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!

Image via

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.

via

He doesn’t ask for money, he asks for food.

I’m with my friend Sal* after an afternoon spent photographing buds and textures at the arboretum in Golden Gate Park. We’re heading into Safeway for onions and catfood. We tell the guy no, but when we get inside, we stop at the sandwich counter.

“I’ll go see what he wants,” I say.

Anything, he tells me. Whatever’s good. “What do you really want? Turkey? Roast beef?”

Roast Beef, it is, I tell Sal and then, while the sandwich is being made, I go back out to talk to the guy, take his picture. His name is Jelani and he’s from southern California.

“How do you like the cold up north?” I ask. He shakes his head and pulls the blanket he’s wearing around him tighter.

“I’m from the really southern part of the state. I’m not used to this shit.”

All the while, I’m snapping pictures, finding the focus point in one eye or the other, then taking the shot.

As we talk, another street dude walks past. “Charge her ten bucks,” he says.

“What’s that, man?” Jelani asks.

“Charge that lady ten bucks for pictures and you’ll eat.”

Jelani shakes his head. “She’s already feeding me, but thank you, brother.”

I ask how he likes San Francisco and he tells me he wishes he’d brought his drum with him. “That’s the one good thing about this city,” he says. “You can get in on some really great drum circles.” He was traveling with a friend and they’d stopped at that friend’s mom’s place somewhere south of the city. He’d left his drum there. “To let her know we’d be coming back,” he says sadly.

“And now you can’t go back?”

“My friend died. Right over in that park,” he says, pointing the block over to Golden Gate.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry. What happened?”

“He was 63 and a drinker. He just wore his body thin.”

Now Jelani can’t get his drum back. “I don’t really remember exactly where she lived, plus I’d have to tell her. We’d probably weep together.”

Maybe this wouldn’t be a bad thing, I suggest.

“Yeah, that was the first man who died in my arms,” he says, shaking his head as though the thought sits funny in there.

Sal came out with the bag of food. “Roast beef,” he says, “some chips and a coke. Oh, and a pudding. Chocolate. You like pudding?”

“I don’t really eat pudding, man,” Jelani says. “But I’m gonna try.”

I thank him for the talk and the pictures. “Stay warm,” I say.

“I hope you got some good ones,” he tells me, pointing to the camera.

*Not his real name, but he told me if I blogged him, he would “KILL ME DEAD.” So there you go, SAL.

One month ago I was in San Francisco—in the same apartment I’m headed back to today—when I posted my house on craigslist. It was a whim, just something I did to make Fannie Mae think I was serious about selling, when all I really wanted to do was walk away.

I never dreamed it would work.

Never dreamed.

But it worked.

And now, four weeks, a home inspection, another appraisal, a shockingly successful garage sale, way too much packing, not enough blogging, a bruisey week of moving, a final walkthrough, and one giant check later, today’s the day. The buyers sign my freedom papers at 10 AM this morning, but I’ll already be on the road, headed west for the next month or two. The title agent will call me when it’s all over—perhaps I’ll be as far as North Platte by then. I’m bound for Rock Springs, Wyoming this evening, where Stella and I spent three snowbound days during the shock and awe campaign, what seems like a hundred lives ago.

It seems appropriate to spend the night passing through a place I’ve gotten stuck before, because that’s exactly how I’ve felt for the last couple years—psychically snowbound, with only war and weather on the tv screen—and it’s the last thing I feel right now. I’m all coltish and hopeful these days, ready for some room to run. Today will feel sunfree, I hope, with no shocks, only awe.

Thanks for all your support over the last months and years—you know who you are, you know what you mean to me. Thanks, especially, to The Subtle Parents for loving and putting up with The Subtle Pups while I wander (and for loving and putting up with me in all my evolutions). I’ll miss you all. And thanks to my sister and the neph for giving me a reason to come back. Thanks to my Lincoln friends for the growing sense of community: you make it hard to leave here. And to my San Francisco friends, put your walking shoes on, we’ve got miles to cover and pictures to take. I can’t wait!

More later, from the road.

Image is Michael Crawford’s deconstruction of Rauschenberg Minus Nebraska by Chuck Close

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…

I just spent an hour trying to resize this neph photo on my iphone, so I could post it here with some just-enough message to satisfy the terms of nablopomo, but I finally said fuckit and went down to get my laptop, where it took about 2 clicks. Sigh.

Anyway, now that I’m here, I’ll say more—and there’s a lot more to say about my last couple of days. I’m back from seeing the second night of prelims for the Miss Nebraska pageant, where my lovely cousin did not make the finals, mainly because she’s always had better shit to do than exemplify glossy youngwomanhood, and those pageant girls—the ones who’ve been competing since they were Ford’s age, back when they were still trying to eat the rocks they found on the ground—are like tensile little machines, all sateen and quadriceps, with their white teeth, their bikini tape, and their high-heeled stride. When dad called to tell me Mariah hadn’t made the top seven, I asked if he knew who had. He couldn’t remember any names, but said: “They were all tall and skinny. Except for the one who was short and skinny.”

And so it goes; blonde will out. While I don’t want to make (many more) easy-mean jokes about the contestants, I will say that the crowd there to cheer on the pageanteers this weekend was an oddball mix of Cornhusker homefolk, with their regular hair, their expansive waistlines, and their unchecked signs of aging, and a sleeker, sharkier crew all duded up in lady armor worn with amazon heels and purchased tits and tans. I often feel like I don’t fit here, that I look different, but compared to the pageant crowd, I am just homefolk, one of the herd.

I have more to say on the topic of pageantry, along with a raft of pictures I’m too weary to deal with tonight, so meet back here tomorrow for more glitter and gossip, and maybe even a little redemptive arc about being the difference.

It’s the day of troops and potato salad, of sacrifice and sunburns, and I’ve been thinking about three men in my life who saw hard action in World War 2.

My Mother’s Father

The funny thing is, I know the least about my own grandpa’s service. I wrote this a while ago, as a comment over at coozledad’s place, and it’ll tell you about as much as I understand of my mom’s dad, even though I knew him all my life:

My grandpa was a man with lots of rules. He drank dark liquids in heavy tumblers and never had much to say to the likes of me. I mostly saw him in his leather lounger, watching golf or some other rich man’s game. He was no warmer to my mother, his eldest child; she was too much like his dead wife, a woman he took for granted for years. Although he was a man who knew the worth of things, he never got an accurate bead on her measure, and once he’d lost her, any grief went deep and came out bitter. He was in the great war, but never spoke of it; I’m not even sure where he served, it was that much a secret.

I think those days festered in the young man, and turned him into an old man who could not even be friends with himself. Scars come in every size, and some cannot be seen. We are, as a nation, excellent at both creating and overlooking such wounds.

My Ex-Boyfriend’s Grandpa

He was rough as guts, his wife always said, and as a former digger, he’d seen the toughest service the war threw anyone’s way. He was eager to talk about it, though, spinning stories over strong rum, in a way my own grandfather had never done. By the time I knew him, his wife’s mind had gone walkabout, and they’d just moved down to Tasmania to be closer to Guy’s mum. He was tall, that’s where Guy got his height, and I always imagined him striding along as a young man, all bluff and blokey in that Australian way.

He fought alongside the Ghurkas and they were like ghosts, he told me, slipping behind you in the dark and brailling your service medal before you even knew they were there. “If yours was the wrong kind,” he said, miming a blade along the throat, ”they’d slit you a new mouth below the first, then take an ear as proof of the kill.”

Although he was a man’s man’s man, I’ve never seen a more tender arm at the elbow as he’d steer his wife from room to room, this woman he’d loved his entire adulthood and all the way through her second childhood.

My Friend Eugene

I wrote all about Eugene here, but today I’m remembering how open he was about his service. As a weird kid who obsessively studied nazis as part of my grade school gifted program, I’d always longed for a grandpa who could tell me stories about that time. My own had been unable to engage, dumb before the unspeakable things he’d seen. But the war was part of what defined Eugene, and he was eager to share those days, just as I was eager to receive them.

It strikes me now how much a part of Bernal Hill he was for me. Although it’s finally gentrifying along Cortland Street, with the obligatory winebars and babystrollers, Bernal remains scrubby and a little wild. I lived there years ago, and it still feels like home to me; I miss the library, the little downtown, the walks around the hilltop with its double-bridge view of the city. Betsy befriended Eugene on one of those walks, just as I had befriended her what must have been fifteen years ago now. There’s something to the bond that forms on a hilltop overlooking a hundred other neighborhoods. It packs the long view, along with the close perspective you get from really knowing someone; I believe such connections are made to last.

Although he’s been gone for more than two years now, I still miss Eugene. And although I’ve been gone for nearly three, I’m still drawn back to Betsy, to Bernal.

via

According to Betsy, who’s versed in Chinese medicine, I need more metal of the elemental (not headbangal) variety. So I drank some of this over lunch at Samovar, right around the corner from my old house in San Francisco:

Although I never do this for myself at home, I love the rituals and equipment of fancy tea: the iron waterkeeper, the tiny glass steeper, the gnurled fists of monkey-picked mercy. I try to stop in for a pot whenever I’m out here.

The area surrounding Dolores Park is my heart’s epicenter; it’s where I feel most at home. I’m a loyal bird; every time I migrate west I end up here—these blocks are as known to me as my own nose. Now I’m at the Morning Due, my alterna-office, having staked out the best seat in the place, over in the corner where the extension cord hides. (My laptop’s useless without juice anymore, and Iron Goddess of Mercy, I can surely relate.)

“We’ve missed you!” the counter guy said, grabbing my hand. It’s good to be remembered. “When are you coming back here for good?” he asked. “Keep an eye out for a dog-friendly place,” I told him, because a girl never knows when she’ll need new refuge among familiar faces.

I’ve got my headphones on and I’m playing the new Joanna Newsom I can’t stop listening to, but I can still hear the lazy samba that’s playing in the speaker just above my head and a whole café’s worth of conversations, punctuated by the blast of the steamer on the espresso machine. It’s a convivial din, a good city brew of people enjoying caffeine and community. And I’m remembering the hand grab of the last paragraph—the greeting from my browneyed Jordanian friend, who always remembers my order, even though I’m three years gone—and thinking that it’s a real comfort to be touched with warm purpose, that it’s been a long fucking time.

Sometimes I wish I could be more nimble; it used to be so easy to skip the lessons and just bury myself in another body, let the new erase the lack. Not feeling is so much easier. But I’m not a kid, I can’t keep acting like one. The bounceback is gone and something else has taken its place: the need to consider, to let it ache until it doesn’t anymore. It’s not about denying myself so much as taking my medicine, making room for the next by not rushing the recovery.

Speaking of healing, there are five things I’ve been trying to do every day: walk, write, eat well, talk with someone who loves me, and be gentle with myself. I’m doing pretty well, although I find that number 5 is the most difficult, since it’s so easy to slip, to let doubt have its way with me. I’d like number 5 to be as constant as a heartbeat and as automatic as breath, but I have to stay vigilant in service of self-gentleness, be my own Iron Goddess, dispensing personal mercy.

So far today, I’m going easy on myself. I’ve taken nourishment from clean food, old friends, and these words, shared here with you. Next up is a hilly hike with another dear old friend; we could both use the long view about now, striding up and surveying the city as we talk about where and when and what’s next.

PS: I can’t decant the scent of the tea I’m drinking or share the sounds of samba and San Franciscans with you, but here’s what’s playing in my ear right now.

That’s The Subtle Eyeball, reflected in the rearview mirror of dad’s truckbeast. I was jacking around with my camera in the Menard’s parking lot, while dad shopped for lumber to take to Kansas City last night. He’s here to work, but I’m here to commune with my digital sistren at the Bossy meetup tonight. We’re going to break out of the binary and drink with a bunch of fellow bloggers; words made (no doubt tipsy) flesh.

Mostly, I’m just happy to get out and see the people; that can be hard for me. It’s not that I’m anxious about social situations—when I’m out there, I’m fine. Gregarious, even. It’s just that I’m so much alone during my usual days that it’s often hard to open the door and make myself leave. Sometimes it feels safer and easier to stay put.

I’m most excited to meet Nimble, one of the wonderful never-mets this blog has brought into my life (you’re up next, Coozledad…what’s the midway point between Nebraska and North Carolina? And don’t say New Jersey, even though it’s the alphabetical halfway). She sent me an email this morning, observing with delight that my address could be read as “the subtler udder,” which may well be the case. I love a brain like that, one which finds joy in all the different ways you can read a word, a sentence, a situation. She will confirm for you whether this rudder is subtle or if the udder is subtler.

Stay tuned for more…and for god’s sake, join us at Waldo’s Pizza tonight, somewhere in KC, MO. (I’m getting dropped off so I have not retained an address, but the google, she will provide.)

PS: I’d like you to weigh in on something. What color do my eyes look to you? I’ve always called them hazel, which I figured meant unclear, changeable, not easily categorized (this may refer to more than my eye color). But I just met a woman who swears that hazel means golden green-brown and not the riverine blue-green-grey of my particular eyeballs. So now I need a new way to describe my eyes, and by extension, myself. What say you, my subtler udders?

Ouchie! My knee’s got quite a shiner:

Quick, someone kiss it.

I took a spectacular header yesterday. I was carrying my camera and iphone from the kitchen to the office and I forgot that I’d set the babygate in a new place to corral the dogs during brunch. So yeah, I went flying, and so did all my most expensive tech. But my camera’s tough, almost armored, my beloved 50mm lens still shoots fine, and this is not my iphone’s first rough landing followed by a long skid.

The only visible damage is on my right knee, and it’s just one of those sharp barkings that swell up and go all goth-rainbow for a colorful while. It didn’t stop me from marching the mutts around the zoo for an hour yesterday, or from busting out 30 minutes of cardio at the gym, or from falling asleep in a funny tangle at 6:30 last night.

I’ll probably carry this bruise around for much of the summer, though. This is the same leg that still has a dog scratch scar from more than a month ago; everything seems to fade slowly on me these days (and within me, for that matter). Maybe I have less bounce-back as I get older: things hit harder, bruises run deeper. Or maybe it’s a reminder to take my time, to really let the lessons set before I escape into my next moment: Step lightly, stay fluid, watch the path ahead, take the long view, accept the occasional bruise as evidence of a life lived.

After all, life should mark you, otherwise you’re doing it wrong.