Emotocon-servation

I hear from time to time that e-mail is a horrible means of communication, a means that leads directly to misunderstandings. I hear from time to time that sensitive or even vaguely imortant issues should happen over the phone or preferably in person.

There is science behind this. Within our brain is a division known as the limbic center. It's function is much like that of our emotional and intuitive nature--our proverbial heart. If you're talking to someone and they don't say anything out of line, but they give you the creeps for reasons that you can't explain, it's because your limbic center is picking up on body language or micro-expressions, that your neo-cortex (your proverbial head) can't explain. The limbic center and neo-cortex don't speak to each other very well so that's why sometimes you feel things that don't make sense or you can't describe.

The limbic center responds to millions of environmental cues of which you have no awareness. In others it observes facial ticks, movements of the eyes, body postures, tones of voice, dilation of the pupils. Your limbic center is a lie detector, a joy detector, a lust detector. But it communicates with feelings that you can't always interpret or many of us learn to ignore. But many of us, all day long, take for granted what we don't ignore. How many times have we looked at a friend and communicated volumes? That's almost all the work of the limbic center.

In face to face communication, we are operating on all those levels at once. On the telephone, our instinctual sensors pay attention to vocal changes in tone, but are partially hindered by not being able to observe body language. Over e-mail, we are stuck in the land of the neo-cortex and are left to fill in the gaps.

But is it really fair to blame e-mail, to say that e-mail is terrible? Might it be more accurate to say that people are too quick to assume, that we are an insecure species ready to fill empty space with visions of an outside world beset to vex us?

Assuming that you've never met me, you likely have a picture in your head of what I sound like--how I would be reading this to you and responding to you physically. And that image would be different in every reader's brain. We are incapable of experiencing anything without context, so however it is you may imagine me, it is based on your own experiences, your own mental records, your own baggage.

When you imagine a slight over e-mail that was not intended, I think that it's safe to say that while e-mail may be inadequate, it is not a demon. Your demons are the demon.

It's at this point that I should confess to you that about an hour ago, I was trembling with rage over an e-mail someone sent to me (that's the stuff of the reptillian center by the way, for those of you who are interested). I am writing this post now, and I'm still a little angry. I'm not feeling terribly forgiving, though I'm feeling better than I was an hour ago. Much better.

Does that now color your perception of the tone of my message? It should. Do I now seem irrational and/or self-righteous rather than ponderous? That likely will have to do with your own history with anger and/or angry people. That history may guide you to guess correctly, but you will be relying on your own experience, not the emotionless white-on-grey text of this post.

I love e-mail. I'm a terrible corresponder and don't correspond well via e-mail or the telephone really with anyone--including my closest friends and family. But, like exercise, I hardly do it, but when I do it I feel great.

I actually enjoy the facelessness of communication like this. I enjoy the writing part. I enjoy when I have so much to say that I go on and on and can't quite stop writing. I enjoy re-reading what I've written before I send it, only to make so many additions to my e-mail that I have to read it again. I like when, for important e-mails, I'll cycle through like that five times before I send, like I did this morning.

Sometimes e-mail gives people the courage to be awfully mean. I don't like that so much. I've been guilty in the past of being mean over e-mail. Again, though, is e-mail the real criminal or was I? It's not a terribly profound point that I'm trying to make, is it, so feel free to respond to this post and tell me that I'm stupid. You can get really mean after all, and you can picture me as a guy who deserves it and who's feelings won't even be hurt.

I also like talking to loved ones on the phone. I like to be able to pace and react nervously. I like hiding my facial expressions so I can roll my eyes when I hear bullshit. I like looking at my feet and constantly moving while I talk. I like being able to close my eyes, or stare in one spot so I can really concentrate on what the other person is saying. In the past, I have found much more confidence dealing with others on the phone, and even more confidence while typing away by myself.

In person, I have a tendency never to look anyone in the eye. That's not as bad as it sounds. I actually don't hear very well, so I tend to watch people's mouths so I can better understand what they're saying. I have a tendency to muddle words and speak a little like our president does from time to time. I can come off as academic occasionally, but never really in person. If I am really comfortable with you, I will become more at ease and articulate, but with most people in my life, that is not how I feel and not how I come accross.

I have a funny relationship with conflict. My fiance will tell you that I can be argumentative, that while I'm agreeable and compromising for the good of the pack, I can quickly and agressively defend myself very stubbornly when I feel a line has been crossed. Most others I know, would probably tell you that they've never seen me particularly defensive or combative.

At some point in my life I began to divide the people in my life into two groups--people I really cared about, and everyone else. At one point in my life, I used to care little about Everyone Else. Later, I began to care for all human beings--perhaps too much, but I still found it hard to truly participate, to truly engage in the dance of life with Everyone Else.

My fiance knew me for two years before she got together with me, even worked with me closely. She shared conversations with others who thought they knew me. She informed me at one point after we'd been dating for a while, that I do not at all resemble the person she once thought I was, nor did the opinions of the Others with whom she spoke hit the mark.

It became clear to me at that point that I live my life with most people like I'm writing an e-mail. I am interesting words on a illustrated page, but I leave the interpretation to others whom I mostly ignore. And when their demons respond, my immediate feeling is that their demons justify my condition, they justify this distance.

There are some people whom I really love, but I still live far away from them for whatever reason. This has happened a lot in my adult life. I may treat them mostly like they're Everyone Else, but they occupy a place in my heart that they couldn't possibly know about, since I never show it. I am my father's son. I accidentally upset a person who lives in that category today, and that person responded via e-mail in a way that I only imagine e-mail can give one the courage to respond. I'll leave it at that.

I like e-mail because it is convenient. I avoid conflict because it is inconvenient. I treat many people in a way that is convenient for me, in a way that usually causes very little harm. I lead a life that is somewhat monastic in that I have tried my best to remove the trappings of life because they bother me so much. I am sensitive. Too sensitive. Those are my demons.

Remembering the Brink

About a month or two before I proposed to my fiance, I was in a panic. After all, if you've never asked anyone to marry you before, it essentially means that you've not gotten your dating history right until that moment. I was daunted by the fact that I had only a string of huge mistakes to guide me in my decision. I still, somehow, knew that I would ask, but before I did I wrote this song. I called it "Thirty" because I had written songs for Too Much Light called "Twenty Seven" and "Twenty-eight" ("Twenty-nine" was a monologue), all based on my age at the time, and decided I'd make this the third and final installment. For some reason, everyone liked it but it didn't get into the show. I thought maybe it was because Genevra was there and everyone felt weird about putting this song in while she was in the show. Although Genevra really understood what it meant and so liked the piece. I think it made her feel a bit better about my not having asked her yet. Here it is:

I have woken up dead in a bedroom of pink, and
Thought to myself "what am I doing sleeping here?"
And I’ve woken up coughing and wheezing
And asking myself “hey, why does this asthmatic smoke?”

And I’ve felt a warm body beside me and leaned with one arm
Over nakedness talking of politics ‘till I said at last
"Hey, do you have a last name?" and she looked at me blankly
And said...“why”?

And why am I driving at 2 am by some cute woman’s house
Back in 1990-something and a cold sickening feeling is
Tickling my stomach saying
Damn she’s got your balls buddy and that’s not so good.

And I’ve sat myself numb-legged, trying to be Buddha,
Living with some nice woman who was trying to be my wife
And I almost gave my life to a woman out of pity
And I’ve almost believed in false goddesses too

And a big old bunch of nothing can prepare you for marriage
While a big old bunch memories are telling you to run
And you might have it perfect, you might love your woman
But you sing in second person and write about your pain

And you blame expectations and search your compunction
But you only see ghosts and you’re picking some fights
And a minute goes by and you’re like “shit, I’m neurotic”
And your girlfriend’s like “yeah, baby, you and me both”

But you no longer wake up in bedrooms of pink
And you gave up the smoking cold turkey that day
And you’ll never be Buddha but it’s so nice to try
And you’ve only had your head up your ass for a like decade.

And life tends to twist itself pointy like an arrowhead
Made from this light, that flashes like lightning
and this time around you can let yourself walk in a
direction that optimists like to call living

And don’t think I won’t go and follow that arrowhead
Don’t think I won’t be a man--whatever that is--
And please see me love you in the midst of my breakdown
And please reply “yes” when I finally ask.


The song never got into the show. I thought about re-proposing it but by the time I was back in, I was engaged and feeling much better, so the song was irrelevent. I will record it at some point and put it in the audio portion of my website--which badly needs updating.

I have noticed that for years now, when I am able to write something down that is this neurotic, I have almost conqured it. The moment I have written it down, is usually the moment right before I begin to recover. But I don't think that the writing is a catharsis. Art does give us some release, to be sure, but it's overblown, I think mostly by people who don't often make art so when they do it's just a bigger deal. For the rest of us who work all the time, I think we can describe these things so well precisely because we're starting to get a handle on them. Anyway, I wanted to use this song for something because although it's irrelevent, I do still like it.

Joy

And then suddenly we had a little dog at our house, sniffing, pacing nail-tapping its way over our hard-wood floors from room to room.

It was Friday. I was finishing up my most recent post when I got a call from our friend Heather. David, her husband, had found a very small dog wandering around Lawrence and Rockwell. He stopped to pick her up and found that she had no tags. He knocked on a few doors but no one recognized her. So David took her home.

David and Heather have two large boxers and a one-bedroom apartment so they thought to contact Genevra and I because we're looking for a small dog to adopt. I had Genevra call David and I left work early to hop on an El and see this little dog for myself, while Genevra prepared the house for her.

The plan was simple. We would foster the dog but look really hard for her owner. If no one claimed her, we would adopt her.



This is a cute little dog. She's a mix of some kind. We were sure that she had some Chihuaha in her, as you can see from the domed head and the eyes, but the rest was a mystery.

Both of us were performing in Too Much Light this weekend, so immediately we were overtaken by a tidal wave of Busy. Was she housetrained? Why is she peeing every fifteen minutes? Is she pregnant or just overweight? Who's going to watch her tonight? Should we take up the rug? Who will watch her tomorrow? Will she need to be watched tomorrow? Should we take her to a vet? We need to make flyers. Where's the digital camera? How much should she eat? Shit. We forgot to eat dinner!

There were moments, of course, when the dog would cuddle with us on the couch, perch her little chin on one of our bellies and rest, and those moments were good. But the dog did seem a little odd. For one, she was unusually calm. She didn't bark once all weekend (not that I'm complaining) nor did she play. She was always a little pre-occupied and distant, almost as though she were autistic. There were moments of connection and a decent appreciation for the petting and tummy rubbing but she didn't seem too interested in seeking affection. And for a dog of that weight, she didn't seem too intereseted in seeking food. She was after something else but we weren't sure what. We assumed that she just wanted to go home.

We were hesitating over naming her. We didn't want to get attached. In many ways, aside from the distractedness, she was a perfect dog. In fact, she had such a good disposition, whoever owned her obviously didn't teach her anything. She was a wholly undisciplined dog, though hardly any trouble as a "wild" thing.

On Saturday we learned that she was not fixed, and was in heat. That explained the distractedness and likely explained why she ran away from home. It also explained why there was blood everywhere.

When I lived with another woman about four years ago, she and I brought home a six week-old Chihuaha puppy named Orsino. He was incredibly difficult to house train, and really not old enough to begin to learn. He couldn't sleep through the night without having to pee at least once. Elyse and I would take turns getting out of bed at usually 2am, taking his whining little self from his crate with one hand, and then walking him down to the alley in the back of our building.

I remember standing there, on a work night, waiting for him to pee, my eyes closing while I stood, swaying slightly from side to side, when something occured to me. I thought to myself "This sucks. I'm so tired, but I'm not miserable...I would not give this up." That realization sent me reeling.

If I had been able to peer into a crystal ball before I brought Orsino home so that I could see what my life would look like with a puppy in it, I would have changed my mind. I would have watched in horror as I got up at 2am every other night to carry that little potato with feet into the alley, and I would have said "forget it".

That thought led me immediately to the screaming children in the Supermarket, to the desperate feeling I used to get when I saw a couple trying to go about their lives together with this small bundle of inconvenience tugging at their pants or throwing up onto the restaurant floor. They are indeed, standing wabbley in the alley. I look at them and I think "no way." But from the outside I can only see the inconvenience. Sure I see a few grins and giggles, but they seem to pale in comparison to the trauma of trying to live your adult life with a weight around your neck. But what I can't see is the insides of these adult's lives, the insides of their hearts--the parts of them that, though exhausted, wouldn't change it for a second, the parts that grow by giving.

Rain brings growth. Too much sun, will eventually make a dessert.

I grew up in that moment and it changed me. As I carried my empty puppy up my back stairs, I thought about my father. For years I'd seen him as a man who'd given up his dreams so that he could raise a family. He married a woman with three children and had a fourth (me). He gave up dreams of running his own business for the security of a brown lunch bag, a clock-out at 5pm and a daily commute.

By the time I got to the top of my stairs, I realized that my father had accomplished much in the destruction of his bachelor's life. He built a family. I had only seen his life from the outside, and only through my limited perspective. I'd neglected to see the inside, the part that would not undo the life he had made for anything.

Genevra is a woman who loves her freedom. She's a Sagittarius, if that means anything to you. Most of her decisions center around how something will affect or has been affecting her freedom. This weekend was hard for her, and with little love back from the dog, it was hard for her to see how all that trouble could be worth it.

On Sunday night, after two visits to a pet store, and the vet, after flyers went up over the whole neighborhood, after dozens of trips to the fenced backyard and even two attempted doggy-in-heat-prison-breaks, we got a call from Joy's owner. Yes, her name was Joy. A half hour later, our ward was gone.

The empty, newly purchased doggy bed practically whines when you look at it.

Joy has a neurological disorder of some kind, which may explain why she's a little strange--though her being in heat could have explained that as well.

Genevra and I are in some ways relieved because we were getting ready to leave town and didn't know how we were going to manage. We've begun the process of adopting another dog whom we've fallen in love with online. We're hopeful that we'll get to bring him home after the fourth of July.

For now, I wonder about love and giving. I wonder if what I found to be true is indeed true for everyone. There are some philosophies out there that believe that courage and success are measured first by humility and second by accomplishment. Some believe that the hardest thing to do is not exhault the self like we do here in the U.S., but to make the most out of your life while burrying your selfishness. Some believe that for everything you relinquish, you will be rewarded with spiritual growth. And some believe that while that's true, one must relinquish with moderation. I like that. I'm all for the middle way.

Certainly it was true for my father. It seems like it might be true for me. For Genevra...we'll see. I'm sure it will be true on some level. In the wake of our incredibly hectic weekend, I'm 100 dollars in the hole and I had a really big fight with my fiance on Sunday night. I don't know what I gained. And actually, as cute as Joy was, as much as I knew I could fall in love with her if I allowed myself to, I was pretty miserable all weekend. I did long for more freedom. I was overwhelmed.

But I never felt that I'd made a mistake. I may not have felt the love and growth that usually accompanies giving, but I wouldn't go back and change a thing.