Project - A Jutting Out

Projection:  The ability to look into the future and see all of the terrible, awful, really horrible things that are going to happen to one with absolute certainty and omniscient clarity.  (Ed. Note: I totally made this one up - the real definition is something about a forecast or prognosis obtained by extrapolation, another word I had to look up and then I finally said fuck it, this isn't getting across the Fellowship definition which is imagining that all of the terrible things that have never happened to me are, in fact, going to happen this time).

Getting close to trip time which means getting all worked up about nothing.  A tempest in a teapot.  A fart in a skillet.  Someday I'm going to look into the future and see wonderful dreams coming true.  I don't believe this is going to happen anytime soon, however.  I have a well-developed and truly innate ability to imagine the worst.  I do think that there's a human tendency to kind of get wrapped around the axle about big adventures that isn't restricted to alcoholics.  I'd be curious to know what the evolutionary reason for this might be

We have, to be sure, managed to elevate it to an art form.

FREAKING MYSELF OUT!

As I ponder the upcoming trip I see 3 possible outcomes: an average, nice uneventful trip; a trip so weighed down with overwrought expectations that it sinks under the waves like a scuttled skiff, doomed by its own optimism; and the most likely possibility: A Trip From Hell, a nightmare, full of death and disaster and great misfortune.

My take is this: I have spent zero time reflecting on the nice trip; I've dabbled in ruining the trip by imagining such wonders that the reality cannot meet the fantasy but haven't overdone it here; mostly, I've managed to FREAK MYSELF OUT! by seeing into the future where terrible things are happening to me.

This has been counterproductive.  I admit that it's a natural human tendency to prepare for the worst but fret that it's a natural Seaweed tendency to allow this tendency to run hog wild.  My wife doesn't help me in this area - and I don't help her - by imagining all sorts of new possible disasters.  "I never thought of THAT," I say, when she shares some monstrous possibility from her inner self.  And she'll say: "Are you kidding me?  THAT'S what you're worried about?"  Between the two of us we manage to imagine a lot of bad stuff while simultaneously reassuring each other about nothing.

She's worried about what to pack and what to wear and riding an elephant.  I'm worried about getting murdered and getting robbed and being wedged in a small airplane seat for approximately 807 hours.  I worry about The Seat Defender and I don't even know what that is, for chrissake.  She thinks she's going to go to the bathroom too much and I think I'm not going to be able to go to the bathroom enough, while conceding that going too much is worse than not going enough.  I'll probably have both things happen to me.  We listen closely to the people that warn us about the things that can go wrong and barely pay attention to the people who tell us it's going to be a great adventure.

We're taking three suitcases: one for clothes, one for medicines, and one for food.

We're not very smart.

Quintessentially Seaweed

So I'm reflecting on the concept that an alcoholic is essentially a large collection of very deep holes that scream to be filled.  I know I spend vast amounts of time and energy shoveling stuff into each of my respective holes.  A lot of these holes make us feel good, until they don't - alcohol, drugs, food, nicotine, sex, caffeine, the endorphin release after exercise.  We work too hard and too long to gain recognition - to be important among our fellows - and to gain things that glitter and impress.  We pursue relationships until we possess what we're pursuing, whether we want it or not, and invariably we quickly tire once the conquest is made and the thrill fades.

I've made much progress over the years on many of these sweet delights but there is one monstrous foe that has stood tall, battled well, and refused to be vanquished: caffeine.

Here's the thing: there's nothing wrong with the effects of caffeine - a legal, fairly mild stimulant - on the normal mind if what you mean by "nothing" is "everything" and that you understand that the adjective  "normal" is in no way connected to the individual "Seaweed."    I am a guy who wakes up early, after sleeping well, and thrives in the morning.  I can nap should I get tired.  I can also go to bed early if I feel weary.  I do not need a mild stimulant in the morning or at any other time, irregardless of what stories I try to tell myself to justify the kick of the caffeine.

I am prone to anxiety and one of the possible bad side effects of coffee is an increase in anxiety.
 It's like being lactose intolerant and starting your day with a glass of milk.  A normal person who loves milk and is lactose intolerant would not drink the milk;.  The milk, temporarily delicious, produces hours of discomfort. "Hmmm," says the individual.  "Perhaps tomorrow I'll have tea."  You would applaud this decision but probably not be overly impressed.

Not Seaweed.  I teeter-totter away from the massive caffeine injection that coffee provides, dabbling in teas or nothing at all, before slithering back.  The stuff makes me anxious, screws with my aging and increasingly creaky digestive system, and serves me no good purpose.  But I get a nice, horse-tranquilizer kick at the start, and I crave kicks, jolts, and shocks.  No matter that they go away quickly, leaving me jittery and anxious - I have trouble thinking the thought through to its logical conclusion.  

Sounds alcoholic, doesn't it?  Compulsive.  Obsessive.  The hopeful drunk hoping against hope that he can sip on a beer and feel delightfully mellow, chasing that sense of ease and release that the first drink produced the first time.

Minuteman Dave, a green tea drinker, told me long ago about an anxiety attack he had experienced: "It was profoundly uncomfortable."  Columbus Mark doesn't drink coffee: "I liked speed too much."  Spandex gave it up: "Coffee and me don't mix."

Sheeyit.

Disease-Ridden Poverty Monkeys

Ed. Note:  This is not my title.  I do not have the imagination to come up with such a brilliant title, and I'm pretty imaginative.  Tip o' the cap to Spandex.

I spoke today to a very old and very dear friend from The Old City.  He's not an adventuresome guy.  The Old City is lovely and stable and friendly and easy but it isn't on the cutting edge of very many things, so when I mention that I'm going to go to India and Nepal I can hear eyeballs rolling up in heads from 2500 miles away.  I tense up, ready for the rhetorical punch in the stomach.  I get ready to play defense.

I get it, really.  This kind of trip isn't for everybody.  My buddy's family has a cabin in the woods and he has gone there for a couple of weeks every year for the last 50 years.  If I had to choose between that and having knitting needles inserted into both of my eyeballs, with a quick, violent, jabbing motion, I'd have to take a few days to ponder my response.  I don't share this disturbing imagery unbidden with people who are about to go on vacation.  I wouldn't even share it if I was bidden.  It just seems unnecessary to say: "Hey, that sounds really boring."

I'm excited about my trip but I'm also getting nervous.  Trepidation is a word that comes to mind.  I'm prone to anxiety over the smallest things and this is not a small thing.  So I don't need people telling me horror stories about the places I'm going to visit.  I know there's going to be some poverty and I know it can be crowded and I know there are monkeys in India.  I don't need anyone telling me that I might get sick - I'm taking typhoid and malaria medication, for chrissake.  I'm not going to be eating food prepared by gravediggers and I'm not going to be bathing in public toilets.  I know that the hygiene isn't going to be up to the standards of Vacation City.  I'm not going to inspect the hygiene.  This is an adventure, not a walk around the neighborhood.

If my buddy tells me the story of his stepdaughter's friend's cousin's uncle's terrible monkey experience one more time I'm going to scream.

Quiet Intensity

Intense: Strained; tightly drawn; extreme in degree; excessive; stressful and tiring.

I spoke with an ancient friend on the phone yesterday, one of those guys who knows me almost as well as I know myself.  During the course of our conversation the question arises, inevitably: How am I doing?  Most people who ask this question of me get a mixture of platitudes, half-truths, total fabrications, and brilliant misdirection.  I don't do this to be a dick - I really don't think I know how I'm doing.  Moreover, I don't know what kind of an answer people expect.  Do they want a glossing-over of anything unpleasant?  Are they being polite while remaining uninterested?  Do they really want to know?  That would be alien territory for a guy who is completely bored by the lives of everyone else and has trouble understanding why they would be interested in mine.  They want a lot of details?  Jesus, really?  I can't fathom this.  I'm sure that they must want something and I'm going to do my best not to give it to them.

I told him that I'm doing my best to remain engaged with the world while trying to avoid wrestling it to the ground.  Progressing but no longer as an Unstoppable Force.  I used to be like water - harmless enough in its resting state - trapped in a pressure cooker that was sitting on a blisteringly hot flame.  The whole kitchen was shaking - it was always just a matter of time before something blew up.  I was a feral human engaged in mortal combat with demons who kept coming at me, wave after wave of relentless demons.  I was always on the verge of being completely overwhelmed.  Sobriety enabled me to build a small cage so that I could keep the demons just out of reach - I could still hear them out there in the darkness, snarling and gnashing their fangs but they couldn't get their razor-sharp claws through the bars.  Today I live in a mid-sized compound with electricity and running water.  It's pleasant enough - not euphorically so, but then again the fact that I don't fear for my life every waking minute passes for euphoria.  I'm not sure I should take the risk of attempting to reclaim more jungle to make my compound bigger and cushier - I'm wary of what lies outside the compound.  I'm careful I don't take on too much while still trying to move forward.  

I try to achieve without asking too much of myself because when I fail to meet my unmeetable demands I get frustrated and afraid and look for release, and I have to be goddam careful of my outlets.  I have a history of very bad outlets, very destructive outlets.  I've got the pressure valve open and the flame turned low.

There was a movie called . . . I can't remember what it was called.  Hello, Google Search - I see it was called Beautiful Mind and I have no reason to doubt this.  Anyway, the protagonist was crazy enough that he took instruction from a few really destructive constructs of his mind, phantoms that he could see as clearly as I can see this somewhat blurry computer screen.  The movie progresses, the protagonist begins to recover, the denouement shows him seemingly healed, talking to his therapist or someone about how good it must be to have banished the evil constructs to the fires of hell.  The protagonist agrees, then looks over his shoulder where a couple of the most troublesome hallucinations are sitting quietly, smiling and nodding at him.  

That's how I feel about my recovery - the demons are still around.  I haven't gotten rid of them yet.  It's more of a detente.  They don't fuck with me as long as I don't fuck with them.

Pig Face and Loud Mouth

I clambered out of the pool today, mightily pleased with myself for having wheezed and labored through another 3/4s of a mile.  I sit in the hot tub for a few minutes before I start swimming, trying to loosen up balky muscles.  This also serves to make the first lap especially miserable, the warm water in the sauna a shocking contrast to the cold pool.  The payoff, after I'm done, is a nice, long 15 minute session back in the heat, drowsily meditating and congratulating myself on completing a modest session of exercise.

I peered into the sauna.  There sat two guys: one a big, loudmouthed man who doesn't know shit about anything, a fact that doesn't stop him from preaching to whomever he can hold hostage, and a bald, pig-faced guy whose politics offend me beyond all comprehension.  I left in place the ear plugs I wear while swimming and stepped into the warm water.  The jets in the pool make quite a racket so the these two men fairly scream at each other from opposing corners, unconcerned that their objectionable hectoring is easily overheard.  They're pissed about politics.  They're steamed.  They're hot under the collar.  They're getting fucking screwed by the government.

I just want to meditate for a couple of minutes, think pleasant thoughts, be grateful, be happy.  Instead, I get a torrent of vomit from pig-face and loud-mouth, two men who undoubtedly receive more perks and goodies from the government than your average bear.  I stuff the earplugs further into my ear-holes, jamming them in painfully deep.  I position one of my stork limbs over one of the water jets, hoping the vibrations set up by the water striking my leg help deaden the commentary.  I begun to hum loudly - I'm in the hot tub, humming a Christmas song at the top of my humming lungs, and I can still hear these idiots talking.  I probably look like an escaped mental patient.  I would edge away from someone with ear plugs in humming "Little Drummer Boy" in a hot tub.

Rum pumpum pum.

What is it about objectionable people that makes them so hard to ignore?  In meetings I can drift off into a side reverie at the drop of the hat unless the speaker is someone I detest, at which point I'm transfixed by what they say, I hang on every word, I'm dialed in.  And what exactly do I care about the politics of a couple of idiots that I don't even know?  Talk about spending emotional energy foolishly

Kissy-Face Seaweed

So my dying sponsor is 82 years old.  He seems to be getting younger based on his marvelous attitude - he doesn't act someone who is dying.  He always ends our conversations by saying that he loves me.  I have always known this to be true even though those exact words have rarely passed his lips.  We are guys, after all, and both of German heritage to boot - we're not exactly the kissy-face type.

Actually, that's not true - I am a bit of the kissy-face type.

It is a joy and a privilege to talk to him.  I always feel better, energized, more optimistic after I hang up.  Going out with a smile on your face is quite the party trick.

My father is 86 years old.  He is approaching his end submerged in bottles of cheap vodka - plastic bottles, for chrissake.  I have talked to him in the last year for approximately 17 minutes.  He does not answer the phone when I call and he does not return my phone calls.  He tells my mother to tell me that he loves me, and I know this to be a fact.

I caught up with my mom today who apparently had been in the hospital the past 3 days.  Too much of an effort for my dad to call and tell me, I guess.

How about that?  How about that, anyway?  Isn't that amazing?  What a Program we've got and what a way to learn how to deal with the stuff that life throws at us, especially with family.