Better than fruit salad

Hey guys

Forgive me, I am somewhat distraught.

My brother is sad

And everyone was really worried it was something serious

And before that some petty shit went down

Which happened right after some tentative plans were charitably declined.

To say the universe has been slightly anti-me lately may be, I feel, an understatement.

But I’m a trooper, so rather than wallow too much I’ve been trying to stay positive.

I do this first by doubling the normal doses of my personal addictions, namely art

(credit)

and coffee

But there’s good stuff going on as well. For instance, I went on a factory tour of a brewery on Saturday

And then played games at a sophisticated get-together

This Saturday I get to get all dolled up with everyone

I also decided to go through with my travel plans anyway, which gives me something to look forward to.

But it has been surreal

Pretty soon I imagine things will settle down, and everything will be back to normal.

I am not a big fan of Big News Over The Internet, via blog or anything else really, but at the present moment I don’t feel like I can adequately talk to people about it without freaking out a little, and at the same time I am needing, in a big way, to just expell some of this so my head doesn’t explode. At least this way I can hit up some of you guys that I don’t get to speak with on a daily basis but who really should know.
Peace.

Sunday I was leaving Fort Collins — newly purchased fancy cheese nestled between a wad of salmon and another Voss bottle from Whole Foods — and witnessed an armada of geese. I have never in my life seen so many geese. They looked like a huge delta in the sky. Each line branched out into several others. It must have stretched for miles. Driving under it felt like ducking under a bed sheet draped between two kitchen chairs. It happened during the calm purples, oranges and golds of pre-dusk; the winter sun exhausted as it is, you know, sometimes fizzles out when there is still a good hour or two before sunset. This is when I saw the geese, and I was listening to something at once soothing and crisp, hurtling down the highway on the way home. It made me happy. It was a simple joy but the contrast of this small moment — this glorious moment — to the rest of my weekend was stark, and because of this I was grateful.

Mom didn’t call me today but I wasn’t sure if she was going to. I had to call her Saturday, which confused me because she had so much to say. Her words came to me awkwardly without stopping and they tumbled out in retches, slick party-digested hunks of things harsher than her usual diet of good morning and how was your day. She’s lost her appetite but still has to eat. She’s gone to him at every afternoon at 1pm and every evening at 7pm to sit with him, sullen, in the halls so she can gorge on all his words. Words that he considers useless, the same words that she, as his mother, will never tire of. Words about how he hates it there. This place he calls it. He does it just like the characters do in novels I’ve read, characters that fueled my own fear of being Inside.

I’ve never known exactly what medication he takes. I’ve never known how much his dosage is, and I missed the subtle transition from “ADHD” to “Depression,” a few years ago. I know from what Mom tells me that his outlook is endlessly bleak — I couldn’t have known any other way, so happy he always is to see me, and so forward and brash as my own character is that I’m sure I allow him to merely sit in the background as I talk to him about what I see, and I watch him smile and laugh appreciatively. Both of these things he did last Sunday, when we were at the zoo imitating the elephants and watching the emus shadow-box. It was a sunny day in the mid-50’s and we went because why not? He was admitted to the mental institution five days after this. He was so distraught that, on the phone, speaking with his psychologist, he could not bring himself to promise that he wouldn’t commit suicide.

This is a side my brother has never allowed me to see. That fact alone makes the situation painful.

But it’s the helplessness that stops me from breathing. It’s reality reminding you that no amount of psychic healing — long-distance prayers and hopes of well-being — can touch someone so focused on cold dirt and slime mold. She called and told me Friday night. She hadn’t seen him since he had left from school, and she would not get to see him until 1pm the following day.

“Should I come down? I could leave right now.”
“What’s the point of two people staring at each other doing nothing?”

The preliminary 72-hours are mandatory. He can only have one visitor during this period, and this visitor must say a password into a phone on the outside of the building to be admitted through the three sets of doors that remain locked at all times. He has his own bathroom, does not at the present moment have a roommate, but he also does not have his shoelaces, belt, or hat. He has an orchestrated life that has not a sliver of congruence to his previous life. There is of course no brown ruddy carpet nor big open windows, nor a small black dog happy to see him whenever he might poke his head around a corner. My brother has only slept over at friend’s houses four times in his life, and yet he is on a squeaky cot with no reading lamp and starched sheets. Here he must wake up at 6am for breakfast. He must attend group sessions and must stay in his room at a certain time for one hour. The pickiest eater I have ever known is to eat whatever they give him, the lowest tier of institutionalized food, and this late night gamer must remain in his bed after lights-out at roughly 9:30pm. All this because he is depressed. Unsurprisingly, change being one of his primary triggers, he is having a rough time.

Disliking it I expected, but it’s the anger that truly startled me. He is agitated, aggressive, unhelpful to the nurses. Mom has visited twice since I spoke with her last, because the story is much the same. He begs Mom to talk to the nurses, to the doctors, to the large man who pushes the cart of towels and checks on everyone. He begs her to take him with her. He whispers to her, GET ME OUT OF HERE. He is beginning to say whatever the doctors want to hear, but of course his uncharacteristic aggression is very telling. The only thing we’ve heard in terms of duration was from one of the attendants. He is NOT ready. He was self-admitted, but it was done so in tandem with his psychologist. Even after this three-day period no one knows how long it may be. We say it is up to him because we don’t know what else to say. It is up to him like it is up to students to pass difficult tests. You never believe those slipping far below the “average” surface, all the while gulping failure and gasping I am trying. I have never believed he was a hopeless case. Even now I can regard this as a much-needed jolt of a certain kind of reality. When those who have never experienced anything are suddenly thrust into a cold world, growth can happen quickly. But I do worry that it will happen too fast and splinter certain key joints. Or I worry that he will get out and, should the darkness return, he won’t feel safe enough to tell anyone about it. For fear of ending up back there.

All this and my life still has to somehow continue. The period between not-knowing and knowing straddled bickering, the period between knowing the facts and knowing the details was spent standing in a spare bedroom, trying not to let the boisterous mirth out in the main room eclipse Mom’s (and my own) choking sense of powerlessness. But what else could have happened? And what next? This weekend could be spent driving to and fro, if he is out or would have visitors, or I may still be here on my futon pecking away indulgently at the keyboard. I can only plan things day by day, and thereby do so with strange ferocity. I section my days by the hour, scheduling everything from class time to dinner time, to slack off on the internet time. Now more than ever each idle moment feels wasted, but there is nothing I could be doing that would help him or Mom in any way. All I can do, still, is wait.

I have been using a mac all day at work, so now every time I want to close a window I’ve been going to the wrong corner. Dang it.

SOME THINGS THAT MADE ME SMILE RECENTLY

1. Hapi drink from the grocery store’s “ethnic” section. Apparently it’s from South Korea. Have you seen this? It’s good. It’s really good. It brought me back to the days when I would drink can after can of pineapple juice at my grandma’s house, because a.) it was juice and b.) it was IN A CAN. Something about IN A CAN is just really great. I am a can enthusiast. I like the aluminum twang it gives already stellar drink stuffs. I had originally purchased this solely for being called “Hapi,” and then after a particularly frowny day I went home and had me some Hapi, and it did, in fact, make me happy. Because I bought it for namesake alone I had neglected to check to see if it was juice or a kind of weird carbonated fizzy fruit thing (both were possible, as it was next to the papaya juice, guava paste, and the Mexican sodas in their giant glass bottles,) and so I did not shake it, as it urges you to do. This is also no lie. You really must shake. I still had a good time, I thoroughly enjoyed Hapi’s “mandarin orange float” taste, but as it is made of real juice (guava, orange and maybe peach..I’ll have give the can another look,) the pulp is really quite perverse when you don‘t shake it. I like pulpy juice. What I don’t like is a solid inch and a half of pulp-layer that does not pour so much as glop out at the end of the juice experience. So when I go get a few more — or a case, ideally — I will know next time to give it a good hearty shake.

2. The tulip I brought to work. I bought some at the store the other and put them in a vase at home, but had somehow snipped one a little too low so that it almost didn’t stick out above the rim of the vase. So I rinsed out a small port bottle, filled it with water, and now it’s sitting at my desk at work. It made me a lot happier than I thought it would.

3. The Shins’ latest problem, as well as Steve Riech’s retrospective of sorts. On top of which there has been some nice foggy weather — perfect for the kind of laid back, pensive aspect to both of these guys.

I took the sleep position quiz again, and I was “Classic Spoons.” Which is weird, because the first time I took it I was “Spring Loader“. For the record the other two sun positions mentioned are in fact accurate, so I suppose I was feeling especially callous or foot-friendly the first time.

I recycle newspapers, (because between working at a paper and therefore getting a free subscription and subscribing to the New York Times, there is a whole hell of a lot of newsprint floating around my kitchen, and to not recycle that which I do not always get a chance to READ all the way through is just plane distasteful,) and cans when I remember to, but this town/city makes it very hard to do so. You have to pay a ludicrous premium to have them come collect it, and we don’t have any Bring-Us-Your-Goods type places within 50 miles. The best I can do is load up my car and haul everything to one of the school dumpsters behind the dorm buildings, because they have about 6 trashcans to sort everything. And that works but it’s kind of a pain, and there’s no good parking so you have to block the thoroughfare which makes you feel like an ass while you are TRYING TO HELP THE ENVIRONMENT. And, let’s be completely frank, having lived in a place that has facilities that would pay about 0.4 cents a can, it’s kind of a drag during especially tight months to throw those cans in the bin all the while thinking “I could get a dollar fifty from this. At least..”

Sheesh. When that matters, when a dollar fifty really would help you out, you know that you’re broke.

Anyway. All of this is why I’m sad things like this are not more prevalent in this day and age. Yes, all humans should naturally be caring and sensitive to the environment, but — at least in the United States — that’s not happening any time soon. So make recycling easy, give a small reward for doing so, and let the magic run it’s course. At least it’s catching on in New England. Hopefully it will spread.

Earlier today I became obsessed with the word ‘horkenheimer‘. I was talking about the pork in my burrito, and then the Swedish chef came up (bork bork bork!), and then when I thought of “hork” my brain immediately offered the suffix -heimer, and then everything just became insanity. Why is it so funny to me? Horkenheimer. Horkenheimer. It sounds like an ice cream parlor, or the onomatopoeia of poking someone. Or the name of a very small bat. Anthony did not share my theory of the bat, though I felt very strongly about it.

Me: Where do we find bats? A bat to be horkenheimer?
Anthony: In a cave.
Me: No but where will we find a bat who will sit on my desk at work?
Anthony: On the floor of the cave.

Finding a bat called horkenheimer, or better yet a stuffed bat (as in a toy, not as in taxidermy,) may involve asking bats where the best place is to find other bats. Anthony pointed out that if tigers wanted stuffed people, and a tiger came up to me and asked me, “if you please good m’lady, wherefore shall we procure the human poppet, that I may fondle it and keep it hither on my person and call to it Horkenheimer,” all I would hear would be growling and roaring until mortal fear would take hold of me and I would run away. So the language barrier must be crossed, first and foremost. I am certain there are online tutorials in basic bat — if not bat then at least dialects of mouse — I could learn phrases like “hello” and “where is the toilet,” and amend that to ask “Hello, where is the horkenheimer”. Anthony was very skeptical of this plan though he kept asking very useful questions (the whole question of language was all his doing,) though I fear overall he will not be fully invested in this plan. I came up with a focused agenda which I plan to adhere to quite strictly:

1. Learn bat
2. Ask a bat
3. Horkenheimer

It’s good to have goals.

[from late July]

I’m not sure why I bothered resurrecting you, because truly it was not worth it.

But see, then I forget. I was not the one who coaxed your dead flesh from the carpeting and the air, it was you who barged in on my life in such an untimely manner.

Is it crass to brag? Are z-snaps inappropriate? I feel like laughing in your face sometimes. I have come out of this so, so much on top. And you are just something lost, cast out into the ocean. There was a point where I could have jumped in after you but I reached for the sun instead. I went back to dancing.

And maybe you’ve found what you’ve been looking for, maybe she’s your answer after all. I’ve talked with fire, and we both think you’re lost forever. But we wish you the best. Honest. You’ll forgive the metallic edge in that, won’t you? You’ve put us through a lot.

If you are no longer dead it is only because you are breathing. I wish you well. I only ask that you do the same as I do to you when we meet again. I will be friendly and attentive, I will listen to you and then I will be on my way. I am still intently aware of your life. Next time, let me be a part of it. At least give me options, allow me an ability to turn away.

We got a Netflix account not too long ago, because while skipping around on wikipedia one night Anthony found information on the Criterion Collection, including a grand master list. We felt these were all mostly worthwhile filmmakers and film, and something that would be best approached via Netflix queue. The great thing about that is it can double as way of bypassing the whole journey to Blockbuster or Hollywood video if there’s a new movie we want to see — especially if it’s something these big guys wouldn’t usually carry. Like “This Film is Not Yet Rated.” A really delightful look at the MPAA and the weird fear mongering that results. While it was just as crass and callous as any persuasive documentary is going to be, I found the filmmaker less irritating than Michael Moore (though it would be very easy to draw comparisons,) and while I didn’t find it particularly provocative it conveyed very good information and thought-stems that aren’t common knowledge, and for sheer boldness alone it disserves a look.

The only big problem I had with it actually was towards the end of the movie when the film itself was up for appeal. They somehow managed two interviews with members of the appeals board. One of these guys “wished to remain anonymous,” meaning they shot him in a silhouette and had him speaking through a voice-distorter, both of which (particularly the latter but especially both in unison, and even more so if used while talking about things they shouldn’t) are major white-hot phobias of mine, and I’m still kind of shaky and jumpy about it. I was fine (as much as anyone can be) with the scenes of anal rape or even and even the brief but terrible Extreme Violence Montages they used but get one guy speaking through a voice distorter saying “I don’t think I should disclose that information” and I will be face down in the couch cushions, fingers shoved down into my ears, trying hard not to cry and very forcefully trying to think about ponies or sunshine. This is actually kind of hard to talk about because of how psychologically disturbed I was by it. I’m okay now, what with the daylight and light jazz and the coffee, but tonight I’ll probably need to watch some Futurama or something to kind of clean my subconscious pallet.

When I say “phobia” you may think of someone you know who is claustrophobic* or something as glib that is, while not a good situation to be in, not strictly debilitating by any means. Sometimes I have occasion to slip into phases of paranoia and high-level anxiety — often alongside a slew of the other more-or-less constant low-level schizotypal tendencies — and nothing helps tip this off quite like Something I Find Deeply Troubling. When I say “I am trying hard to focus of something else” I mean I will be doing this for weeks, and can look forward to countless nights of nervous jitteriness, being worried about things lurking around the corner, and becoming disturbed by things I have around me all the time. One bizarrely specific candidate I am struggling with right now is my model hand — just a wooden artist’s model hand — and how realistic it looks when the lights are on at night.

*Not to knock claustrophobia, because I have a hair of that too.

Of course, the best way to get over this, as I more or less mentioned, is to stop thinking about it. This is something I can do at will at this point (I have a scarily efficient “panic mode” serum that seems to eject ungodly amounts of CALM DOWN into my system,) but it is also made much easier with the help of a constructive activity, which is one of the reasons why I’ve been cooking off the hook these days. Even more than normal.

Obviously the prepackaged cheese is not something I concocted (I’d ordered it a few weeks ago, because I’m a sap and because I fell in love with it in Seattle,) but I did make the ricotta from this recipe, which was really fun and makes me feel really badass. And don’t let that fool you, because it really was an easy recipe. Promise.

Not much else is happening here. I don’t have a new computer yet at work which makes it kind of hard to do my job, and I have two papers due on Thursday.