My Multiple Personalities

Personality test scores for me always tended toward "I'm such a FEELER. Can I feel you? Feel me." This was back in my semi-hippy days, where every opportunistic college lower-classman feels the need to vascilitate between "budding-philosopher-I-am-like-so-becoming-enlightened-right-NOW" and "Is it EARTH DAY?" This is supposed to ensure the individual with everything from a cool, natural, not-at-all-matching look to a cool "I am ME" reputation. I can pretty safely say I was too overwhelmed with just being in college to form much of an alter-ego, but somewhere out there, there is a photo of me with flowers in my long, "Is it curly or just bumpy?" hair; I am clinging to a tree yes, in a park. Jesus was also there, I'm quite sure. It's so serene, I can almost deny the humiliating truth that I am soooooo out of touch with the real, modern world. Oh well.

Myers Briggs indicated as much as well-A intuitive feeler who finds JOY in people, empathetic toward emotion, and ever so easily hurt. This was about 5 years ago.

Yesterday a friend asked me if I had been one of those "Mean Girls" in high school. When I said no, her clearly skeptical facial expression brought about some very intriguing questions. Why was she so disbelieving? Have my current traits of constant sarcasm, intrinsic judgement, and strong opinions got anything to do with it?

It was then that I realized,

I HAVE CHANGED.

In high school I was absolutely ADAMANT about everyone liking me and thinking I was a nice person. Oh the tears shed over what seemed a cold shoulder or impatient remark or the worst, gossip about me. I was friendly to everyone...then.

Now? Well, I'm afraid somehow, someway, the Myers Briggs characteristic of JUDGEMENT has snuck its way into my harmony-loving heart. This demonstrates itself in a variety of ways, to the point where I have been tagged as the Facebook friend who "won't take your crap," and dangerous in the deed of discipline: "Ms. Clark will devastate you if you talk in class!" "You are gonna whip them into shape!" and so on (authentic student quotes). Just being jokingly called "jerk" by friends has got to mean something. Oh dear.

When I look back to the years of the flowers, I have no idea when this change came about. All I know is I got older and consequently MEANER. Were I to categorize most of the people I see and events we as human deal with on a daily basis, words like "stupid," "ridiculous," and "Really????" would successfully convey my perspective. Unbelievably, I have warped into a proxy snob.

BUT,

I haven't given up entirely on feeling though. I'm still easily affected-funny since I hate to admit it. I still love my friends and would probably write a scathing blog about anyone who had mistreated them in the hope of destroying the provoker's LIFE (wait...is that protective or mean?). I just tend to fancy the feeling of logical reasoning as well. I can't say as I really thought through very much as that breezy teenage girl-I was too preoccupied with EVERYTHING, so much so that my conclusions drifted towards nothing.

I suppose this entire piece is a sort of apology-not the "I'm so sorry, can I weep on your shoulder?" kind, but the "Can I try to make sense of and explain myself?" kind. It's also to assure you, gentle reader, that I don't hate you if I laugh at you or say something sarcastic that ends up making you feel idiotic and publicly "dunced." Likely, I lack some of this wisdom and judgement I've been advocating for here. Is that the way it always is? The things we fixate upon the most are the biggest struggles for us? If I'm really honest, I'm currently trying to rip those little white daisies out of my tangled hair without anyone noticing-I don't want to look stupid.

Logic. Judgement. Feeling. Balance? Yes. Then I can move to the next square. Myers Briggs, brace yourself.

On Dating Duty.

I’ve been studying the letters in the word “Adventism” lately, and although I can pull the word “date” out of it (ooo, shiver), I was somewhat confused by not being able to also find “courtship,” “marriage,” “Christian offspring,” or especially, “if you don’t marry asap, you will be conversely ostracized just as quickly, so sign up for Adventist singles first…asap.” After all, I had heard such token terms companioned with "Adventism" so frequently, I had just assumed...something. It’s an amusing situation, bordering threateningly close to completely comic—in a “please put me in an insane asylum for safe keeping, I am laughing so hard right now” type of way. If you are currently a single Adventist young person, you may be laughing like this right now…self consciously, because as much as you would like to make fun of the idea, you are absolutely terrified the old elders’ tales are true—that you are already past the point of no return, that you already are a spinster, male or female, doomed to a long life of imaginary games.

Various friends of mine show the symptoms, “I don’t understand guys/girls these days…well, I mean, I can’t really because there aren’t any my age. Every Sabbath I come and sit in these pews and just stare at the couples, but mostly the white hairs, or the sullen gleam from lack of hairs. I’m getting old too. In approximately 40+ years I will be just like them. What am I going to do…? Time is running out! Wait, whoa, is that a new guy/girl? He/She’s ALONE! And he/she’s seems to be fairly alert, relatively mobile, and even breathing…I gotta check them, I mean, this out…”

I’m not exactly exaggerating. Really. I wish I was. But here we are. I just can’t figure out the mentality of, “if I appear desperate enough, I’ll be sure to find someone.” Yes, you will, though perhaps not someone who’s quite ideal; “Let me wave my neediness like a banner so as to attract all possible takers, namely those just as codependently hungry as me, aka the vultures.” While it is true that these birds of prey do commonly feed on carrion, there is no reason to place yourself so self-deprecatingly in this category just yet—I promise. Please believe me…

Despite catch-phrases like “wife-hunter” and “theology major” sending chills down all female spines the first couple years of college, these same shivering ladies will be flocking and flogging each other trying to be first in line in a few years time, after several Sabbaths alone and single in their solitary career worlds. It’s too late… Around this point, it is apparently definitely time to begin actively searching for any and all divorcees, older individuals, and if necessary, ex-cons.

It is true that women do not age well. I asked my mother at what age does it all slide irretrievably downhill. She paused and looked surprised at my question, and somewhat offended, “And you’re asking me this why? Because I know?”

“No, no! Just out of curiosity, I want to know how to mentally prepare myself.”

“Honey, you don’t need to worry about this. There isn’t an age.” Mom, yes there is.

I feel the impending doomsday lurking out there just as tangibly as every other female under 40, or maybe 37. Somehow, someway, it goes. Guys, if you’re confused about this dubious “it,” I won’t explain in hopes of keeping you in the dark. Girls, well, you know what I mean. My point is that I can sympathize with the feelings of insecurity that come with each passing week, month, year, wrinkle, sag, and scar. BUT, let us not advertise these sentiments! What ever happened to good acting? It seems we truly are too influenced by Hollywood…’s low standards in dramatic presentation. Walk with your head high in the church aisles, ladies—and not purely for the sake of scanning. Yes, yes, I refer to the infamous and widely used method of looking around nonchalantly for prospects, and if there are none, scornfully judging all of the competition (it is a fact that if you are female, more women will check you out than men in your lifetime, no contest). Forget about it all! Ignore references to “Wedding Colleges,” “Social Networking…Sabbath School Dating Services,” and DO NOT GO TO SINGLES CAMP. Do not. I would love to see my proposition that we the youth age in peace and couple in the right time with the right someone proven possible. Please.

The only regret I have about seeking to banish biologically/theologically driven, yet so chemically unstable patheticism would be the absence of a very real source of social entertainment for me. What will I laugh at and make fun of? I’m creative though and resourceful. I’ll survive. What worries me more are the chances of our survival if we continue at present—will the divorce rate climb or will we remain faithful, sufficiently solving the problem of global population by depressed copulation? Either alternative seems a sorry second to just being happy. Choose the dating diet—Eat, drink, and wait to marry, in a few years you’ll still be spry.

Rain, rain, go away...Stuck.

Rain, rain, go away...well, I would if I could but instead I'm sitting in a parking lot on I-405.

I live in Seattle, WA. Annually, the city receives 36 inches of rainfall--three feet, with an added 9 inches of snow. In other words, it's a rather moist place, like London, though less drippy than New York City, whose citizens get to wade through about 45 inches of precipitation a year, 28 inches of that, snow.

Is rain a stranger to Seattle? A purely meaningless, rhetorical question to be sure. But when I'm stuck in traffic on a stalled freeway, watching raindrops splash and ooze over my car hood, I'm not so sure. For some reason I simply cannot fathom, Seattlites become inexplicably freaked out every time it starts to freakin' rain. I have tried to reason this one out--perhaps they are all admiring the rain and therefore need to slow down? They left two hours early that day just for the scenic experience, for time listening to their favorite rainy day Ipod playlist? They're all from California?

I just don't know. The facts don't hold, it makes no sense. We see rain almost every day of the fall/winter months--not torrential downpour either, mostly just gentle sprinkling from a garden watering can.

Regardless, somehow rain continues to shock and amaze us. If it seems like we spend a lot of time absolutely incredulous, we do. So, since reasoning through this conundrum doesn't really reap any rewarding breakthroughs, what can we do to make it better? Come up with good safety techniques for those maniacally sinister rainy days, just waiting to catch you with your feet hanging off the bed, to snatch you unaware.

You're driving in the car, and ploop! A raindrop...

"Oh......NO. Ok, ok, don't panic, we've rehearsed this, let me just slow down, way down, and grab this little guy here...where is it? I thought I put it under my seat...ah yes! Here it is. Oh I'm gonna have to stop for a just a second and put this on without causing an accident. There we go! Bright orange lifejacket to the rescue, I'm gonna be fine..."

You're driving in the car, and plash! A puddle...

"Oh......NO. Ok, ok, don't panic, don't pan--oh my Ga--I think I just hydroplaned a little bit! Braking, braking, ooo not too much, slowly, going slow, ok, ok. Now, where did I put that...? Um...oh yes, good, here it is: my kayak paddle. That way, worst case scenario, I can make it to shore..."

You're driving in the car, and pop! A droplet explodes on your windshield...

"Oh......NO. Well, no worries, hold up, lemme just plug this into my cig lighter, I can smoke later...ok, put it up here on the dash, oh, better move my radar detector over...alright, there we go. In business! This spotlight totally solves everything--just keep raining, son, I can see no matter what. Beacon on the rocks, baby..."

You're driving in the car, and pshhhh! A car drives by and totally sprays you, marking it's territory...

"Oh......NO you didn't. Nice try, buddy, but no score, cause I'm ready. This wetsuit ain't lettin' anything in."

*Did I say driving? I meant diving...

See, now you can pull your normal routine, but feel safer in the end. Plus, you are totally, absolutely, without a doubt, prepared to drive off the end of a pier, into the Puget Sound. You might want to sneak in that SCUBA gear too though, just for convenience.

If you can't beat em,' join em.' Even assist them. For myself, I'm stealing a private helicopter tonight and just overpassing the whole business.

Somebody's Watching Me.

Part I: Somebody’s Watching Me

Directions: Youtube the above title.

This song was originally performed by Rockwell and Michael Jackson, and recently revived by Mysto and Pizzi for the Geico commercial. Think little stack of money with goggle eyes observing from obscure locations. Listen to it.

I'm just an average man with an average life,

I work from nine to five, and hey I pay the price.

All I want is to be left alone in my average home,

But why do I always feel like I'm in the twilight zone?

I always feel like somebody's watching me

And I have no privacy.

I always feel like somebody's watching me;

Tell me, is it just a dream?

When I come home at night,

I bolt the door real tight.

People call me on the phone, I'm trying to avoid.

But can the people on T.V. see me or am I just paranoid?

When I'm in the shower I'm afraid to wash my hair,

Cause I might open my eyes and find someone standing there.

People say I'm crazy, just a little touched.

But maybe showers remind me of Psycho too much…

I always feel like somebody's watching me

And I have no privacy.

I always feel like somebody's watching me;

Tell me, is it just a dream?

I don't know anymore

Are the neighbors watching me?

Well is the mailman watching me?

And I don't feel safe anymore, oh what a mess

I wonder who's watching me now—the IRS?

I always feel like somebody's watching me…

Part II: Wait, is someone watching?

Sure it’s a catchy tune with funny lyrics—I felt drawn to it right away. This sort of telltale bouncing of my head to the beat and a slight smile tucking in the corner of my mouth always signals, “I like this!”

But you know what? I do often feel like someone’s watching me so at the same time, the familiarity of this song’s sentiments totally weirds me out.

You know the feeling—you’re standing in a grocery line somewhere, you’re at the gas station, or your walking down some suburban sidewalk minding your own business when it happens.

It starts as a faint, little voice coming from the perimeters of your mind, somewhere in the southern corners…hey, hey…what’s that? Someone’s… watching you…right now…

I have no idea how this subliminal information finds its way into my consciousness—do I have secret eyes hidden beneath my fuzzy dark hair? Is it some strange byproduct of Hera creating peacock feathers—when she plucked out the 100 eyes of her dead spy Argus and placed them on the tail of her favorite bird? Did some of those 100 pass onto me, through mysteriously potent recessive Greek genes?

If so, how many are there embedded in my scalp? Yuck.

Regardless of how, the alert comes through, and suddenly you feel uncomfortably compelled to look about, “casually,” as if for no other reason but to check out the amazing view around you:

at the grocery store,

“…oh wow, look at those tabloids—my gosh, Oprah’s weight really fluctuates—and gum and overpriced drinks…and oh my—why is that guy with the scraggly moustache on his face in the other check-line staring at me?”

at the gas station,

“…how are gas prices now compared to diesel? Why is diesel more expensive than gas these days, used to be cheaper…why do I care? And why is the lady in the SUV staring at me from across the island without wavering right now? Is there something stuck to my face? Is she telepathically helping me solve the diesel conundrum?”

on a suburban sidewalk,

“…this head wind is really annoying, that’s why I’m running so slow and feel like I’m about to die…wouldn’t that be funny if I tripped and fell on my face—everyone would look…but apparently someone's already anticipated the opportunity, cause that guy driving by is staring at me and hasn’t looked away for the last 6 seconds. May he crash into the scratchy bushes in the median…”

even at Blockbuster,

“…let’s see, what am I in the mood for…drama? Comedy? Documentary?...how many academy awards did this one get? Um...why is that lady across the aisle staring at me through the wire shelving where this movie just sat…I’m going to put it back slowly and cover her face…”

It’s at the point of realizing that someone has in fact been staring at you, eerily confirming your niggling premonition, that you start to inwardly, quietly, and privately freak out.

Part III: Now we’re watching each other.

You stare at each other for a few breaths, only you’re not really breathing, you’re just pretending to so as to appear natural.

You will probably turn, walk away, then bolt and flee for your life. Stalker. You look back just to make sure, not caring one grain if you turn to salt.

IV: SOMEONE will always be watching.

But here’s another flash of inspiration, there’s an ultimate Stalker out there. Remember the last lines of the song? The IRS…the government. Big brother is watching. He is. And we know it, although we prefer not to think on that one too much at all.

Along with bringing us another day to commemorate brave America’s survival of this sinister singular attack on home soil, September 11 also bestowed on her now paranoid (perhaps conveniently?) citizens a very purposeful present, the Patriot Act. Excuse me, the USA Patriot Act: Uniting and Strengthening America by Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism Act of 2001. We’re all at least vaguely familiar with its goal—enhanced security for the nation. Right?

Of course, but the how is a least as important as the what. The Act enables, more than ever before, the government to search telephone, email, medical and financial records, eases up on restrictions to homeland intelligence activities, empowers immigration with greater detainment and deportation, and “lastly,” expands the definition of “domestic terrorism,” therefore enlarging the territory over which law enforcement operates. All well and good for sure—we say yes to safety and security.

But when we said yes, in our fear and trembling, when day turned to ash in New York City, when a pile of rubble reminded us daily of a lurking, hidden internal threat as malignant as cancer, as random as anthrax in the mailbox—when we said yes, did we do so educated about the cost? Because everything comes at a price.

Now somebody’s watching me.

Part IV: Still watching.

Some of the Patriot Act’s original stipulations have been challenged and ruled unconstitutional in Federal Court in favor of civil liberty preservation. Still, knowing that as I sit on my bed, open window to my right, it’s a bit unsettling to really admit that someone might very well be watching me—and I’m not talking about the neighbors. Who knows how—maybe satellite, maybe sensors, maybe key word recognition microphones engrained in the trees—but we are being watched.

Is this a bad thing? Maybe not. After all, it’s a crazy world out there. But I’ll definitely be thinking twice before changing so freely in my own bedroom, before chatting so openly about “world issues” with friends on my cell phone, before writing such liberal blogs…no, not really. And why not?

Part V: No matter who’s watching.

Because I still claim freedom of speech, I still hold to my first amendment rights as I knew them, as I choose to know them, as I hope to continue to enjoy them. I want to say what I think, to worship as I wish, to publish as inspired, to live liberated as our transcendental predecessors propounded, as idealistic as Emerson, Thoreau, and Dickinson may seem now.

I’ve never considered myself intensely patriotic, but when I think about “America,” I’m going with life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I have another niggling premonition that tells me that’s what I’ll always be up to, no matter who’s watching me.