If I get to 80 and I still think I have to become something that I haven’t yet, I’m going to be depressed. It will be too late. But I won’t mind being 80, if I’m relaxed and proud of myself, the person I want to be. Happy. I won’t mind being 80 if I’m happy.
Thank the GODS for the old reliability of paper. And that I happen to have a pad and pen with me even though I hardly ever use it. I took a short bike ride this morning, ending up at my favorite writing haunt for coffee and a bagel and some words. Just as I boot up my computer, it decides to update windows, which is, coincidentally, also when I want to do something with it.
“Don’t turn off your PC,” it says (why would I?)
“This will take a while,” it says.
I need to ditch this entry level windows laptop and get myself another chromebook. They don’t take so long to update.
Anyone want a computer?
That’s what I should do when I want to get rid of something, give it to my readers. They deserve it. If family or friends want my giveaways, they should read my blog. I mean, what’s in it for me, right? I want readers.
And I don’t want to sell second hand stuff, I already have one job and my second job is writing. The difference between my two jobs is that I pay to do the second one. I pay for a domain name, I pay internet fees, and now I propose to pay my readers. Maybe it will always be like that. But what I get in return is more valuable than money: self-awareness and attention (look at me!) and the immortality of the internet.
Another reason to give stuff away: I am purging. I am on a kick to become portable by the time I retire. I started purging things yesterday. I want to be so light as to be able to move without it feeling like an inconvenience. I want to rent furnished apartments for less than my mortgage. I want to live places where we might not need a car even, and can rent one only when we need it. We could live well, if we have the money, rent nice cars, and nice apartments and eat at expensive restaurants. But we won’t be maintaining two households, or paying indefinitely for storage. This won’t be easy. There might be too many things I just can’t bear to throw away. But I’ve got years until retirement, so we’ll see. I’ve heard that this is liberating.
This isn’t new. The Swedish do it, and call it the “death purge”. After they retire, they start getting rid of stuff so that their kids won’t have to deal with it when they die. Why not prepare for death that way? After all, isn’t the crossover from this life to the next the ultimate in portability? All you can take with you is who you are. Might as well prepare yourself.
I have been thinking a lot about death lately. People we know will almost certainly outlive us. What do we want them to say about us? He lived fully while he was here? That would be good. He enjoyed life? Good. He was a responsible man. OK. He was normal. hmm.
I guess it doesn’t matter what they say. It only matters if I think it it is a reflection of what I really am. Once I’m dead, I won’t care. But I care now, if it’s true.
I want to live fully.
I was telling a co-worker that I have a brick with my name on it outside the company museum, which I bought to support the museum, but also so that after I was gone, people could see that and say, “Andy Glasser was here” (that’s what it says). She suggested that that people would say, “I knew that guy. He was kind of funny.” to which I added, “too bad that he died,” and she laughed.
Time will pass some more and I will have to face death, probably, unless I don’t see it coming. But already, to some degree, I am facing it. I am within range. If I get old enough, I will have to start thinking that I don’t have that much longer. At that point, how will I feel about leaving people behind? I don’t want them to think that I was not content to die whenever it was my time. I want them to think that I was done with this life, and it was time to leave. I want them to think that I rid myself of baggage, that life was complete. I really do think we keep going. I don’t believe in death. But I can’t be sure.
Space is infinite, why not life itself? This is what I believe in, infinity, not finity. We always existed and always will. There is no beginning and no ending and no such thing as non-existence, only infinity in all directions, forward, backwards, large and small. I know that it seems impossible to think that there was no beginning, but no more impossible than to think that there was ever nothing. What is nothing? Nothing can’t exist, by definition.
I think I might start referring to death as portability. It’s really just all about getting rid of everything you don’t need, whether you want to or not.
I’ve been playing the drums since I was in the 2nd grade. I was proud to be the youngest ever to be in the elementary school orchestra, under George Scott. Usually you didn’t get in there until 3rd grade. Since the elementary school orchestra was cut later on, I may still have that record. We would play all kinds of music during the year, and then at the end of the year we would alternate years between music from My Fair Lady, and the Sound of Music. Those were the only songs on which we played harmonies. I got to play each of those twice.
I could have been a great drummer. I know it because I have my moments, even now, and I know that if I kept at this from early on, those moments would have become the norm.
But I doubted whether music was my calling. I was interested in acting, and writing and photography and politics and math. Could I change the world by playing the drums? Probably not. Maybe that made it selfish.
But now I see that I could have been a great drummer and it would not have interfered with being just as mediocre as I ultimately became at all of those other things. Yes, I had my doubts, but maybe we don’t choose our callings. Maybe they choose us, and we just have to go with it.
2nd grade. I’ve always been a drummer. If that’s not destiny, what is?
And I don’t procrastinate it so much. I didn’t pursue it because neighbors stopped me from practicing, not because I wasn’t motivated. Even now, while I hesitate to exercise, or write, or work, or read, I don’t hesitate to go down into my basement sanctuary and hit the skins.
I don’t have a lot of time though. So there’s that.
Yeah. Maybe I should have been a drummer. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe I’m a natural.
Four days in and I’m getting used to it. It feels almost normal. I think I even have the top floor to myself again. And by that I mean it would be the second time I thought I had it. Because the last time, people showed up at about 12:15 AM ringing the bell and knocking on the door downstairs. Woke me up, though I pretended it didn’t. I’m not going down there in my pajamas to tell someone why I can’t let them in, or to explain to them how to use the lockbox, because they can’t follow instructions. I was conflicted about leaving them out there in the cold all night, but I don’t know who’s supposed to be staying here and who isn’t. They got in eventually. There’s a long term resident here, Patrick, who I haven’t met, but I was told by the host, Alexis, who I also haven’t met, that he could help out if I needed something. So, I left it to Patrick and he must have caught on at some point, or they figured something out because they all came up to the second floor, which I had thought I was going to have to myself.
Then the next night, they were hanging out talking and laughing at 3:30 in the morning, waking me up again. It was one person in particular who was louder than the rest. There’s always the one who isn’t aware of the quiet.
The upside is that I didn’t worry about disturbing them when I was getting ready in the morning. And I knew I’d have no competition for the bathroom, because they weren’t going to get up that early.
They’ve checked out now and I never even saw them.
So, I was seduced by the affordability of renting a room in a house, in Pittsburgh, “where no one lives,” (the listing said), and I accepted this as truth for a minute, during which time I felt the need to grab this great deal before it disappeared. No one lives here, except the other renters and the long term resident, Patrick, but those are details.
There were other reasons I was able to convince myself that I’d have the entire house to myself. The other rooms were “off limits,” they said. If there were people in them, wouldn’t that be obvious? Quiet time was 10PM, “because it is a residential neighborhood,” not because you could disturb other guests (like the other guests disturbed me). On the other hand, that there was “absolutely no cooking in the kitchen after 10PM.” that should have been a flag. Why else care? if I was the only one using the house.
I checked the listing again.
“Lot’s of privacy.”
“No cooking after 10.”
“This is one of four rooms in this house that I host.”
Missed that the first time. Oops.
Hey, it’s fine. I have my own room. That’s more than I have at home.
There’s value in doing things the hard way, anyway, like traveling in coach, for example, or taking shorter showers, because there’s only one bathroom, or packing your own lunch, or waiting for everyone’s favorite show to come out on Netflix before you watch it, or writing without a desk. First world difficulties, I know, but still, it matters, because people can have it way too easy, and that’s even what they think they want!
People aren’t just looking for an easy way to lose weight, they’re looking for an easy way to do everything. But this expectation that anything should be easy inhibits progress. I suppose it can help to have a quiet place to think, a good cup of coffee, or something to eat, but when you get absolutely everything you think you need to set the stage for creativity, or productivity or focus, then you end up expecting that the work will be easy too. And nothing you really want is easy to get. Truth. So you might as well stop expecting that anything you do is going to make the work easier.
You might as well do everything a harder way. You might as well just get used to it.
And if you’re like me, soft, then even baby steps could make the difference between having loads of unfulfilled potential to brag about, and actually doing something.
So, this has been good for me. I had a lot of goals for this week off by myself, killing vacation that was otherwise going to expire. Bound to feel a little bit of underachievement, but I’ve been productive. I have written three blog posts (whatever, it’s something), worked on Spanish, translating two paragraphs of a book I’m reading, Todo va a estar bien, By Ricardo Silva Romero, a Colombian. 233 of 224 pages to go. I’ve seen Pittsburgh (or not), walked a lot for exercise (or not) and tambien visité a mi hija when she was available. That’s why I chose to come here, to spend some time with my daughter before she graduates next month, when I will return one last time, to Pittsburgh, and then never again (well, who knows).
It’s been good. I’m sad it’s almost over.
Seems like yesterday we were dropping her off here, and yet I’m still surprised at how the week has flown by.
I inadvertently admitted that I self identify as unhappy. I went out on a limb and shared a poem on facebook that I had written recently.
I figured that the safety of poetry, is that people won’t really understand it, so you can be honest.
But when you say things like your bucket list includes only happiness, it’s probably not so hard to figure out that you don’t think you have it yet.
And then people are concerned about you. Or sad for you. Such a sad poem. No. It actually felt good to express it.
I want to say that depression isn’t always so serious. Not to belittle it. It can be. And if someone tells you they are depressed, it should be taken seriously, because no one wants to burden people with that, so if they’re telling you, it might have already risen to a serious level. But assuming one doesn’t wait for that, slips it in a poem for example, by accident, I would make a distinction between any old minor chronic depression like I live with and that which rises to the level of despair. I am not in despair. Hardly ever. Probably never.
There is a lot about my life that I really like and appreciate and recognize. Family. Friends. Hobbies:, music, photography, and drink (he he). I make good money. I know people who make more, I can’t retire whenever I want to, and I wouldn’t mind that, but I’m not naive. I make better than most people. And I don’t hate my job. I wouldn’t do it if I weren’t paid but if I ever complain about it, it’s only because I’m spoiled.
I’m just not always happy with myself. I want to be able to show off what I haven’t been able to do, but believe that I can. I want purpose.
And I don’t always know what to do about it. I’m kind of like, lost a little.
But what is happiness? Do you know that when people self-identify as happy that can be very unreliable? They could be fooling themselves. They may not realize how happy they could be. It’s all relative to their own expectations. We don’t really have objective standards.
So when I desire this, I may not fully understand how elusive it is to achieve something you can’t define. It’s Impossible!
Am I expecting it every second of the day? Yes! Is it a solid state of being that never changes? No.
I’m in Pittsburgh. Using vacation that would expire if I didn’t take it. Came here alone. This is why I’m posting more than usual. I’m on a writer’s retreat. My daughter is here, going to school, so we visit and when she’s busy, I’m on my own. She’s repeating to her friends that I am on a writer’s retreat, which they think is cool, but I have to qualify that it is self-constructed. I want to see if I still can write. Because I haven’t been. I have other goals too, work on Spanish if I have a chance. Walk around the city. Maybe sight-see, eat some good food. I meant to bring drumsticks so that I could work on my chops a bit, on a pillow. But I forgot.
I rented a room through Airbnb, in a house that I share with people I don’t know. Last night a guest showed up at 12:15AM and rang the doorbell and knocked on the door. Some issue, I guess. I ignored them. I felt bad, but how do I know who is supposed to be staying here or not? He or she got in eventually without my help, and I couldn’t sleep until then.
My room has no desk. It’s not particularly conducive for writing. I think that I would be more productive if I spent more money to make it easier, but that’s spoiled thinking. It wouldn’t. My expectations that writing can be made easy by a desk in a room – well, easier maybe. But if I had that, I’d probably be so comfortable I’d just watch Netflix and get depressed about it. It’s an excuse. Writing isn’t easy. Spanish isn’t easy. No way around it. Might as well just do it the hard way.
So, I’ve been working amid distraction at Starbucks and the University of Pittsburgh library, and worrying that I won’t get anywhere. Today I found a nice spot at Crazy Mocha in Squirrel Hill (the neighborhood I’ve planted myself in). It’s quiet and relatively empty and I have myself a cozy corner. It’s starting to work. It’s nice to have some time on your own to figure stuff out. And here is something that I figured out. Vague goals like “happiness” don’t get you anywhere.
You know that song, “when you’re smiling, when you’re smiling the whole world smiles with you…”? It popped into my head, like an epiphany! I downloaded it. Because I can. Louie Armstrong sang it. Also Regis Philbin. I really want to hear that version, but it’s only on Amazon Unlimited, which I don’t subscribe to. Darnit. I bet it’s good.
Do you see where I’m going with this?
I want to smile more.
That’s an achievable goal. It may even be easy. I already smile a lot, I just deny that it represents happiness. But what else is happiness? It is a moment by moment thing. I know some of you have figured this out already. WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME!
You can even fake it, and the thing is when the whole world smiles with you, then it’s contagious back, and suddenly you’re not faking it anymore.
I can do this. Watch.
At least, I have not been convinced yet that the cost is high enough for such a HUGE sacrifice. Because I get a lot out of it. It is the only path I’ve found for keeping in touch with people I don’t see anymore. It is what classmates.com never was because it wasn’t free, for one, so it wouldn’t help to join if you were the only one. And it was only for old classmates.
I am back in touch with people I haven’t seen in almost 40 years, and I am in constant touch with friends and family near and far. I know family that I otherwise would not even know. I have met up with people, gone to events organized online, because of facebook, a tribute for an old band teacher from 9th grade and the 50th birthday party of two friends I hadn’t seen in 30 years, for example.
I am aware that what I post is not secure. I keep that in mind when I post. I don’t post anything that is particularly private. I do post my opinions, sometimes, but as I am reminded by the coffee mug that my family bought me when I was probably late teens, and I still have it, it’s on my desk at work, where I bring mugs to die, because I always end up breaking them there, and I figure I’ve had this one long enough, only it won’t break, “Everyone is entitled to my opinion.”
The thing is, I’m not completely frank on there. Who is? Some. Maybe the warnings are more for them. I use it mostly to keep in touch, and everything else I post on there is relatively non-controversial. But that’s a shame. A part of me wants people to be even more forthcoming. Maybe it will follow you everywhere for your entire life, giving employers, governments, fascists, material to judge you by, and maybe even punish you for, but if everyone were honest then that would make it kind of hard to judge, wouldn’t it? Am I going to pass on a candidate for something stupid they did when they were young, when I know what every other young person did that was stupid when they were young, and for those I don’t I can assume they also did something stupid?
I believe in the right to privacy. But I also think the more we share, the more we understand. And what greater path to salvation is there than understanding each other?
That said. When I do share on facebook, it is only my intent to share with friends. If other people have access to it, I don’t necessarily think that will hurt me, but it isn’t my intent. I agree that facebook shouldn’t share it. In fact, I was pissed with facebook when they had this feature where if I posted a comment on any public post, they would actually put it in the feed of all my friends: “look what Andy said!”. I ranted politically on my cousins page. I knew it was public and I didn’t want it seen by co-workers, but since they didn’t know her, I considered myself pretty well protected by the probabilities. At least until facebook decided to point it out to them. I didn’t necessarily think that was illegal, just stupid. I don’t think they do that anymore.
And what about this charge that an analytics company working for the Trump campaign got a hold of Facebook data to use in targeted advertising for the election. What data, is my first question? Was it really everything we posted? Or was it just what we show interest in? And is this really the worst accusation you can level against them? OK, not a fan of Trump, but targeted advertising is a way to find people who might actually be interested in what you’re selling. If they have an idea that you are conservative and want to target you to get out the vote, would the person targeted be complaining? If you care about a particular issue, and they want to target you to tell you that Trump also cares, or that Hillary doesn’t, is that not information you could use? Now of course they could be lying to get your vote, and sensationalizing for people they think they can get worked up, and rallying around hate, but that’s a different issue. We as a people need to see through that. Complaints that these tactics allow companies or political campaigns to manipulate the populous assumes that we are all children, and maybe we are. But we need to grow up. That’s the solution. Don’t complain to the teacher. Offer the student other alternatives.
None of this means we shouldn’t negotiate the waters to encourage better behavior. If we don’t like how Facebook is making money, then maybe we can make it less profitable for them. We are, in fact, making a deal with them. It is not, as I saw written somewhere, “to use their service in exchange for security.” That’s not the deal we make with them. They have no interest in providing us security. They are not hoping that we join up so that they can provide us security. What’s in it for them? The opposite. We are making a deal that in exchange for this free service, they can monetize our participation. Otherwise, there’s no incentive for them to provide this service. And they probably can’t make enough just by showing us advertising, especially if they can’t target our interests based on data analytics they share with the advertiser.
I wonder though, how much money do they really make off of me, if I never buy anything, and if I only use the service to keep in touch with people? And what if I can minimize the extent to which they can monetize me? I don’t even like facebook all that much. I used to blog. Before facebook, I kept a blog in a blogging community and read other people’s blogs and it was kind of like facebook, in that we shared personal information about each other, but it was less superficial. We wrote longer pieces, and elaborated on our thoughts. We did not generally post pictures of what we were eating that day, though we may have posted pictures of our vacations, while also writing about it. I actually met new people that way, got to know them well enough to trust them, and I am now, even after that blogging community has become defunct, facebook friends with many of them. I think it was much better sharing in that way, and a more effective use of time. I do not grow as a person as much from reading most facebook posts.
Can I convince any of you (the small percentage of you who read this far are good candidates) to start a wordpress blog? We could all subscribe to each other and comment on them, and have a real exchange of ideas. And then we can post a link to it on facebook, but without actually putting any of the content on facebook.
Not everyone will be up for that, takes a little more work, and that’s not what everyone is looking for, but it has its benefits. It takes learning about each other to a new level. It can be more intimate, and more enlightening, and even spiritual. WordPress is easy, and it is free, and they even have an app. See how pretty this site is? Who is up for it?
Heart palpitations, broken collarbone, depression. These are the things that are in the forefront of my life experience right now. I know where the broken collarbone came from. I fell on my shoulder on a ski slope at Winterplace ski resort in west Virginia. I even know what contributes to the depression, in that I don’t write, or do the other things I say make me who I am, but to top it off, the thing that despite it all helps to keep the worst of it away, exercise, I can’t do, for 6 to 12 weeks because my collarbone is broken. The heart palpitations are an annoyance. They are supposedly benign, but despite the fact that coffee brings them on quitting coffee has not gotten rid of them. I take magnesium, CoQ10 and a multivitamin and even some potassium. I’ve basically quit alcohol, because it can bring them on, and sometimes I’ve thought it has, but really they come anyway, I’m having them right now, so probably has nothing to do with alcohol other than keeping me from enjoying it. So I go to gatherings and not only do I have to watch other people drink I have to deal with people pushing me to drink. “you’re winning too much at poker, let me get you a drink.” “Want a beer?” “What kind of bourbon are you drinking?” “You’re not drinking? Why not?”
“I just don’t want to is that fucking all right?”
Jeez. Like it’s not depressing enough, I need help to rationalize why I should be doing it anyway, like it’s the worst thing any or my friends could imagine. They think they are empathizing, but they’re not. They’re projecting.
And my cardiologist wants me to go on statins because my cholesterol is high. I’m not going to give into that, but that doesn’t mean I won’t take some measures to reduce my inflammation, and by proxy, my cholesterol and my BMI etc, if for no other reason to get said Cardiologist off my back, and also because being a little skinnier and healthier feels better, but it’s hard to make those improvements when I can’t exercise. And when I don’t feel good it’s hard to do anything else.
And I’ve been wanting coffee lately, or hot chocolate or something to make me feel good, but I can’t do those. So, I can write, maybe. Even if it’s shit.