While waiting on hold to untangle a shipping issue with Amazon, I read this blog post about this article (featuring my hero Robert Sapolsky), and got to thinking about paranoia. This is a common equation in my brain:

Customer Service + Internet Multitasking = Dire Thoughts

The article is about research into stress, but the way it got boiled down into particularly tough media gristle is a textbook example of cognitive dissonance in action. That’s where you believe something and then get evidence contradicting that belief. People don’t like to hold conflicting thoughts in their heads, so while some shift their beliefs in the face of new evidence, for others, it only strengthens their conviction, much like doomsday cultists who decide that their prayers staved off the predicted apocalypse, leaving them free to devise a new date for the end of the world.

Back in college, we’d throw this and other psychological terms around (as one does), and we always shorthanded it as “Cognitive D.” Oh man, we’d say while wading through the dense and heady verbiage thickets of then-vogue pomo theorists, Cognitive D! I believe there was a zine or two that went by that name, and maybe a punk band that played in various basements, although those days are hazy (a psychological state that deserves its own shorthand—how about Rosy M or Foggy M, depending on your filter?).

I’m particularly intrigued by the people who use evidence against their beliefs as fuel for the fire, in much the same way that god-proselytizers feed on disdain or anger or slammed doors; it strengthens their resolve. I think it’s because I have relatives who see conspiracies in contrails and believe that FEMA is building a crematoriums.* “I wouldn’t just drive up to visit in an unfamiliar car,” my sheriff’s deputy cousin told me once, when discussing these outliers, “especially not with California plates.” One great uncle used to materialize in our kitchen like smoke, wearing copper bracelets and raving about making runs to Mexico for Laetrile. If he were alive today, he’d be drawn to the tea partiers, although I think he might be too freaky for them; he was the kind of guy the people I sidle away from with a fixed grin sidle away from with a fixed grin.

All of this is to say that Amazon kept me on hold long enough while kibbitzing with FedEx that I wrote a little poem for you:

Cognitive D: Ode to the Paranoid

You double down on
Certainty
With evidence to the
Contrary—
Can’t let facts crack
Convictions—
Let faith be reason’s
Conqueror!
Your heart’s packed tight with
Conspiracy,
While your head fights off the
Cognitive
D, until there’s no dissonance,
only emptiness.

But it’s no fun to write poetry alone. So please share your creative outpourings on this or other psychological phenomena. If Coozledad ever gets his wireless working again, reaction formation would be a natural one for him to tackle.

I’d also like to see your pysch terms for new phenomena. What would you call the realization when:

–>Only coworkers and bores are on IM?

–>Your boss asks you a question on a conference call, but you’ve been too busy reading about the poor choices of celebrities to know what he’s talking about?

–>It becomes clear that the old flame you’ve friended on facebook is (a) a galt’s gulcher, (b) a rabid bible quoter, or (c) an annoyingly happy newlywed with a baby on the way?

*OH, GREAT. When I googled “fematoriums,” this post was the top hit. So not only do I repeat myself, I’m also the SEO champ for that particular conspiracy theory. Yay, me. I win the internets!

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I spend a certain amount of time (okay, too much) on ranty political sites, confirming the rightness of my leftness by mocking the beliefs of others. I blame Bush and Cheney for this, because if they hadn’t happened to the world like a case of head-to-foot herpes, I could be wasting more of my time on adorable animals and misguided celebrities. Basically, I like the funny sites, because laughing burns more calories than frothing and scathing alone.

One of my favorite reads is Alicublog, who was talking about a taxi driver he met in Las Vegas recently:

…my driver, a friendly old guy, diverted me with stories of his own life. He wanted to get out of Vegas, but family issues prevented it. He wasn’t complaining, though; his mantra was, “I’m the same as anybody else.” I took this for a tic at first, but the wisdom of it unfolded for me. I find I’m most unhappy when I walk through this world like a deposed prince looking for his lost kingdom.

Although this was just a throwaway observation in a larger post, it’s what really struck me, out of everything I read yesterday or over this past week: that the bent toward special can make you sad.

We’re all our own special little snowflakes, no two alike. But god, what a burden to carry around all the time; those heightened self-expectations put such a strain on our everyday muscles, already overtaxed and undertoned. It might be a comfort to tell yourself you’re special—and you are! I’m sure of it!—but sheesh, it’s also incredibly frustrating. If you’re so special, why hasn’t the world figured it out by now? Why didn’t that person love you or hire you or make you feel like the asskicker you are? And why does it feel so hard sometimes?

I know I’m happier when I’m in community, when I can share my gifts and revel in the wonder of others, of all of us. I mean, do your thing, hone your talents, but don’t get all broody and particular about it. Take some time to notice everyone’s spiky edges, then marvel at how we fit together and where we diverge.

It’s not about being like everybody else, it’s about recognizing that while we’re all the star of our own movie, we also play meaty parts in other people’s lives. It’s about investing as much time in those performances as you do in your own leading role.

(And damn, all this makes me sound like some namby-assed collectivist, doesn’t it? Take your neighbor’s hand, children! Next up, gluten-free nilla wafers and the ritual singing of kum-bah-yah!!!)

I know that part of my occasional tendency toward insular fuckerdom is shyness, but I suspect the rest is arrogance—or reads that way, at least. That’s part of what this year’s about for me: do the work, but also reach out, throw myself into the mix without waiting for someone to notice my tiny, miraculous light.

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Walking through the Mission, it’s impossible to miss all the ass. It’s just booty, booty everywhere:

And for those who can’t fill out your jeanshorts, THERE IS HOPE FOR YOU, LADIES.

Of course, I find that a diet of thigh-sized burritos does the same trick without resorting to special ass-pantalóns:

I went to the bank today—quick, before they discovered their mistake and disappeared the funds out of my account—and got a cashier’s check for the difference between what I owe on my house and what the buyers are paying. You catch that amount? Here’s a gasp-hancement:

Once I had the check in hand, I handed it straight over to the title company because my mom was worried that it might burn up in a fire or something. (Of course, if that happened, I would probably have larger problems.) “I guess I’m just awfulizing,” she said, which is a perfect way to describe the tendency to fret over dire events that probably won’t happen.

When I handed the check to the nice lady who’s been guiding me through the escrow process—and really, who needs realtors? what a freaking racket—she pulled a sad face and put her fists up by her eyes as though wiping away tears. “No, no,” I said. “This is a good thing. This means I’m almost free.”

“You have a really great attitude,” she told me. And at this point, I do, big checks and all. It’s been hard won—just ask The Subtle Parents—and paying down this debt will be one of my top projects for the next year (or three). But y’know, it’s only money, and this is beginning to feel like victory to me. Now if only I had everything packed and ready to head to storage…

PS: Anyone who thinks that ain’t Big Dolla is welcome to make a donation to the TSR Freedom Fund via PayPal. Just use the email over yonder —>

My glee:

My speed:

I feel:

I need:

glee, speed, feel, need

It’s all pack, pack, pack here at TSR HQ, with the occasional rage-spasm at underfoot mutts and unreliable brothers. I’ve also got a bit of that tumbleweeds-through-the living-room feeling you get when everything’s being crated up and carted away. It’s how change feels in its pensive moments, in that lag between the now and the next—mostly hopeful, and a little haunted.

Right now I’m trying to get ready for a moving sale that kicks off tomorrow from 7-9 pm. If you’re feeling muscular and generous, I could use some lifting assistance this evening. Otherwise, don’t make me move this shit into storage—stop on by for the preview sale tomorrow night with an adult beverage and your checkbook.

Oh, and by the way: My house is under contract, and we’re aiming to close on July 2nd. A lot can derail the process, although I am trying to practice the art of calm hope in the face of all this waiting. My prayer is that Independence Day is just that.

Today’s inspection went really well, so that’s the first big hurdle cleared. Next week’s the appraisal; keep your fingers crossed, please. And I just put my money down on a 10×20 storage space where the bulk of my stuff will live until the way forward becomes clear. For the near term, I’ll be in my sister’s old room at mom and dad’s, with as much roving as I can manage on the cheap.

I’ll have to write a fat check at closing, then live lean for a while to pay it off. Freedom comes at a price, but man, is she worth it. It really feels like the wheel is turning now; I’m nearly able to see new land—new life—from here.

PS: This is all thanks to Craigslist. If this deal closes, I owe Craig Newmark a big-ass blow job.

MWAH.

It’s massive vacillation time here at TSR HQ. The poor mook who’s running the controls inside me must be getting whiplash from all this back and forth:

It would all be easy if there weren’t hopeful people on either side, wishing I’d lean in their direction. But this is a good problem to have; just a fraught moment in service of better times. And this part will be over in the morning. While some choices may feel momentous and unmakeable during the deciding, once you’ve made them, you’re onto the next (and the next, and the next).

The world, she turns.

Wish me luck, though. I think it’s a good night for a hard run at the gym, some takeout sushi, and a dusk stroll around the zoo with the dogs.

Now we are two. I started typing here on June 6, 2008. And although it was just a blow-off post, something quick and simple to get me started, it turned out to be just the invitation I needed to keep writing:

Admit it. You want to explore that spooky blue alley. Come on, let’s hold hands and wander in together.

And as it turns out, that’s just what we’ve been up to over the past two years.

I never did write an About Me section for The Subtle Rudder, or any sort of manifesto beyond exploring that spooky blue alley together. I resist description, (of myself and my motives, at least); I don’t like to be confined, even if I’m the one building the pen. Which made the Miss Nebraska pageant especially funny for me, because each contestant has to have a platform, some sort of personal crusade she uses to define herself to the judges. Mentoring is a big one for the Misses of Nebraska:

Mentoring: Little Moments, Big Magic (Miss Blue River)

Building Strong Mentoring Relationships (Miss Columbus)

Building a Brighter Future Through Mentoring and Encouragement (Miss Eastern Nebraska)

Because who can argue with helping young people be the best they can be, particularly if they’re in danger of being bullied:

Bullying Prevention: The Positive Power Within (Miss Omaha)

or developing eating disorders:

Love Your Body, Love Yourself (Miss Northwest)

Eating Disorders: A Generation at Risk (Miss Southeast)

Or neglecting to floss:

All Smiles—The Importance of Dental Hygiene (Miss Alliance)

My favorite platforms were the seize-your-dreamy ones, though, because they were more like motivational verse, successories that swing:

Face Your Challenges, Nurtures Your Strengths, BE THE DIFFERENCE! (Miss Great Plains)

My sister leaned over the night of the prelims we attended and told me she wanted everyone in the family to come up with his or her own platform, as though the pageant was a play-along game. So I’ve been thinking about what The Subtle Rudder’s platform might be. Perhaps it’s:

I Saw That!—The Radical Act of Noticing

Or:

Sit Down and Do The Work!
(Even If You’re Just Posting a Baby Gorilla Picture)

Or if we wanna get all motivational bookmark, how about:

Dream It, Be It, Blog It!

So those are my platforms. What’s yours?

And since it’s my blogiversary, what do you think The Subtle Rudder’s all about? I’ll send ten bucks to anyone who can explain the name…

My boss is doing one of his endless blah-blah-blah live edit sessions where I watch him change my text in real time via the magic of shared desktops. (For every advance technology brings, there’s a giant leap back in terms of privacy or productivity; it’s the snake biting us in the ass). Now, most people who edit business copy just track their changes in word and send you the document—easy, offline, unfettered. But this guy needs an audience; he loves the thought of me sitting there as he types, a well-compensated vessel for his “wit” and “vision” and the occasional “bold” statement that smacks of racism or sexism or stupid americanism. My job is to act as a mirror and reflect back his brilliance. It’s all part of the gig.

But today, I just can’t keep still. I’m due out to my sister’s house in 25 minutes, packed and ready for a couple of days away. But my camera cords have gone missing and I haven’t had time to go through my tank tops and other summer gear to find the stuff that reveals the right amount of fishbelly flesh to stay cool, but not enough to blind the neighbors. Oh, and we’re taking Ford for a swim in the hotel pool. A swimsuit; good crikey, who knows when I wore one last. Morocco? That Turkish bath in Madrid? If I recall correctly, it was Madrid. I bought the suit at El Corte Inglés, and it’s very chocolate eurovamp, with highcut legholes and a plunging neckline with a gold buckle across the chest. Just perfect for the kiddie pool at the Quality Inn in North Platte, Nebraska.

Whither North Platte, you ask? Oh, child…where to begin. We’re all packing up the cars and caravanning west to wear buttons with my poised and confident youngest cousin’s face on them, and to cheer her on as she struts around in gowns and a no-doubt more carefully selected swimsuit for the Miss Nebraska pageant. Pictures to follow, you can count on that.

Happy weekends, everyone! Shoulders back, hand up, dazzling smile—now work it.

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