It’s relevant to this discussion, so I’ll try to capture its essence. A religious Jew visits a famous Chassidic rabbi, and watches him throughout the course of the day. People visit the Chassidic rabbi and he wishes them well, listens to their problems, and occasionally provides tidbits of Jewish wisdom or advice. The religious Jew is not impressed. The advice he gives in common, the type of advice he himself could give. When there’s a break, he goes up to the rabbi and asks him what makes him so special. The Chassidic rabbi pulls on his long gray beard (although I added that part, all Chassidic rabbis have long gray beards), and tells the religious Jew this: “When you walk outside and you see a beautiful apple tree, you pray to Hashem [one of God’s names] and thank him for the beautiful tree. You then walk over to the tree and pick an delicious look apple. You say a prayer and eat the apple. When I see a beautiful tree, I pray to Hashem and thank him for the beautiful tree. I then walk over to the tree and say a prayer. And because I said a prayer, I have to eat the delicious apple.”
It’s a subtle story. What it explains is that the truly pious Jew understands that his job is to improve his relationship with God, and every opportunity he gets to pray to God or follow one of God’s mitzvahs, is an opportunity for him to grow closer to God. It’s not about eating the apple, but being given a reason to talk to God, the infinite and only power in the universe. The pious Jew understands that he is given only a short time on earth and wants to make the best of it. He wants to overcome the challenges God, through divine providence, puts in front of him.
This is what is some comforting: once you die, you do not disappear. You exist and always will exist as part of the infinite. At its core, this is what most religions try to explain and reassure its followers.
4. The Big Plan
A Jew’s relationship with God makes sense at almost a visceral level. There is a bigger part of it. Something I’m only beginning to see and appreciate. There is a strong ethical problem with God. There is a lot of unhappiness. The religious Jew believes that as you move closer to God, through prayer and following the mitzvahs, your life is blessed. There’s a direct correlation between the two. The more piousness, the more blessing. Of course, this does not seem true and any level. There are plenty of worthy and good people who are killed by very bad people. And many of those bad people never get their just rewards. So why aren’t these bad people judged on earth, like tough in the Torah? This is where we tie back to the third principle.
Speaking of plans, there is something that I have not yet put my mind around and therefore probably doesn’t belong on this list. It relates to the purpose of creation—which is a separate question from the meaning of our individual lives. This is a macro question, something that we need to expore.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.20 | Jewish
Blue skies and green trees
Another short public post today. My Jewish essay is limping along, growing by long paragraphs and longer asides. But I’m not complaining. I managed a few more doodles today, and spent a part of the day in the coffee house. The initial rush of the yummy caffeine wore off after about an hour of essay writing. I’m very thankful for the little things.
To show that I don’t only talk about bad weather, Seattle is under a spell of cool beautiful weather. Blue skies with playful clouds gave me a chance to take a long walk around the neighborhood. Now I’m tired. I think a traditional Shabbos afternoon nap is in order. (That’s about the only Saturday custom I follow.)
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.20 | Diary
I wonder if they think of me
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.19 | Cast of Horribles | City, Earth, Night, Stars
The perfect steak
I just finished a huge delicious steak. Every time I think on the perfect steak, the scene from “The Matrix” pops into my head: it’s the one where the evil guy meets the evil agents in the steakhouse. The evil guy is telling the evil agents how he knows that this big delicious steak he just cut a slab from is not real, is only a computer-generated image of the steak (I’m obviously paraphrasing here). He understands this, yet when he puts the large luscious piece into his mouth, he can’t help but enjoy its flavor and texture, and wish beyond anything to return to the days when he enjoyed simple pleasures like steaks and fine red wines.
I wasn’t sure what I was going to write when I ran upstairs to the computer. I arrived home a bit tired from work and the gym. When I looked in the fridge, I found the only remaining meat from my last Albertson trip was a huge steak. I had put off cooking it because it was rather large and seeing as the Julies is still out becoming famous, being alone with such a large steak was somewhat intimidating. I took a deep breath, found a clean pan (there weren’t many—I’ve gone through the grill pan, the nonstick pan, and the strangely shaped pan, which leaves me only the All-Clad frying pans), and set it on the electric range at a heat setting of six (out of ten).
The steak was thicker than usual, almost an inch and a half at its thickest part. I added a bit of olive oil to the pan and when it became fragrant, I added the steak. I moved the steak around so it wouldn’t stick, but after a few seconds, I found it hadn’t worked. I peeled the steak off the pan and slid it around until the sliding was slick. I set the microwave timer at four minutes and went to spend some quality time with the internet. (I spent too much time with the internet today. It feels like a scorned lover, always wanting more from me even after I know that neither of us is good for the other). At the beeping, I cut open a rounded roll with my oversized bread knife and set it in the toaster at the two-minute setting (for such a fancy toaster, it takes a surprisingly long time to toast anything consistently). I went to the pan and turned over the steak. It had sealed beautifully, with a brown crispy coat. After realizing that the steak was not going to cook through on just the range top, I turned on the oven at 350 degrees and returned to the cozy embrace of the internet after setting another four minutes on the clock.
The toaster beeped first, but I ignored it. When the microwave beeped I peeled myself away from the internet (reading a particularly funny website: tremble.com, via kottke.org), and returned to the pan. The second side stuck as bad as the first, but after freeing the meat, I squished it around until slick and settled it in the pan. I turned off the oven top and slid the pan into the heated oven. I set the timer for another four minutes, pulled the hot bread out of the toaster, juggled the bread slices between my hands like, well, the proverbial hot potato, and placed them on a dinner plate. Since the steak was so large, I decided tonight I would splurge and use the large plates instead of the medium-sized ones that we bought as “salad plates” (even though they were larger than my last dinner set’s dinner plates).
The oversized dinner plate waited quietly next to the oven, with the split roll upside down and staggered on the edge of the plate. I returned to the internet yet again. I had a New Yorker on the table—I have many New Yorker scattered throughout the Castle[1]—but I resisted the printed word for the electronic one. And, besides, I had a few more articles at tremble to read.
[1] I am still very far behind in my New Yorker reading, and I’ve decided not to renew until I catch up. This is a valid strategy, I think, because I’m constantly reading New Yorkers that are three months old. I read the New Yorker not so much to learn what’s going on in the world, but instead to validate my overly liberal ideals of the world and, of course, remember how wonderful New York is—if only I could move back. Missing a few months of New Yorkers, therefore, will not be too bad. The only part I fear is the letters section in the beginning. I hate when I read a New Yorker and realize I don’t know what article the letter author is referring to. I’ll have to suck it up somehow for the months I miss, regardless of how many free calendars the New Yorker offered me. And, yes, I did need a calendar. I removed last year’s New Yorker calendar from my wall at work, and the pushpin still waits in the wall for a new calendar.
The microwave beeped and I headed into the kitchen. The steak smelled surprisingly good. I pulled it out of the oven and grabbed a fork and knife to check its doneness. I had stuck all of the full-sized forks into the dishwasher and I was too lazy to open it and sort through the silverware. I grabbed a small salad fork to eat the large steak, which was a sacrifice, but in the grand scheme of things, not a terrible sacrifice. I remembered to pull on the oven mitt before pulling the pan from the oven. There have been too many times where I’ve forgotten this simple but highly effective glove, and pulled my hand away in horror at the sudden pain. It’s amazing how sometimes the pain hits too slowly, and in that moment before you realize what you’ve done, you wonder what is wrong, since you know something is wrong but you just don’t know what it is. Most of the time, I forget the mitt after the pan is sitting on the oven top and I’ve eaten my fill. It takes a surprising amount of time for the metal panhandle to cool sufficiently to move it to the sink without that sudden surprise.
After cutting into the steak, I realized it was not ready. I flipped the steak and turned the oven back on. In four minutes it was ready, and with mitt in hand, I served it up to my plate, carried it over to the table, and, with my New Yorker open and ready for reading, I proceeded to stab and slice away at what was a perfectly fatty and quite delicious steak.
You may be asking yourself why I bothered to describe my dinner experience in excruciating detail. I don’t have a good answer. I should have used this sudden burst of inspiration to write something meaningful. Perhaps I should have returned to my Jewish essay—although, since this is Shabbos, the day of Jewish rest (I shouldn’t even be typing this words), I decided not to risk the wrath of you-know-who in typing words about Judaism. Or perhaps I should have returned to the ping-pong story, which sits like a lonely cat on the edge of the stoop waiting for its tray of milk. But I didn’t. Steak just seemed a much more apt topic for today. Now, I’m on to drawing new monsters. They’ve been yanking at the corners of my sweater all day.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.19 | Diary, Food, Steak
Quiet placeholders
I don’t have much to write here today. I whipped through a first draft of one of my four Jewish principles. It’s still not ready for posting, but the additions are long enough to meet Goal. I have two more principles to finish and a lot of polishing and reorganizing afterwards. But I needed a placeholder between doodles.
I have a large supply waiting for my daily posts. I'm still enjoying drawing my little monsters. We’ll see how long it takes until I run out of things to draw or say.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.18 | Diary
The Red Phone - draft 1
“Do you mind if I go on? There’s just so much I want to tell you. Not many people want to listen once I get into it. I know it’s me and all my talking, and I completely understand if you want to go. I know how I must sound. It’s fantastical. Unbelievably so. You’ll be entertained either way: a crazy person’s detailed delusions, or an fantastical and sad story.
“That is kind of you.
“Before I called you? I was studying the phone. When I’m not talking on it, I spend a lot of my time studying the phone. I stare at it for hours at a time, some days. The phone is red and heavy. It is much larger than the phones I remember. Of course, it’s been so long time since I’ve seen other phones, it’s hard to know for sure. My memory is no longer my friend. It tricks me sometimes. Makes me think I remember something that I don’t, or creates a memory that I know couldn’t be real. What do phones look like today?
“Oh, that is interesting. That small, really? I’m not doubting you. It’s just this phone is not small. I know things have changed. My little window into the world gives me at least that much information.
It’s a bit of a cliché that I have a big red phone but I enjoy the color. The walls and floor in the room are white, as is the table. The table has a few blue and red speckles as well. The chair at the table is a worn white leather chair. And the toilet and sink are both porcelain white. If it wasn’t for the red phone, I think I would lose the ability to discern colors.
The phone has a rotary, with the ten numbers working their way around the dial counterclockwise. I sometimes sit at the phone and turn the rotary. It doesn’t do anything, mind you. When I lift the headset, it automatically connects somewhere. I don’t know who does connection or who decides on what number. If they listen in on my conversation, they never say anything. When someone hangs up on the other end, another call is placed, and another, until I hang up the phone on the receiver.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.17 | Story Drafts, The Red Phone
Cellphone Crack
Today was a work at home day. I got a surprising amount of work done, thanks to an early infusion of yummy caffeine. I can’t say enough how much of a wonder drug it is. (And I do go on about it!)
After work, I managed to write the first 400 words of the ping-pong story Chuck served. It’s a slow start to what may be a shorter-than-usual story. I won’t make any judgments yet. I’m glad to put words on screen so I have a little momentum. From what he tells me, he’s not doing much better. That shouldn’t make me feel good, but by now you’ve probably realized how evil I am, and how something like that would keep me toasty on the insides. Speaking of warmth, the cold finally broke in Seattle. It’s now warm, dark, and rainy. Just like it’s supposed to be in wintertime in the Northwest.
I received my new smarter-than-me phone today. It was why I spent the day at home. Since Julie is in Taiwan, I couldn’t risk missing the UPS guy. He arrived at around 6pm, so there was a small chance I could have gone into work and made it home in time for the delivery. My meetings today were all teleconferences, so the only thing I missed was the gym. My gym goings is still rather sporadic as I average about one to one and a half days a week. The gym has been triggering day-after headaches for a few months. I’m still trying to figure out why. My working theory is that I’m not doing enough cardio, and I pay for pushing myself with the weights with a day-after migraine. I could experiment by doing more cardio, but I’m a lazy, lazy man. I’ll just suffer in silence and continue to look for excuses not to go to the gym.
The phone is smaller and better than I thought it would be. I’m such a gadget freak. I get all shivery and my mind begins to focus solely on the delivery until the toy is in my grubby little hands. Today wasn’t as bad as when I decide to buy a new video game and drive around frantically trying to purchase it and make it home to play it. But I did look out my window for the brown truck at least a hundred times. I’m like a dog just out of reach of a bone, if you excuse my unimaginative analogy. But it’s here. Now I have to try not to drop it for at least a week. I’m on a phone-a-year plan. That’s a David plan, not an annoying mobile carrier plan (I had to order from the UK to get around their two-year contracts).
I did more doodling today. Except for slight pains in my wrists, I’m enjoying the drawings. I stored a few away for days where I don’t feeling like hitting the tablet. I’ll dole them out slowly. Like crack . . . for the children. Not that anyone (except the Julies) cares. It just makes me feel better to talk about it.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.17 | Diary
On gray-matter aches
I’ve had a few friends confide in me that they suffer headaches. I’m glad to hear this. It’s not that I wish anyone pain (except the Road Runner—never have I hated a cartoon character so much, the moronic look, the earsplitting beep-beep, the placidity in the face of extreme odds, the arrogance of a bird that doesn’t even fly[1]), it’s that I’m glad to find others who suffer from headaches. My gladness is a bit on the selfish side: in the silly putty I call my mind, the more people who have headaches, the less likely it is that I have a brain tumor. My reasoning being that brain tumors are relatively rare, and if there are plenty of headaches to go around, then it is unlikely that my headache is a strong indication of a brain tumor. This is good because brain tumors are very bad. They eat away at what makes you the person you thought you were.
[1] According to Wikipedia, the roadrunner, while capable of flight, spends most of its time running along the ground at speeds up to 15 mph.
Brain tumors also provide a strong counterargument to the question of a soul: if your personality (and by extensions the choices you make, which is one of the ways Judaism defines the functions of the soul) are so drastically affected by a breakdown of brain material, perhaps the two and half pounds of brain is who you are after all. The rabbis respond by saying that a person with a disease is not liable for their actions, since their decisions are not their own. God therefore does not judge diseased people. This only gets the rabbis around the ethical problems with judging people who are incapable of controlling their choices. It does not explain why so much of your personality and choices are tied to the proper functioning of your brain. If the soul had that great an influence over a person, then even with the breakdown of the brain, a sick person’s choices would still be soul inspired (which sounds suspiciously like a groovy 70s song). It’s at this point that the rabbis usually stare me down and explain slowly and patiently and using very small words that the soul in an imperfect vessel cannot fulfill its mission on earth (which is to grow closer to God—more on that in my elusive Jewish essay). And that is why it is important to explain that God does not judge sick people, similar to how God does not judge children, as they have not fully developed their ethical senses (which, again, begs the question of why this sense needs to be developed if its innate in the soul—but I digress and pound away).
This week I took four tablets of ibuprofen. Today was the second set of tablets. I say this as a cathartic confession. I have a rule about ibuprofen: four tablets a month. I used to pop ibuprofen daily. Then I learned about rebound headaches. Since I’m a recovering rebound headache-er, I have to be very careful when I take too many pills in a short time. I did sleep in this morning as I woke up in the middle of a heavy snowfall and learned that the van had been cancelled. I drove in to work after two additional hours of sleep (I always wake up tired, and it's not until I leave the Castle that I lose the desperate need to crawl back under the covers, especially when the Julies is sleeping away). Too much sleep is a trigger for my headaches. At the peek of my headache, at around 4pm, I decided that there was no need to chop my own head off—I should grab some medicine from the handy-dandy corporate medicine cabinet and deal with the consequences. (According to the Chinese herbalist Julie visits, he can tell a person who takes too many ibuprofens by blackness on their fingertips.)
I’m not sure you can tell, but I’m feeling great—almost P.H.D. great. After finishing this short essay, I’m going to see if I have another doodle in me. Julie likes my little guy, and I’m going to see what my Wacom tablet has in store for me today.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.16 | Diary, Jewish
Exhibit A: Brain deterioration
I had another pathetic moment today. A snowstorm blanketed Seattle last Wednesday. (As if I would let any of you forget—it seems all I can talk about lately is the weather.) I walked home in the snow from the van’s drop off and arrived at the Castle at 9:30pm, wet and cold, my pockets full of freshly fallen snow. I rang the bell to let the Julies know that my momentous journey was at an end. I unlocked the door and let myself in. My hands were full of gloves and hats and a Zune (don’t let the hype fool you, the earbuds that come with it will not keep your ears warm). With all the juggling, I forgot to remove my keys from the lock in the front door. I found them the next morning as I filled my pockets to go out. They were hanging on the outside keyhole, the metal sparkling in the morning sun from the ice crystals that had formed overnight along the keys.
You would think that I would learn my lesson from that experience: when juggling, make sure to grab the keys from the door. You would be wrong. I woke up tired this morning after a fitful night’s sleep. I decided to forgo a morning shave, and I was ready to leave a few minutes earlier than usual. I looked out back and saw that ice covered my car. As it was early and I hate scraping ice, I decided to brave the snow-covered sidewalks and walk to the van. I went out the front door and juggled my gloves and my Zune (I didn’t wear a hat today because—a little known fact among non-cool people, which I will share with you because I like you and everything you stand for, and I feel bad that the cool kids always make fun of you. Just don’t try to talk to me in the hallways because I’ll completely ignore you and make your coolness factor worse—cool people don’t wear winter hats). I walked to the van and managed not to slip, although I did slide successfully across a sheet of black ice, and I performed a perfect pirouette without the spinning and the gracefulness and the perfect part.
I read the Silfkin book on the van ride to work, amazed at my increased tolerance to reading while driving (when I first attempted to read in the van, I would turn green after only a few pages). My morning was uneventful. At around 9am as I reached for my phone I patted both of my pants pocket. The left pocket felt wrong. I reached in and found my wallet but my keys were missing. (I have a very complicated pocket system: cellphone in right front pants pocket, wallet and keys in left front pants pocket, Moleskine in right back pants pocket, pen hooked onto right front pants pocket, Zune inside left jacket pocket, and optional book in right front coat pocket. Yes, I know, TMI.)
There were a few frantic moments as I thought about my keys. I mentally retraced my steps. There were two possibilities: the keys fell out as I slid across the seat leaving the van this morning (I sat on the far side of the backbench, and I dropped my gloves as I attempted to maneuver my way out of the van), or my keys were helplessly hanging from my front door. I called the van driver and he graciously agreed to check the van. Nothing there, he told me. After much planning, some begging, and some evil manipulation, I borrowed a friend’s car, drove back to the Castle, and found my keys on the front door, unmolested and quite safe. I could have taken a chance and left them there all day, but I’m from New York. And in New York you don’t do such things.
Moral of the story: I’m a terrible juggler who trusts no one. Oh, and my brain is growing stale from misuse.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.15 | Diary
If only she were real
And there she was: Julie in the form of a Horribles. You shouldn't be surprised to learn that I was Julie-free when I drew this.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.14 | Cast of Horribles | Julie
Criticize Away!
I realized today that when people criticize me, I don’t listen to them. I agree quickly and cut them off before they have a chance to criticizing. (Before I started dating Julie, I told her, “I have to warn you, I have a lot of issues.” The criticisms usually relate to those issues.) I realize I cut people off often, and not just for criticisms. I think that I’m very smart and I know what the other person is preparing to say. Since I know, I don’t need to listen because I can finish their sentence for them. It’s all ridiculous.
I also cut off criticisms as a defense mechanism. I have to learn to bite my tongue when someone begins to criticize and hear them out, especially when the criticism comes from a friend or respected colleague. If I’m serious about NEQID, then I need to understand where I’m weak. For all my introspection, self-analysis, and judging of other people, I’ve turned out to be an awful judge of myself—and, to be honest, an awful judge of other people—I always think I know what’s right for them, and I’m usually wrong.
I’m much better at receiving written criticisms. It’s easy to ignore the first reading of mail. But I’m such a narcissist that I have to return to any writing addressed to me, and the more times I reread something, the more difficult it becomes to ignore its contents. That’s not a hint, that’s just how I am.
I doodled for the first time in a while today. I’m not sure what to think of my creation. I always liked the cartoon-building style, and the little people staring at the rising circle thingy, reminded me of the scene in “City of Angels” where the angels wait on the beach for the sunrise. I don’t think I could sit through that movie again, but it was disturbing and very powerful. And it had a great soundtrack.
I spent a few hours working on my Jewish essay, and I tried to polish the short family essay (you can see below how disgustingly I failed). There’s plenty of snow and ice in my neighborhood. It’s nice to be one of the few neighborhoods in Seattle that still has the remnants of the storm.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.14 | Diary
Growing Generationally
You may have heard the stories. In the old country, families were large. Huge even. Some families were the size of villages, and distant cousins shared beds under leaky roofs. Entire generations resided in harmony under these conditions, the younger generation bringing joy to the older generation, and the older generation providing wisdom and care for the younger generation.
Then like a freight train ramming a hastily constructed brick wall, something happened. We entered the modern times. Modern times were supposedly better. Technology improved, and standards of living increased (at least in the places that could afford it), alongside longevity and decreases in infant mortality. In short, modern times introduced utopia. Only it didn’t.
Modern ideals and goals splintered families and split them apart. Technology replaced human contact and people drifted away, becoming less involved and less caring about the family that welcomed them into the world. I don’t say this to judge others. I am no better. I live across the country from my family. I’ve moved further west each year until I arrived as far north and west as I could go without courting bears. I say this only to question its conclusion: that physical closeness is the only way to achieve closeness in a family.
People like to think that the old country was a simpler place. Today feels very complicated compared to that place. They did not have the internet or telephones or televisions or large libraries or modern science and medicine or any of the conveniences that we could not imagine living without today. When I think of the past, I usually imagine what the future will think of us. Will they laugh at our naiveté, our simple way of life? If they did they would be as wrong as we are in thinking that the past was simple. People of all times are complex and they live complicated lives. Life’s meaning and complications are not about the technologies or jobs or even standards of living. Life’s complexity is about, always was about, and always will be about the human relationship. Relationships and communication are what define the human condition. And the most complicated and rewarding of all relationships are the family relationships.
They say blood is thicker than water. It’s true. What they leave out, however, is that blood is also hotter than water. Family provides the greatest opportunity to learn about connections to other people. The danger with those connections is that there’s a risk involved. Once you’re in that circuit, your connection can easily burn you. To have a relationship you have to let people close to you. And once they’re close, they know about you, they understand your weaknesses.
It’s not that most of us are able to escape our families. You choose your friends but you don’t choose your family (except for your spouse—and you see how badly most of us do with that). Living close together with anyone is a recipe for disaster. Thanks to the information age, living close together has a different meaning, at first more complex and in some ways shallower.
This was more disorganized than usual. I thought I had something to say, but as I pieced this together tonight to place it in some condition for posting, I realized I didn’t. I wanted to talk about how families were difficult, but how you only have one family and you have to be careful not to fuck it up. I wanted to say how in the modern age there was closeness even when there was geographical distance. I wanted to talk about how much I loved my family, no matter how screwed up they are, or how screwed up I am, or how screwed up I made them. I wanted to say a whole bunch of things. But in the end I didn’t, except here. The simple statements are sometimes easier than my long convoluted ones. Conveying an emotion, in case you were wondering, was what I had planned. Searing and poorly organized logic is what I was left with.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.14 | Diary
Waiting
This is it. This was my first Cast of Horribles. After drawing these strange squigglies in front of a city, I realized I may be on to something. It took a few more drawings to flesh them out, but they became the loveable (at least in my head) creatures that now adorn this website.
I don't remember what I was thinking when I drew this. this was posted on sewcrates under my original Doodles category. It was the first doodle that stuck with me and made me want to draw more of them.
Here's what I had to say about my first attempt:
"I doodled for the first time in a while today. I’m not sure what to think of my creation. I always liked the cartoon-building style, and the little people staring at the rising circle thingy, reminded me of the scene in “City of Angels” where the angels wait on the beach for the sunrise. I don’t think I could sit through that movie again, but it was disturbing and very powerful. And it had a great soundtrack."
It wasn't until I drew Julie in the next doodle that I was truly hooked.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.14 | Cast of Horribles | City, First Post, Night
Growing Generationally
First Draft
You may have heard the stories. In the old country, families were large. Huge even. Some families were the size of villages, and distant cousins shared beds under leaky roofs. Entire generations resided in harmony under these conditions, the younger generation bringing joy to the older generation, and the older generation providing wisdom and care for the younger generation.
Then like a freight train ramming a hastily constructed brick wall, something happened. We entered the modern times. Modern times were supposedly better. Technology improved, and standards of living increased (at least in the places that could afford it), alongside longevity and decreases in infant mortality. In short, modern times introduced utopia. Only it didn’t.
Modern ideals and goals splintered families and split them apart. Technology replaced human contact and people drifted away, becoming less involved and less caring about the family that welcomed them into the world. I don’t say this to judge others. I am no better. I live across the country from my family. I’ve moved further west each year until I arrived as far north and west as I could go without courting bears.
People like to think that the old country was a simpler place. Today feels very complicated compared to that place. They did not have the internet or telephones or televisions or large libraries or modern science and medicine or any of the conveniences we could not imagine living without today. When I think of the past, I usually imagine what the future will think of us. Will they laugh at our naiveté, our simple way of life? If they did they would be as wrong as we are in thinking that the past was simple. People of all times are complex and live complicated lives. Life’s meaning and complications are not about the technologies or jobs or even standards of living. Life’s complexity is about, always was about, and always will be about human relationships. Relationships are a constant that has followed human development. I dare say relationships are what make humans human. And the most complicated and rewarding of all relationships are the family relationships.
They say blood is thicker than water. It’s true. What they leave out, however, is that blood is also hotter than water. Family provides the greatest opportunity to learn about connections with other people. The danger with those connections is that there’s a risk involved. Once you’re in that circuit, your connection can easily burn you. To have a relationship you have to let people close to you. And once they’re close, they know about you, they understand your weaknesses.
It’s not that we’re able to escape
And living close together with anyone is a recipe for an argument. Living close together used to mean geographically close. Thanks to the information age, living close together has a different meaning, at first more complex and in some ways shallower.
There were strange findings in genealogy over the past ten years (see Slate, Nature (partial), and Atlantic (partial). The findings made the headlines and have been used both appropriately, and inappropriately in supported of some questionable racial findings. What has been interesting, however,
Seeing as we’re talking about what people are saying, there was a study done
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.13 | Diary
Snow Heroes
I spent today watching snow flurries fall from my window. Along with the rest of the west coast, Seattle is stuck in the midst of an arctic blast, which arrives every ten to fifteen years. We’ve been sitting on twenty-degree weather for the past few days, and with our record for precipitation in the winter, it’s no wonder snow keeps finding us.
When my nose wasn’t stuck to the glass of the windows, it was stuck to the glass of my computer. I watched most of the first season of Heroes, the NBC show about modern-day people who find they have extraordinary powers. It’s a very addicting series, and the first network show I watched exclusively over the internet. I’m afraid if the networks offered more television this way, I’d have to give up internet. I’ve lived a much better life since I gave up television more than three years ago. For all the good the internet provides, I know I spend too much time visiting and revisiting sites. I’m as much an internet junky as I ever was a television junky.
I wrote a short essay on family, but I don’t have the ability to finish it today. It’s another in a long line of unfinished and unposted works.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.13 | Diary
Bad news for my dedicated reader(s)
I spent today working on that illustrious Jewish essay I promised a while ago. I did add large chunks to it, but I don’t want to raise your hopes too much. I’ll post it when it’s smooth and ready for consumption. Right now it’s bumpy and a bit wider than it is long, and very hard to chew. (I won’t pain you with more of that analogy.)
Julie is off to the airport in a few hours for another two-week visit to Taiwan. She’s continuing her delayed dreams with what may be a big step into China.
I’m always sad when she leaves. I turn angry and depressed and attempt my passive-aggressive telepathy on her (something I learned from my mom). I know this is something that Julie really wants, and I do want to support her. It’s just hard for me to be away from her for even a couple of weeks. In the end, I do kiss her goodbye and I’m glad for her. It’s a tearful scene in the airport, but we remind each other that it’s only a couple of weeks. There will be plenty more weeks when she returns.
And, besides, it’s good for relationships to be apart occasionally. Part of the reason there’s such a high divorce rate is because people spend too much time with their spouses. Get out of the house and do something by yourself! (And that doesn’t mean hit the bars every night, Homer.)
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.12 | Diary
Snowing in Seattle
Photos taken during the snowstorm of 2007.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.12 | Photos | Snow, Weather
Lamenting Pierogies
Julie is becoming a businessperson. I’m not sure she’s happy about it. Julie is the nicest person I know, it’s one of the things I love about her.(1) Like many nice people, Julie enjoys when people like her. And as a businessperson, she’s finding that sometimes she needs to be unkind to people. Being unkind, of course, results in people not liking her so much.
Unkindness is one of the unwritten rules of business. If you’re too nice, people walk all over you. If you want to be successful, you need a streak of cruelty. Many people don’t want to believe this. They think that by being nice and accommodating, people will like them better and want to do business with them. They point to successes in customer relations as an example. But they are mistaken. Even the best customer relations professionals only take it so far. There are limits to what “the customer is always right” means. (The greater the potential payment, the greater are these limits.) If there were no limits, the business would be out of business. It’s about being polite but strict with rules. This strictness is what people usually mistake with unkindness.
The most successful people are not only the smartest and luckiest, they also have a streak of meanness. They know when to say no or when to fire people, or when to be an asshole to get their way. I’ve met many successful people in my career, and I know this to be true. It’s not that these people are “mean people.” Most of them are very nice. It’s just that when the time is right, they can be mean and aggressive. Meryl Streep’s character in A Devil Wears Prada is a perfect example—albeit an example of the far extreme of this type of ruthlessness (If only I could be that mean and successful).
Julie is managing properties for her parents in Seattle. She’s beginning to learn these lessons. I stayed home today because of the snow, and after a particularly difficult phone call, Julie rested her head on my chest and said, “I had to be mean. I don’t think they like me anymore.” I didn’t say anything. Julie knows that if she’s not mean, the tenants will walk all over her, which will make things much worse. I held Julie and didn’t say anything.
My mother (who I still haven’t called since I’m a mean, mean David—and because I felt like absolute crap all day today) is not a mean person when it comes to business. She’s very nice and accommodating. She hasn’t done badly being like that, but at times she makes decisions that make me want to pull my hair out. But she is who she is and she’s happy with it. That’s the good part about being a businessperson. You get to choose your meanness appetite. There are costs involved, of course. Well-placed meanness always has benefits. But if you believe in karma or the next life or a moral life, sometimes you’re willing to pay those costs.
(1) As opposed to David, who—to make it seem nicer by speaking about him in the third person—is mean and grouchy and whiny. Julie finally realized I was whiny today. We were sitting at the dinner table and I was lamenting that we had made four pierogies instead of two because she had said she wanted two. (She didn’t want her two because they were undercooked.) As I lamented, she turned to me and said, “You’re whining. You’re whining like a monster! You’re just a child. I knew it!” I then gave her the silent treatment to show her that I wasn’t a child. Luckily we’ve already spent too much money on the wedding to call it off. That was all part of my Machiavelli strategy. That David is always two steps ahead of the game. Two very mean and aggressive steps.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.11 | Businessperson, Diary, Mean people, Real estate
Snow Tires
It’s amazing what four inches of snow falling during an evening rush hour will do for my perspective. Even though I didn’t return home until after 9pm, I had a good night. The snow was unexpected. The notoriously unreliable Seattle weather people were expecting cold weather with chance of flurries. Prediction of precipitation is very tricky in Seattle. It has something to do with the large mountains and volcanoes that surround the area, as well as the rotations of the planets and their respective moons, and the astrological signs of the weather people’s children. It’s very complicated. I would draw charts but I’m not good with multi-dimension illustrations. The chart I’m thinking of would have at least eleven dimensions with three sub-dimensions for every fifth full dimension. (The string-theory people will know what I’m talking about. The rest of you will just have to accept its complications.) The weather people were right about one part: it was cold.
I had a feeling that snow was in the air. Besides my education in conformity in Syracuse, NY, I also spent much of my time working on a minor in snow studies. I learned the signs, and as I walked outside from a meeting at 4pm, there was an ominous and heavy silence, a sure sign of either impending snow or a large predator in the woods, like a sphinx on the prowl for an early evening supper. The outside was eerily quiet. By the time I went to my next meeting, things were bad and on their way to worse.
The van left work at our normal time of 5:30pm. We drove about one hundred feet past the parking lot when we realized that this was going to be extraordinarily bad. We had a short discussion and unanimously decided to return the van into the parking lot and walk to dinner. A few hours would make a great difference in the volume of cars. I jumped out of the van and directed traffic to facilitate the van’s backing up. (Who says I don’t add value to the van rides?).
The walk to the restaurant was invigorating. It was cold but the snow was perfect: it was wet and thick and stuck heavily to the ground and the trees, forming excellent snowballs and oversized but stable snowmen.
After a vegetarian dinner, we trekked back to the van. This is where it gets weird. After more discussions, we decided to put chains around the rear wheels. This took twenty minutes. Once chained, we started out on the roads, which had emptied in the two hours since we had first ventured out.
Once on the highway, the snow lessoned significantly. We thumped along on the chained tires, the driver pushing the van on the open highway. We were making wonderful time until we grew close to our exit. There was a large crash followed by a sick thumping sound. We slowly made our way to the shoulder where the real men went out to review the damage. (I stayed in the van, trapped in the far back seat—my opinion not asked for or required.) It turned out that the right tire’s chain had caught on the wheel well of the van. This caused the metal rim in the wheel well to bend down over the wheel until the metal rim rubbed on the tire and the chain. Two state police cruisers stopped as we tried to fix the problem. We removed the chains and they encouraged us to go on our way. We left the shoulder slowly and when the thumping grew louder, we tried to pull the van over again. The police would have none of it. There were much worse problems on the road this night, and because of the angle of the metal (it was facing the same direction as the tire spun), they didn’t think it would puncture the tire. They switched on their loudspeaker and made it clear that we could not return to the shoulder. “Stay on target, stay on target!”
The van thumped along and we leaned forward and to the right to try to keep weight off the tire. When we drove downhill or decelerated, there was no noise. Other times it was the loud thumping. The snow returned in force when we finally drove into our neighborhood. One moment we were driving through wet but clean asphalt, and the next snow buried the roads. By the time I walked back to the Castle from the drop off point, the snow was four inches deep and mostly pristine.
For such a long commute home, I was serene and enjoyed myself. It’s sometimes good to put things in perspective; to realize that everything is but a test of character and self, and without “everything,” there would be nothing, and I would be sitting around consternating and complaining all the time. (I’m not going there, don’t worry.)
In other fronts, my mother is angry with me. She has been telepathically communicating her anger. From what I was able to gather from my short telephone conversation with her tonight, she’s angry that I don’t telephone her enough. She was waiting until I called to tell me that, I guess to prove her point. (For the record, I called yesterday to see how everyone was doing, but didn’t get a hold of her.) The truth is I love my mother very much, but I’m not a good caller. The only person I consistently call is Julie. Everyone else is on a monthly schedule. It’s partly that I’m lazy and partly that I don’t have much to say (as evidenced by the thoughts I record on these pages). Her passive-aggressive strategies did impress me. The problem with her strategy, however, was that it may take me a long time to remember to call, leaving her telepathic message unanswered. How am I supposed to feel guilty if I don’t even know I’m supposed to be feeling guilty?
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.10 | Diary, Snow, Vanpool, Weather
Muddy ruts lined with cereal leavings
So I find myself in a rut. I didn’t realize I was in a rut. That’s how ruts sometimes are: with all that mud flying around you, you don’t realize you’re spinning your tires and digging yourself deeper into the pit.
I woke this morning with these words replaying in my brain: “I’m in a rut where I feel I keep doing the same things over and over and getting nowhere. The world tastes stale.” My morning ideas were more eloquent and I lost something in their translation. I didn’t know what it meant. Even after writing these two paragraphs I still didn’t understand. It wasn’t until I chatted with Julie and a friend that I realized what was going on.
My life has never been better. Julie is wonderful and perfect for me and keeps me saner and smarter than ever before. My job is challenging and fun, especially when I’m busy doing important things that affect other important things (and, yes, while I could be more vague, it would be very difficult). The Castle and Seattle, while not a brownstone in NYC, are very acceptable alternatives. I’m experimenting with large spiritual answers, which reminds me of my school days, except this time I actually bring along a few brain cells. And I write every day, and while perhaps not close to my real goal, I do meet minor Goals along the way.
So why am I talking about ruts? It may be my cereal choice. I eat cereal for breakfast most mornings. I grab a bowl of Honey-Nut Cheerios before catching the vanpool. It’s a good cereal. Decently healthy with a slight sweetness that makes the oat taste bearable. (For a strange reason I rather not explore, the smell of this cereal reminds me of the smells of babies.) I eat through a small box each week, always keeping a backup on the top of the fridge.
But it’s not the cereal and it’s not Julie or my job or my house or anything else. It’s me. It’s me and my stupid writing and complaints about writing—the consternations. It hit me today. I don’t know why it waited so long. I’ve been deluding myself. I keep thinking putting words down a writer it makes. It doesn’t, the words, the writer, none of it. I really thought this writing, however painful, was interesting and useful. Here I’m doing it again. I’m consternating and complaining and all sorts of bullshit. I’m depressed about it. I should have finished this earlier before my depression hit, but the depression is important. It let’s me see what I am: a hack with no future in this and no way I will ever put meaningful words together.
My experiences and stories and everything amounts to nothing. I have no feeling in my writing or my stories—what fucking stories? None of these words are worthwhile. I’m masturbating on the page and enjoying my squirting. It’s disgusting, all of it. I make the stupid fucking Goal for no other reason other than utter self-disappointment. Hell, I can barely spell disappointment and yet it stares me right in my face.
That’s it. This is it. If I have nothing to say but consternations I won’t say anything. For months, years, a lifetime, whatever. This is the last time I post this shit. This is the last time I roll this crap across my fingertips. I’m sick to death of it. I’m sick to death of me and my failings.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.09 | Self-loathing, Writing
New Baby Davids
In preparation for our new wedding website, Julie has been busy photoshopping childhood pictures. Here’s what Julie came up with for me:
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.08 | Diary
I used to write for me, now I write for others. I changed when I realized other people existed.
Did you notice the change? My entries are shorter. And edited. And while not exactly interesting, they should no longer feel like you’re sticking a sharp toothpick soaked in lemon juice into your eye. I cut down on Goal, shrinking it to a bite-sized five-hundred words. That’s a minimum, which (I hope) will allow me to deliver more quality.
My epiphany occurred in the shower this morning. I realized that screwing the reader was awfully selfish, especially when I plan to write for an audience someday (best-selling great-American novelist, anyone?). My entries will be more polished and hopefully readable. I have to start practicing sometime.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.08 | Writing
Friendship Test
I have this friend, let’s call him Sam. Sam has this habit of finding opportunities to test his friendships. What follows was my (failed) test. I was probably as much at fault as him. But since I’m writing this I’ll look the hero I always dream I am. It’s interesting how difficult it is to analyze yourself and so easy to analyze other people. I guess that’s how therapists can be so insane and yet have a positive effect on their patients. (That most mental health experts are insane is beyond question.)
Sam asked me on Monday if I would drive him on Friday to get his car from the shop. I spoke about my wonderful vanpool before, and because of it I rarely drive into work. But I told him I’d be happy to drive into work because, you know, that’s what friends do. To provide a bit of background, Sam is a nice, decent guy. (I try to hang out only with nice, decent guys.) He’s great when he’s alone, but tends to go over-the-top when in a large crowd.
Since Sam asked on a Monday, I said, “Let me know whether you still need a ride later.” Part of me didn’t want to do Sam the favor. By driving in on Friday I risked strong traffic which the vanpool helps avoid. Come Thursday I completely forget about our conversation and his request. Some of it may have been subconscious, but most of it was because I tend to do that: forget about things that aren’t in front of me. I caught the vanpool into work on Friday and left my car happily at the Castle.
I stopped by Sam’s office in the morning to let him know I wouldn’t make lunch because of meetings. He gave me this strange look, and said, “I bet you didn’t drive in today.” When I agreed he went ballistic. An argument ensued with various name-callings and gender questioning.
His argument: I asked you to do a favor, and a real friend would have done the favor. My response: you didn’t remind me, and I wasn’t sure you even wanted me to drive. My arguments weren’t well formed because it was early Monday morning and I had yet to hit the bucks of star machine for my yummy caffeine. Since I became a (fully admitted and celebrated) caffeine addict, pre-coffee times are the worst. I’m mentally slower and slightly detached. I have done the risk-benefit analysis often, and yummy caffeine’s wonderful powers far outweigh its few side effects.
We made up this morning when I stuck my head in his office and asked if he still hated me. In the end it would have been better if I had driven. The traffic Friday night was dreadful, and had I driven, I would have left earlier and may have avoided it.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.08 | Diary
Headlines that break across my noggin
Drinking too much coffee made my concentration worse, not better. There is a limit to yummy caffeine intake, and I located it this afternoon. I keep forgetting that I have to watch the dosage. Too much yummy caffeine, no matter how tired I feel, will only replace the tiredness with anxiety. This is something to think about when you embark on the wonderful path of caffeination.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.08 | Diary
Home Improve to Consternations
In the middle of last week, Julie and I finally made our way to Loews—the home improvement store not the movie theater—to purchase supplies for a number of home-improvement projects we’ve been talking about. The plastic bag full of goodies sat on top of the dryer all week. It wasn’t until early this morning that I finally opened the bag to start in on my first project.
Our downstairs toilet has been acting up, so much so that I had to turn off the water. The toilet has sat (mostly) unused for the past few weeks. It was running and when I wiggled the thingamajob like I usually do to fix it, the running continued. I tried to tighten all the screws, and then loosened the screws, then changed the angle and direction of the ball thingy, and I eventually came to the conclusion that the tall thingy that the ball and lever work off of and that connects to the water under the toilet was in need of replacing. As you can tell by my technical descriptions, I’m an expert when it comes to plumbing and other home improvement projects. I bought a replacement tall thingy at Loews as part of our project planning.
I spent twenty minutes attempting to take off the old plastic tall thingy and failed when I realized I didn’t have a large enough wrench to loosen the plastic nut under the toilet. That’s how those home-improvement stores always get you: they know no matter how detailed your list of supplies is, you’ll always have to come back for more junk to get your job done. I think they could make a fortune if they provided home delivery. I would have home delivered that wrench to continue failing in my project. I didn’t make it back to Loews, however. After I confronted the unconfrontable plastic nut, I threw my tools down and escaped to the world of computers, a world that is just as frustrating, but doesn’t involve automobiles when I need to fix something.
I can’t go on with this diary entry. I thought I could. I thought I would finish it like every other day where my head is pounding away and even the brightness of the screen makes my eyes water. I thought lots of things but I can’t wrap my brain around these words. I tried not to make it another day like this. I want to write, I really do. But I find myself not having the energy or effort or whatever it is in my brain that allows me to focus and concentrate and pat words into large absorbent balls, which I can roll down the hall and post on my seemingly self-torturous website. Whatever it is is now gone.
I spent most of the morning, after failing at the toilet, working on our wedding website. Julie and I finally hammered out the design and I’m working on the beast. It won’t be the quickest or the lowest bandwidth site, but it will be pretty. Why torture myself with a day of fancy photos if I don’t intend to use them? That was rhetorical, of course we intend to use them. And by them, I mean the wedding photos we took in Taiwan, of course. I’d link to it but that would involve additional work, of which it is next to impossible at this moment.
This is much easier when I don’t have to think about what I’m going to write. Of course this is useless, but what else is new? It’s art, my art, and fuck if I care if it becomes anything. It won’t. But so what? I’m putting words down and this is what I told myself I would do. These are words for me not for you, as I’ve said plenty of times before.
What happened to my spreadsheet? In my pain I forgot about recording the beginning time or my feelings (1s across the board). Another in a long line of failures.
Julie is sitting at her computer working away. We ate a throw everything in the kitchen into a pan and call it dinner dinner. It turned out better than I thought. We even cooked the frozen kosher shrimps I bought a few weeks ago. (Shrimp, like all shell fish, is not kosher. This was faux shrimp.) After defrosting them in water, they looked like real shrimps, minus the vein and the shells and tail. They pan fried nicely with scallions and a bit of oil. As we cut into the first shrimp we realized that it looked much more like shrimp than it tasted. It tasted like fish balls, which was probably because that is what it was: white fish squished together into shrimp shapes, with some sort of orange food coloring along its edges.
My head is threatening to remove itself from my neck. The pain is not improving, and the one Advil I managed to swallow earlier hasn’t helped much. I think it’s a sleep problem today. I went to sleep late last night and woke up in the middle of the morning. I can’t do the math now because my head won’t let me, but I think I slept either too little or too much, and, whichever one it was, I slept outside my schedule. As part of my anti-headache regime, I try to keep my sleep patterns as constant as possible. I failed last night. I woke up this morning with a slight headache, which staying on the computer working on the website most of the morning, and not eating until noon, certainly didn’t help. Life is about sacrifices I guess. I’m on my way to finishing my sacrifice for tonight. I need sleep and I need sleep badly. It’s one of those pathologically yawning headaches that I know will go away with a good night’s sleep. Or at least I hope it will. I’ll wear my sick sweatshirt to bed just in case. That always fights away the bad bugs that run around my body on these weakened nights.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.07 | Diary
Overheard by Late Comers to a Dinner Party
She said: “Sorry we’re late. We got lost on our way over here.”
He said: “Yeah, we got lost leaving from our driveway.”
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.06 | Voyeur
Dont consternate, dont consternate
“Stay on target, stay on target.” Write something! Don’t scroll down here and add words just to add words. But it’s so hard! I want to finish this. I want to end this today so I can get back to our wedding website. We made huge leaps today on its design, and I’m hoping to have it finished by the end of the weekend. But I need to get through this first. Otherwise there’s no way I’m going to write today until late tonight when I peel myself off the computer and away from my current project. Imagine I can apply that dedication and addiction to writing. I would be here every night all night pounding away and trying to say something, to finish just one more sentence. Maybe that’s a sign. Maybe this is becoming too much like work and not enough like fun pleasure. Who am I kidding? This has never been fun pleasure.
And here I go, consternating away when the first two paragraphs of my quasi-story lingers at the top of the page, unloved and unfinished, with little in the way of hope. Poor Rebecca and Charlie, I had high hopes for them. I thought they would really be somebody. But they won’t be. They’ll be glued onto my entry to make a few hundred more words as I pound away toward this stupid Goal. Speaking of stupid Goals, I haven’t made the Moleskine Goal in two days. That may be an occasional thing instead of a daily thing. There are days where I’m too busy (or lazy) to write anything during the non-evening parts of the day.
Ah who am I kidding with this? I did hit my essay for about twenty words. I do want to finish that and I do want to get started on the ping-pong story. So many things I want to do. Regrettably it’s 8pm and I have nothing in the way of creativity pouring from my fingers. The energy is slight and I’m doing all I can to push through Goal and post this garbage.
Julie is angry at my last entry. She thinks I made too much fun of her or something. I thought it was awfully funny. For a day where I thought I had no energy and would say nothing (I didn’t end up saying anything, but that’s beside the point), it turned out funnier than I thought (funny to me, of course—much different from funny to anyone else).
There goes the halfway part. Where does the time go? I think I have all day to do things, and then all day passes and I’m left with nothing done except the day. That’s not true. I do things, things that take longer than I expect, all things that are fun for me, and I leave the less fun projects (which, regrettably, sometimes includes writing these terrible entries) until later at night. I realize it’s a time thing. There I go: I need to experiment. I need to find the ultimate time to finish my writing each day. I’ll check my output/hour verse the time I start writing. I should probably check some other variables also. Perhaps yummy caffeine intake, or Julie availability. I’ll start a spreadsheet and start collecting numbers.
There, even if nothing else comes of today’s wasted entry, at least I have this idea for the spreadsheet. Here’s the data I’m collecting: Date, Starting Time, Ending Time, Total Words, Feeling (1-5, 5 being great, 1 being terrible), and shots of caffeine. I don’t have data for today since I thought of it too late. But there you have it. I can now document my failures. Failures aren’t real failures unless they’re placed on nice line graphs. I can’t wait to get a few weeks of data to start seeing the pattern. I’m assuming it’s going to be very ugly.
Almost done, and none too soon. This would be a two on the energy scale day, by the way. It’s not terrible getting the words out, but the words are terrible. Maybe I should split that into two. That makes much more sense: I’ve turned the Feeling category into two sub-categories, Ease (1-5) and quality (1-5). This would be a 3 on the Ease and a 2 on Quality. I also have the advantage of pulling word count and other details such as categories from sewcrates.com.
Okay, enough babbling. I need a few more paragraphs and then I can tie a ribbon around this and post it. I can’t even reread today’s entry for the small amount of editing I usual supply. It’s too sad. That’s okay. I need to get moving on my project, and I’ve told you how I get when I project waits for me. I can’t wait to dig in and finish it, especially when there’s coding or drawing or fun computer stuff involved. Julie is picking out the photographs for the wedding website. I’ll be needing those rather soon. Here are the last fifteen words. Aren’t you lucky to be part of this (non-edited-out) words?
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.06 | Writing
Dont hate me because Im talented with HTML
It’s raining outside, and raining hard. I point that out as a way of telling you that I won’t get back to the essay today. How many of you thought I would? Honestly? I thought as much. I have excuses. Many of them. Some of them relate to the weather, others to traffic. Seattlians have much experience driving in the rain. The experience, regrettably, does not translate into ability. With rainstorms such as this one, the drivers tend to slow down to 5 mph. They are very cautious. That caution, however, results in taking over an hour and a half to drive home from work today. In the vanpool. Using the carpool lane. Leaving at 4:30pm! That’s early. That’s way before rush hour should start. That is unacceptable! (As are these short sentences. Truly. Pathetic.)
I did manage a few hundred words on the essay, and I even thought of some more important truths. But that’ll wait until tomorrow when a few more of my brain cells have rested up and I’m not so grouchy. I just yelled at Julie who tried to detract me from writing. She’s looking through other people’s wedding websites because ours is so old and incomplete and not updated and will not be ready for the time the Save-the-Date cards go out. That’s version one, if you remember. I won’t link to version two because you probably won’t be impressed by my purple screen and photoshopped picture of Julie and me sitting on a rock. It’s bad. Very bad. I need ideas, a fresh IV of them. I need inspiration and dedication and…. I can’t even finish this paragraph. I need to move on. My brain is caving in on itself, like rocks falling from ceilings. Yes, I’m exceptionally poetic tonight. I’m able to take images, grab them by the neck, and choke the life out of them until I distill them into two words that should never be used together. Like this cold-blooded mammal! Man, that was terrible. I’m sorry.
I just gave Julie the finger. She’s pointing out all the other people’s wedding websites, saying things like: “look, David. Their wedding is after our and their wedding website is finished. And, look, it’s Flash. Why don’t we use [evil] Flash technologies on our website?” And other unprintable things that I can’t repeat and keep my G rating. (Did you know I received a G rating from the National Online Parental Association of…. I can’t do it. I was trying to spell “No Pants,” but I ended up with “No Pa” and gave up. This is a bad- and slow-brained day.)
To make matters worse, after I finally returned to the Castle, Julie had already started cooking dinner. Do you know what that means? Yes, sports fans, it means since Julie cooked I had to do the dishes. Have I ever mentioned how much I hate dishes? How lonesome and greasy and sudsy and downright evil the washing of dishes (and clothes) is? Well it is. Evil, that is. And I hate doing it. But after dinner I did it and now my fingers are pruney and my back hurts from bending over the too-low sink. Come to think on it, most of my kitchen is too low for my excessively perfect height. When I chop vegetables and meats, I find my back starting to hurt, as if warning me that I do not belong in the kitchen chopping food and doing dishes. The one thing I’ve learned from the health experts is you’re supposed to always listen to your body. No matter what. And see we’re not mattering what right now. I probably should not spend any more time in the kitchen except when I need to grab chocolate-related foods, or yummy breakfast cereals. It seems only fair to my back and my body and my sanity and my crinkled fingers.
Work was busy today. I went to sleep a bit later than I should have. I told Julie a couple of days ago to stop me from working on our website at exactly 10pm. Julie did so, and I had a great night’s sleep. Last night, when Julie came to me at 10pm to remind me that it was time to go to bed, I used my Jedi mind tricks on her and told her I was fine staying up for another hour working on my project. I wasn’t fine. I wasn’t even close to fine. I paid for it this morning, waking up too tired and having to drug myself with plenty of yummy caffeine to keep me going during my meeting-laden day. I blame Julie. She’s too easily manipulated. And I blame George W. Bush. Clearly he’s at fault too for the dish thing. Okay, that’s enough politics. I don’t want to scare you. I bet you’re surprised I knew the name of my nation’s president. I am too.
I’m trucking right along today. This should be more painful. I should be consternating and worrying about my Jewish essay which is languishing on my hard drive. But I’m not. I’m typing away listening to the rain slam the roof. Julie is bothering me again. She’s looking at other’s websites and trying to convince me that we need to design our website just like theirs. I’m resisting my fists of throttling anger. I’m anxious tonight, ready to do something but not sure what. I need rest and relaxation and a few moments to catch my brain up to the rest of me.
I can tell when my brain begins to fry like day old eggs on a carburetor (and, no, I don’t exactly know what a carburetor does, but I think it has something to do with a car engine, and therefore gets hot, and therefore may be able to cook an egg on its surface). Earlier I’m sitting at the Shabbos dinner table (and, yes, because of the traffic, and because I didn’t drive into work and leave way early, I arrived home after Shabbos officially started, once again showing I’m a terrible Jew), and talking to Julie about my day, and I’m trying to describe something (in my current state I can’t think of what that something was, but let’s say the it was the word “carrot,” and how it sounds so orangey, but it’s not—not orangey, that is. The word at least), and I can’t grasp the word. I’m staring into space, wandering through the closed aisles of my brains, and nothing comes to me. Not the word or a description of the word. Just little lights and fairies with umbrellas (except they didn’t have umbrellas and I don’t think they were fairies). And then they’re gone, all of them, and I’m left without the word and Julie is looking at me worried as if something is wrong and I shake my head and wave her off and change the subject and forget about the word (carrot) and get back to eating the big chicken she cooked dreading the thought of washing dishes in soapy water where my hands will get wrinkly but knowing once the dishes are done I’ll run upstairs and start typing these words and type away my innermost scary thoughts until Julie against taps me on the shoulder about a wedding website. What’s that dear? A pretty green website? Yes, I’d love to see it. Of course ours will be just as good. No, an ugly website does meet I don’t love you. No, not at all.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.05 | Diary
Foundational Jewish Teachings
1. God doesn’t need anything from us. This is a biggy, and was the first lesson my rabbi learned when he started studying in Israel. (He was raised in a Reform home, and “found” religion when he was in college. He dropped out of an architecture bachelor program and spent the next ten years in Israel studying traditional Judaism.)
God by definition cannot need anything from us because we cannot give anything to an infinite being (see number 2 for a discussion of what an infinite being is).
This is one of the big understandings that Judaism provided the world when it introduced monotheism.
Paganism was a response to nature. Humans lived in perpetual fear of nature. Pagans believed that they could appease nature (in the form of their gods) by sacrificing, praying, and praising these gods. The gods in return received pleasure from this worship and according to their whims may answer some of these prayers. Since there were many gods, pagans believed there was jealousy among the gods as they fought one another for power.
The Jewish God does not need those things because as an infinite being he (I’ll use the masculine pronoun because that’s what most people do—obviously he’s neither male nor female nor a thing—see number 2) does not have needs. Additionally, there’s nothing that we could provide an infinite being that he doesn’t already have. That’s the nature of infinity. (Of course, there’s a huge paradox called the creation paradox, one of many paradoxes when you begin discussing an infinite being: how can we and creation exist outside of God if God is infinite. Wouldn’t everything necessarily be part of God and therefore infinite? And, no, I don’t have any answers to that.)
Some examples: When Jews praise God, they do not praise him because God needs or even enjoys their praises. They praise him because it is the humans that need to praise God to understand whom they stand before. The last part relates partly to humility, and is more complicated and a very interesting but separate discussion related to prayer and principle number 3 below.
I use the next example because it is so foreign to modern peoples. When Jews presented animal offerings at the holy temple (which was destroyed many thousands of years ago), they did not present the offerings because God liked the smell of burning animals or because the slaughtering of animals amused God. Instead, it was the humans that needed this offering. This is an even more interesting discussion that I can only provide a taste for. According to Orthodox belief, at the time of the Messiah, there will be a return to animal offerings. The Orthodox firmly believe this and even pray for it to happen. The rabbis explain that the term “sacrifice” was mistranslated form the Hebrew. It is not a sacrifice because the animal offerings are not for the benefit of God. This is a departure from the Pagan belief, where the Pagans were providing the sacrifices to appease the Gods and nature.
2. The only thing humans can know about God is that he is infinite.
I probably should have started with this one. While Jews may describe other aspects of God, we usually do that by referring to human characteristics, e.g., merciful, good. This is because we have a limited view, not because God is human. There are huge ramifications to God being infinite. God’s infiniteness is the basis of God being one because to be infinite means there can only be one.
I’ve written about this before, but during college I came up with what I thought was a strikingly original and deep insight into the existence of God. First premise: since most people believed God was omnipotent (all powerful), he should be able to do anything. Second premise: since most people believed God to be infinite, God must exist outside of human’s perception of time. If you think of time as a physical timeline, God would be floating above that timeline. Contradiction: If God exists outside of time then he cannot “do” anything, since “doing” something involves changing from one state to another. And changing states requires existing within a timeline. Conclusion: An infinite, omnipotent God does not exist.
because he is an infinite being. Going further, God doesn’t do anything because “doing” involves existing within our perception of time.
he is infinite and therefore outside of our conception of time. But I’ll return to that in a moment.
3. The meaning of life is an opportunity to move close to the infinite.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.04 | Jewish
Big Jewish Principles that I didn't get around to finishing today
I need to take a step backward in analyzing Challenge. There are some Jewish foundational truths that my rabbi keeps trying to drill into my head. I’ve recorded many of these in my Moleskine, but most of them have not made it into my musings. I’m very easily influenced by what I read, and because I’m reading Slifkin’s book about the interaction of traditional Judaism and science, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about Judaism. (Similar to when I was reading Kafka’s Metamorphosis, I was doing a lot of thinking about bugs.) Since I want to spend time recording Jewish thoughts, I need to explain this learning before continuing.
And my usual disclaimers apply: I’m an idiot trying to decipher and record the words of much smarter people than me. I probably don’t understand any of these topics well enough to write about them, but I do need to make Goal, and this is how I decided to Goal today. Blah, blah, blah, inadequate, only two readers, smelly feet, blah, blah, blah.
It turns out that I was not able to finish this discussion today. I made Goal but the parts I wrote still need much more work before I post them. I will (hopefully) return to this tomorrow, polish it off, and post the completed entry. As you can see I redefined the Goal slightly: it’s about writing 1,000 words a day, not necessarily posting those words in public form (I did post it in secret form to keep myself honest). Let’s see if I return to them.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.04 | Jewish
3-Hour Jetlag
I have big plans for writing today. The problem is I’m exhausted. I didn’t sleep well last night. Jetlag caught up to me. Not that I can actually have jetlag from travelling from Buffalo, NY to Seattle. It’s only a three hour time difference, after all. But something caught up with me. I tried to go to sleep at around 11pm last night, and found myself staring at the ceiling. My eyes didn’t want to close and I couldn’t find the sheep. It was until well into the morning that I found the sheep. And when I woke to meet the van early this morning, I found the sheep did not want to let me go. So it goes. (To steal Vonnegut’s line from Slaughterhouse Five.)
This might have had something to do with the two cups of yummy caffeine yesterday. My caffeine intake over the holidays dropped significantly, and I might not have been ready for the boost of wakefulness. Or it could that while I didn’t have jetlag, I did miss my window to sleep. I should have hit the bed earlier, as by the time my head found the pillow, it was already passed the middle of the night New York time. Or it could be I overanalyze everything, this included. Either way I woke up exhausted.
I did manage to go to the gym today. It was extra crowded as the New Year’s resolution people descended. They’ll be gone in a few weeks having failed yet again to stay with their goals. Not that I’m judging them. I miss plenty of goals (with the small G).
Julie is singing as I write this and it’s difficult to concentrate on these words. She’s done now and I can get back to the writing.
As I said, I had big plans for writing today. Not fictional stuff, although I did take a big step in that direction when Chuck delivered his simultaneous serve for our next ping-pong story. We haven’t set the deadline, but I’m hoping to have something up by early February at the latest. (Chuck, I’ll e-mail you tomorrow with a suggested deadline.) I won’t be publicly posting the fragments so as not to influence one of my two readers in his version of the ping-pong story. Once I post the final draft at the deadline, I’ll remove the secret flag on all of the drafts. I’m sure you will all be desperate to go back and read the earlier versions of my masterpiece. Really. Let me say that again: Masterpiece. It has a sweet sound to it, sort of rolling of the tongue like a block of hard brie.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.03 | Diary
Silfkin's Challenge - Introduction
One of my van buddies gave me a book yesterday: The Challenge of Creation: Judaism’s Encounter with Science, Cosmology, and Evolution by Rabbi Natan Slifkin. My Moleskine is full of a page’s worth of notes on the introduction and first chapter, which I finished in the van this morning. (I didn’t get through all of my notes, ending at the introduction. Fatigue found me and beat me repeatedly over the head until I gave up and posted and went to bed.)
I spoke recently about how insular the Orthodox Jewish community is. On my visit to Eichler’s Judaica store in Brooklyn to buy a Menorah, I mentioned how I thumbed through the book section (a very large section), and noticed that all the books had a certain philosophical point of view, which seemed to feed exclusively to the Orthodox teachings. There were no dissenting voices in the section. I didn’t expect to find a book on the Kabala movement (I’m thinking of the one that snared Madonna, which is far outside mainstream Jewish thought), but I did expect to see books on Jewish mainstream beliefs, such as conservative and even reform Jewish thought. (There was one book that I found particularly interesting: a book discussing why some of the younger Orthodox people were leaving the movement, and how to ebb that flow.) I didn’t find any such books.
In the introduction to Challenge, Slifkin begins by addressing by describing his thesis: there doesn’t have to be a conflict between modern scientific thought and Orthodox Jewish beliefs. To orient you, there are many within the Orthodox community who believe as the Christian Fundamentalists. They read the story of Genesis (the first part of the Torah—or Old Testament as Christians call it) literarily. They believe that the creation of the world happened as it is described in the first chapter: by God over six days. And this creation happened, when you trace back the starting point of the first day of creation from the details given in the Torah (at least according to the rabbis), around five thousand years ago, give or take a few hundred. This seems to be at odds with what the scientists are teaching today with respect to evolution, the big bang, and their attempts to find a theory of everything.
Slifkin’s goal in Challenge is to reconcile the Orthodox Jewish teachings with the newer scientific views. He admits in the introduction that none of the arguments he presents are original thought (OT). It is all borrowed and summarized from other great Jewish, scientific, philosophical, and theological thinkers. It is an attempt to fit the Jewish teachings within the secular world. To reach people who either (like me) were not raised within the Orthodox community (and, seemingly, therefore grew up questioning these fundamental conflicts), or were raised in an Orthodox community, but delved deep enough into science to question how their scientific learning reconciled with the Orthodox Jewish teachings.
This isn’t Silfkin’s first attempt to reconcile these teachings. It is clear from his introduction that his first attempt did not go over very well. He received much criticism and even hate mail from within the Orthodox community. Similar to most traditional (I resisted the “conformist” tag here) organizations, there’s a desire to keep new thoughts that seemingly conflict with the traditional thoughts away in the hopes of protecting members of the flock (and, yes, I’m using a Catholic term here). When there are teachings that threaten a traditional outlook, people in authority tend to form up in ranks and shout down the teachings. Think of the flat earth, the sun revolving around the earth, the teachings of creationism verse evolution.
What I did not realize was that this conflict was happening within my very own religion. Even in my atheist days (and I’m still not too far away from those days), I did not think of my religion as anti-science. I didn’t imagine that there were well-educated Jews who questioned the theory of evolution. Only silly fundamentalist Catholics did that. His introduction to this book disillusioned me of my (elitist) thinking.
There’s an anecdotal in the book that perfectly captures this dichotomy: an Orthodox school teacher brings her class to a natural history museum. When she arrives in the halls of the dinosaur, she stands in front of her students with the dinosaur skeletons looming over her, and tells her students in no uncertain tones that there is no such thing (and there we never such a thing) as dinosaurs. That it was all lies. The ridiculousness of her position while standing in the halls of the dinosaur must have been very funny, if it wasn’t so pathetic.
For what it’s worth, I checked, and Silfkin’s book is not available for purchase at Eichler’s. Whether that means he’s treated as an apostate or just someone outside of the main Orthodox thought remains to be seen. It might be available at other Orthodox bookstores. I will not judge the Orthodox movement by the book list of one of its stores.
There is much more I want to say about his introduction and first chapter. But I’m not going to get there today. Hopefully I will return to this discussion. (Hopefully is the key term.)
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.03 | Jewish
Filter? I don't need no stinking filter!
As part of NEQID (there’s something I haven’t used in a while. I originally wrote “ever-improving David,” before I remembered my wonderful acronym for this quest: “Never Ending Quest to Improve David”), I’ve added another element to my daily Goal. Besides the 1,000 typed words, I will also handwrite one full Moleskine page worth of thoughts, notes, writing. (These very handwritten words are transcribed and reworked from that Goal.) It’s a small addition, but it’ll keep me thinking throughout the day about writing, and give me something to do when during my free moments when I don’t feel like or don’t have the time to open the computer and start pounding away.
I sort of met this Goal today. I probably should have written another two lines to make it official. But close is good enough. Once the cow dies, well, it’s dead, and there’s no amount of prodding that’ll wake it. I don’t know what this has to do with the official writing goals or weather, but there you have it. (Seattle: balmy and intermittent rain, if you’re curious.) For what it’s worth the Moleskine jotting did get my juices running today, which was its purpose. The two cups of yummy caffeine probably helped in that as well. It’s been too long since large amounts of yummy caffeine flowed through my system. Oh how I’ve missed its bitter yet invigorating taste!
We had a bit of a problem with the heating system in the Castle. Over the last few months or so the fan that forces the heat from the furnace around the Castle began to shut off. I rationalized this failure by blaming power outages in the Castle. I had anecdotal evidence as one evening I found a blinking clock concurrent with a fan failure, thanks, no doubt, to the strange weather Seattle has experienced. (This was not during the Big One that left me without power for 24 hours.)
When I reset the system at the thermostat the fan would turn back on after the five-minute waiting period. Over the last few days this failure became worse and more frequent. Last night, as we went to bed, I didn’t hear the fan churning away (the fan acts as white noise as it’s usually on when I sleep, blowing cold and hot air. I only seem to notice it when it’s off. It’s amazing how reliant I am on the white noise. When it’s off I find it hard to sleep). I was bundled under the covers and I told Julie that I thought there was a problem with the heating system.
In the morning I reset the heater and went to work. When Julie woke the fan was off again. After resetting it three times in as many hours, she called the HVAC guy. He arrived this afternoon and quickly discovered the problem. I don’t know how many of you are homeowners (actually, I do: Moms-homeowner, Chuck-not a homeowner (yet), rest of readers-imaginary and therefore probably not homeowners), but the HVAC guy said there’s something called a “filter” that connects to the heating and cooling system. This filter is supposed to be replaced or cleaned every one to three months. I last cleaned the filter at the beginning of the summer because the air conditioner was not conditioner the air enough.
It turns out that when you don’t clean the filter, not only does the heat or cold not circulate around the house, but when the filter is dirty enough, it blocks the fan from blowing air and the system shuts off. The guy said the pressure builds up because the air can’t get through the filter and shuts off the system. Clearly he’s a fraud. In the end, it cost us $150 + $3.97 + tax to fix the system. The first part was my incredible stupidity. The second was the cost of the replacement filters. And the third was the greedy liberals stealing all of my money. (Okay, I’ll admit it: I’m one of those greedy liberals.)
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.02 | Castle, Diary
On Being a Dinosaur
‘I read a report about global warming today,’ said the liberal, mentally rubbing her hands together and readying herself for a fight.
The conservative made a face. ‘Global climate change, if you please.’
‘What’s that?’ the liberal asked, always wary when the conservative tried to change the name of an issue. She had been royally screwed on the move from the estate tax to the death tax. The conservative never received any support for repeal of the estate tax until he changed it to death tax. It took the liberal a long time to realize that politics wasn’t about position papers anymore, or deep analysis of issues and the effects of those issues on the country and the world. She now knew that politics was about marketing, something the conservative learned much earlier. Controlling the positioning of the issues—be it the what the issue is called or who it effects—was the first step in achieving political goals.
‘When did you change it?’ the liberal asked out of intellectual curiosity. It was impossible to argue the reframing of an issue with the conservative. She knew if she was going to win on this issue, she’d have to take it to the people.
‘We started on it about a year ago,’ the conservative said. He was very confident in his strategy, the full extent of which the liberal did not know yet. “It sounded much less scary that way.’
The liberal agreed. It did sound better, another excellent marketing job. ‘But don’t you think people will still grow nervous about changes to the climate? I can’t imagine they want another ice age.’
‘Oh we’ve thought about that,” the conservative said. He was winding up for the pitch. He slowed his delivery, watching the liberal carefully for her reaction. ‘The thing about climate change is that it might not be so bad.’
‘I don’t follow,’ the liberal said, following quite well and very nervous about where he was heading.
‘Think of the dinosaurs. They lived in a much different climate than us. And they seemed to make out well, quite well.’
‘So you’re saying if the climate changes we’ll all grow as big as dinosaurs?’
‘Think of how happy that’ll make the dinosaurs,’ the conservative said.
‘The large teeth?’
‘And the sharp claws,’ the conservative agreed emphatically. ‘You should never forget the claws.’
‘When I speak with you, I never forget the claws.’
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.02 | Story Drafts
Faux Resolutions
The one and a half months of travel has drawn to a close. I am sitting in my Castley brown chair at the end of a whirlwind travel day, and I find myself contently contemplating the blank page. We missed what turned out to be nasty weather patterns along the east coast. We began our flight back this morning at an unreasonable 6:30am. Through the miracle of time zones we arrived home at 11:30am, completely exhausted and swearing up and down to anyone who would listen that it felt more like eight or nine at night. We did cheat and take a nap in the afternoon, and spent the rest of the day cleaning up the Castle and lazing about. Newark (the airport we flew through after leaving Buffalo) had two hour delays later in the day. At first our decision to leave early seemed foolhardy. Looking back, we now look like geniuses.
It’s early evening and I’m drinking a small coffee trying to get the juices flowing. I doubt they’ll flow tonight. It’s not that it’s difficult to find optimism on this rainy night, it’s that I’m too tired to care much about these happy feelings. I am glad to move my fingers on my keyboard on my couch and feel its cushiony goodness on my backside. I have high hopes for this chair and this keyboard and the next few months. We’ll see if anything comes of it.
It’s after New Years and Julie asked the big question: what is your resolution this year? I don’t usually make resolutions. I think self-improvement is an ongoing 365 days per year type of deal. I say that because it’s easy to say. It’s very hard to submit into practice. I have made huge leaps this past year. I’m more than two months into my daily writing, and while it sucks and I don’t have much story to show for it (yes, I know my real resolution should be: no more consternating about my lack of storying), I have managed to put words on paper each day, rain or shine, sick or well, something to say or nothing running through the cavern that I loosely call my brain. There’s something to say about dedication, no matter how ill placed.
We do have big plans for the rest of the evening after I get through this entry. We will resume our Hebrew lessons after we took off a few weeks while visiting Dallas. And then we will watch “Samurai X,” another in a continuing line of anime following the adventures of an assassin turned good. The catch: he now uses a “reverse blade” sword, which allows him to injure people but not kill them. The DVD we have waiting downstairs is the first of his pre-history—when he was still a killer working for the government. It’ll be interesting to see how they deal with his morals when he hasn’t “turned good.”
My mind is still blank. I think it is dialogue time. I’ll apologize in advance for the nonsensical words. One of these days I’ll start on a dialogue and it’ll turn into a story with characters and conflict. Damn, I miss conflict. I still don’t know what conflict is or how I find it or what I should do about getting it into my words. That should be my resolution: cultivate conflict in everything I do. When a character stumbles, throw another conflict in his path. When it looks like she’s about to reach her goal, trip her up, skin her knee, show her who’s boss. If only it was that easy. If only.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.01 | Diary, New Years
The meaningless control of even more meaningless words
-Have you ever taken notice of the last thing each night that you think about?
-Not really.
-Think about: each night you fall asleep thinking about something, and then you start dreaming. It’s very likely that the last thing you think about each night is what your mind ends up focusing on in your dreams. Take it a step forward, what if you concentrate on picking out the thing you want to think about before falling asleep. I mean, how many people have probably unwittingly dreamed of sheep just because that was what they were taught to think of when they couldn’t sleep. Sheep is probably one of the most popular dream subjects because of it. I wonder how psychologists translate sheep in dreams. It’s probably a wool fetish or something. It’s mind boggling how people don’t consider the little things when deciding what to dream.
-Are you talking about blogging again?
-What? No, I’m talking about important, interesting things. Why would I talk about blogging again?
-I don’t know. You do spend too much of your time pounding out words that nobody reads. It’s only natural that if you spend that much time doing something you’re bound to talk about it continuously until everyone around you—that is, everyone who is not blogging, which is all of your normal friends and family, just for the record—gets very sick of it and begins tuning you out when you begin to broach the subject. Even if you were just talking about whatever crazy thoughts popped into your mind, how do I know you’re not just looking for fodder for tonight’s entry? Do I want to be an unwitting participant in your quest to entertain the world? A world, I should remind you, which does not want to be entertained by the likes of you. Let me clarify, an insular world that only finds you entertaining when it itself is involved in the medium. It’s like the high school trumpet player who grows up and loves trumpet music. It’s not that he loves the sound of the trumpet, it’s that he can imagine himself playing the song—however poorly. Just the knowledge that he’s related to the real trumpet player makes him love the sound and the players of that instrument more than anyone else. It’s the same thing with blogging. Those who blog love to read blog. Those who don’t get bored out of our egg-thin skulls listening to you blab on about it endlessly.
-I was talking about dreams and where they take you. What’s with your hostility toward my blog? I don’t even go there with you. I know you’re not interested. I was in the moment. Look how hazy it is in here. You’re not supposed to be like this now. I’m thinking deep thoughts. I thought we were thinking deep thoughts.
-I thought we were in free association mode here. I wasn’t exactly attacking you. I was freely associating.
-We were, but it was my free association we were talking about. Pass it over here. You’re boggarting it.
-I ain’t boggarting, I’m taking my turn. It’s just my turn lasts a while, especially when you start philosophizing on the meaning of dreams or going on about your blogging.
-I wasn’t—thanks. I wasn’t talking about dreams. I was talking about controlling your dreams.
-Same difference over here.
Seattle, WA | 2007.01.01 | Story Drafts
Visiting Buffalo
Julie and I visit my sister and her family--including two new members--in balmy Buffalo.
