Short Shrift

Shrift:  The act of going to or hearing a confession.  
Short Shrift:  A rushed sacrament of confession given to a prisoner who was to be executed very soon.

(Ed. Note: I thought "shrift" was a made up word)

I've been engaged in a running dialogue with Little Westside Jonny concerning a big decision he has been pondering.  This is one of those "by choice" decisions fraught with ambivalence.  The question we ask: "Is this my will or is this god's will?"  It's not always clear when we're pursuing something that we want or think that we want.  If I'm in a burning building I don't parse the nuance of staying versus leaving, what's my will and what's god's will  - I head for the door.  LWSJ made his decision and now he's battling some fear.

So be it.  As is should be.  It can be difficult separating what I want from what god wants for me.  I'm not receiving any text messages from on my cell phone.  That's not how the system works.

On these Wish List decisions - these "this is what I want" decisions - I try to take care of the due diligence and then move forward.  LWSJ prayed about his decision; he sought the counsel of others; he might even have done some writing; and he didn't pay short shrift to the worldly side, either.  If I want a new ball I should see if I can afford the ball and if it's the right ball for the sport I want to play.  That stuff is as important as the spiritual stuff.

Then I act, in good conscience, and see what happens next.  If it's my will and not god's will I'll know soon enough.

Productive Seaweed

On the trail of productivity . . .  always on that trail.

I was pondering all the ways that I spend my time.  I think as an alcoholic I abuse terms like "killing time" or "wasting time."  It seems to me that "sitting quietly" or "talking to friends" would be more appropriate, but that's what I seem to do: get someplace, always get someplace, and fast.  Doesn't make any difference where I go, just get on the move and at a high rate of speed.

Lots of people ask me this: "So what do you do all day now that you don't work?"  I can feel a little disapproval but also the fear creeping in.  Work for money is interpreted as "productive" even when it isn't, which is often.
Productive:  Capable of producing something, especially in abundance; fertile.  

As an aside, I'm grateful that I had the ability to set aside the work-for-pay part of my life - I'm extraordinarily grateful that I could do this.  I clearly remember, as a 30 year old man, wondering if I would be able to keep myself in shelter and fed with food as I grew older.  It was no sure thing.  I was a couple of enabling parents away from a life on the streets.  I was a bad drunk - I didn't let school or work or people get in the way of my drinking and drug use.  I drank as much as I wanted to and damn the consequences.

I like the fact that  I can feel my way through the day at this point in my life.  I don't have to persevere when something is not productive and I can expand my world when it is.  I like being the last person to leave the parking lot after a meeting.  I like to linger a bit when I go for a swim - it takes half again as long as it did when my free time was short, but it's half again as pleasant.  I like the ability to sit quietly and . . . well, sit quietly.  Sometimes I'm sitting quietly in a quiet fashion, and I can extend that and sometimes my mind is on the prowl and the sitting quietly helps it get quiet.  I have trouble explaining this to people.  It's easier to say "I was at my desk from 4 to 5" than "I was sitting quietly with myself and my god from 4 to 5."

Ah, well, onward and upward.

Denial

Denial:  Refusal to believe that a problem exists.

The following quote is attributed to Mark Twain.  Maybe he said it - maybe he didn't.  I don't know who attributed it to him, either, except for me, a source of dubious credibility.  Furthermore, I'm probably going to butcher the quote, but here goes:

"I'm an old man who has suffered much misfortune, some of which has actually happened to me."

I've been reviewing the inventory steps of our program recently and I'm always surprised at how big a part denial plays.  As in: you actually ARE at fault; it really IS you; quit pointing a finger at other people - the inventory is yours, not the other man's; quit pretending that you didn't do anything wrong; quit pretending that when you did do something wrong it didn't hurt anyone else; stop pretending that no one else knew how much destruction you were causing, etc. etc.

I like the butchered Twain quote because it's all about comparing the reality of the world to the reality of Seaweed.  They are not often in the same room.  I don't see things clearly.  I interpret things to my own advantage.

Truth is mighty and will prevail. There is nothing the matter with this, except that it ain't so.  -- Samuel Clemens

Mrs. K and Me: The Helen Chronicles

Stoic:  A person indifferent to pleasure or pain.

I found out yesterday that the mother of one of my oldest friends recently died.  I wanted to send my condolences so I wrote the following letter and emailed it to the family.   I'm not the greatest guy at touchy-feely things like funerals.  I'm not overly emotional.  I'm a good, stoic German.  I wouldn't have been much of an addition at the wake.  I wouldn't have dressed right and I wouldn't have been sad enough.  This woman was 95, for god's sake, and she led a rich life.

My buddy sent the note to all of his family members and they all responded warmly.  My buddy said he wept at the remembrances, which were real and heartfelt on my end.  Mrs. K and I were two peas in a pod - fiercely competitive, passionate, stubborn, loud-mouthed.  It was inevitable that we would clash from time to time, but I really did feel the genuine concern hidden beneath our wars.

I want to be the Funeral Guy.  You know this guy - good at funerals, appropriate, sad, and all that.  But I'm the Write a Note Guy.  It doesn't feel like all that much because it isn't a grand gesture, but it's what I'm good at.  We all just get to offer what we can offer, I guess.

There are some people who have made a big impression in my life.  There are a few who have made a very big impression.  And then there is Mrs. K.

   When I was growing up I made some poor choices in my personal life, and by “some” I mean “a lot.”  Most adults looked away or got angry.  I knew how to deal with these people – I could manipulate them or hide from their disapproval.  Then there was Mrs. K – she got angry but she didn’t look away.  Frankly, I was flummoxed.  I hated being called on my behavior but I think I craved the attention – I could see the concern behind it even though I couldn’t put a name to it at the time.  I knew I wasn’t heading down the right path and it felt appropriate to have an adult holler at me.  And she was relentless in her disapproval.

   When I was getting dried out and cleaned up I was visiting Ricky one day.  Mrs. K walked into the kitchen and handed me a very nice piece of luggage - this at a time when I didn’t have any money to spend on nice things.

   “I always knew you were a good person,” she said simply.  “And I’m glad you got your life back on track.  I wanted to get you something nice.”  It was the greatest display of support I ever received as I was going through the early days of my recovery.  I’m never at a loss for words but I couldn’t think of a thing to say.  I hope I thanked her.  I used that luggage for years, finally throwing it away when it was too shredded and worn and soiled to be taken out in public.

   I always enjoyed looking in Mrs. K’s refrigerator – it was a solid wall of condiments.  It was not possible to put one more grape in that refrigerator and there wasn’t a thing to eat in there.

   However, there was The Dining Room Table.  Ricky and I would come in after playing Space Invaders in bars until we couldn’t focus our eyes more than 18 inches away.  I’ll never forget walking into the dark, quiet house, and flicking on the lights in the dining room.  There, stretching as far as the eye could see, deep and wide, were mountains and mountains of Servatti’s baked goods.  It was like she was a bootlegger or a smuggler – there was one of everything they made on that table.  I think I got on my knees and said a little prayer of thanks every time I set eyes on that bounty.  And there is nothing quite like eating 5,000 calories of unrefined white sugar at 2AM.

  I was still smoking at this time and – if you can believe this – I would try to light up in the K family room after my sugar binge.  I would light a match, take one puff, when the intercom would shriek: “Ricky!!  Is something burning out there?!”  If those smoke particles had traveled through two closed doors, down a long hallway, and into her bedroom at the speed of light she couldn’t have detected them that quickly.  But, incredibly, when I didn’t light up the intercom would remain silent.  I still don’t know how she did it.

   One bright fall day Mrs. K picked up the phone when I called.  I was usually polite but still didn’t want to extend the conversation too long.  I wasn’t clear on what to say.

“Are you enjoying the sunshine on this beautiful day?” I asked.

“I don’t enjoy the sunshine,” she said.

Again, the loss of words thing.

   Another time Mrs. K took Ricky and me out to lunch.  She was . . . ahem . .  . an interesting lunch companion.  Again, the facts are that if I were to add up all of the times all of the parents of my friends ever took me out for a meal it wouldn’t equal the dinners that she bought and paid for.  I can’t imagine I was much of a dinner companion but she was always generous.

   We walked into this restaurant and sat down.  After the waiter brought menus Mrs. K started grousing about being too close to a AC duct.  We changed tables and the waiter told us about the specials, then left us to ponder our choices.  We were now seated at a table near a young man who was playing an acoustic guitar.  Mrs. K began to complain about the noise.  We waved over the waiter and were re-re-seated.  She began to fidget.  We were under a skylight.  We tensed.

“The light is too bright,” she said.

“No!” Ricky and I shouted in unison. 

  Mrs. K calmly put on a pair of those huge black sunglasses with the huge side-car panels wrapping around her temples to prevent any sun from ever getting in to bother her eyes, and ate her lunch.

God speed, Mrs. K – you will be missed.

I Told You So

So my parents' living situation is unraveling at a rapid pace.  I suggested that they get their affairs somewhat in order over the years to protect against this kind of traumatic unraveling but they had other plans.  I quit haranguing after a while - after a long while - because what do I know, really?  Not much.  I don't know much at all, certainly not about how other people should live their lives.
Empathy:   The intellectual identification of the thoughts, feelings, or state of another person.

I should be feeling nothing but empathy, willing to help out in any way that I can, but I'm having trouble tamping down the urge to say: "I told you so."  I haven't, praise god, but I do want to let anybody and everybody know how capable I am in managing the affairs of the world, despite copious evidence to the contrary.  The facts of my life serve as this evidence.

I think there's a human tendency to get frustrated at people who make things worse than they have to be.  My attitude is if you want to leave late for work that's your business, but if you get get fired don't come bitching to me.  Your behavior led to consequences and you should deal with them.  Still, it's no fun being a dick when someone is in trouble.  I'm annoyed that my life is being inconvenienced by the bad choices of others - or choices that I didn't agree with when they were being made - but that shouldn't trump being kind.

I have gotten better.  In almost every case when someone's behavior has pushed me to the breaking point, when I'm ready to speak my mind the next time it happens, I almost never do.  I can't bring myself to be that self-righteous, at least publicly.  I'm going to make bad choices in the future and they aren't going to work out very well and I'm not going to want to hear someone tell me how right they were and how wrong I was.

Rear View Mirrors

In the "Whatever I'm Worried About Right Now Probably Won't Be Worth a Shit Before Too Long" category. . . 

When I moved from The Old City to The New City I was all wrapped around the axle about things that aren't even part of my life anymore.  This is why I try to stay away from axles - I always seem to be getting wrapped around them, then I sell my axles and buy something else.  I don't even live in The New City anymore so obviously whatever I was worried about is in my rear view mirror at this point.

Not long after I moved to The New City my friend Willie, after listening to hours of my bitching about how terrible everything was, made a similar big move.  I bet he was glad that he had feigned some interest in what was going on with me and pretended to listen to what I was saying because he spent quite a bit of time bitching to me about how terrible everything was in his life.  I feigned interest and pretended to listen.  Now - isn't it funny - he may be moving again.  The point is that most of the stuff he was upset about is going to be in his rear view mirror.

When I was looking at places to live in Vacation City Willie and I were discussing the relative merits of what I was currently considering.  He was sincerely trying to be helpful, comparing pros and cons, when I interrupted him: "Dude, it really doesn't make much difference because in a few months I'm going to be restless and bored with whatever I decide to do."  We both laughed.  I think we may have even broken off the conversation.  It was so true there was nothing else to be said.

Infallible:  Without fault or weakness; incapable of error or fallacy.  .

One of my favorite things to do at the end of a meeting is to sprint for the door but not actually go out through the door - I stand there as kind of a reverse-welcoming committee.  I don't like being someone who is actually on a welcoming committee because that entails way more human-to-human contact, and I don't really like people all that much.  People are the worst.  The Exit Committee is a lot easier because there are a lot of other people at meetings who also hate people and they can't wait to get out the door and down the road.

Actually, I don't hate anyone.  I dislike most of them but hate is a really terrible emotion.  I hate Brussels sprouts and ideologues but not people.  

When I was getting sober I traveled a lot.  I went to a meeting every day, often meetings I had never attended before.  I introduced myself as a visitor then was astonished at how often I was totally ignored when the meeting ended.  I was new and I frequently needed to talk so this was problematic. I understand that if I want to meet people I should stick my hand out - this is why I'm on the Exit Committee - but I also think for the first few years it's not easy for a lot of us, especially traumatized introverts like me.  So I try to make sure that everyone feels welcome.  It's easy to spot the guy standing by himself after the meeting and that's who I approach, even when I want to talk to my friends.

So I was at a regular meeting this weekend and I spoke to a young woman that I knew casually who was trying to get the hell through the door before this hipster doofus said anything.  I inquired after her daughter.

"Well," she said, kindly.  "I don't have a daughter.  I'm way too selfish for that."

I looked at her suspiciously, judgmentally. "I really think you're wrong," I replied.

"No, no I'm not," she said.

"Isn't it possible that you got pregnant, went through labor, and then raised a child without remembering it?" I insisted.

"Can you find someone else to talk to?" she said.

Actually, she was very nice about it.  We are very nice people and we try to make everyone feel comfortable.  I was okay with my gaffe - I'm pretty good about remembering faces and names and a little tidbit about most people but I'm not infallible.  

Well, actually I am infallible.  I did this on purpose.