Grinnell Yearbook Project Opens April 13th

Here's a story about my college, narrated by my friend's dad.

Peace Is Good Food

Another April blog entry.  Deal with it.

I'm writing tonight because it's what I do.  What I do well.  What I am trying to do with my life.  You wanna help?  Keep reading. 

Thanks.

So.  Um.  And also tell some friends about my blog.  Spread the word.  Let's get this thing started here.

I'm doing well, thank you.  I started a new job and had a really good night there tonight.  Love sitting in my shorts, listening to my favorite music, doing a simple task and doing it well.  And enjoying it.  It was like I hit a jackpot tonight and saw everything through the happy lens. 

I was tagging pictures.  Pictures of a lot of what people might consider as "nothing" or "ugly" or something like that.  But I was noticing how I was getting to see, through these pictures, a part of the world that I had never seen.  There were brilliant cloud formations, sunsets, trees, interesting mailboxes even.  There was so much beauty to behold.  My eye was trained-- I had to keep reminding myself not to dwell on things and move on to the next task.  But it was almost like watching a movie or a music video, with my iPod providing the audio track.  I drowned out the chatter of my coworkers and focused on the task and had fun doing it.

The big boss must have noticed, because she came out and checked on me, then offered me a new chair.  Thought that was nice.  The one I had been using had a broken arm support, and the new one has a nice springy aspirator that bounces when I sit down.  Felt nice to have something nice done for me.

I really felt tonight that I was where I need to be.  I was comfortable, at peace.  I wasn't lamenting being where I was.  I was present in the moment, and it felt wonderful.  May we all feel such joy in the moment.

It's warm in here tonight, I'm sweating just sitting here writing.  I'm having my Smirnoff "tall-boy" of sorts, and life is good.  I'm making progress on my dreams.  I can feel it.  I'm healthy, and I know it now.  I have my faculties back.  I feel like I can handle things again.  I trust myself and my judgement.  Things are good.

Looking forward to May.  My birthday's right around the corner.  What are you gonna get me?  I love presents.

What do I want?  I want... I want you to buy my book when it comes out.  Wanna help me get it published?  We could try and work something out...  put in your pre-order of the Raging, Flaming Goat of Samos now, and I'll send it to you when it's ready.  Should be about ten bucks a book, I reckon.  Sure, you can send me cash, if you're so inclined.  Or a check.  Whatever.

At the end of next month, I'll be attending my Grinnell reunion in Grinnell, IA.  Really looking forward to seeing folks again.  I love me some Grinnellians.  Most of 'em.  Haven't met them all.

So.  Good night.  It was and it is.  So goodnight, I say.  Good night.

How Much Would You Pay to Buy This?

So I made the walk to 7-11 to get me something to drink.  Not proud of it, but it's what I do sometimes.  There are worse things I could do, right?  I was talking myself out of getting anything but a Smirnoff Ice.  After crossing El Camino Real, a figure appeared from  behind La Paloma.  I tried to gauge if he was approaching me as I had to walk by that way to get to 7-11.  That's when he started moving slowly towards me and spoke to me.

"Can you help me?" he said.

"Probably not," I said, sizing him up.  He seemed to have a bit of a speech impediment, or he may have been somewhat drunk.  He moved slowly.

"I'm trying to get something to eat," he said.  "I'm hungry."

"Well, I don't know--"

"I don't need any money,"  he explained.

"I don't have any cash," I said.

"Do you have a credit card?" he asked.  "I'm trying to get something to eat."

"I might be able to get you something," I rationalized, walking towards the 7-11.  He fell in behind me, and I walked to the door of the convenience store.  He said something about getting a pizza, and having a microwave back somewhere around the corner.  When I got the door I opened it and waited for him.  He thanked me as he caught up and walked through the open door.

"Here, I'll show you," he said and made his way towards the freezer box.  He selected a large frozen supreme pizza.  "One of these," he said.

I thought it kind of strange, but I went with it.  "Okay," I said.  I took the pizza and noted the price-- $7.99.  I then walked to the beer cooler and selected my drink-- a 24-oz. Smirnoff Ice-- and went to the register.

"Is that vodka?" he asked me.

"No, I think it's a malt beverage," I guessed, not really knowing what it is that I like to drink these days.

The clerk rung me up and the guy picked up his pizza and thanked me again.  I held the door for him again as we left the store, and he thanked me again.  "You're welcome," I said.  "Take care."

On the walk home I noticed a strangely shaped piece of something orange, so I examined it as I walked by.  I was a few steps past it when I decided to go back for it.  It turned out to be plastic with fabric on the back, maybe a part of a traffic cone of some sort.  When I got home I popped the top on my beverage and added the bottle cap and the piece of plastic to the "junk" pile of things I'm collecting for an art project.  But not before observing the piece of plastic and having thoughts about it inspiring drawings for me because of it's shape.  The artist in me was intrigued and inspired by this simple piece of unwanted trash.  But I had taken this thing and assigned value to it.  And I can make it more valuable by adding some more time and thought to it.  Just like the rest of the junk I've collected.  I've served the common good by picking up trash on the side of the road, and I can add value to the world by making art out if it.  That's adding money to the economy at the same time that I'm cleaning up my community.

So I allow myself my drink.  I allow that man his frozen pizza.  I allow value to be more than just cash and paychecks.  I can assign value, and adjust it.  I'm not tied to somebody else's restrictive means of assigning value.  Maybe they think that I'm lesser of a person because I collect trash and only make ten bucks an hour-- or work for free as a volunteer!  But even those values are not the monetary meaning we assume they are.  My time and labor can't be estimated and configured to equal a dollar amount.  If I collect garbage, arrange it into a piece of art in my garage, and then make it "available" to art collectors, what should all of that cost?  If I do it well, I might find that I can charge a significant amount of money for the art that I produce. 

All of this is part of exposing the smoke and mirrors that our culture is based upon.  The monetary system is a farce.  A joke.  An illusion, at best.  My heart isn't worth a million dollars, or even a trillion dollars.  My guts and toil and effort are valuable, whether I get paid or not.  Whether I get noticed or not.  Whether it makes a difference to anyone or not.  If I take pride in what I do, then there's value in doing it.  How much value is up to me to decide, and I don't have to put a dollar sign on it for it to mean something.

If I do ten situps and ten push ups a day every day for a year, how much will that cost me?  How much will I benefit?  We don't always see the value in doing things that way in our culture today.  We're more likely to invest money in a treadmill or a gym membership.  Why must we always start with spending money? 

Because it's in the rules of the game.  Hell, you might even say it's the American Dream.  Work hard.  Get a mortgage.  Pay homage to the economy.  Worship the almighty dollar. 

We don't need money any more than we need jobs or government or a president.  We can add value to the world just by being ourselves.  Just by doing what is right by ourselves and unto others.  Go ahead-- get taken advantage of.  Buy the frozen pizza for the hungry guy.  Even though your budget is tight.  You can make lemonade.  You can be the change you want to see in the world.

So what are you waiting for?  Go do it!

Roll Away the Stone

It's Easter.  Time for bunnies laying colored eggs with chocolate centers.  Time for resurrection.  Time for family to gather and eat and argue.

I don't know.  Whatever.  Traditions don't always make sense.  Really, rarely do they make sense.  Why the hiding of eggs?  Why the this and the that?  Why?  Why? Why?

Why can't my dog sit still since we got him back from the vet?  He got groomed, and now he is trotting all over the house, from place to place, dragging his butt on the carpet, trying to settle into a place, but can't seem to get comfortable.  Did they shoot him up with caffeine?

Today is my last official day of unemployment.  I start the new job tomorrow in Mountain View at 2:45.  I have some mixed emotions about going back to work.  I know it's what I need to be doing, but I lament the loss of "free time" to follow my muse and do the things that are of interest to me when I'm inspired to do so.  I'm trading time for money, and at a bargain rate (for my employer.  I am worth a lot more than they'll be paying.) 

I'm forcing myself to write right now.  I know there are things that I have to say, but I'm balking at doing it.  The voice is loudly silent.  Sometimes it's the inaction that speaks.  The omitted word, or the silence, that says the most profound thing.

On that note, I leave you to ponder your own silence.  Happy Easter.

The Fungus Connection

Welcome to April, 2012.  Here comes baseball.  Bring your mitt.  And watch for the spitter.

Still feeling pretty good.  Just wanted to make some quick notes before I try and get some sleep.  Tomorrow's a big day.  Job interview in the afternoon.  A step in the right direction.  I feel good about it; confident.  I think it's a job that I can do.  And I think it will lead to bigger and better things.  Somehow.  It's all going to work out.  I just have a gut feeling on this.

Returning to work is a milestone type of step in my recovery.  I don't think I would have been able to be ready for this transition if I hadn't taken the time and did the work to aid my own recovery.  That meant leaving a secure, well paying job with a lot of benefits.  But the benefit I needed I couldn't get from that job.  So it had to go.  And so did I.  I don't regret leaving the City.  But I wouldn't rule out returning, either.

It's been a rough time, being unemployed the last 20 months, waiting for PERS to make a decision and help us out financially, monitoring my mood and my sleep and my hygiene.  I needed the time to find myself again, to stabilize my medications and my spirit.  I can't tell you what it was that has made me feel whole again, but I don't think it was any one single thing.  It was a lot of things-- regular attendance at support groups; writing and blogging and approaching my dreams of making a career of my writing and art; regular check ups with my doctors and therapists; lots of rest and riding out of depression and the blahs, the muddying of the colors in my world.  I've done a lot of things, stretched myself, put myself out there.  I remember how frightened I was when I first started this blog-- scared that I'd start writing and would overnight lose my privacy to hundreds if not thousands of people clamoring for my autograph.  Now, I would like more people, more traffic at my blog than I've been able to attract and am doing things to try and build a platform and an audience.

It's all a part of the networking, like rivers, or mycelium, or the internet.  A web of connections that holds greater concepts together, makes a fabric of knowledge and wisdom.  We weave with our efforts of living and learning.  Such is the process we know as life.  I'm living proof.

A Little Work History Might Help

Start again.  Anew.  Rebirth.

With this project of my recollections from Greece and my first manic episode, I've thought that if I could just record what all I thought about at that time, there would be a book there.  But it's not happening that way.  So I need a different approach.  I think.

There were far too many thoughts to remember all at once there, during that time of duress.  You had the mingling of the cultures, the transformation from artisan to commerce economies, the lack of restful sleep.  Plus I was facing a grand transition in my career.  I had been working for the Engineering Department with the City of Santa Clara, which had been a big deal in and of itself.  I had traversed the topography of shift work for the Police Department before, suffering through a job that I had a lot of trepidation going into and a lot of dread to overcome as I became a permanent employee with the city after almost two years of working full-time but in an "as-needed" capacity.  I had worked my way into a position with the Finance Department as a utility meter reader, after a stint with the Sewer Department as an "as-needed" laborer.  This was after a period of unemployment after being laid off from my job while living in Sacramento.  I had moved back home with my parents, who were rebuilding their lives back in the south Bay Area after a long haul of eking out an existence in the Central Valley.  Funny how long it takes to get to the bottom of it all--  I could go back into details of suffrage for both of my parents in their careers, as well as with mine--  suffice it to say that we had been challenged and it took quite a transition to get back on our feet again.  I went from falling in love with a college friend who had a house in Malibu, and the possibility of relocating to the LA area (I even had a potential job transfer available) to being laid off with no prospects.  The long-distance relationship didn't last-- love couldn't conquer the distance.  So I eventually moved to Santa Clara and my aunt got me an interview for the job with the Sewer Department.  Time to start at the bottom and work my way up again.

After about five months with the Sewer Department, my limit on how many hours I could work was about up.  Just about then, I learned of the opportunity to work with the Finance Department as a meter reader.  They needed some summertime coverage, so it would be temporary, but would be quite a bit more money.  And as luck would have it, one of the permanent employees got injured, so I ended up working more.  I was making almost twice as much as I had ever made before in all my work experience, and I really liked the job.  I worked at my own pace, by myself, with no phones interrupting or supervisor's eyes leering, and I got to work outside and wear shorts.  What a coup!  I thought I had found the way to live my life.  If I could just get on as a permanent meter reader, I'd be set.

Over the course of the next year or so, I took several civil service tests to try and get on hiring lists to get in line for permanent positions with the City.  At that time, it was common knowledge that a person could gain a distinct advantage by taking any position with the City and fulfilling their one-year probation period.  Once that was achieved, an employee did not have to satisfy the one-year period again.  And if you were a permanent employee, you were given preference on the hiring lists.  Permanent employees were placed on a promotional list that was considered before the general public hiring list even got a call for an interview.  And you didn't have to score as well on the test to be placed on the promotional list-- if you just got a passing grade, you'd be added to the promotional list, and would get an interview before anybody on the regular list.  A distinct advantage indeed.

So such was the thinking behind taking as many tests as I could qualify for so that I could get a permanent position with the City and then move to the position of my choice once I had satisfied my probation.  The best laid plans...

While I was working as-needed as a meter reader I waited for the opportunity to test for the permanent position of the job I was doing and enjoying doing.  It came up once, and I did well, but since I wasn't a promotional candidate, I didn't get a call for an interview.  So when I got the opportunity to become a permanent employee as a typist clerk with the Police Department, I had to say yes.  It meant that we could qualify for a loan to buy a house, and by then I had met my wife-to-be and was building towards a life together.  It presented challenges, for sure, and I had a lot of trepidation as I said before.  But it had to be done.  It was the practical choice.

So I started work with the Police Department in November of 1997, and instantly began to dread going to work.  It was so much more stressful that meter reading, and there was danger and hazards and codes and privacy and so much to keep straight.  Plus I was working swing shift and graveyard at times.  And there was so much negativity, conflicting personalities, back-biting, and depression.  I'd get off work usually at 1:30am and go straight to the grocery store for beer or liquor and drink myself into the morning hours so I could go to sleep.  At the time, I was a newlywed and we bought a house, and soon we started to try and start a family.  I continued my efforts to find another position with the City doing something else, but it was not quick to happen.

It was about this time that we started having our difficulties with infertility.  The economy was booming in the Bay Area, and my wife was making very good money and traveling quite a bit, but she really wanted kids and we tried to make it happen.  After some time of tracking her cycles and trying on our own, we sought out help from an infertility doctor.  She had elective surgery to try and clear her tubes, we did the assisted insemination thingy, and we even got pregnant, once.  But it was a blighted ovum and we weren't blessed with a child.

By the time that we did get pregnant, I had managed a transfer from the Police Department to the Engineering Department.  Swing shift to day shift.  Back to the life of the living.  We were cautious about letting people know, but we were just too excited to keep it a secret.  So we celebrated with family and friends, and planned for the arrival of a future that never came.

When it happened, when we found out that we would be miscarrying, it was a shock and severe disappointment, for sure.  My wife was crushed.  But I felt inspired by the fact that we had succeeded to the next step and proven that we could in fact get pregnant, after a lot of infertility talk and diagnosis and plotting.  So I tried to be cheerful and encouraging as we set out on the next phase of our journey together.

I worked for the Engineering Department for a little over a year, and it proved to be just as stressful as the Police Department, but in a different way.  There weren't lives hanging in the balance on a daily basis, but there were important projects and dignitaries to deal with.   My co-worker had been hired a month before I was for the department, and all of a sudden she and I were running the show-- our supervisor left for a different position in the City, and then the department heads decided to take their over thirty years of experience and retire.  We learned on the go, and it went fast.  I continued to shop around for the right place with the city, and continued to take tests, even though the promotional rules had now changed and it was not as easy to move around (figures).  I came out number 2 on the meter reader list and was ecstatic.  Finally, I would have the chance to become a full-time permanent meter reader!

And so it went.  I accepted the position with Finance and set up my transition from Engineering.  By this time we had already been making plans to go to Greece to visit with my college buddy Armand and his wife as they celebrated their marriage in his homeland.  I would finish up my duties with Engineering and go away on vacation to Greece, and when I got back I would finally start at the job that I'd been trying to land for almost five years.  Things were falling into place, or so it seemed.

What I didn't anticipate was a medical crisis.  My mental health crisis.  One doesn't often see such things coming.  I most certainly didn't.

The Spectacle of Adventure

I wanna be stupendous.  Spectacular.  I wanna knock the collective socks off an audience.  If I could just figure out how to fill the theater...

Hi, my name's Michael, and I'll be your guide on this excursion of the mind.  We're looking at a good, brisk hike today, hopes of burning some fat and collected malaise.  Our host has spent a lot of time gathering energy, becoming ready to burn.  Seasoning himself.  And now the match has been struck, and the fire lights our way on this traverse through the innermost unknowns to have yet see the light.

Sparkle, baby.  Let 'er rip.

There is so much to be known out there.  And in here, for that matter.  Too much, indeed, to know in a single lifetime.  So that's why we are more than ourselves.  We are more than just our bodies or just our minds or our souls.  We are all connected as one thing, at a very basic level.  We are one, all of us.  The butterfly, the mongrel, the gnat and the sparrow.  Infinity, limitless space, electrons and black holes.  It's all in there, baby.  If you lived at the cellular level, you'd understand.  There wouldn't be the distractions of logic and philosophy and religion.  There wouldn't be all this thought in the way.  There would be knowing, without explanation, what it was that you were supposed to do, what is the way.  There is that path to follow.  For you alone.  Each must find his or her own steps.  Viola.  Voi-la.

We watched a movie last night called Genghis Blues.  It follows a blind blues musician's journey to Tuva, a province of Russia near Mongolia, that used to be an independent country.  There are connections made to the likes of Richard Feynman, who attempted to make the journey there himself, but came up short.  Paul Pena, the musician, makes a pilgrimage to the home of "throatsinging" after teaching himself the craft.  It's an interesting adventure chronicled by a tag-team of documentary filmmakers that garnered an Academy Award Nomination.

There are many things in this film that have stuck in my mind.  There was a small treatment of shamanism, and I added it to my mind's file cabinet.  It's a myth, a fallacy, that we think we know what we're doing a hundred percent of the time.  Truth is that we're acting on inspiration, most of the time.  We don't know why we say or do the things we do.  But sometimes, that's what needs to happen, for the greater plan.  Kinda like karma, in a way, but different, because there isn't a sort of balance sheet where a good deed makes the world a better place, and where evil doing brings retribution.  The balance sheet is in a language we no longer understand, in the sense that understanding is developed and put into play these days.  It is understood, perhaps, but cannot be explained.  All the languages spring and dart around at it, and the work gets done, but it's not one way or another.  It is both.  It is all.  That is all.

My great uncle Tony collected stamps.  I wonder if he had one from Tuva.  Evidently, that's how Feynman discovered the existence of Tuva-- through his stamp collecting.  You just never know how things are gonna lead you, and where you'll end up.  It's an intriguing mystery indeed.