The Toaster-Oven Dilemma...and Patterns

I feel the symptoms described by a character in a Tom Robbins book...comfort levels rising causing me to feel some paralysis.

(Exactly one month ago I let this sentiment flow from my head down my likely tense shoulders, through my arms to fingers tip tapping their way across my keyboard...it continues)

I am afraid to open my toaster oven, as though once I do that I will no longer be capable of traveling the world...I break that seal, it is still possible to return it, but once it is out of the box, working for me, toasting my toast, warming bagels and vegetarian meatballs i will no longer want to get rid of it, it will be too painful, plus i have the added investment of money and time...I just know now, after college and buying things to make our houses homes, that it all just ends up being stuff to deal with, stuff that is scattered across the current homes of several friends, money down the proverbial drain...so wasteful, blind consumption...I have a desire to take all of the things I bought this evening back to target. the house is fine as it is. does not need more. the simple plastic plates will suffice, glass jars are perfect glasses, no fear of plastic contamination, they say, "i care about the planet." and they are also unique, like I'm that cool guy who has jars for glasses, like it is some novel idea...I have just grown so accustomed to middle class life with homes completely furnished by target and ikea, so the idea of random stuff making up a home feels so WILD.

...I have wanted to go back to these words...but I do not want to touch them, what I wrote was what I felt...I can now tell you that I took the toaster-oven back, it never even left the bag. The only things I kept were steak knives and plates. the knives have been the very necessary sharp tool used for all cutting needs...such is the life of a Californian transplant bachelor...He lives without scissors.

I can tell you this. in this entire month I have not missed the toaster...only once burned toast in the oven, and I just scraped off the black parts with my knife...and i enjoy drinking out out glass jars that used to house spaghetti sauce. they are hefty, a good size. at some point I'd like to soak them, let the labels peel off, but honestly...it is not necessary, so laziness wins that battle...

I was right to know that life without these items would hardly make me blink...impulse purchasing and thinking we need things...we don't. I don't. It was a nice step in the right direction. A step towards simple. Simplify. (Here I wrote something cliche, like a bold observation about life with a trite ending. perfect for the last 5 pages of some Hollywood script. so I deleted it. saved you from reading more worthless self-indulgent crap. you're welcome.)

Though I still notice myself finding comfort...in patterns, habits...wake up and immediately stumble to the kitchen, bring water to a boil in an old chrome tea kettle and make coffee in my stove top espresso maker....every day...

...or my walk to the gym: South on Hooper for two blocks, across the street from Alberto's Laundromat and under the Dominican Flags, then I stare down at the garbage that always collects by the chain-link fence...a right onto 5th street, I pick this street because after the first block which is mostly dirty and at the end always has cat food sitting out for strays, I walk from Keap to Rodney streets, and this one block is lined with trees, clean neat houses with stoops that watch me pass...and then then the real reason I take this path. the old church on the South-Eastern corner of Rodney and South 5th. red brick. tall steeple, juts into the sky and no matter blue skies or grey clouds, either way i find it an inspiration. a reminder to keep my head up...
then i pass the the Red Mill Warehouse, which for a long time I thought was running a drug-game... (that may have just been watching too much WEEDS)...then there is the large tree with the Mother's day balloons...back in May they were full of helium trying to pull away from the tree, now they are pulling in the other direction, a sagging bouquet drooping in death, gravity pulls them to their grave, the branches keep them swinging in mid air...I cross the street, by the sweet nuts vendor and the table with ladies undergarments....then I walk through the bus lot, wonder about the folks using this form of transportation and avoid dead birds on the concrete...under the JMZ line I walk carefully so as not to get hit by the mysterious dripping from above that covers most of the sidewalk... I glance at the curls, beards and yamakas as Hassidic men bustle around the string of banks and then the same men watch over the brown men building their latest addition to Williamsburg...luxury apartments...last, past a cool looking bar that I have never walked into, and there it is: my little piece of comfort and luxury...SOMA health club...I walk in and either make awkward eye contact and hellos with the girl who stands so uncomfortably that she makes me uncomfortable, or i talk with Liam the musical theatre actor who has also been in NY for a year...through my workouts, distracted on occaision by Sports Center...and i end it with five to ten minutes in the steam room...

...very predictable...pattern habit, this little controlled piece that gives me false security in a chaotic unpredictable world, one might say...


also. I found a desk...on the street, it was dark out but looked to be in good condition, so i rolled it home. It was dirty, so I cleaned it up, but now I have a perfectly good desk. It was on the invisible, ongoing list of things to add to the apartment...A bargain.

Temptaion Laid On My Cold Living Room Floor...

...I leaned back in my chair, stretched my neck and as I turned to my left noticed a small baggie on the floor...faded batman insignias on one side...even against the built up grime on the hardwood floor, behind the semi-transparent zippie I could see it. White powdery residue. Cocaine. There is cocaine in my home. I knew this already, I saw the rolled up dollar bills on the table a few mornings ago...turns out my one-month-subletter enjoys a little nose candy on the weekends after his long hours at the IT company...I picked it up and looked at it...a strange sensation, desire came over me...wanted to smell it, then had a fear that some of the drug could be inhaled, causing a high which I don't think I am ready for.

In a matter of seconds thoughts are speeding through my mind..."what if I put this on my gums? Would it work? Is there enough in here to have affect? How crazy would that be, my first time, perhaps only time, doing coke by myself on a friday in my pajamas while reading a book on love and journaling?"...(my thoughts turned positive, probably the devil on my shoulder)... "it seems pretty artistic...could take me to an interesting new depth"...(the angel then chimes back in) "could also create an addiction," (the devil sends one back across the net) "maybe my writing and essence would be so raw and conscious that I would become hooked on the stuff, never bothering to write unless I was on coke...a speed freak trying to take my own writing to the next level, competing with Jack Kerouac's ghost, following his example...using narcotics as a way to open up my mind"

...I stared at this small baggie no bigger than a quarter and saw the power it had, or that I had given it...I had two choices: to do, or not to do, that was the question...

In a moment I could see my entire existence explained...the make or break point...I would look back 40 years later saying to the camera, "it was in that moment, at age 23, I chose to take the chaotic road, pushing my body to unhealthy extremes, choosing to know addiction so as to learn a new high...thinking, logically explaining to myself that it would be worth it because pain and pleasure come as an inseparable pair, I cannot know new depths of one without the crest of the other...If I ever wanted to live, this was the way..."

...And after that 15 seconds of thought, I set the baggie down, picked up the laptop with the flickering screen, and decided to write down my thoughts instead. Maybe it is fear, and maybe I am missing out on a piece of life...but part of my soul knows there is something very dark about this drug...and I'm just not sure that is a road I want to walk...

However, it is clear to me that not to allow my mind to even wonder about the possibility, or open myself up to the opportunity is a great mistake...How can we really know something without exploring it? As this example proves to me, I do not believe it is necessary to actually take the steps, to act on impulse...but it is crucial, if we are to have any objectivity in our thoughts and opinions, to allow for the possibility...We must at least walk these lines (cocaine or otherwise) closely, get right up to them and study them, sometimes must cross them to find out how we really feel about them...By banning something outright in your mind, you choose ignorance for fear that by exploring it, knowing it, you may then think differently about it...and this new idea or belief may contradict a pre-existing idea you have about your identity, then you are left asking the ultimate frightening questions, the ones that society and culture want you to forget about, encouraging you to buy handbags and watch 'Desperate Housewives' instead...

"Who am I? Were my ideas about who I was in the past false? Have I been living a lie?"

...and once you've asked the questions, if you are at all honest with yourself, it is impossible to go back to living in the old patterns, you are now too aware of other possibilities, too aware of yourself...you question any and all of your actions, "Is this actually me, or am I acting in accordance with the rules of society? Am I merely mimicking everyone else? Am I playing a role?"

...today the real me sat in my pajamas, in my chair, in my brooklyn apartment and considered trying cocaine...at least I think it was the real me, I could have just been hoping for an interesting experience to write about...you never know with these exhibitionist-artistic folks...

*upon further examination, I would like to note that there was really only what would be considered a "trace amount" of cocaine, and my ponderings were more in the "what if" zone...my intention was to share an example of my mind playing with an idea, less of an actual struggle with a desire to do cocaine...to be honest it really doesn't excite me, but in that moment I played the "but what if i did?" game with myself...no need to fear folks, I am not about to slip into a Lindsey Lohan-drug coma....

breaking all the rules...

A bit of a mischievous smile is creeping onto my face. In my soul, the excitement of a child...I am breaking a rule, an arbitrary rule: listening to Christmas music before thanksgiving...As a kid, this was the rule my parents enforced, I think because they knew they would have to listen to the Raffi Christmas album about a thousand times, and hoped to buy themselves a little more auditory peace...a smart move on their behalf, but one that has me at age twenty-three with a slight feeling of guilt as Paul McCartney sings to me that he is "Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time."

Adulthood continues to settle in my body, mind...these little realizations further my understanding that I can do exactly as I choose. No one will stop me from listening to the Charlie Brown Christmas album a million times this season. But there is a part of me that wants to respect the old rule. The question I must ask myself is whether I want to respect the rule out of continued childhood desire for acceptance and validation from my parents, or out of a fear that the special-ness of the music will be lost in listening to it for an extended season...

As I was about to expand on this idea that by choosing to listen to Holiday music 14 days early I, in essence, am choosing to leave childhood behind, I concluded that I may be looking a little too hard at a simple desire to listen to this music...agh, but no, christmas is this strange and mysterious thing, all this fantasy and magic, it was particularly wonderful for me as a young boy, full of belief...I wonder about my emotional response to the holiday and the season now, am I clinging to childish habits, illisionary ideals? A piece of my soul wishes to have back some of that naive optimism...the snow and magic and films depicting dreams coming true...

'tis the season for continued refleciton, I know this...

Excerpt From a letter to Deidre...

I finally sent this letter to Deidre, and in rereading it there was some stuff that I thought I might share...it has been a while since posting, but not since writing, just haven't felt like what has been coming out has been worth sharing...or it feels incomplete...

here are bits and pieces from words on October 2, 2009:

In the past months I have continued to give my dreams more weight, or I am paying more attention to them. As a kid, parents and folks tell you “Oh it was just a dream,” but my instinct tells me that if I spend such a large percentage of my life sleeping, and therefore dreaming, there must be something to them. I continue to set the goal of recording all dreams in the morning, but I often fail to actually accomplish this. The interesting thing to note through all of this is that as I have treated my dreams more seriously, it has changed my perception of waking life. Here is why. After you have a dream, you can recall feeling and sights and images, but it has nothing to do with the present moment. After you have an experience, you also can remember these details, perhaps a bit more clearly, but in this moment, now, it is nothing but a story or scene that exists in my mind. Both memories exist purely inside my brain, so can they be the same? I don’t know about all of this, but it makes me curious.

So I went to a lucid dreaming workshop at burning man and we talked about how to become lucid in our dreams and how to use this as a tool for further learning about our subconscious and true desires. He suggested some ideas for bringing about specific dreams, like if you want to dream about flying at night, then spend time during the day thinking about flying, and imagining yourself doing it. Think about birds and planes and imagine what it would feel like. Then when you are dreaming you recall thoughts and feelings from your day, and the feeling of flight will be more easily accessible. Some cool ideas that I have been toying with a bit.

I just smelled my armpit and it is a good thing you are not actually sitting here with me right now. Good God, that is hideous. It’s about time I get myself together for my first day back on the job. I’m hoping to work as much as I can in the next six weeks to hopefully have a little bit saved up so I can survive January Rent, and hopefully find another job that is less taxing on the voice. And inside would be nice for the winter months.

Also, Greg pierced my ears with a safety pin, a cork, apple and his sister’s help in his Grandfather’s kitchen in Berkeley. It was pretty wild, and kind of happened on a whim. I had been thinking about it for a while, I just wanted to see what it would look like. I also felt it would fit my look at this point in time. And I wanted to feel the pain, I knew I could handle it, but had to actually do it. Another attempt at a “rite-of-passage” I guess. Still feel like I need something to cross over to the land of…manhood? I still feel like a student of the universe. When will I go away to the woods and find out what I am made of, who I am, and come back standing with knowledge and confidence to tackle this whole planet in a giant hug?

Loving peace, exhilarating adventure and joyous laughter I wish for you.

And maybe you can cause a little trouble too.