WHAT ARE YOU READING?

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March 7, 2013

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March 7, 2013

heic0502aDo you know what I’ve been reading all my adult life?

Since graduating college, I’ve been reading about parallel universes where similar versions of ourselves exist. I’ve read about mind-melding and infinity and invisible portals to other realms. I’ve read about nocturnal visitations, and being touched while asleep by creatures and departed loved ones. I’ve read about super powers like moving a compass simply by thinking it. And I’ve read about turning into a ghost and sailing through walls to visit populations in strange other worlds.

Am I perusing paranormal novels and sci-fi books? No, I’m reading theoretical physics, scientific investigations of psychic phenomena and autobiographies of seekers who left what we call reality/life and returned to write about it.

Why am I reading this stuff?

Because I want to KNOW…about everything.

And what have I come to understand after all the reading and years of personal experimentation? I’ve come to believe there is no ONE truth. And there are no natural laws that apply to everything because we don’t know about Everything. Science now tells us many realities exists, physical and mental.

I also understand that anything imagined becomes REAL…somewhere – and that all beings and particles have infinite futures and outcomes – and that everything that ever WAS, and everything that ever WILL BE, is all happening NOW, and changing from moment to moment – and that there is no ultimate SMALL or ultimate BIG. Both go on forever.

And while pondering these All-There-Is concepts in total awe, I still get pissed off when my wife replaces the toilet paper roll the wrong way.

But that’s called being human, which I am, most of the time. That’s called choosing the small stuff we can manage. That’s called staying focused within an accepted reality we’ve named Cleveland so we can sort of relate to each other, do our jobs and have sex.

Meanwhile, the smartest of the smart all over the world are describing with math and symbols an amorphous, multi-dimensional, expanding, ever changing place we call What IS.

Some people call it God.

I call it Mind-Blowing, because if you can wrap your head around FOREVER with no beginning and no end, you get a headache. With me, the idea of a Universe that never stops makes my brain squirm, like it’s heating up. It’s much easier to FEEL infinity than intellectualize it. So in my twenties, I set upon a journey to feel the Unknown.

*****

I’ve always wanted to know WHAT IS. Always. But reading about the vast ideas of others wasn’t enough. If someone touched God and was infused with news, I wanted that too. LSD didn’t get me there. It just showed me the DOORS, and I had to find a way to get through them without psychedelics. Where were the keys to those doors of perception? As it turned out, I had them all the time.

They were three states of mind: intense desire, the belief that anything is possible, and the patience to keep trying until I succeeded.

Patience…the big one.

Psychically leaving my body demanded months of wanting and hours of concentration until I could, at will, fly to the Other Side. It wasn’t easy. But by accomplishing the task, I discovered that the magic described in juicy paranormal novels is not so Para. Werewolves, vampires, zombies, sexy super heroes and handsome gods actually exist. If they didn’t, no one would write about them. We share those beings in our Collective Consciousness, in our archetypal fears and need to move beyond human limitations.

And so we dream the dreams of Peter Pan, combat and victory. And we keep the Meanies safely confined to mental realms and fantasy, unless our fears overwhelm us and we pull into our real-world a dog attack or an abusive lover. Or someone we love suffers a stroke and loses her mind while her body stays intact. Severe senility, Alzheimer’s or a accidental brain injury can certainly send our souls into a real life “living dead” existence.

Isn’t it safer to deal with trauma by reading about it in a book or watching it on the screen where the monsters are conquered and our heroes always win? That’s why we write about werewolves and vampires. Real life is scarier.

But our fantasies can lift us as well, into magic that really can be REAL if we just BELIEVE it is!

Some of us are lucky enough, or want it enough, to make dreams come alive and remember them when eyes flutter open. How do we do that? We vivify dreams by managing to stay awake inside them, or it just happens that way and we wish it would happen again.

It can, if we want the magic badly enough.

Dreaming while awake is described in psychology books. It’s a hypnogogic state classified as LUCID DREAMING and many experts with Ph.D.’s think it’s hallucination based.

I don’t think so. I think the experiences are real, but not of this world.

I believe this because I’ve had control of conscious dreaming many times, and something even more bazaar called Out-of-Body-Experiences, or OOBE’s for short. They were once labeled as astral projection.

I didn’t read about it and then decide I wanted it. The journeys happened first.

One night my consciousness spontaneously ejected out of my body, I received a message and then needed to find out what it all meant. Then it happened again…for years.

My first time out, in 1974, nothing in mainstream literature described the experience. So I sought out occult stores and found maybe ten or twelve books on the subject. That’s all. But it was enough validating info to tell me I wasn’t goings insane. Other people had also broken free of physical space and encountered Beings not of this World.

RainbowBridgebgd‘Wow!’ I thought. ‘Angels are real!’

Through the years I read everything I could find about leading edge theories in parapsychology, psychic phenomena, human consciousness, astronomy and physics. I cross-referenced these various points-of-view defining the edges of the Known and built my personal What-If paradigm.

Today those what-if concepts are dramatized in movies, TV shows and paranormal book genres. And we pretend it’s all fantasy because accepting the responsibility of our true powers can be intimidating.

What we believe really does comes true.

Many doubt this axiom. Who has that much mind-over-matter control? Well, we all do, but it’s subtle and mistaken for luck, chance and coincidences.

When we think about something with charged emotions, positive or negative, our mental projections eventually happen. They may not turn out the way we expected them, but the Universe eventually delivers our expectations is some form or action. The process is called the Law of Attraction and it has been written about in many ways with many names for centuries.

“Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and it will be opened to you.”             Matthew 7:7

But how powerful IS asking and believing? Will praying save a life? Yes, but remember, LIFE is more than physical existence. You may not save a body, but you can save a soul, as long as it’s your own. This planet is not the only world in which we live.

We are Multi-Dimensional Beings in a multi-dimensional Universe.

*****

Many physicists now agree that advanced math and particle accelerators indicate multiple universes, and in some of those planes there exists another you and me. I think our consciousness can travel to those places and view our other selves in strange situations. It’s called dreaming, and it’s just as real as waking life as long as we understand how dreaming works: our mind conjures symbols it can understand.

I expect that in one of those multi-dimensional parallel worlds my wife replaces the toilet roll the right way, with the paper dropping from the front. I’m waiting for that dream.

Goodnight.

 

Originally published on Curiosityquills.com.

 

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Fear, Guns and Pastrami

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March 2, 2013

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March 2, 2013

iStock_000019490012XSmallBarbara is sort of a friend.

We had an undeclared falling out over political differences a few years ago and have since edged back together. Barbara wants our connection to be like it was, before she started forwarding me emailed epitaphs about how the current President is taking down our country and freedom. I would have agreed with her before Obama was elected, but Barbara felt quite comfortable with the leadership back then and so I avoided all talk about policies. But then she sent me that stuff, and I responded.

In 2008 the tables turned. Now Barbara is afraid of government programs and I’m relieved some sanity is back in the White House. But I am not happy about Congress and the party to which Barbara and her husband belong. Still, I won’t discuss it with my sort-of-friends if I want to keep them as friends. They don’t bring it up either.

The bottom line: we’re both fearful of destructive changes. But we disagree about what those changes would be.

*****

Barbara phoned me yesterday in hopes of getting more glue in place between us. She suggested a fabulous New York style deli she heard about. “But it’s in the bad part of LA,” she said. Not once, not twice, but three times she mentioned that we’d be going into the barrio and that it was scary and probably a little dangerous but the food was worth it.

“Maybe we shouldn’t take our cars,” she suggested. “We could take the light rail. The restaurant’s only a few blocks from the train stop. And they close at four. It’s a bad neighborhood after dark.”

And I’m thinking…wow, this deli must be some secret but sacred hole-in-the-wall that only the coolest people of LA know about. I’m in.

So Barbara tells me the name. “It’s called Langers, and they have a website.”

A website? A barrio greasy spoon with a website? Here’s Langers website.

http://www.langersdeli.com/

 

Who knew! They Fed Ex pastrami! And they have curb service, in case you’re afraid to sprint from car door to front door.

Langers-Barrio-443x300Here’s a picture of the Barbara’s barrio with Langers on the far right corner.

Sure, the neighborhood is run down. No question about it. But is it scary? Not to me. I asked my wife. Scary? Not scary to her either. We lived on the Upper West Side of Manhattan before it gentrified and cleaned away the garbage. Our bedroom window faced a Puerto Rican low rent apartment building twelve feet away. All summer long our neighbors played their favorite record, the only one they owned, a thousand times.

Those folks next door, they never hurt us. We were almost POOR. They WERE poor. And we shared the same street, markets, car exhausts and hot, humid days. Their building spoke Spanish, ours spoke everything else; a cluster of NYU students, elderly Jews, Italians, Romanians, Lithuanians, and one young aspiring filmmaker, me, and one overworked surgical nurse, my wife.

The folk singer, Judy Collins lived across the street in a much nicer building. That’s the way it is, or WAS, in New York. Everyone was crunched into the same space and prodded to meet each other just what we were – as PEOPLE.

But in LA, there’s plenty of space to separate Korea Town from China Town from Little Armenia from Japanese Village from Beverly Hills, where Barbara and her husband live.

*****

What makes people afraid of other people? Are we taught that? Of course. But are we born that way, threatened by differences? Psychologists say, some of us are, some aren’t. Some of us grow out of fear. Some of us don’t. In my opinion, most people don’t. And although it’s natural to feel more comfortable inside our own groups, that’s not where innovation and evolution lives.

But here’s a more interesting question: Can we learn to fear LESS? Is fear a CHOICE?

What is FEAR anyway? In this case, it’s a heightened trepidation that someone else, especially someone different, will physically harm us or take something that’s ours.

And what would that something be?

That would be our life, our money, our job, our security, the value of our home, our CONTROL.

No one wants any of that depreciated. And we all deserve to protect ourselves from any potential loss. But how much of a loss is really in jeopardy? How much of what we fear is actually dangerous?

I pose these questions because I personally know people who hold onto their fears because they want to. They insist there are predators everywhere and they will seek all manner of “truth” to support their beliefs. And of course they find it. We all find the validation we need to defend our positions.

But why would anyone want to live in fear, stay in fear, constantly tense? Why must everything that’s different be menacing? Is that the way it is? I don’t think so and I’m still very much alive and well. And I don’t own a gun.

Here’s my take about choosing to believe we live in a dangerous world. I’m no pro psychologist, but I think many people want to keep the boundaries in place between Us and Them. Defining your tribe, who’s with you and who’s not, makes life simpler. There’s not that much figuring out to do, no time needed for agreements, no compromises to negotiate. The world becomes more certain, and in a sense more secure, even though you want an AK47 parked in the bedroom, just in case.

Much of this mental defense is subconscious. I think it’s part of the primal brain: What is different is threatening. ME FIRST is a means of primitive survival. Only when shared communal activities were delegated into specific skilled tasks did modern civilization begin to grow. And that demanded trust.

And THAT is what we’re losing: TRUST.

If I asked some of my neighbors why they don’t want Mexicans crossing our borders they’d tell me that Hispanics are Takers, not Givers (even though all studies show that our economy needs their labor to keep food, construction and hotel prices down.)

The Blacks are relieved somewhat. They moved up the social ladder one notch, just below the other minorities. Problem is, “White” people, of which I am one, are shrinking into a minority as well. That’s way too scary for too many people. So they buy more guns, their protection against those Others and the Government that allows them to HAVE the guns.

I don’t know if Barbara and her husband own AK47’s. I don’t think so. But I do know they feel safer in Beverly Hills than they will in Midtown LA where Langers World-Famous Pastrami waits for us.

I won’t tell them that the only place my wife was ever attacked and robbed was in Beverly Hills, a half block from where we lived.

We still don’t own a gun.

 

Originally published on Curiosityquills.com.

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Permanent link to this article: http://www.irvingsjourney.com/2013/03/fear-guns-and-pastrami/

How to Love UNCONDITIONALLY, While still Alive

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February 21, 2013

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February 21, 2013

husband-wife1I’ve never been a parent so I don’t exactly know what Unconditional Love is all about.

I’ve come close a few times, but I think I was sleeping. I think I dreamt I loved Michele Bachmann, and woke up screaming.

I know. Some of you would have smiled about that, especially Mr. Bachmann. But I can’t help having a wary opinion about Ms. Bachmann’s policies and Congressional record. And when I say, “I can’t help it.” I really CAN’T.

I have opinions, and they don’t include agreeing with everything.

Still, you’d think that after 37 years of a happy marriage, I would have put together some semblance of unconditional love. I haven’t. I fake it. I’ve got a mental work-around that excuses my wife’s behavior; those few things she does that in my opinion get in her own way, like disorganization.

She would debate me about this, affirming that she’s very organized. But her daily quests for keys, her glasses, cell phone or wallet, that inconsequential stuff, tells a different story. And it takes time to find it all. And I’m a clock watcher.

Tick, tick, tick! Time is precious. I hate burning it for scavenger hunts.

My wife doesn’t like house searches either. So once a year she embarks on a mission. It’s called: Tidying Up. This includes my office. This means I go postal. I have only one room in the house that’s mine, and when she’s finished ORGANIZING it, its hers. I can’t find a damn thing because my wife has tidied up, putting my stuff into containers, inside bigger contains, inside of even bigger containers and nothing’s labeled!

Guys, you know what I’m talking about. Women love jewelry boxes. Why is our TOOL BOX part of their world? I do not need my wife sorting my pliers like earrings and pendants!

 

Still…I love her.

 

But like I said, we have this ritual…the fights about my off-limits office and those other things she does that drive me crazy. I rant. She rants louder, and always about something I did fifteen years ago. And NO, it has nothing to do with the subject on hand, but now everything’s my fault. I’M the bad guy!

“YOU’RE NOT PERFECT!” she yells.

“No argument there!” I shout back. “But this is not about ME! It’s about–”

“You think everybody’s stupid but you!”

“I never said that!”

“You’re too critical!” she shouts. “That’s why you don’t have friends!”

“WHAT?! I have friends!”

Guys, you know where this is going. Do all wives flip the fight? The rules of engagement are quite clear! ARGUE ABOUT THE SAME THING! I hate it when she cheats!

 

Still…I love her.

 

So much so, I bought her a Mac of her own. And you know why? Because my entire life lives on my hard drive and it’s going to stay exactly where I put it. No tidying up.

 

For a long time I thought that misplacing things was due to lack-of-focus; that if my wife were more like ME, the world would be a better place. But that’s not how it is in our house, and to be honest, if she were like me, I’d get bored in five minutes. I’m highly demanding when it comes to staying engrossed. I crave informed people and I listen to them. I need input.

My wife gives me input. She’s really smart. She’s a surgical R.N., an interior designer and antique dealer.

So if she’s so smart, why does she use the kitchen sink as a trash can? I hate that.

Why does she forget to charge her cell phone so I can’t reach her when she’s late. I hate that too.

Why does she insist on buying me shirts only a Yale law student would wear? I hate that the most, especially a preppy look! Why won’t my tongue lashings stop her from dressing me like a Ken doll?

I’ll tell you why. She does what she wants to do, and dog-gone it, I respect that. I do what I want to do too and she puts up with me. That’s a big deal. And I’m no angel.

I get frustrated easily, my patience threshold needs more work, I’m critical (as she points out) and I’m a perfectionist (sometimes). According to my wife, I think nobody can do anything better than me. Not true. I’m lousy in German and math.

But when it comes to psychology, I’m knowledgeable, and I’m starting to comprehend why my wife doesn’t finish a sentence before starting a new one, and why she misplaces things.

In her mind she’s jumping ahead, thinking faster than she can move and talk. And yet, unlike me, most of the time, she’s living in the moment. She doesn’t project future cause and effects. She doesn’t consider potential breakdowns like I do. That’s why I’m a good manager. I solve problems before they happen. But I also worry.

My wife doesn’t worry. She takes life as it comes. And every morning she wakes up HAPPY. Me? I wake up JEWISH, waiting for the next slipper to drop.

Actually though, this arrangement works for us. I steer around the holes and she keeps it mellow, until we hit our creative differences. But that’s as bad as it gets, a fight over the right size of a shipping box, where to move furniture or how to arrange my desk drawers.

 

Still…I love her.

 

I wish I could love my wife unconditionally, erasing my thoughts about how she gets from A to B, starting with C. And when I offer advice, and sometimes it’s harsh, she barks back, “With all I do for you, THIS is what you’re complaining about?”

She’s got a point. She’s the closest thing to PERFECT anyone can be. So why can’t she be totally perfect? She’s almost there! Way closer than me. If she could just stop losing things and finish a sentence and drive in a straight line, I’d love her soooooo much more.

Yeah, right…

I’d find something else that could be improved, just like I’m never satisfied with myself. In my world, EVERYTHING is conditional.

I have no idea how I got this way, scoring things the way I do. I want to stop the judgments.

But like I said, I CAN’T.

 

I don’t know how many people really love unconditionally. Maybe my mom. Maybe Warren Buffett and Taylor Swift. Maybe my wife, even if I’m critical. And I AM.

 

Still…she loves me. I’m a lucky man.

 

Originally posted on Curiosityquills. com.

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Touched by an Angel

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February 14, 2013

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February 14, 2013

Model looking upFor those of you who’ve been following my blog, you’ve noticed reoccurring themes. I’m writing again about angels in disguise – the real ones, the ones who hang out in front of Smart & Final and Fed Ex shipping stores.

Tonight I encountered another angel, one I dearly needed. I had sunk into a pit and couldn’t claw myself out.

 *****

This morning I was humiliated. So much so that I won’t tell you exactly how and why. Without going into specifics, I will say that after a call this morning to a guy named Rick in some bureaucratic cubical on his end of the line, I felt like I was getting jerked around.

You want it? We’re offering.

But I didn’t think I was supposed to get it.

Oh yes. You’re entitled by law.

That’s what they told me – fill out the paperwork and apply.

So I applied and then things fell apart.

This morning I was summoned to a meeting not meant for me, and finally telling my story to the group leader, she led me to an office phone where I waited thirty minutes for RIGHT PERSON to pick up for an interview. Rick eventually clicked on. With the tone of an impatient third grade teacher, he reminded me that I had been disqualified and I needed to fill out an appeal. If accepted, I would plead my case to a judge in court.

In other words, I’ll have to BEG for money.

Offended, insulted and angry, I told Rick I would never do that. Rick wished me a good week and we hung up. After that call, no way was I looking at a good week. Over the past ten years I had dropped below my expectations of what I thought I’d be doing at this age.

I had become thoroughly disappointed…with Irving Podolsky.

Now, I know everyone else would look at what I’ve built and advise me to re-examine my values. And I would agree with them. But I’m hardwired to believe that once I’ve accomplished a goal, it’s finished with depreciated value. And sure, the love I get from family is wonderful and precious, but when you’re not happy with yourself, it’s hard to appreciate what others see in you.

So all day I’ve been angry with myself and the world. And part of me knows this is all about being self-absorbed and the other part knows it’s about feelings I wish were controlled but aren’t. And as I’m driving to the Fed Ex Store to drop off things for my wife, I’m remembering my trip to my parents just last week and visiting their sick friends – like really sick, like close-to-dying sick. And I’m telling myself, “Why are you unhappy? These other people are grateful for another tomorrow and they’re not complaining. Get your priorities straight, Irv! You’re fussing over is NOTHING!”

That’s right, little Voice. You’re absolutely spot on. But I still feel defeated.

*****

I pull into the Federal Express parking lot. I have three small packages to bring into the store and as I grab the first two out of the back of my wife’s car, I notice a guy standing near the doors with his hands in his pockets. It’s 48 degrees at 7 pm so I know why his hands are stuck in his pants. He’s cold, and all he’s wearing is a light hooded sweatshirt over some shirt and jeans.

He calls out to me, “Can I help you, Sir?”

“No, it’s okay. I got it,” I yell back, thinking, does Fed Ex have a new service where they help people into the store?

But of course as I approach the doors, I see more of what he is – a beggar. And he asks me with incredible sincerity, “Can you give me a dollar? I’m so hungry. Just a dollar. Please?”

And now his hands are pressed together as if in prayer, as if he’s praying to me. And without another thought, I answer, “Yeah. On my way out.”

“Oh thank you, Sir! Thank you!”

I go into the store, drop the boxes and move behind a rack of shipping supplies to check my wallet for dollars. Do I have a single? Yes, there’s one. Do I have another? Yes. I have two more. I will give him three dollars, but for that, he’s going to tell me why he wants it. The man looks about 35 and seems to be healthy. Two arms and legs in place, and he’s clean. What’s his story?

Walking out with dollars in my pocket, I ask, “How did you ever get to where you are now?”

With a Hispanic accent he begins his story about losing his wallet and all ID, and  government check, and his words start merging together into sounds I can’t make out because he’s chattering like an AK-47 and all I can do is grab a few phrases as they fly by me, such as, “social security office, needing a sponsor but it can’t be his brother, locked in County a few times but only a few, the shelter’s full, in therapy and needing his meds,”then ending it with, “But I’m okay…”

And it’s dawning on me that this poor man is certifiably mental, alone and cold, yet totally loving. And now he’s loving me, and I haven’t given him a dime.

So I extend the three dollars and he’s thanking me, but it’s feeling like a blessing and all my self-pity is getting pulled out of my pouting gut.

I don’t remember this man taking the bills but I don’t have them as I return to the car. I open the rear hatch for the third box and grab it, thinking that I’ll be passing him again. Another ‘Thank you’ will be embarrassing. I don’t deserve it. Then I close the rear door and pivot.

He’s gone! Vanished!

I scan the parking lot. No one is standing near the Fed Ex doors. I hear no footsteps walking away or see a shadow moving between parked cars. There is no evidence of begging anywhere.

And there wasn’t. I encountered an angel bestowing grace, veiled to all but me.

Sure, I’m romanticizing, but it happened as I’ve described it here. And like an earlier time when I donated ten dollars for the homeless at Smart & Final, I am again feeling uplifted. But this time, I have an urge to weep.

*****

As I chronicle this magic, it’s Monday night. For the past three days I’ve been thinking, thinking, thinking. My Wednesday’s blog is due again. What will I write about? What is important enough to ask eyes to follow my words? Why am I doing this? Why go on?

Now I know. I am a messenger.

 

Originally published at Curiosityquills.com.

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Irv’s Out of the Closet

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February 7, 2013

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February 7, 2013

crowded-closetI’ve been building up to this.

So far I’ve stayed clear of confession ‘cause I’d hate to lose readers. But every week I need new things to write about and I’m running out of ideas, the ones where we all agree.

So I’ve been thinkin’, if I opened this door and exposed my hidden clothes, would you guys stick around to read about it? ‘Cause if you do, maybe… just maybe, I can go deeper into human stuff, this blog’s through-line.

After all, if we writers don’t come to terms with our inner selves and accept others the way they really are, how can we understand enough to write about all that? How can we build a believable character if we only look at people skin deep? How can we get into emotional shit if we steer clear of threatening stuff?

‘Cause the big question is: Are we still threatened, once we understand?

I don’t want to be threatening, but I can’t keep my secret a second longer. I was born this way, man! Knew it since I was ten.

Dear followers…I am…a LIBERAL.

*****

WOW! I feel so…liberated!

I bet some of you suspected this all along. It’s hard to hide that gnawing need to be myself, to pretend I’m like YOU when I’m not. But since I started this blog I’ve been trying to blend like white slices in the middle of the loaf. Not phony exactly, but not completely ME.

Well…NO MORE!

Now I’ll write about the headlines – political stuff – even WEDGE ISSUES! Yep. I’m gonna tell ya how I feel about… Well for starters, immigration reform.

I know, a yawn, until it gets personal. Well I’m gonna get personal.

YOU GUYS STILL READING?

Anybody out there?

Yeah? Four left? Fine. Here’s a story about three friends.

*****

MEET MARIA, CARLOS and EDUARDO

Maria, Carlos and Eduardo are siblings in their early thirties. Maria, the older sister, is managing 452 apartment units and finally dating men who grew up speaking Spanish.  Before that, LA “white” guys wanted her for themselves. For a businesswoman, she’s awesomely sultry.

Carlos, her younger brother, owns a moving and home staging company. His clients include famous LA interior decorators and designers. He’s married and has a three year-old son.

The youngest of the three, Eduardo, is also married with a two year-old girl, has a furniture restoration business and more work than he can handle. You book him a month in advance. Eduardo services Los Angeles antique retailers and designers.

Fourteen years ago these three were crossing the Texas/Mexico Rio Grande boarder in the dead of winter, in the dead of night, heading north toward survival. The raft was overloaded with six other Mexicans expecting to make it to shore in a teetering tub. But Eduardo fell overboard and was carried down river until he finally hit a rock near the bank. He held on until they fished him out of the freezing current.

He almost drowned, then spent the rest of the night turning blue in the icy wind as the group waited close to Route 90 for a truck to haul them to Fort Stockton and Highway 10 bound for California.

After a few weeks in Los Angeles they found menial jobs. Maria cleaned houses. Carlos and Eduardo waved down cars at Home Depot, taking any tasks offered. They worked hard, saved, and eventually moved into a four-room apartment in a middle-class part of Glendale.

Since Maria had taken a few years of high school English in Mexico, she was able to get a higher paying job cleaning a huge home in Hancock Park. The lady who lived there owned a thriving antique business and was looking for part-time handymen to work in her store and move furniture, do minor repairs and furniture deliveries.

But these three were undocumented and barely spoke English. So what did they do? Carlos and Eduardo took that seven-day-a-week job at the store and spent their money on English classes. Five months later the group hitched a ride to Washington State where they took driving tests and got Washington State driver’s licenses.

Within two years Carlos and Eduardo owned their own delivery truck and had taught themselves high-end wood working skills and refinishing. Sponsored now by American employers, the three pooled their money and hired a lawyer who moved them into the “system” as they applied for US legal status. Then, on September 11, 2001 the Twin Towers came crashing down and that put a stop to 99% of the green card applications.

While Carlos and Eduardo were moving up in the furniture business, Maria climbed her own ladder. She secured a second cleaning job at the house next door to the antique lady and worked for a wealthy young couple that owned rental properties. Within a year, Maria became their nanny, then housekeeper, then business assistant taking calls from their Spanish speaking tenants and arranging services from Spanish speaking service people.

You can see where this is going. Maria eventually became a multi-building property manager as her brothers left the antique store to expand on what they had learned and start their own businesses.

piggy bankIS THIS THE AMERICAN DREAM? UNFORTUNATELY NOT.

Although Maria, Carlos and Eduardo did everything they could to apply for legal residence, this country will not allow them to pay taxes or invest their money here.

They have bank accounts, insurance policies, driver ID’s, health insurance, and fill an economic niche in my community. Yet these hard working people cannot, by law, pay back the country that gave them their start.

Maria, Carlos and Eduard are now “family” and I’m impressed with their attitude. ‘Can’t’ does not exist in their vocabulary.

Have they ever built a fence? No. But they built our fence. Can they brick a patio? They figured it out and built our patio. Could they drive us to the airport? No problem. And yes, we pay them well for their help. And in return we get 100% loyalty, and even love.

That’s the way they are. They solve problems, live in the moment and appreciate what they have. They love their kids and care for their parents. They’re fully assimilated into the community because they’re responsible and great at what they do.

And yes, they compete against American citizens, but fairly. And when they get the job, it’s not because they’re cheaper. It’s because they’re better. And we all benefit.

But does the USA tax coffers? No. Our stalled government will not grant three successful entrepreneurs documentation, at least not yet. Consequently, Maria, Carlos and Eduard built rental properties in Cuernavaca. Not in LA.

What’s wrong with this picture?

This story is just one aspect of a very complex social/economic dynamic. If you have a comment, I’d like to hear it and I’ll respond to you.

 

This post was originally published on Curiosityquills.com.

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A THANK YOU FROM IRV

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January 31, 2013

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January 31, 2013

Thank you!

There’s an Uber Rule in blogging. KEEP THE POSTS SHORT!

I wrote about it last month, confessing that I break that rule all the time. I break all the blog rules, which should reduce my web exposure.

That’s the case. I don’t have many followers.

So if you’ve returned to my world to read this tome, and you read it to the end, you are part of a select group of very special people in my life.

 

You know me. I don’t know you. Can you imagine what this feels like?

Blogging to a group that leaves no comments is like lecturing in a huge hall of empty chairs where the listeners are seated behind a wall in another room. If there’s a reaction, I don’t know about it. If there’s discussion, I don’t hear it. The only way I can tell anyone’s listening is by counting your shares to friends and the site hits with Google Analytics.

You leave footprints in my house but leave without saying goodbye.

But no consternation implied. None of this is wrong. I’ve set it up this way, and I don’t know any other way to do it.

*****

There are two blogs that interest me. Both are hosted by women. They have a huge spread over the internet and get ton of comments for each post. Both women are famous now.

Blog number one is eclectic, switching back and forth between business advice and the exposure of her family traumas. She writes stories of struggle and receives I-know-what-you-mean condolences and sincere thank you’s for the soulful connection.

The second site is more structured and the host invites guest bloggers. They all follow her format, which is:

Lead in with a wise quote from someone smarter than you and me. Tell your down-and-out BEFORE story followed by your rise-to-success AFTER story. Establish how enlightened and spiritually evolved you are now, and end the post with your formula for everlasting bliss.

This site gets a slew of I-know-what-you-mean comments and sincere thank you’s for the soulful connection.

  • Blog number one’s message: Life is a battle you may never win but keep trying. I am.
  • Blog number two’s message: Life is a battle you can win if you just keep trying. I am.
  • Irving’s message: I have no idea what I’ll come up with each week, but if you keep reading, I’ll keep writing.

Obviously this approach is not the best formula for worldwide fame…or selling my novels. But like I said, I don’t follow rules. I don’t know how. I’m just glad I don’t get into trouble or hurt people.

*****

So this week’s post is about my appreciation of your company, the party I’ve thrown where I don’t meet my guests.

Woman blogger number one once stated that she writes her posts for validation and the feeling that she’s not alone. Woman blogger number two said she writes her posts to help us find happiness.

I write my blog because I’d feel like a quitter if I gave it up. Honestly, I have no driving need to get the word out. I started this blog because all marketing gurus said that an internet presence is a must for new authors. Right now it’s homework. But like I said, if you’re reading these words, then I may have some relevance in your life, and if that’s the case, I don’t want to let you down.

And when you share my post with others, I’m extremely flattered. I highly value your time, attention and respect. If I’ve sparked any new ideas or helped make your day richer in some way, I’m glad I can do that.

When that stops, I’ll stop.

I don’t know how long I’ll feel comfortable lecturing in an empty hall. But as I said, when it’s time to put down the pen, you’ll let me know.

One more thing: A special thanks to Jerry’s Cousin.

You have shared your thoughts with me since the beginning of these columns. I appreciate your words, JC, and especially your support. My sincere best wishes to you and your family.

And one more that after that last thing: Thank you, Eugene and Alisa, for inviting me to Curiosity Quills. You’ve helped me without asking for anything in return. Who does that anymore?

Irv

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How to Make a Day Special

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January 24, 2013

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January 24, 2013

iStock_000005196861XSmallIt’s 2:27 pm. I’m drinking my very best single malt, a Surfer’s sundown dram, #53.154, aged 17 years and one of only 462 bottles. Why am I drinking this malt in the afternoon? Why am I drinking at all?

My life is in flux right now. Income left me, and not on my terms. I’ve been out of work for months and I tapped retirement funds a year and a half early. This doesn’t mean I won’t take another project if one comes along. But it’s unlikely, and my first pension check made me feel old and financially vulnerable.

Now over the years I’ve attended enough self-help lectures to claim Guruhood myself. I know the think-and-grow-rich edict; assume money will never run out, BELIEVE in ABUNDANCE, that the Universe listens, that you only get what you expect, so expect GOOD things!

Don’t get me wrong. I think a positive attitude can make your world a sunny place, for people who believe it does. I want to believe it does too. I want to believe in belief, and have from time to time. Once I kept score about those times that I didn’t believe, spent the money anyway and did NOT fall off a cliff. I think safety stayed in place ‘cause residual TRUST was hiding in my heart.

So you’d think that after all these years, I would’ve acquired the faith to unquestionably BELIVE it’s all gonna work out, that the money will come for food and gas and those $400 Bose computer speakers I want. My eight year-old Harman/Kardon’s finally cracked.

And you’d think I would have memorized the saintly rules too; that by giving to charity and people begging in the street, abundance flows back to you. Give and you shall receive…or something like that.

IMG_0412On certain days, like today, I believe it, sort of. At least I give it the benefit of the doubt, because at Smart & Final, I have to. Everyday local folk set up their donation table outside the exit door, like the photo I provided here. As you stroll past them with your loaded cart, they ask you to help another soul stay alive.

Most shoppers avoid eye contact, pretending they didn’t hear the ex-battered women or recovered addict explain that the money he’s collecting is for those less fortunate. And whether you contribute or not, as you leave that space, he’ll bless you on behalf of the Most Powerful Force in the Universe.

I’m not thrilled about Smart & Final blessings, but when all you need are paper towels, tissues, distilled water and a bag of chips, you risk meeting the worthy-cause people with their pictures and signs and box where the money goes.

*****

So as I was saying, this day I was feeling somewhat optimistic and approaching the store, I saw what would be waiting for me at the exit – a bearded white guy my age with a money box for some noble cause.

And as I’m checking out, as I always do in Smart & Final, I’m asking myself if I’m in a giving mood. Do I feel needy or abundantly confident? And if survival looks promising, how much will I give?

You know, if you stick a bill into their box really fast, and hide it with your fingers as you push it into the slot, they won’t be able to tell if you gave a buck or five or ten.

Does anybody give ten? And if they do, does it really go to orphans, or to the people making us feel guilty with their pictures of a wretched world?

I hate being manipulated. I hate being pressured about anything, which is why I’m really bad at sales. The Golden Rule kicks in. And now the man at the exit with his short gray beard is talking about homeless people and how a dollar would help a poor soul from going hungry. I’m not listening, ‘cause as my eyes shift away, I’m thinking this sure feels like a guilt trip and I role my cart towards my car.

But then, lifting the hatch, I look back. Other people are ignoring him too. I know that’s his job, to get ignored until someone finally gives, but still, this makes me feel sad because he looks like he’s taking care of himself, like he got his life back together and is making a difference in some small way.

But wait. Suppose this is a scam, like those young men who knock on your front door and explain they’re working their way through med school by selling magazine subscriptions.

And then I think, scam or not, sometimes ya gotta take a chance. He was probably homeless once and somebody like me helped him get whole again. What’s a few dollars? I’m not THAT desperate.

So I look into my wallet. All I have is two tens. I pay everything with one credit card so I can rack up free airline miles and visit Mom.

Just two tens. Will he give change? Too embarrassing. I know! I’ll scoot back into Smart & Final and buy a candy bar. Nah. I hate candy bars. But the bananas are on sale.

WHAT AM I THINKING!

How can I be so cheap? What does ten dollars buy anymore? (Plenty. I don’t answer that.) Still, last night was sushi night and I blew away twenty-three bucks for 45 minutes of raw fish which departed this morning in my bathroom. I can afford to feed a poor soul, assuming the ten stays out of the pockets of that man at the table.

So I return my cart to it’s home and I walk over to the feed-the-homeless guy. And to show him how generous I am, I extend the folded ten spot instead of pushing it into the box slot.

And he says to me, in eloquent diction, “Thank you for taking the time to return here and support our cause.”

Wow! Revelation! This guy was never homeless. His clean and manicured nails, sporty jacket, new baseball cap, designer glasses, and especially his vibe tells me he’s from my world, and probably drives that shiny red Escalade over there.

I answer with a throw-away, “Of course.”

And he says, without looking at my bill in his hand, “Would you like a receipt for tax deductions?”

I shake my head, no, thinking, Why? So I can feel even more shitty about doubting you?

Honestly, this man felt like Jesus; kind, generous and all-knowing. There was something about his confident tone, his sincere appreciation of my trying to do the right thing, that subtly conveyed he was a better man than me. And without a “God bless you.”

Then, with a smile he let me go. My lesson was over and he turned his attention to a stout Black lady who was about to accept his grace.

I floated back to my car gleefully uplifted. Everything felt right! And when I got home I played my drums, called two friends, opened my best single malt and wrote this story.

*****

What’s the message?

Next time you approach a card table in a parking lot, stop and listen to the person asking for help. Your donation just might not be a donation at all, but the gift of joy coming back to you.

 

This post was originally posted on Curiosityquills.com.

 

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DYING – CAN YOU WRITE ABOUT THAT?

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January 17, 2013

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January 17, 2013

There’s a funny thing about dying. It’s happening everywhere – in our movies, our games, our books, on the news, in our families and schools and churches. But when it comes to thinking about our own demise, most of us push that to the back of the drawer.

“Nope, won’t happen to me. Not any time soon.”

That’s our grounding. And for anyone younger than twenty, real death is off the game board.

I find it interesting that our Western culture is obsessed with death, but in such a way that we pretend it’s no big deal. Why are fantasy stories so popular? Why have fairytales and myths been around forever? Because within this I-wish-it-were-so world, death IS no big deal. And in many cases, it doesn’t exit. Souls rise from their graves, gods become mortal, mortals become gods with forever-after lives.

Thousands of characters die on the silver screen every year and those actors continue to play in more movies where they die again. See? It’s not real.

Mortal Kombat is all about killing and the player’s last Fatality, which is a gruesome way of murdering his or her defeated opponent. Do the gamers die? Of course not. They live on and read the spin-off comic books, play the card game and watch the movies.

Yea! Death! So much fun! None of it’s real…until a psychotic young man opens fire in a theater or class room. And even then it’s a news headline; a concept of extinction, unless it’s someone you know and love.

How do our armed forces train our soldiers? They break down individualism to create a human combat machine which neutralizes the enemy. That ‘bad guy” carrying a gun is a target, like games in an arcade.

As a culture, as long as we have distance from the killing fields, we Americans have desensitized ourselves about death, until it knocks on our door. Then there’s pain.

WHAT DOES DYING HAVE TO DO WITH WRITING?

Nothing, if you’re creating a fantasy where your characters move back and forth over the threshold of death.

Everything, if you’re writing a story set in the real world.

But what IS your real world?

If you are molding a character without physical vulnerabilities or fears about vulnerability, what kind of jeopardy, if any, are you describing?

If your heroine isn’t scared for her life when she should be, as a reader why would you be concerned about her?

We all know that fear inhibits our performance and ability to make the best decisions. Fear makes us want to run. If every soldier did that, we wouldn’t have wars. Which is why fear is not an option on the battle field and there are many psychological ways of diminishing it. I won’t list them here.

But there’s a fact I will state: A suicide bomber, in real life or fiction, is not a hero. A hero is a person who is afraid to die and yet moves past those fears to stop destruction and save lives.

  • How much risk and fear are you allowing your heroes to feel?
  • How much of an internal struggle are you giving them to do the task they have to do?
  • How much stress are you applying on your readers to make them feel your hero’s tension?

These are tools of our dramatic trade. But guess what? In certain genres, real trauma might be best kept in the drawer, as it already is. And here’s why.

Audiences for books and movies vary, but I think most readers and viewers prefer to keep their personal vulnerability walled off from the book, movie or interactive game.

In other words, spectators wants to see or read about violence, but without becoming internally involved. Sure, readers expect emotional jolts. But those feelings aren’t personal. The carnage on the page is not in bed with the girl reading about it. And when she closes the book and turns off the light, there’s a feeling of satisfaction knowing it was all just a yarn.

And that’s fine. That’s entertainment.

*****

But there’s another level of writing that takes on more responsibility. It addresses death for real. The dying can be mental, as in dementia and advanced senility. Death can be psychological, as with the loss of control, like loosing the use of one’s body. Dying can be the heart break of lowering your beloved wife of fifty years into her grave.

There are many ways to die. As a writer, are you willing to feel death’s fear and loss to authentically put it into words?

And if you do write about it, why are you doing that? What are you trying to say by expressing and conveying pain and suffering?

If you are injecting scary thoughts into a story for the sake of a rush, then you are writing horror, and the message is: This story is an emotional roller coaster. But it’s not real. And as the reader, you are safe.

If you are depicting human vulnerability for any other reason, I would hope your message would be: Try to understand. Your adversary suffers as you do, but for reasons opposed to yours.

If you are authoring stories about kill-or-be-killed combat, perhaps your message will be: War destroys, rarely bringing peace forever. Collateral damage is the death of innocent people. Are there other ways to settle this conflict?

*****

I’ll continue to be frank here. With the current trends, most people would rather read about vampire romance and serial killers than a tale about real cancer or the senseless killing in war. Most writers would rather write about a handsome, sexy werewolf or young adult angst than author a story about a devoted husband accepting his wife’s deformity after a crash.

For the debut writer, the market for “real life” is limited. And writing “real life” is difficult. Still, it’s a learning process that should not be skipped.

Going inside to that sad place is not pleasant or even easy. But if you can reach those feelings, if you can reach your denied vulnerability and get it right on the page, you will also reach other souls yearning for uplifting truths. You will remind them how fragile we all are, and how easy it is to hurt someone else, and why we should avoid it.

One can kill a person’s joy with six cruel words, or kindle love with five of kindness. Will you think about that? Will you write about it? If you do, you’ll touch the spirit of your muse, and our hearts as well.

 

Soldier photograph from the Seattle Times

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Being True to Yourself – Irv Takes that On

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January 10, 2013

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January 10, 2013

“I don’t know what to do. Tried to start. Couldn’t.”

“Start what?” asks my therapist.

I asked for that question. Gotta talk this out.

“Start the calls,” I answer. “Mark told me all I need is fifteen write-ins. Just fifteen favors from my list of fifty yes-or-no’s.”

“Yes or no about what?”

“Yes or no about whether my film gets nominated. It’s Hollywood’s award season again.”

“Why is this an issue?”

“Because, I explain, “last week you told me I really, actually, don’t want to be rich and famous, even though I think I do. This might be another reason why you’re right.”

“Is a nomination good for you?”

“Yeah”

“Are you avoiding it?”

“I just don’t wanna make the calls.”

“Then don’t.”

“But that’s what people do.”

Except me, I’m thinking. I should want to, but I don’t. Or can’t. Or maybe I can, if my therapist can talk me into feeling okay about it. She’s good at this. She makes me feel safe.

I turn to her. She’s sitting five feet away, her long slender legs crossed under her knee-length skirt. They’re perfect, right down to her ankles. And they’re perfect too. I’d like to see her feet. Maybe she paints her toes, all different colors, like M&M’s.

My doc leans towards me in her chair. “Irv, where are we going with this?”

Right now? A marriage proposal. But I don’t say that. She’s gay…and committed, and I should start my story. I do.

“Last year Craig phoned me. He wanted me to vote for his movie, for an Academy Award nomination. He said he knew it was shameful to ask, ‘cause years ago we had this huge falling out. But he wanted the favor anyway.”

“Okay…”

“But I didn’t do it. And not because he’s an A-1 asshole. His work didn’t compete with the others. But get this. He got nominated anyway! And I always wondered how many dudes he begged to get that.”

“Did he win?”

“Nope. But the nomination scored him and his wife orchestra seats at the Oscars and tickets to the Governor’s Ball, a super exclusive thing.”

“So Craig’s calls paid off.”

“Yep. And this year he bid against me on another film and got it. Producers hire the most famous people they can get.”

“So nominations are important.”

“Well…for Academy Awards, sure. For the craft awards, not so much.”

“Still, among your peers, the ceremonies and events keep your exposure up. Right?”

“I suppose.”

“Yet you don’t want to make the calls for your own nomination?”

“I make calls, about all kinds of stuff.” This couch is getting really hard. “But I don’t want to be phony about it.”

“How would you be phony?”

“I would be calling people I don’t consider my friends and asking for votes as if they were my friends.”

“I see.”

She leans back in her chair jotting down some words. I wonder if she likes me. I think she does. I think she understands me. And all my junk. Might as well dump the rest of it.

“There’s the rejection part too.”

Her eyes come back to me. “Irv, all winners deal with losing. They learn from it.”

“Well that’s them. I’m not good at it.” Like she didn’t know that already. But another story would help explain why.

“I’m a member of the Executive Committee of my branch in the Academy. Maybe nine or ten years ago, David, the out-going governor and one of our three committee heads, told me that he thought I would be right for his replacement and I should let people know I’m interested in running for his chair. But David also warned that I had to be discrete because politicking and soliciting is really frowned upon in the Academy.”

“This sounds like a big deal.”

“Not really. But a lot of people think it is. And I started to think so too.”

“So at the next Academy mixer, or a party or whatever, I approached governor number two. Matt wasn’t up for re-election, and so I told him I wanted a shot at David’s seat and asked, “Will you help me with that?”

“Now, of all the people on the board, I knew Matt most of all. Matt and his wife, Maria, were guests at our July 4th drop-in the year before. So when I asked for Matt’s support, I didn’t expect a blank stare.

“He turned you down?”

“It was humiliating. Of all the people I had to ask, Matt, a governor of our Academy branch, was THE most important and he was the closest thing to being my friend. But even that so-called friend wouldn’t give me his vote.”

My analyst scribbles more notes. “How did you react?”

“I stopped the whole thing. I wasn’t supposed to be campaigning anyway.”

“But you say people do.”

“Right. Two weeks later I got a call from Garry. He wanted that job, like everybody wanted it. But Garry was phoning everyone on the board, pleading!”

“Did it make a difference?”

“Yep. He snatched the prize – a seat on the Academy’s Board of Governors, and tickets to the Academy Awards and all the parties with the all the famous people.”

“Which propelled his career,” she adds.

“Actually, two years later he got fired from the studio he was working for. Nobody’s supposed to talk about it.”

She looks at me, as if to ask, ‘Why was he fired?’ But ask, she does not, which is good ‘cause I can’t tell her. Well I can, but I don’t want to. It’s not my story.

“What does all this mean to you?” comes from my doc, breaking the silence.

“It reinforces what I’ve felt all along. I don’t compete very well. I feel cheap asking for power boosts. So I don’t.”

“Are you asking, or offering your service?”

“Depends,” I answer fast, having thought about this a lot. “I’ve been asked to join clubs and help out. And I have. I’ve even been asked to head professional groups, and I’ve done that too. But pressuring people for something personal, like a nomination… Which, I guess…” My eyes wander to the ceiling. “Would be a good if I can get it.”

Again the room falls into a hush. I’m sort of waiting for my doc’s work-around. Professionally this thing is a no-brainer – go for the status. But then there’s me…in the way of that.

“Irv?” she mutters again.

I turn. She’s wrapping this up. I can tell when she lowers her voice.

“What’s bothering you the most? Getting rejected or feeling like a manipulator?”

“The manipulation part.”

“But is asking for support, manipulation?”

“Not if I’ve been giving. Not if it’s all balanced.”

“Explain that.”

“It’s about sharing and caring. If I haven’t given something to someone; like my help, my time, my friendship, even ten minutes of sincere concern, I don’t feel justified asking for anything. I don’t want to be a user.”

“Which you believe is…”

“Making someone feel obligated to help me.”

“Which is something you don’t like being done to you.”

“No.”

She puts down her pad, concluding with, “Then Irv, all you can do, is be is yourself.”

I knew she’d say that. I come back with, “But suppose that’s not good enough?”

“Irving, you’re good enough for me.”

She’s smiling…at me! Now I’m grinning. “Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“And I’m not a wuss if I don’t do the calls?”

“No. You’re fine just the way you are. Now all you need to do, is believe you’re good enough for yourself.”

“Okay. I’ll try. Promise. But let’s talk about how I’m good enough for YOU.”

 

Originally posted on Curiosityquills.com.

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A New Year, A New Therapy Session

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January 3, 2013

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January 3, 2013

“What is your life about, Irv?”

That again. I’m supposed to visit my soul, as if I’ve never gone there before, as if today I’ll find an escape out of the gloom and float free.

“What?” I answer, pretending I didn’t understand.

“What is your life about?” repeats my lady shrink.

Okay, so this is how we start 2013.

“My life is about…” I pause, rolling my eyes, like I’m going deep. “I guess my life is about, what my life ISN’T about; the stuff I wanted to happen but couldn’t get done.”

“Yes, we covered that,” she says, adjusting her black framed glasses. “You don’t feel good enough. But for now I want you to throw that thought away. Think about what you HAVE accomplished and why, and the choices you’ve made to avert the things you wanted.”

Wait… This is new. Avert the things I wanted? I look at her. “You’re saying I’ve deliberately failed?”

“Irv,” she continues, “I’m breaking all the rules here but your resistance is getting in the way. So here’s my uncensored professional opinion.”

“One… Some, if not all of the things you want, or think you want, is NOT what you want. Not at your core.”

“And two… If you do want something and you’re clear about it, you’re not willing to conform to the rules to get it. Or make the sacrifices. So you really don’t want those things as much as you think you do.”

“You don’t know me,” I assert, with a tone of indignation.

“I know this much,” she says. “It’s more important to know WHY you want something, than just wanting it.”

“It’s not complicated. I want to accomplish something important.”

“But why? Because the answer to that, is key to your happiness. And Irv, you’re not happy.”

“For a few seconds a year I am.”

“Why are you unhappy the rest of the time?”

Man, she always goes there! “I was born that way!”

“C’mon, Irv.”

“I told you! I’m not succeeding!”

“In getting what you DON’T want?”

“No, I want it.”

“What?”

“We’ve discussed it. As crass as it sounds, I want to be rich and famous.”

“Why?”

“For the same reasons now as last year. If I were in demand, my life would be secure. And money solves problems.”

“It didn’t save Steve Job.”

“Yeah! I want to be like him, but nicer.”

“And alive.”

“Well, there’s that.”

“So how much fame and fortune is enough?” she asks me, clicking her pen to write.

“Enough so I never have to worry about it. Enough so wherever I go, I have friends.”

“Like Taylor Swift and Justin Bieber have fans?”

“Like Warren Buffett has devotees.”

“So you want admirers.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“No.”

“WHAT? Everyone wants to be liked and loved!”

“Yes. But many people believe they already are.”

“I’m liked and loved.”

“But you say, not enough.”

“Is this the part where I blame my parents?”

“Irv, you will never reach those goals because they are not YOU. What you have, what you’ve done, THAT is who you are.”

“Then I don’t want to be who I am.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m destined for greatness!”

“Who told you that?”

“Everybody!”

“They lied. You’re slightly better than average.”

God! That hurt!

Lying on her couch, I turn away and look at the wall, which could use a coat of paint above the paneling. And knotty pine is so OUT, like forty years ago out.

I hear a tissue being pulled from the box. I extend my arm and she hands me a wad of Kleenex, which now goes to my eyes to dry them.

“What’s wrong with being average?” she asks, as if she didn’t know the answer.

My head pivots back to her. “What’s wrong with being average? I’ll disappear into the throngs! I’ll blend in and no one will notice me. Or even find me. Or care! Because if I’m just another marble in the box, my value is zip! Why would people want to love me if I’m just another dot in the landscape?”

“People will value you, if you value THEM. Making a difference is not about people loving YOU. It’s about you loving people.”

I hate advice like that.

“Are you loving people, Irv?”

Another loaded question, which will not get answered.

“Irv… Look at me.”

“No!” I bark. “I’m not into warm and fuzzy! I tried it over and over and got shot down!”

“And why was that?”

“How the hell do I know? Most people are selfish, uncaring, insensitive and greedy! Not to mention boring! So we didn’t click. There’s nothing I can do about it!”

“You can be tolerant and less critical.”

“And phony? You want me to be phony to get along? I HATE phony! I hate people pretending to care about me when they don’t. And I hate pretending the same thing!”

She writes a note. “So you steer around the selfish, uncaring, insensitive, greedy and boring crowds; the ones you want to admire you.”

I don’t need this! My eyes dart to the ceiling, a place I hide when sessions go south.

Oh… That’s new. Those two broken acoustic tiles got replaced. But they don’t match. They’re snowy white and all the old ones are dingy gray. They should make gray tiles to match the… Wow. This ceiling’s gotta be seventy years old.

“Irv…”

I glance to my right.

“You’re ignoring me,” she states.

“No I’m not. I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“Your office needs a remodel.”

“Anything about you?

“You mean, like, I want to be liked by people I don’t like?”

“And?”

“And, what?”

“Why would people like you if you don’t like them?”

“They don’t know I don’t like them.”

She lowers her pad, looking me in the eyes. “You can’t hide feelings.”

“You always say that.”

“Do you believe it?”

“On Thursdays.”

She groans. “Irv, what’s your impression of the world’s population?”

“It’s in trouble.”

“Do want to be part of that trouble?”

“Who would?”

“So you’re telling me you want fame and fortune from a world you don’t want to live in. Can you see how that might be a contradiction?”

“I didn’t start out that way. I wanted to fit in.”

“Did you?”

“No. Growing up I never had many friends. I didn’t feel comfortable in clubs. Didn’t hang out with buddies after school or work. Still don’t. I guess that’s just me: Different…but average.”

“You’ve told me your wife loved you.”

“Totally. I could never figure out why. And then she died.”

“Do you love yourself, Irv?”

“What’s to love? I’m average.”

“Are you kind to others?”

“I try to be.”

“Generous?”

“Not enough. Dana was always giving to charities and needy people. It’s not natural for me to give away money but I do it anyway, on principle.”

“Do you help friends and colleagues when they ask for it?”

“Of course.”

“Do you thank people for their help and gifts?”

“Absolutely. Because I would want them to thank me.”

“And you reciprocate their interest in you?

“All the time. If they’re really my friends.”

“Then what’s not to love about you? What more is expected of anyone?”

Man, what universe is SHE living in? We’re all competing, and not everyone can come in first. Or even tenth. My mind goes to my earliest days, as I mutter, “Someday you’ll make it.”

“What did you say?” she asks.

“Someday you’ll make it,” I repeat, raising my head. “That’s what my dad always said, even into my thirties. Someday you’ll make it.”

“Well Irv. That’s it. You’ve become your own father. You’ve got to stop the judgments…the beatings…the torture of trying to prove yourself TO yourself.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Yes,” she nods. “But you have to try. That’s what ‘making it’ is all about.”

 

This post originally published on Curiosityquills.com.

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