Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
I'm not surprised but I am disappointed, humiliated, insulted and depressed. I can't even get a part time job stocking grocery shelves on the midnight shift.
And.
Either a teenager, a woman who can't speak English or a drug dealer got the job instead of me.
That's where the humility kicks me in the gut. No, I don't think I'm better than them. (Okay, I'm not dealing drugs, and in the eyes of the law that makes me not a criminal so technically I guess I am better than the drug dealer.) We all wanted that job and we all had unique qualifications. Their unique qualifications were what the store wanted. My unique qualifications were not as pertinent as theirs and so I didn't get the job. My education and professional experience are not relevant enough to get me a part time job stocking shelves on the night shift. Ouch. That awareness hurts.
Sure, I'm overqualified for the job. I understand that. But I am reliable and hard working and I can read and speak English and I am not engaged in criminal activity (yet, anyway, give another month or two...).
Sure, my desperation is probably palpable and the specter of my broken dreams follows me around like a long afternoon shadow. I try to keep the desperation and disillusionment locked away under the kitchen sink and only let them out at night. But I've caught them wafting around me when I venture out into the world. I hope they're not detectable to naked human eyes other than mine, but, they leave a tell-tale vapor trail on my face that no amount of make-up can hide. Even if, if I do a good job with my attitude and concealer the vapor trail stains my job application. Between the lines detailing the degrees and years of professional experience and now the months of blank space, there's a filmy sludge from the vapor trail that spells out: Desperation and broken dreams.
And sure, it's obvious I would quit as soon as I get a full-time day job. But since when is stocking grocery store shelves a long-term career opportunity? Does anyone stay at that job very long? Isn't it a given that no one takes a part-time midnight shift shelf stocking job as a serious long-term career opportunity? So does it matter that I'm overqualified and will leave as soon as I get a full-time job?
Apparently the answer to that is: Yes.
Brain Bias. Overqualified people not getting jobs because they're "too smart" or "too experienced" for the job. We're seen as either a threat to the existing manager or not taken as serious candidates because we'll leave when we get a "real" job.
Brain Bias bugs me. I don't see that shelf stocking job as beneath me and if it earns a paycheck, well, that's as real as a job needs to be.
Here's the bottom line fact: That part-time job combined with another one or two part-time jobs could keep me going, keep a roof over my head, pay my mortgage. The ideal solution is a full-time job, of course, but until that happens I'm edging closer to foreclosure and homelessness. There aren't a lot of full-time jobs available. But there are a lot of part-time jobs. Two or three part-time jobs would pay my mortgage. Instead I'm deemed overqualified, not a viable candidate. Brain bias. Because of brain bias the "smart girl" with the fancy college degrees and all that professional work experience is edging closer to homelessness.
Consequently the insinuation that I don't consider stocking grocery shelves as a real job is insulting.
And that funk that's stinking up the place, the one that's the by-product of the desperation and broken dreams stored too close together, is lurking around more, lately. Like storing ammonia and bleach too close together, you're playing Russian roulette. Nothing might happen, if there's proper ventilation and they're not brought out at the same time...or...you might die. That combined vaporous funk self-righteously flaunts itself and taunts me. "Ha ha, I'm just a vaporous funk now, but just you wait. I'm growing denser, wider and smellier. Thought you could avoid me, did you? Well, listen here, girlie, no one loses a job and avoids me. It's not possible. Desperation and broken dreams always result in depression when they're combined. You run along and delude yourself, apply for jobs and try to sell more of your stuff, and hey, why not put your soul up for bid on eBay while you're at it? That'll buy you a month of mortgage payment if you're lucky. I'll be here wafting around. You'll succumb to me sooner or later. Desperation and broken dreams always give way to depression."
Monday, February 22, 2010
I had an assignation hurled at me that left me pondering if it was a mere statement of fact or an accusatory affront.
A friend introduced me to someone she knows. Casual conversation about the Olympics ensued. My friend said to her other friend, "Oh, Trillian loves Apolo. She's a super fan."
Okay. Yes. I like Apolo. I even love his attitude. He inspires me. I follow him on Twitter.
Does that make me a super fan?
I think it's relative. Compared to some people (who don't follow him on Twitter, for instance) I'm a super fan, but in relation to others (the people who can list every one of his race times and follow his training regime, for instance) I'm a mere casual observer.
I laughed off my friend's super fan label but felt a need to defend myself. "Yeah, I like Apolo. He's got his head on straight. I like that in an athlete."
The conversation continued and once again my friend lobbed a label at me. "The only thing that will tear Trillian away from the Olympics is LOST! I made the mistake of calling her the other night during LOST, har har, I won't do that again. She's a supermegafan of LOST."
I stammered through another defense, "Ha! Yeah, well, man-o-rama, and it's the last season, I actually can't wait for it to end. I'm only watching out of commitment, seeing it through to the end, like continuing to read a book you don't like or staying in a theater when you don't care for the movie presented. That and the men. Lots of eye candy on LOST."
But hang on a minute, why was my friend talking about me like this?
Why was she compelled to air my insignificant interests to this person I just met?
I didn't want to go all sulky but I didn't want to continue the conversation, either. I tried to turn the conversation back to my friend, her husband, her kids, the reason we were drinking at 2:00 in the afternoon...and that didn't get off the ground. So I tried to engage my friend's friend in conversation about her. Married. Kids. Doesn't work. Label. Label. Label. And then the conversation turned to the kids' school, the PTO, the new intermediate kids ballet teacher and a multitude of topics I know nothing about and was therefore excluded from the conversation.
Which is fine. I'm used to it. And given the choice between the super fan accusations and total conversation exclusion I happily choose exclusion. I think there's a happy conversational medium but I've yet to figure out how to hit on it and sustain it with my married/children/non-working friends. There's a them-us barrier that filters most conversations between married/children/non-working people and single/childless/working (albeit unemployed) people.
I have broached this subject with this friend and lately I seem to be getting through to her. She's been making efforts to talk about topics other than kids, husbands, vacations, new cars, new houses, and how "stressed" she is even though she doesn't work, has a nanny, a maid service, and a personal trainer. She's showing signs of understanding that we lead very, very different lives and no longer have much in common and that our friendship has become as perfunctory as she claims sex is with her husband.
She told me this, I think, in an attempt to make me feel better about being single. "We've been married 10 years. We have two kids. Sex just isn't a big deal or a priority. If he wants it I give it to him but the fact is that he rarely wants it and I don't care. We schedule sex, make ourselves have sex just to try to convince ourselves that we can and want to do it. It's perfunctory and we both know it but that's okay with us. Every now and then we shake things up a bit, a new nightie, a position we tried once on our honeymoon...but even that's perfunctory - scheduled, planned attempts to assure ourselves that we're okay. I'm just happy he can still get it up a couple times a month. That's married sex, Trill. You're not missing much." Waaaaaaaaay too much information. Far more than I ever wanted to know about my friend and her husband. But I've come to see it as metaphoric for our friendship. We make ourselves keep in touch, mainly via email, and just to assure ourselves that we're okay we try to get together once or twice a month.
What's weird is that I'm not sure if this is just how life is, or if it's just how my friend is. If this is how she manages all her relationships: A perfunctory haze of mutually recognized rote congeniality. Not that I expect her, or anyone else, to go around all hopped up high on lust for life, seizing every moment and choking the life out of it. But like our conversations, I think there's a better compromise, a middle zone that's more zesty but not ridiculous or impossible to maintain.
I tried to explain this when I broached the "we have nothing in common" conversation but she didn't really get it. Things are pretty black and white with her these days. I'm sure my life seems sad and weird to her. Mayor of Singleton, no kids, unemployed, cheering on other people to do great things, getting excited about music and fantasizing about men on television. She can't relate to any of that just like I can't relate to her "stress." But she is making attempts at crossing the abyss between us by talking about me in terms other than single, childless and unemployed. So. You know. Yay her for making the effort. I realize it's going to be awkward for both of us at first but in time maybe this friendship can be saved.
However, she was clearly relieved and happier when I turned the conversation back to her comfort zone, her turf, her world. I effectively gave her and her friend permission to ignore me. If the alternative was having to defend or explain my interest in speed skating or LOST, well, at that moment I preferred to be ignored.
So while my friend and her friend nattered on about their children and complained about their husbands I sipped my way into a slightly drunken haze and contemplated what it means to be a fan.
Fan.
Fantasy.
Coincidence? Of course not.
I started making mental list of people and things I consider myself to be a fan of and realized it's not as easy as making a mental list.
There are broad categories, subsets and unique individuals. It's like biological classification. Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, Species.
Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Sports Class: Ice Sports Order: Hockey Family: Red Wings Genus: Forwards Species: Steve Yzerman
Compared to: Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Sports Class: Ice Sports Order: Olympics Family: Speed Skating Genus: Short Track Species: Apolo Anton Ohno
Or: Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Music Class: Rock Order: Awesome Family: Pixies Genus: Bassists Species: Kim Deal
Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Music Class: Pop Order: Kinda lame Family: Packaged but not without talent Genus: Singers Species: Pink
Holy crap. This is it! This is the order of life! We know this, we learn it in grammar school science, but there's more to it than the plant, insect and animal world! It's the order, the structure of human personality. There is order in my Universe!
There, in that ubiquitous fake flair-filled suburban dining and drinking establishment, with my friend and her friend deep in conversation about which cashiers at the local grocery are "better," I was unlocking mysteries of the mind. Or at least mine. In mapping my fan areas a solid picture emerged. There's nothing random about my seemingly scattered interests! I don't know how, yet, but I know this knowledge is going to revolutionize my understanding of, you know, stuff.
I spent the train ride home organizing my interests. Easy and difficult.
For instance, Nick Cave. Ahh, that's a tricky one. Is he: Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Music Class: Rock/Alt Order: Awesome Family: Bad Seeds Genus: Singers Species: Nick Cave
or, is he: Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Literature Class: Poetry Order: Modern Family: Free verse Genus: Spiritual Species: Nick Cave
or, is he: Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Literature Class: Fiction Order: Modern Family: Novels Genus: Disturbing Species: Nick Cave
or, is he: Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Cinema Class: Non-documentary Order: Drama Family: Actor Genus: Non lead Species: Nick Cave
or, is he a Kingdom to himself? Kingdom: Nick Cave Phylum: Writer Class: Poet Order: Spiritual Family: Disturbing Genus: Vile characters Species: redemption
See? Not as simplistic as it seems, is it? And that's the whole point of personality. And being a fan. I'm more a fan of Nick Cave's music so for me he's organized the first way. But for others who like his fiction, their brains map him in the novelist organization flow.
I'm a fan of all the Pixies so there are four organizations for each of the members as well as a fifth all-encompassing organization.
Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Music Class: Rock Order: Gods Family: Awesome Genus: Groups Species: Pixies
The thing is, being a fan sometimes denotes an air of exclusivity. Like, if I'm a fan of the Pixies I can't be a fan of the Chili Peppers, or at least as much of a fan of the Chili Peppers.
But no. That's not true! And using the natural world's organization structure shows this! Like cats, for instance. They're all Animalia, Chordata, Mammalia, Carnivora, Felidae, Felinae, Felis...but then you've got Felis Silvestris, Felis Manul, Felis Nigripes...see? They're all cats, you can like some more than others, but you can like them all equally, as well, because they all have a lot in common!
So: Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Music Class: Rock Order: Gods Family: Awesome Genus: Groups Species: Red Hot Chili Peppers
Ahhhhh. But what about a band like, oh, say, Nirvana. This works: Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Music Class: Rock Order: Gods Family: Awesome Genus: Groups Species: Nirvana
But, for me, this works better: Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Music Class: Rock Order: Gods Family: Saviors rising from the ashes Genus: Groups led by a prophet Species: Nirvana
But that's just me. My fan organization. Yours is probably different. And that's what's so cool about this. We really are unique individuals! And yet...not. This explains that confounding perplexity of the condition human. It can all be organized, classified, put in order in tidy categories where we are lumped together, not exactly unique or special, but, in the lower genus and species details we diverge into our individual personalities.
Now. What about the fan in fantasy?
Well, that's easy, too.
Take LOST for instance. Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Television Class: Drama Order: Man-o-rama Family: Lust worthy Genus: Salacious fantasies Species: Josh Holloway
Or, Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Television Class: Drama Order: Man-o-rama Family: Lust worthy Genus: Sweet and tender romance Species: Henry Ian Cusick
Or, Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Television Class: Drama Order: Man-o-rama Family: Lust worthy Genus: Taste for the exotic Species: Daniel Dae Kim
Or, the whole thing could also fall into this organization:
Kingdom: Fantasies Phylum: Man-o-rama Class: LOST Order: Libidinous desires Family: Single female fantasies Genus: Imaginary salacious exploits Species: Taking the lonely out of long lonely nights
Based on that organization model I'm guessing I have a lot in common with other women. The the phylum and class might differ, but I'm pretty sure the genus and species of that particular fantasy kingdom are universal. Consequently we're all fans.
It's all so obvious to me, now.
I don't feel defensive or embarrassed about being a fan.
Yeah. I said it, I am a fan of Apolo and LOST and The Pixies. (I like the kingdom of leisure activities, apparently.) I am a fan of Nick Cave's music but find characters in his novels disturbing. That doesn't make me less of a fan. In the Nick Cave organization there's room for lots of different kinds of fans.
The only danger I'm finding in all of this is that there's an Obsessive Compulsiveness to it that is disconcerting. (I know, "duh.") When I was making my fan organization charts on the train I chuckled at the OCD connection. When I started making the charts mentally I stopped chuckling and started to worry about becoming Rain Man. "Oh crap, my mind is starting to think like this all the time. I'm finding comfort in the organization. That cannot possibly be good."
Then again, it makes a lot of sense. There's nothing but confusion, chaos and disorder in my life right now. And I feel like I don't fit in anywhere. My little fan organization lists are a way for me to bring some order, structure and a perception of control and inclusion into my life. Which is an autistic coping behavior, I know. Okay? I know.
But is it a bad thing? I don't think so. Whatever gets you through the night, right?
Then again, insane people generally don't think they're insane. So. Yeah. There's that.
