Pimples, Band, and The End of the World: The High School Years

High school!  Wouldn't go back to high school if my life depended on it!  Ah, those awkward years!  Dealing with pimples that you thought would never end.  Trying to memorize the Pythagorean theorem that your math teacher insisted that you must know for the rest of your life.  Hoping not to be taunted by the football jocks.

Going back to high school to me is like having a unclean horse sit on my dinner.  It's not a pleasant thought.  However, it wasn't all bad.

Pimples.  White-headed bumps that just seemed to appear on your face.  Waiting to be popped.  Gross.   What exactly was that white stuff that landed on the bathroom mirror when you popped it?  I try not to think about it.  Today, I am surprised that I don't have a pothole map on my face.  Pimples are now a thing of the past.   Thank goodness that's over.

On a talent note, I was in the high school band.  I actually began my musical career in middle school.   Mrs. Wall, a tall blond, arranged musical instruments in "the band room" and I went in and tried each one out.   I knew I was destined to become the world's great French horn player.  Performances at the Met, platinum albums, adoring fans screaming my name.   (Now, I look back and think... Right, the French horn...)  One day while practicing, I heard my back yard neighbor tooting on his trumpet out.   Much to the dismay I'm sure of the neighbors, dueling brass began between the two houses.  How long and loud could you blow your horn?   I'm not sure who won.  It was probably a draw.

High school was rough for me.  I didn't quite fit in.  I felt like an odd duck.  It wasn't until my junior year that realized my calling.  In hindsight, it was the starting point for my trip down the road of arts and culture.   French class turned out to the boost I needed to say "Hey I can actually learn something I like."  From there, I began to blossom and knew education of some sort would be in my future.  Many thanks to one encouraging French teacher and one very patient math teacher.   Both taught me I could earn a good grade.

Now I look back at those high school years and think "What I would give if my worst worry was a pimple for prom?"   Or "What the hell is the Pythagorean theorem used for and why was it so important?"  (I don't remember it) Or even better, "OK, how many of you jocks are now overweight, beer drinkers, or even better, turned out to be gay?"

CSM

A Single Traveler

Note:   I wrote this several days ago, so I am not sitting at Starbucks. 

Right at this moment I am sitting at a window counter in a Starbucks on Michigan Avenue in Chicago.  Twilight is here.  Out on the sidewalk, people are rushing by. Hailing cabs.  Checking in or out of their hotel.  I see them, but they don't look at me. They just walk by looking at their Androids, iPhones, staring down at the grey pavement.  I wonder what they are thinking about?  Dinner?  Just getting home?  And what are they looking at on their deviecs?   Email? Text messages?  The news?  This blog...  I wish.

It's cool out, not cold, but enough for the felt caps and knitted scarves.  I see they've dug out their heavier jackets from the back of their closets. Winter is coming.  Chicago at this time is starting to look festive for the holidays.  Christmas lights, trees, wreaths are all starting to show up.  Earlier when I walked by, I noted that Macy's Department Store was decked out, ready for the holiday season.

I take in the whole scene.  I'm here near the Miracle Mile, wishing for a miracle.  It's hard sometimes to take in the scenery alone, but I do it.  Watching the people.  The other singles. The cuddling couples. The ragged families.  All scurrying by to their destinations.

It's hard to travel alone, but it's harder to justify not traveling at all.

CSM

Chicago! Part One

Well, I've been wanting to try my hand at travel writing... So here goes.

I just spent 2.5 days in or near Chicago. (The half day being Sunday and wanted to avoid the hurricane that was a'comin'.) 

First I want to say this about Chicago... What a great city!  Lively.  Bustling.  Windy.  Museums.  Shopping.   Starbucks on every corner.  And lots of handsome faces... If you're into that...  Which I am... 

I arrived in the Indiana suburbs and parked at my friend's house.  From there, I walked over to the South Shore, bought a ticket from a faceless machine in no time, and boarded the arriving train.  The timing was perfect.  I had checked the schedule beforehand, so I knew what to expect. The trip to my first stop lasted all of twenty minutes or so.

Getting off at the 55/56/57th street station, I had arrived in the big city.  Racing past enclosed waiting areas, I found the descending stairs, then the streets, and in no time stood in front of the Museum of Science and Industry.  It was heavenly to see those large banners with a giant Mickey Mouse beckoning me in...  Taunting me to the exhibit Treasures from the Walt Disney Archives...  Ahhhhh... I could feel their presence.  Inside those stone walls, somewhere in a guarded gallery, I was about to be made love to.   Seduced by the lure of stage props, original costumes, and delicious memorabilia. 

And sure enough, after paying the entrance fee, grabbing a guide map, waiting until my assigned time, I found myself within inches of Walt Disney's desk.  And awards including two gold shiny Oscars.  Then, be still my heart, the original knob from the bed in Bed knobs and Broomsticks.  I was one degree of separation from Angela Lansbury.  Hey, she touched it.  Watch the movie.

I swayed and swooned over the carpet bag carried by Mary Poppins and the coat and hat she wore.  The blocks that spelled out her name.  Captain Jack Sparrow's outfit.  Mechanical figures from The Magic Kingdom's Haunted Mansion.  The prop Nautilus from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. I staggered, drunk with awe...

I felt sorry for the security guard who really thought I was drunk.  "Ha!", I said.  "Drunk like hell, I'm having an orgasm."

But most of all, I felt sorry for the poor cleaning woman.  She cleaned loads of my drool and slobber from the Plexiglas cases as I pressed my nose against them to get as close as I could.  Poor thing... I hope they gave her a bonus for the day.

CSM

Ordinary People: The Closing Scene

In the closing scene of the film Ordinary People, Donald Sutherland's character is sitting on the hard cement porch slab next to a very young (and cute) Timothy Hutton who is playing his son.  Sutherland says to Hutton a line that goes something like this (but not exactly quoted):

"I never had to be hard on you, because you were always hard on yourself."

Confession time:  I cry when I hear that line.  I don't sob, just get teary eyed.  It is a movie line that speaks to me.  One sentence that I relate to so much that it brings tears.

My parents never really punished me, not that I recall.  They never had to.  I always punished myself for not being better, for not succeeding, for not exercising the needed patience.  And my personal punishment was always worse when I failed or imagined that I screwed up.

I have yet to learn not to be hard on myself.   Not to punish myself when I don't even know if I did something wrong.  And at times, when it wasn't even my fault.

Stopping and pondering this thought, I have to ask myself.  Where does it come from?  The high expectations or standards that I have built for myself.  It's one of those questions that I can't seem to answer.  It reminds me of dust bunnies that you try to get but the just keep rolling along the floor because some invisible air flow pushes them along...  Damn!  I even get hard on myself over that.  I should be able to get that thing.

Other people's levels don't bother me.  Those are theirs to own regardless of how high or low they are.  My standards are for me.  Is it some fantasy that I've built for myself?  Try to reach as high as possible.  Get that A so I can prove something.

Maybe my expectations for myself will mellow with age?  Pffft!  Great... Maybe when I'm 80!

CSM

Life Goes On: It's More Than Just a Great Beatles Song

I spent the other evening with my dear friend Elaine.  At my apartment, she kindly took some new photographs of me in writer mode, then we headed to dinner on Massachusetts Avenue, followed by dessert.

While enjoying some frozen yogurt with hot fudge, I chatted about how different my life is now, in contrast to a year ago.  I said to her:

"I didn't realize how different my life was, until the other morning...

I got in the shower and I'm standing there under the warm water, when I heard someone humming.  I thought "Who's humming?!"  Did someone get into my apartment?  Is Norman Bates about to strike?  And what an interesting introduction... to come into the bathroom and hum while I'm washing what remains of my hair.  Then I realized  it was me.  I was the hummer.  I'm not even sure what I was humming.  Probably some old tune from the 40s. It was a happy tune.

That was the moment I realized life had gone on.  And there I stood in the shower, still alive, having the chance to continue along the road of life, searching for my nirvana.  My Shangri-La.  I was happy."

Elaine compassionately listened.  She's a wonderful listener, especially when I need someone to listen.

"Being myself by being out and about.   Looking for love in all the wrong places, but at least I'm looking.  Getting rid of the old habits that aren't working.   It's tough, but I'm doing it.  Letting go.  And not caring about when the other shoe drops."

Elaine simply smiled.

Frank Capra and James Stewart were right. It is a wonderful life. No matter how much was/is thrown at me. I still survived. I will survive. (Thank you, Gloria Gaynor.)

CSM

My Fears, Part One

I've decided to try this.  Let's see if it works.  Let's see what happens.  Instead of keeping my fears to myself, I've decided to shout... well, at least, write some of them and throw them out there.  From there, I can work on them, get over them, and move on.

My Fears:

1) The fear of dying before I get everything done that I want to do.  Well, I can't stop it from happening, but I can chose the most important stuff to accomplish.

Steve Jobs said it best...

“Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life.  Almost everything--all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure--these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important."

2)  The fear of rejection.  (Eyes rolling)  Whatever...  Get over it.  If I get rejected, there are always other fish in the sea.  Just keep going up to guys and say 'Hey, I'm Chris.  What's your name?"   I am conquering my fear of rejection by asking some totally cute guys "Hey. Let's get a drink sometime... It's just a drink. I'm not asking you to marry me... yet... Maybe after a few drinks... just kidding..." 

And besides, Steve Jobs said it best...

"Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart."

3)  The fear of change.  Too late. I've changed so much in the past few months. Some of it forced.  I had to face my own mortality. 

And once again, Steve Jobs said it best...

"No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there. And yet, death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it, and that is how it should be, because death is very likely the single best invention of life. It's life's change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new.”

4)  The fear of not finding another quote so perfect!  Steve Jobs provided the best quote ever to help me think about my fears.   They're really not worth fearing.  Thanks, Mr. Jobs.

CSM

 

"What Now?" by Ann Patchett

Many thanks to Ann Patchett and her newer book, "What Now?"  It's a great little book, only 97 pages.  I read it in an hour.   Patchett reflects back on her life about where she had been to get where she is now.  It made me think about my own life, the road that got me to this point, and where do I go from here.

As Patchett told her story beginning with college and then flowing into real life, I began to think about all the people who influenced me, pointed me in one direction then another, supported me, and gave me what I needed but didn't know it at the time.   Some may never have known that they did influence me.  Others I've thanked in person.

Of course, there were my parents and my sister, but there were others as well. 

First, my high school French teacher Madam Koch who gave me my first A.  After that, my life began.  I was good at something -- reading, writing, and speaking French.  While math and science remain my bitter enemies, I found that language, history, the arts, and writing to be my fortes.  Even though I haven't seen her in years and I'm no longer in high school, she will always be Madam Koch.  I think by now we can be on first names basis...  Thanks, Janet.

Second would be Penny.  Although she herself has remained stuck in a historic imprint in her life, she reminds me, without saying one word, that life has to go on.   By watching her inability to move on, I see something that I don't want to do...  Not move on.   Life flies by and I'm worried that I won't have enough time.  Penny also read the very early scribblings of my first book and basically said "Keep working at it."  Thanks, Penny.

Third, without any question, I choose J.D.   His real name is James David, but I've known him as J.D. all my life.  His brother, Oren, influenced the path of my life as well.  I wrote about him in another post.   J.D., without his knowing it or saying much, showed me that life can be a blast, if you take chances and see the world.  We may not agree on where to go, what (or who) to do and see, but it's the point that I'm not sitting here rotting that's important.   Thanks, J.D.

That's a good start on the Thank Yous.  There will be others.

CSM

Dumping "The Tried and True Ways"

For years now, I've believed in systems that aren't leading anywhere but to needless self-destructions.  I have followed them for years.   Trusting in them, believing in them, continuing to follow them.

They are no longer useful because they have gotten me nowhere but endless grief.   It's time for those "tried and true ways" to be gone.  Be damned with them.  Send them to hell.  Let them leave me.  In my mind, I have started erasing them.  Wiping the slate clean of them. 

No more will I be bound to them.   No longer will I accept the "hope for the best, expect the worse" mentality.  It. is. unacceptable.

Picture cards, fortune words, serenity prayers, carved stones -- all be gone. 

I am me.  I have power.  I will succeed.  If not down one avenue then I will choose another. 

I will succeed in my goals.

God -- feel free to shut windows, close doors, but be aware that I will find a way out.  You gave me this soul and body to use for this time.  Please don't be against me.  Guide me.  Out of all the other "tried and true ways", you are the only one I'm keeping.  I know you're a good guy.  Otherwise, I wouldn't keep you either.

Mom and Dad -- I did my best to please you, but I can't do it anymore. However, I need you more than ever.  I can't go this alone.  I'm changing with or without you.  I've unleashed myself.  I've broken away and wondering in the darkness.  There are lights, but I am often blinded by them.  Keep sending me the signs.  I heard the one the other day and I will follow it.  Scared, but will keep moving.

My fears have a strong hold on me.  They have to go to.   I can't be afraid anymore.  I just can't.

Ramblings.   Ramblings of a kind and loving person who needs to be needed.

CSM

To Chris -- Hope for the Best! -- From Martha

Wednesday morning, it rained.  My head hurt. I wasn't feeling good.   I was suffering from the blues.  If it had been Monday, I could've sang that old Carpenters song.

To make a long story short, I was feeling hopeless.   I had finished book two, working on book three, and was pulling up old emotions for a another book that has no relation to my trilogy.  I wondered if other writers went through this same emotional flat line.  It was really a dumb question because the answer was "Yes, they do."

So, there I sat at work, reading the morning newspaper, wishing for a miracle or at least a few words of wisdom, when it happened.

Martha Stewart.  Martha Stewart happened.  The perfectionist had been in town to give a talk.  Oh how much I adore her... and hate her... and love her... yet can't stand the sight of her.  But, I digress.

Martha was quoted as saying "I wrote my first book at 40, my first magazine at 50" and then something weird about her gynecologist telling her she was "a late bloomer."   That was all I needed.   I realized why I like Martha so much.  We were both late bloomers.  I wrote my first book when I was 40...  Hmmm... Maybe I should plan on my first magazine at 50.    What should I write about? Writing?  How to be happy?

Well, whatever it might be, thanks Martha.  You said something that made me happy.  Despite the rain, I can see clearly.

And to quote you, "it's a good thing."

CSM

 

Anxiety! A Live Thing

A friend of mine is playing the waiting-game.  As we sat at lunch, she told me she's just waiting for the phone to ring at any moment and have someone tell her that her Mother had passed away.   Although she may not feel it, but I'm willing to bet she's got more anxiety than she realizes.  I remember those days.  I have a lot of empathy for her right now.

Waiting for that call.  Pacing the floor.  Wondering at what moment will it happen.   I can't decide which is worse.   Getting an unexpected phone call or the one that you've been waiting for.  Neither are good.

It's been one whole year, twelve months, since last October.  I can still see my Father sitting in the doctor's examination room, looking like a tired and weak old man.  His pants baggy, held up by suspenders because he had lost so much weight. His cheeks sunken in and his gums all flappy because he couldn't wear his dentures anymore.   He had lost even more hair.  This old man didn't look like my Father, but it was.

The doctor told us "You're kidneys are almost shut down.  They're working at only about ten percent."   I could tell we were living on borrowed time and from that moment on, we would be playing the waiting game.  Waiting for the time for him to go.  Outside of the examination room, I asked the big question.  "How long?"   The doctor's gut feeling was "six months."   And sure enough -- six months and about two weeks.

The moment that it happens.   You break down.  I'm not so sure it's over the final moment. Nor is it grief.  I think it's from sheer mental and physical exhaustion.  This was the moment that you had waited for.  The moment you fretted about.  The moment that the call came.  The moment had now come and gone.  No more waiting. 

That's when you notice it.   Your body loosens up.  Tension levels go down.  It had built over so much time that it crept up on you.   By then, the stress has taken its toll and you're a physical and mental mess without ever knowing it.  Until it was too late.   Now, you spend the next year repairing all the damage, hoping that it's not too bad.

CSM