I know I mentioned this a while back, but it is now 20 years since I graduated from high school. Probably exactly. I mean, graduation was usually around the 20th of June right? As far as I know there is someone planning a Reunion for Brentwood High. Maybe separate ones for Ross and Sonderling? But I don't know of any firm details. In any case, it's going to be tricky for me to get back to Brentwood.
To be honest, I'm not exactly dying to go to the reunion itself. I could certainly pass on that experience. But there are a few friends I'd be glad to see again, and when you are pressed for time, the more of them you can get together at once, the better. So we'll see. Otherwise, I'll miss it all just like I did the Prom. And no one will probably notice this time either. Hah.
I don't have much else to say about this subject. Just the usual. Comparing yourself to your friends in terms of how more or less successful they are...and all that. Check. Not wanting everyone to see how fat you've gotten. Check. Or that you aren't married and don't have any kids. Check on that too. We all have these rulers that we measure ourselves with. And I just don't fit on any of them. It's awkward. Well, by the awkwardness measurement, I come out on top every time. That's what's going on.
I kinda want to get back to New York just to see the Mets play in their new park, Citi Field. But I doubt very much I could get away with just sneaking into town without anyone knowing. These days we can't help ourselves when it comes to updating everyone on our latest doings. I post updates to a Twitter feed no one even knows I have so there must be some instrinsic thing, human beings want to be heard, etc. They want to shout out that they exist. I don't shout. That's just not the way I am, but I do tweet. Tiny typed updates. And if I went to see the Mets I'd have to let someone know wouldn't I? Quietly.
In any case, I'd love to get back. Just because...
20 June 2009
12 June 2009
Look at the Moon
This is not a new blog post, it's from my Benrik blog last year, but a re-airing around now seemed appropriate.
*********************************************************************
The Friday before last I was downtown with some friends, including K. my sleepover partner of a couple of months ago. We were checking out the monthly art open houses. And we ran into B. who was showing at one of the galleries. B., I soon learned, is the younger sister of J. who is K.'s ex-girlfriend.
K. and J. were together for 9 years. She broke up with him because after all that time he still wasn't ready to move in together or talk about marriage/family etc. That was 6 years ago. I've known K. now for just under 2 years. And he's always been vehement about the fact that he was not ready to be in a relationship with anyone. (At first I thought his break-up with his ex was only about a year or two before I met him because he still talked about her a lot, but no it's been over 6 years.)
So anyway, K. and I became good friends. We unexpectedly veered towards more than that about a year ago, for like a minute (basically we held hands in the cinema and then snogged) and then he thought better of it and ran away. Then 8 months later, again. This time, we had a couple of sleepovers, and it seemed like he might honestly want to attempt being with me. But no, three weeks later he ran again. And I sat him down and said, "Look, if you don't want this, then just tell me. Don't act like you're all into it, and then disappear. I'm still your friend, just tell me what's going on." So basically he was off the hook. And he said, "Yeah, I just can't."
So we went back to being just friends. Everything was fine. I'm still hurt, because obviously he mislead me and I don't take a sleepover lightly, and I was so cautious as it was happening, looking for signals that he really wanted to go there, and he gave them to me, I am pretty sure I didn't imagine that, but see since I was so worried about being careful I never really got the chance to enjoy it. And then it was over. So yeah, I still feel hurt over it. But I don't talk to him about that. We're back to discussing Doctor Who and Spider-man, etc.
And then, that Friday night, there we were, at B.'s art show, and suddenly I'm face to face with J. How could I not be intimidated? And seeing K. and the way he acted around her...I felt so...small. And she was like...oh it's good to see you, come hang out with us at the pub.
And so we did, and all of K.s other friends that he's known for 15-20 years, but hadn't seen in at least a year, were there, like 20 of them, along with B. and J. and there I was, not knowing any of them...
And at 5:00am, after I had listened to them reminiscing all night and telling stories that they've told hundreds of times, and sitting there dumbly as they all started singing when a familiar song came on the jukebox, and feeling angry at myself for being so affected by seeing K. and J. talking to each other, even just across the bar, and staying as one by one everyone said goodnight and left, until it was basically just him and me. And we went out to our cars, and he said, "Did you have a good time tonight?" And I tried not to betray my feelings, as I admitted, "It was just a lot, all at once, a bit overwhelming..." and he hugged me tightly as if he knew how awful it must have been for me, but maybe he was a little grateful that I'd stuck it out.
And then back at work, where we sit together at lunch most days, it was back to normal again, except now he felt like when he told me stories about all these folks that I actually knew who he was talking about, and that made him feel relaxed, which was good. But inside, I was still, and am still freaking out. Especially when he tells a story about J. because he knows that I know exactly who she is and surely since I'd met her, I must have noticed how the sun surely shines out of her behind. Because back then, he was young and stupid and it took him 3 years after the break-up for him to realize, yes she was the love of his life. And it was too late.
And 3 more years after that, there was me. But it wasn't anything big, just a misstep, something you can just change your mind about with no harm and no foul.
And he doesn't realize...
that it's not the moon that's making me act this way.
But let's just say it is.
********************************************
Things have changed so much since then.
30 May 2009
You Don't Know Me
Now that I've been in my new job for a month, I've had a bit of time to get to know my new co-workers. We spend 10 hours a day in the same office. You'd think that would allow us all to be fast friends in no time. But really I'm still a bit isolated. Partially because of where my desk is, down the hall from the room where most of my fellow writers sit. And also because it's one of those open receptionist-type desks, so people are walking by me all day, and to avoid being constantly distracted I sit with my earphones in for hours at a time.
Proximity aside, do we ever really know our co-workers? Or anyone for that matter. Or even ourselves? These are not new questions of course. But aside from starting a new job, I'm reminded often of how little I do know the people around me. Even ones I've felt so close to at times. My friend Keir, who I met at one of my previous jobs and saw almost every day for about 2 years, was the closest I had to a best friend since I moved here to Vegas. We did a lot of stuff outside work, spend many hours, even whole nights, talking after a night out. He told me stuff, I told him stuff. I heard his favourite stories so many times that when he'd be telling one to someone else, at lunch for instance, I could've picked it up and finished it for him word for word. I practically knew all his old friends who I'd never met because he'd told me so much about them.
Then that one night, he was lying next to me here, the one time he was here, and he said, "So, what do you really know about me?" I stammered ..."Well, I know that you're a good person, that you're just very frustrated with your situation right now, and you feel some anger about things, but ..."
He stopped me there. We were both silent. What did I really know about him? And what did he know about me other than that we'd just been out for my birthday and now we were in my bed. And in the morning he would be gone.
Then a few months later, I did meet those old friends of his and there was that light of recognition, "Oh, you're the one who..." and "He's the one who..." and I was just there, "the one he's been hanging out with all this time," since they'd last seen him.
And I still see them, his friends that is (I haven't seen him in a while, and I suppose neither have they). And I'm just sort of floating awkwardly, isolated. Do I belong now? Can I belong? Will they ever know me? Do they care to? I mean, he had the chance, and he didn't stick around. So why would they?
Then there is Skip. My dear lovely delightful Skip, who I've never met, but I thought I knew so well. As well as possible, when he keeps one at arms length, I suppose. Yes, he's never really let any of us in. All those details that anyone who lives on his street might know, like his name, what he looks like; those aren't the really important things anyway. It's what's inside. His good heart. His funny, clever, and frustratingly mysterious Maskipper-ness. He was as much of a best friend to me as I had for many years. He was the one I wanted to tell everything to. And did. And still do, though I don't hear back from him nearly as often. Hmm. Maybe no one ever really wants to know anyone too well. Maybe the bits we hold back are what keep us close.
It can be an advantage to be the new guy or gal. The one from whom no one quite knows what to expect. And then there's the truth, which usually isn't amazing or mysterious. So we hold on to it, keep it even from those closest to us, our family. Because once someone knows all, there's no going back is there? That's why we each need to have our own space. For me, it's so I can just be, without having someone looking at me trying to see what they know or think they know.
And yet, it's still there, that need to know and be known. The comfort of not having to explain yourself all the time remains appealing. Instead, in nearly any situation, you can just shrug your shoulders as if to say, "well, you know me ..."
Proximity aside, do we ever really know our co-workers? Or anyone for that matter. Or even ourselves? These are not new questions of course. But aside from starting a new job, I'm reminded often of how little I do know the people around me. Even ones I've felt so close to at times. My friend Keir, who I met at one of my previous jobs and saw almost every day for about 2 years, was the closest I had to a best friend since I moved here to Vegas. We did a lot of stuff outside work, spend many hours, even whole nights, talking after a night out. He told me stuff, I told him stuff. I heard his favourite stories so many times that when he'd be telling one to someone else, at lunch for instance, I could've picked it up and finished it for him word for word. I practically knew all his old friends who I'd never met because he'd told me so much about them.
Then that one night, he was lying next to me here, the one time he was here, and he said, "So, what do you really know about me?" I stammered ..."Well, I know that you're a good person, that you're just very frustrated with your situation right now, and you feel some anger about things, but ..."
He stopped me there. We were both silent. What did I really know about him? And what did he know about me other than that we'd just been out for my birthday and now we were in my bed. And in the morning he would be gone.
Then a few months later, I did meet those old friends of his and there was that light of recognition, "Oh, you're the one who..." and "He's the one who..." and I was just there, "the one he's been hanging out with all this time," since they'd last seen him.
And I still see them, his friends that is (I haven't seen him in a while, and I suppose neither have they). And I'm just sort of floating awkwardly, isolated. Do I belong now? Can I belong? Will they ever know me? Do they care to? I mean, he had the chance, and he didn't stick around. So why would they?
Then there is Skip. My dear lovely delightful Skip, who I've never met, but I thought I knew so well. As well as possible, when he keeps one at arms length, I suppose. Yes, he's never really let any of us in. All those details that anyone who lives on his street might know, like his name, what he looks like; those aren't the really important things anyway. It's what's inside. His good heart. His funny, clever, and frustratingly mysterious Maskipper-ness. He was as much of a best friend to me as I had for many years. He was the one I wanted to tell everything to. And did. And still do, though I don't hear back from him nearly as often. Hmm. Maybe no one ever really wants to know anyone too well. Maybe the bits we hold back are what keep us close.
It can be an advantage to be the new guy or gal. The one from whom no one quite knows what to expect. And then there's the truth, which usually isn't amazing or mysterious. So we hold on to it, keep it even from those closest to us, our family. Because once someone knows all, there's no going back is there? That's why we each need to have our own space. For me, it's so I can just be, without having someone looking at me trying to see what they know or think they know.
And yet, it's still there, that need to know and be known. The comfort of not having to explain yourself all the time remains appealing. Instead, in nearly any situation, you can just shrug your shoulders as if to say, "well, you know me ..."
17 May 2009
Fix You
This weekend I took my car in to the shop to have some work done on her suspension. She's been needing her front control arm bushings replaced for about a year, and it's just now that I've had the money to get it done. Turned out other bits of her suspension had been wearing out too, the right side motor mount and torque mounts had to be replaced. I also needed new rear brake pads since my sensor light had been on for about 6 weeks. I still have a few minor things to take care of, like the automatic lock in the driver's side door, and strangely, the third brake light mounted on the back hatch has actually disappeared! No one can figure it out yet. It was just suddenly not there when I got home from work Thursday night.
As much as I love my car, it's always a cringe-worthy moment when you learn how much these repairs will cost. Fortunately I have a reputable shop with great mechanics who specialize in British cars. They take good care of MINIfir and are up front about which repairs are essential and which things can wait until I have some more money coming in. Unlike the dealership, they don't act like if I wait to get something done, my wheels will fly off or something.
Now that I've taken care of the big stuff, I feel much better, and I'm sure MINIfir does too. I've got a plan, once I've taken care of the other minor issues, to accelerate my payments and get my loan payed off as quickly as possible. Then MINIfir will be mine free and clear. True, she'll be 6 years old by then, and she'll still be needing regular repairs and maintenance as she ages, but I will feel so proud that I bought her, ordered from the dealer, and have cared for and fed her, and paid her off little by little, and finally will really be her owner.
I can't explain what it means. But she is the best and biggest, most expensive and most important thing I own. And I love her. So when she's broken I fix her. And she fixes me in return.
As much as I love my car, it's always a cringe-worthy moment when you learn how much these repairs will cost. Fortunately I have a reputable shop with great mechanics who specialize in British cars. They take good care of MINIfir and are up front about which repairs are essential and which things can wait until I have some more money coming in. Unlike the dealership, they don't act like if I wait to get something done, my wheels will fly off or something.
Now that I've taken care of the big stuff, I feel much better, and I'm sure MINIfir does too. I've got a plan, once I've taken care of the other minor issues, to accelerate my payments and get my loan payed off as quickly as possible. Then MINIfir will be mine free and clear. True, she'll be 6 years old by then, and she'll still be needing regular repairs and maintenance as she ages, but I will feel so proud that I bought her, ordered from the dealer, and have cared for and fed her, and paid her off little by little, and finally will really be her owner.
I can't explain what it means. But she is the best and biggest, most expensive and most important thing I own. And I love her. So when she's broken I fix her. And she fixes me in return.
09 May 2009
Mr. (Tech) Writer
I've been asked more than once: How did you get into tech writing? And the answer is always "by accident." And it's true, I remembering hearing about such a thing as technical writing classes at BYU where I was completing my Master's in Creative Writing. The two could not be more different. What could one possibly have to do with the other? Why would I ever need or want to know about tech writing?
As it turns out, that's how I make my living. It has been for the better part of 5 years now. Well, in between layoffs and whatnot. But basically I fell into it when I first moved to Vegas, and my mom suggested I visit the local JobConnect office, and the nice lady there called me and said, "Well with your writing skills you might be interested in this job with Red, inc." It was for tech editing, and an easy editing test later, I had a job that paid way more than I ever thought I'd make. Teaching pays a pittance in comparison. Teaching was what I'd been doing since grad school, and I enjoyed it, but without a PhD. it'd pretty much never be a steady gig. I got one night class assignment at Nevada State College, but most of my employment was to be found in the tech writing sector. My first job, as an editor on the Yucca Mountain Project was pretty easy. I didn't do any writing there though. Just proofing, and checking references and style guide compliance. After a few months, I was shuffled off to other projects which could only be referred to as busy work. Sorting old emails, things like that. I was still getting paid the same though, so I didn't mind it. And then the first layoff came. I found that the life of a tech writer is not so much easier than the life of a novelist or essayist or journalist. Moving from gig to gig. Working as a contractor or a subcontractor, with no benefits and no security.
After a few more short term assignments, and a brief job in journalism (which I loved and was devastated to get layed off from), I landed at Upper Deck as a technical writer. To be honest, I had never really done any technical writing until I got there. I had to start from scratch with most of the documentation. And I had to do it all by myself. It was a challenge, but I found I could shape the job to suit me. I liked the company and my co-workers, and settled into my role. I created a bunch of different types of documents, policy and procedures, work instructions, etc. I joined STC, and tried to learn more about my accidental profession. And though the work was hardly the most interesting, it was diverse, and I had room to work on other things. I founded a company newsletter. I was enlisted for the communications committee, and I did my best to talk to folks who worked in all the different departments. I was in a unique position of being able to bridge the two sides (office and warehouse). I took internal communications really seriously and tried to help everyone have a voice.
And then suddenly, after two years, I didn't have one. My position was eliminated. It seemed what I was doing wasn't so important to the bottom line, so all the other value it had was secondary. I never saw it coming. And it knocked me for a loop.
I landed on my feet pretty quickly, finding a job writing business plans. It didn't end up being a good fit, and business slowed enough that I could anticipate it coming to an end quickly. The economy was collapsing in all sectors. Layoffs were rampant, but I felt that my options were open. I was versatile, I could go back into teaching, or try journalism, perhaps in the online environment which is where it's at these days. But since I'd only dipped my toe in the various areas, I didn't have the depth required to compete against all the other out of work professionals in those fields.
I searched for six months, had a few interviews and then finally landed back in technical writing. This job, with another government contractor, may be temporary too. I'm in a 6 month casual appointment. But there's a chance it could become a permanent hire situation. And it's really technical. More so than what I was doing at Upper Deck. So now I must really become what I've been flirting with all this time. Not to mention the fact that somehow I've been elected president of my STC chapter.
Obviously I'm really grateful to have this job. The people all seem really nice, and I'm glad to be on a team again. I just hope that after all the bits and pieces of jobs that I've done, I've at least accumulated "enough education to perform." And that one day I'll feel like a like an actual professional tech writer. And then whatever other writing I can do on the side will be a bonus. I want to stay versatile, because you never know about work these days. No one is secure. And I'm finally getting used to that.
As it turns out, that's how I make my living. It has been for the better part of 5 years now. Well, in between layoffs and whatnot. But basically I fell into it when I first moved to Vegas, and my mom suggested I visit the local JobConnect office, and the nice lady there called me and said, "Well with your writing skills you might be interested in this job with Red, inc." It was for tech editing, and an easy editing test later, I had a job that paid way more than I ever thought I'd make. Teaching pays a pittance in comparison. Teaching was what I'd been doing since grad school, and I enjoyed it, but without a PhD. it'd pretty much never be a steady gig. I got one night class assignment at Nevada State College, but most of my employment was to be found in the tech writing sector. My first job, as an editor on the Yucca Mountain Project was pretty easy. I didn't do any writing there though. Just proofing, and checking references and style guide compliance. After a few months, I was shuffled off to other projects which could only be referred to as busy work. Sorting old emails, things like that. I was still getting paid the same though, so I didn't mind it. And then the first layoff came. I found that the life of a tech writer is not so much easier than the life of a novelist or essayist or journalist. Moving from gig to gig. Working as a contractor or a subcontractor, with no benefits and no security.
After a few more short term assignments, and a brief job in journalism (which I loved and was devastated to get layed off from), I landed at Upper Deck as a technical writer. To be honest, I had never really done any technical writing until I got there. I had to start from scratch with most of the documentation. And I had to do it all by myself. It was a challenge, but I found I could shape the job to suit me. I liked the company and my co-workers, and settled into my role. I created a bunch of different types of documents, policy and procedures, work instructions, etc. I joined STC, and tried to learn more about my accidental profession. And though the work was hardly the most interesting, it was diverse, and I had room to work on other things. I founded a company newsletter. I was enlisted for the communications committee, and I did my best to talk to folks who worked in all the different departments. I was in a unique position of being able to bridge the two sides (office and warehouse). I took internal communications really seriously and tried to help everyone have a voice.
And then suddenly, after two years, I didn't have one. My position was eliminated. It seemed what I was doing wasn't so important to the bottom line, so all the other value it had was secondary. I never saw it coming. And it knocked me for a loop.
I landed on my feet pretty quickly, finding a job writing business plans. It didn't end up being a good fit, and business slowed enough that I could anticipate it coming to an end quickly. The economy was collapsing in all sectors. Layoffs were rampant, but I felt that my options were open. I was versatile, I could go back into teaching, or try journalism, perhaps in the online environment which is where it's at these days. But since I'd only dipped my toe in the various areas, I didn't have the depth required to compete against all the other out of work professionals in those fields.
I searched for six months, had a few interviews and then finally landed back in technical writing. This job, with another government contractor, may be temporary too. I'm in a 6 month casual appointment. But there's a chance it could become a permanent hire situation. And it's really technical. More so than what I was doing at Upper Deck. So now I must really become what I've been flirting with all this time. Not to mention the fact that somehow I've been elected president of my STC chapter.
Obviously I'm really grateful to have this job. The people all seem really nice, and I'm glad to be on a team again. I just hope that after all the bits and pieces of jobs that I've done, I've at least accumulated "enough education to perform." And that one day I'll feel like a like an actual professional tech writer. And then whatever other writing I can do on the side will be a bonus. I want to stay versatile, because you never know about work these days. No one is secure. And I'm finally getting used to that.
26 April 2009
Finest Worksong
Tomorrow I start a new job, so my latest stint on unemployment has finally come to an end. And I'm nervous and excited and relieved. The strange thing is I also feel a bit guilty. That sort of makes sense in these economic times. There are so many people out there still looking for work, and those many who are just now losing their jobs. And as long as it took to get to this point (I actually had to go into my extended unemployment benefits) I suffered relatively little. I had my family to fall back on. There wasn't much I had to give up. I was careful enough with money, but I could've been more careful. The biggest thing was having no place to go. Being stuck in the house, with no job to go to, while it gave me lots of time to do little projects I'd been putting off, it also allowed plenty of time for me feel depressed, unproductive, unsuccessful.
Then there was the fact that to most people not having a paying job meant I wasn't doing any work whatsoever. I made a great effort to keep structure in my days by doing job searches, applications and letters in the mornings before noon. Sometimes I was done quickly. I did have a lot of time, but I had no intention of shuttling my grandmother around or doing stuff no one else wanted to do just because I didn't have formal employment obligations. I allowed myself "work time" when I was unavailable to anyone else for the periods when I was doing my searches or another project, reading or writing. It didn't always work, but I kept to it as much as possible.
For all those months I tried to keep good humor while the people around me shared their sympathies and wished me better luck soon. And people were great. I mean, it's hardly unusual to be out of work in this recession. It isn't the mark of shame it used to be. But in the back of my mind, and those of my family members too I'm sure, there was this nagging feeling that it shouldn't be me in this situation. I'm highly educated, so I should have the accomplishments to go along with my promised potential. It was hard not to compare myself to people I grew up with, and went to school with, and see how far behind them I am in so many ways. Even my little brother, who had long had difficulty living up to expectations, went out and got a career for himself as a police officer. We're so proud of him, but for me, it's always been expected. So anything less is a disappointment.
And now it's time to hit the ground running again. I have a great opportunity, and a chance to make up for lost earnings and contribute more to the family and just get out of the house and feel better about myself. There's a part of me though that's afraid. I've been worried that my skills may have atrophied. What if I'm not as sharp and capable as I once was? Will I even be able to hack it? Getting up early, a long commute, a long and stressful work day. Am I still fit?
And now I won't have time to do anything else. All that time I had over the last 6 months, why didn't I do more? It was always difficult to plan when I never knew what the next week would bring. My resources were limited, and the time I had, it wasn't always my own. But it still seems like I did nothing! I know that's not the case, but the feeling is there. Where did all that time go?
So back to work tomorrow, hopefully for a longer and more stable period than before. But I can never let my guard down again. I can't be blindsided like I was when I lost my job at Upper Deck nearly a year ago. I can't let my life be defined by what I do either. I have to be more adaptable. And I have to make time for myself, no matter what I am doing for a living, so that I can live and not just survive.
Then there was the fact that to most people not having a paying job meant I wasn't doing any work whatsoever. I made a great effort to keep structure in my days by doing job searches, applications and letters in the mornings before noon. Sometimes I was done quickly. I did have a lot of time, but I had no intention of shuttling my grandmother around or doing stuff no one else wanted to do just because I didn't have formal employment obligations. I allowed myself "work time" when I was unavailable to anyone else for the periods when I was doing my searches or another project, reading or writing. It didn't always work, but I kept to it as much as possible.
For all those months I tried to keep good humor while the people around me shared their sympathies and wished me better luck soon. And people were great. I mean, it's hardly unusual to be out of work in this recession. It isn't the mark of shame it used to be. But in the back of my mind, and those of my family members too I'm sure, there was this nagging feeling that it shouldn't be me in this situation. I'm highly educated, so I should have the accomplishments to go along with my promised potential. It was hard not to compare myself to people I grew up with, and went to school with, and see how far behind them I am in so many ways. Even my little brother, who had long had difficulty living up to expectations, went out and got a career for himself as a police officer. We're so proud of him, but for me, it's always been expected. So anything less is a disappointment.
And now it's time to hit the ground running again. I have a great opportunity, and a chance to make up for lost earnings and contribute more to the family and just get out of the house and feel better about myself. There's a part of me though that's afraid. I've been worried that my skills may have atrophied. What if I'm not as sharp and capable as I once was? Will I even be able to hack it? Getting up early, a long commute, a long and stressful work day. Am I still fit?
And now I won't have time to do anything else. All that time I had over the last 6 months, why didn't I do more? It was always difficult to plan when I never knew what the next week would bring. My resources were limited, and the time I had, it wasn't always my own. But it still seems like I did nothing! I know that's not the case, but the feeling is there. Where did all that time go?
So back to work tomorrow, hopefully for a longer and more stable period than before. But I can never let my guard down again. I can't be blindsided like I was when I lost my job at Upper Deck nearly a year ago. I can't let my life be defined by what I do either. I have to be more adaptable. And I have to make time for myself, no matter what I am doing for a living, so that I can live and not just survive.
20 April 2009
Precious Things
I’ve been thinking about this issue for a while. But I didn’t quite know how to file it. Is it about art or commerce? Is it about relationships or lack thereof? Is it about money, health, or self-esteem? Is it trivial or fanciful?
I’m not sure. But I’ll start from where I left off. It was Barbara who made me consider it most recently. Whether it meant I was shallow. That first night I met her, she was saying something down at Paddy’s about how women who walk around with designer handbags are the worst kind of people because they care about status, or showing off wealth, or pretending to be something they are not, or whichever of the usual stereotypes people like to assign to people according to this one random criteria. I tucked my Marc by Marc Jacobs messenger bag under my hoodie on a chair. It was already nerve wracking enough being there with them all. Much less inadvertently getting in the way of a drunken tirade. And besides, she didn’t know me. The fact that I carried a particular accessory didn’t make me despicable any more than it made me superior. I resolved not to make mention of my most self-indulgent of hobbies, in Barbara’s or any one else’s presence.
It never came up again, though not for a good reason. By the end of that year, Barbara was gone. And I knew so little about her, just as she did about me. In March I attended a show and performance of some of her work, paintings and plays mostly, hosted in the place where Barbara had lived. When I stepped into the place, I couldn’t help but notice its condition. Was it even fit for habitation? It was definitely not a place you lived if you were worried about security. It was definitely not a place to keep family heirlooms or anything of value. Or perhaps I should say any “thing.” This was not a place of things, it was a place of ideas and expression and love and spirit and feeling and all those things that really weren’t things at all. And suddenly I felt a twinge of envy. If only I could live like that, free from attachment to things, fulfilled entirely from the inside.
It was sort of a communal place, but I don’t think it was devoid of personal spaces or places to keep personal things. I’m sure there were many things of sentimental value tucked away in corners or on tables next to the bed. But it definitely wasn’t like my house. I share a house with 4 other members of my family now, but for many years, I lived alone. And either way, I had the same arrangement. A highly organized collection of things, my things in my space, in fact it was my things that defined my space.
I can see them now from where I sit writing this. Neat shelves of books, and action figures, and toy cars; Tidy closet full of clothes and accessories, a desk full of assorted useful, or potentially useful items. Things I needed, need now, or might need in the future. Things and Needs. The two go together. It’s basic really. All people need things like food, shelter and clothes. After that, need is relative. That’s why it’s tricky to even use the word need for some things.
One might say that many of the economic troubles in the world today have been caused by the fact that most people believed they needed things they didn’t.
I don’t pretend to be any different. I would feel lost without the computer that I’m typing this on right now. Years ago it was unheard of to have a computer in a private home. And in this house we have several, including three in this room alone.
When you can’t afford to buy the things you need, there are hopefully social services willing and able to help you. There are food pantries and soup kitchens and goodwill collections and shelters for those most basic of needs. But beyond that, you have to earn the things you feel you need, or those you want.
I worked until I saved up enough money to buy this computer. I was happy when I got it because I paid for it in cash. I wasn’t overextending myself. I made due with my old computer until I could afford this one. But I haven’t always operated that way. I am no stranger to the world of poorly managed credit. I’ve made mistakes and purchased things I couldn’t afford. I worked to make it right as much as I could. I’ve resolved to be smarter about it in the future. Sure.
The book series and the film “Confessions of a Shopaholic” tell the story of Rebecca Bloomwood, a woman with these common and relatable problems. She shopped herself underwater. She bought so many things she couldn’t afford and barely had room for, and it ruined her relationships as well as her credit rating. Sophie Kinsella, the author of the books and Isla Fisher, the actress who played Rebecca, played it for laughs. It is funny watching someone go so out of control. But at the same time, there were serious issues in the background. Her parents scrimped and saved their every penny. Coming from a background like that can teach you to be frugal, or how to practice moderation, but in Rebecca’s case it made her feel like she was trapped. She felt she needed to spend, needed to acquire things to make herself feel self-sufficient or whatever it was she needed to feel. And it was a humorous romp seeing all the trouble she got into, and there was a heartwarming ending as she learned her lesson, and found a guy who loved her for herself despite her flaws. Harmless, chick flick fun. Except, I cried. I identified with Rebecca in so many ways. I also felt relief in areas where I didn’t relate to her. I am not an impulse shopper. I don’t see things and have to buy them immediately. I’m more of a planner. I research, I calculate, I evaluate risk. I go back and look several times before buying. Just to make sure it’s really what I want. These days I rarely buy things on credit, making sure I have the money and that I can still pay my bills and live up to my responsibilities. But yes, I have spent a lot of money. Money perhaps I could have used to buy a house, or save for a rainy day, of which there have been quite a few in recent years. Do I need everything I’ve bought? No, of course not.
I bought a car I loved that cost more than basic transportation. But it was in no way impulsive. I’m still driving it and still paying for it and I’ve never lost an ounce of sleep over my choice. The intangibles, experiences I’ve had, people I’ve met through owning the car, have no quantifiable value, but are priceless to me.
And that’s how I look at most things. Things serve a purpose. Things have intrinsic value. They have assigned value. I tried explaining this to Ralph one night when we were down at First Friday. He was telling me how he and Kate were not picky about having real jewelry aside from wedding rings, which have their sentimental value, etc. And I said, sure, I’m not a big jewelry person either. But there are people who get great pleasure from a nicely crafted piece of jewelry. It’s art and to them is worth the price they may pay. The higher quality, more expensive the materials, the longer the piece will last and hold its value. That’s the theory.
It works with pretty much everything. Ralph collects original comic art. It’s intrinsic value, the cost of paper and ink, are just a fraction of the assigned value. Ralph, and Kate too, have built their lives around comic art. It is their great passion in life. The pieces that line the walls of their home and of Ralph’s store are not just things. They are relative needs. They are nourishment for the soul. They bring real happiness.
This was actually what I tried to explain to him, planning to work up to my own examples. Handbags are art too, you know. They are designed and crafted of fine materials and they serve a purpose. They bring real happiness to the collector and the aficionado. They often cost much more than basic transportation for your wallet and keys. In a way they are a microcosm of personal space.
Feeling the need to justify my collection is not new. And if I believed my theory so thoroughly, then why must I continually convince myself and others? It’s because in the back of my mind, I know my relative needs have expanded perhaps more than they should have. As much as I love handbags, a few nice bags would probably be enough. I could sell the rest and maybe feed a few African villages for a time.
But so can lots of other people. How much are we to reasonably allow ourselves? What is the acceptable level of self-indulgence? When I was a member of the LDS church there were many families of great wealth. They and their kids had nice clothes and cars and lived in big houses. They paid their tithing, 10% of their earnings, so they fulfilled the literal counsel of the church. But does that let them off the hook to do what they like with the rest? What of the rest of us, who can’t seem to afford such a regular tithe, but will still treat ourselves every now and then? We all deserve a little bit of extra comfort when we can afford it don't we?
But are those relative needs and the sense of entitlement we have towards them making us richer or poorer? In the current economic climate, I think we’re all feeling a bit guilty. No one is immune. And our capitalistic system is based on the fact that businesses create goods and services that people want. If that weren’t the case, there would just be farmers producing food, some basic textile mills for basic clothing production, and basic home building for shelters.
But hang on; we also need education. So there have to be educated people, and materials used to educate. Part of education is knowledge of art. If education is a necessity, and art is worthy of being a topic of education, then we must need art. We need art because it makes life better. And if art can make life better, so can other forms of nourishment. Ideas, expression, spirituality, love and other feelings, all can be needs. The needs Barbara and her friends had in their house and fulfilled with a lot fewer things than I have. Things can also supplement the same kinds of needs that are separate from “things”. A washing machine is a thing that aids in the care of a basic need, clothing. So is a washing machine a necessity? Well, it makes washing clothes easier, leaving more time available to attend to other needs, like family relationships, adding to quality of life. Because time is one of those things that we can never create more of. But we can get the most out of time by using some things. And making the most of our time is what life is. Life is taking the time we have and doing the best we can with it according to our capabilities and our best judgment.
And round and round we go, because everyone has his or her own best judgment. So all these things I buy, because I want them/or need them, I’m not sure which, because they serve a purpose, make my life better, keep me happy, or make me feel whatever I need to feel, will be there in greater or lesser numbers than some other people have, life is not fair, nor are all things equal. And is that okay? I think it has to be. Asceticism is right for some, and charity is a good thing, and obviously some needs are more pressing than others.
So I have an ever-expanding collection of nice handbags. I collect action figures, and books and many other sorts of things. I love my car and I attach great sentimentality to certain pieces of clothing or shoes. Things can hold memories. They are vessels really, places to keep your stuff, whether it be physical objects or bits of psyche. And we all have a little bit of each.
There is more to be said, an ongoing argument in the culture, economy, arts, morality or religion and I have no neat tidy ending. The dark side was portrayed artfully by Tolkien, in how the ring took over Gollum, it became his "precious", his reason for being; how easily it was for anyone to fall under its spell if they weren't careful. The ring itself was a thing, it represented power, and indeed had power itself. Fortunately there aren't objects like that around in our everyday lives. I think the point is that power should not come through things. Things should not give power. People with things should not consider themselves more powerful than those without. Your things are not who you are, but they may just remind people of you.
I’m not sure. But I’ll start from where I left off. It was Barbara who made me consider it most recently. Whether it meant I was shallow. That first night I met her, she was saying something down at Paddy’s about how women who walk around with designer handbags are the worst kind of people because they care about status, or showing off wealth, or pretending to be something they are not, or whichever of the usual stereotypes people like to assign to people according to this one random criteria. I tucked my Marc by Marc Jacobs messenger bag under my hoodie on a chair. It was already nerve wracking enough being there with them all. Much less inadvertently getting in the way of a drunken tirade. And besides, she didn’t know me. The fact that I carried a particular accessory didn’t make me despicable any more than it made me superior. I resolved not to make mention of my most self-indulgent of hobbies, in Barbara’s or any one else’s presence.
It never came up again, though not for a good reason. By the end of that year, Barbara was gone. And I knew so little about her, just as she did about me. In March I attended a show and performance of some of her work, paintings and plays mostly, hosted in the place where Barbara had lived. When I stepped into the place, I couldn’t help but notice its condition. Was it even fit for habitation? It was definitely not a place you lived if you were worried about security. It was definitely not a place to keep family heirlooms or anything of value. Or perhaps I should say any “thing.” This was not a place of things, it was a place of ideas and expression and love and spirit and feeling and all those things that really weren’t things at all. And suddenly I felt a twinge of envy. If only I could live like that, free from attachment to things, fulfilled entirely from the inside.
It was sort of a communal place, but I don’t think it was devoid of personal spaces or places to keep personal things. I’m sure there were many things of sentimental value tucked away in corners or on tables next to the bed. But it definitely wasn’t like my house. I share a house with 4 other members of my family now, but for many years, I lived alone. And either way, I had the same arrangement. A highly organized collection of things, my things in my space, in fact it was my things that defined my space.
I can see them now from where I sit writing this. Neat shelves of books, and action figures, and toy cars; Tidy closet full of clothes and accessories, a desk full of assorted useful, or potentially useful items. Things I needed, need now, or might need in the future. Things and Needs. The two go together. It’s basic really. All people need things like food, shelter and clothes. After that, need is relative. That’s why it’s tricky to even use the word need for some things.
One might say that many of the economic troubles in the world today have been caused by the fact that most people believed they needed things they didn’t.
I don’t pretend to be any different. I would feel lost without the computer that I’m typing this on right now. Years ago it was unheard of to have a computer in a private home. And in this house we have several, including three in this room alone.
When you can’t afford to buy the things you need, there are hopefully social services willing and able to help you. There are food pantries and soup kitchens and goodwill collections and shelters for those most basic of needs. But beyond that, you have to earn the things you feel you need, or those you want.
I worked until I saved up enough money to buy this computer. I was happy when I got it because I paid for it in cash. I wasn’t overextending myself. I made due with my old computer until I could afford this one. But I haven’t always operated that way. I am no stranger to the world of poorly managed credit. I’ve made mistakes and purchased things I couldn’t afford. I worked to make it right as much as I could. I’ve resolved to be smarter about it in the future. Sure.
The book series and the film “Confessions of a Shopaholic” tell the story of Rebecca Bloomwood, a woman with these common and relatable problems. She shopped herself underwater. She bought so many things she couldn’t afford and barely had room for, and it ruined her relationships as well as her credit rating. Sophie Kinsella, the author of the books and Isla Fisher, the actress who played Rebecca, played it for laughs. It is funny watching someone go so out of control. But at the same time, there were serious issues in the background. Her parents scrimped and saved their every penny. Coming from a background like that can teach you to be frugal, or how to practice moderation, but in Rebecca’s case it made her feel like she was trapped. She felt she needed to spend, needed to acquire things to make herself feel self-sufficient or whatever it was she needed to feel. And it was a humorous romp seeing all the trouble she got into, and there was a heartwarming ending as she learned her lesson, and found a guy who loved her for herself despite her flaws. Harmless, chick flick fun. Except, I cried. I identified with Rebecca in so many ways. I also felt relief in areas where I didn’t relate to her. I am not an impulse shopper. I don’t see things and have to buy them immediately. I’m more of a planner. I research, I calculate, I evaluate risk. I go back and look several times before buying. Just to make sure it’s really what I want. These days I rarely buy things on credit, making sure I have the money and that I can still pay my bills and live up to my responsibilities. But yes, I have spent a lot of money. Money perhaps I could have used to buy a house, or save for a rainy day, of which there have been quite a few in recent years. Do I need everything I’ve bought? No, of course not.
I bought a car I loved that cost more than basic transportation. But it was in no way impulsive. I’m still driving it and still paying for it and I’ve never lost an ounce of sleep over my choice. The intangibles, experiences I’ve had, people I’ve met through owning the car, have no quantifiable value, but are priceless to me.
And that’s how I look at most things. Things serve a purpose. Things have intrinsic value. They have assigned value. I tried explaining this to Ralph one night when we were down at First Friday. He was telling me how he and Kate were not picky about having real jewelry aside from wedding rings, which have their sentimental value, etc. And I said, sure, I’m not a big jewelry person either. But there are people who get great pleasure from a nicely crafted piece of jewelry. It’s art and to them is worth the price they may pay. The higher quality, more expensive the materials, the longer the piece will last and hold its value. That’s the theory.
It works with pretty much everything. Ralph collects original comic art. It’s intrinsic value, the cost of paper and ink, are just a fraction of the assigned value. Ralph, and Kate too, have built their lives around comic art. It is their great passion in life. The pieces that line the walls of their home and of Ralph’s store are not just things. They are relative needs. They are nourishment for the soul. They bring real happiness.
This was actually what I tried to explain to him, planning to work up to my own examples. Handbags are art too, you know. They are designed and crafted of fine materials and they serve a purpose. They bring real happiness to the collector and the aficionado. They often cost much more than basic transportation for your wallet and keys. In a way they are a microcosm of personal space.
Feeling the need to justify my collection is not new. And if I believed my theory so thoroughly, then why must I continually convince myself and others? It’s because in the back of my mind, I know my relative needs have expanded perhaps more than they should have. As much as I love handbags, a few nice bags would probably be enough. I could sell the rest and maybe feed a few African villages for a time.
But so can lots of other people. How much are we to reasonably allow ourselves? What is the acceptable level of self-indulgence? When I was a member of the LDS church there were many families of great wealth. They and their kids had nice clothes and cars and lived in big houses. They paid their tithing, 10% of their earnings, so they fulfilled the literal counsel of the church. But does that let them off the hook to do what they like with the rest? What of the rest of us, who can’t seem to afford such a regular tithe, but will still treat ourselves every now and then? We all deserve a little bit of extra comfort when we can afford it don't we?
But are those relative needs and the sense of entitlement we have towards them making us richer or poorer? In the current economic climate, I think we’re all feeling a bit guilty. No one is immune. And our capitalistic system is based on the fact that businesses create goods and services that people want. If that weren’t the case, there would just be farmers producing food, some basic textile mills for basic clothing production, and basic home building for shelters.
But hang on; we also need education. So there have to be educated people, and materials used to educate. Part of education is knowledge of art. If education is a necessity, and art is worthy of being a topic of education, then we must need art. We need art because it makes life better. And if art can make life better, so can other forms of nourishment. Ideas, expression, spirituality, love and other feelings, all can be needs. The needs Barbara and her friends had in their house and fulfilled with a lot fewer things than I have. Things can also supplement the same kinds of needs that are separate from “things”. A washing machine is a thing that aids in the care of a basic need, clothing. So is a washing machine a necessity? Well, it makes washing clothes easier, leaving more time available to attend to other needs, like family relationships, adding to quality of life. Because time is one of those things that we can never create more of. But we can get the most out of time by using some things. And making the most of our time is what life is. Life is taking the time we have and doing the best we can with it according to our capabilities and our best judgment.
And round and round we go, because everyone has his or her own best judgment. So all these things I buy, because I want them/or need them, I’m not sure which, because they serve a purpose, make my life better, keep me happy, or make me feel whatever I need to feel, will be there in greater or lesser numbers than some other people have, life is not fair, nor are all things equal. And is that okay? I think it has to be. Asceticism is right for some, and charity is a good thing, and obviously some needs are more pressing than others.
So I have an ever-expanding collection of nice handbags. I collect action figures, and books and many other sorts of things. I love my car and I attach great sentimentality to certain pieces of clothing or shoes. Things can hold memories. They are vessels really, places to keep your stuff, whether it be physical objects or bits of psyche. And we all have a little bit of each.
There is more to be said, an ongoing argument in the culture, economy, arts, morality or religion and I have no neat tidy ending. The dark side was portrayed artfully by Tolkien, in how the ring took over Gollum, it became his "precious", his reason for being; how easily it was for anyone to fall under its spell if they weren't careful. The ring itself was a thing, it represented power, and indeed had power itself. Fortunately there aren't objects like that around in our everyday lives. I think the point is that power should not come through things. Things should not give power. People with things should not consider themselves more powerful than those without. Your things are not who you are, but they may just remind people of you.
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