A Year Deferred

My New Farm

So in the interest of not completely giving up on this little venture of mine (sigh.. BIG sigh...),  here's a little something I wrote:

I arrive at the farm just as it’s starting to get dark.  My car, cooling off from the long trip behind me, crackles in the cool air. In front of me, the land rolls out like a long, complicated carpet and I can smell flowers and manure and dust. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. “Doesn’t it smell good?” I would say to Mark if he were here. “Isn’t it beautiful?” We always seemed to talk to each other that way, in questions. “Aren’t you excited about our weekend? Wasn’t that a fun trip?” A car passes on the road behind me in an explosion of dust and noise and headlights. The sound murmurs out on the long, flat road until finally there is silence.

This kind of farm, I gather, is not the cows and goats kind. All I can see for miles and miles are brown lines of earth, hiding between green, leafy shrubs. Each line of dark soil disappears as I move my head, only to be replaced by another twin, fanning out before me. There is a pile of something far away – a mile away I would say, but I’m not used to measuring things out to the horizon like that. “Isn’t it flat?” I would have asked Mark. The shadowy slump looks like a haystack, and I smile because I realize I always thought that haystacks, like red barns, only existed in picture books.  But there in front of me is a real-life haystack, and it’s on a real farm, and the farm is – suddenly, sadly, inexplicably – mine.

I close my eyes and take another deep breath of the dry, warm air and let out an audible sigh. “What?” Mark would have asked me. “Are you okay?” But I’m just smelling the air.  “Can you believe it?” I would have asked.

Writing Class Update

I'll make this quick because I have to pack for my trip to Florida tomorrow (um, woo hoo!), but I promised an update on the online writing class and here it is: our last assignment was to write about a color and I found this so uninspiring ("blue.. you are the color of the sky, you are the color of the sea... bla bla, so boring) that I have yet to complete it. Further, I am so frightened by the earnest compositions about color that have inevitably been posted on the discussion board within the last several days that I have yet to even sneek a peek. But of course I feel guilty. I told myself I'd give it a chance. I also have few, oh wait, I mean no qualifications that allow me to snub my nose at this assignment. Who knows, maybe writing about a color will unlock that creative genius that has been living in my... bowels?... for the last twenty-four years. So I am going to write 300 inspired words about a color and I am giving myself until the end of the day tomorrow to finish it. Please - don't crash this site with your frenetic anticipatory clicking. Yes it will be breathtaking. Yes I will post it here. No you cannot "borrow" material for the Ode to Mauve you've been working on for the last year. Get your own online writing class.

Broken Flower

Happy Memorial Day! Here's a drawing in colored pencil I finished this weekend. I didn't think about this one too much before I drew the outline. Ultimately, the man looks like a kind of Lenny figure - pothetically large and indelicate.

The Happiness Formula

Yesterday morning, at work, I had to complete the incredibly menial task of stapling an additional piece of paper to the back of about 500 contracts. Strictly abiding to my own code of workplace ethics, the mind-numbing nature of the task at hand permitted – nay, demanded – the auxiliary use of an iPod. ("Thou shalt not bore one's self to death.")

At first, I was almost excited about the stapling job. At least I had something to do that would eat up about two hours of the workday, would involve zero stress, and would allow me to listen to music and relax. (You can see how interesting work has been lately...) As I sat there, stapling and shuffling and listening to mellow music though, I started to get increasingly, well, sad. I started thinking about how I had to stay at this job another year, how I could be gearing up this second to go to Favorite School next year, but I wasn't. I thought about how I wanted a dog, but I couldn't have one at my apartment. How, when push came to shove, I knew I wouldn't put the energy into moving so we could have one. And I thought about friends - the friends I used to have and the friends I still have that live thousands of miles away. I thought: I am unhappy.

But I had been there before. I had let my thoughts spiral out of control like this before. The whole time I was thinking all of these thoughts, I tried to force myself to use the magic of cognitive psychology – to replace the bad thoughts with the good, to not dwell, to focus on the great things I had in my life and everything I had to be thankful for. This, as usual, didn't work.

So then I started thinking about the magazine article I had read a few months ago about new studies on happiness. It reported that recent findings show that people tend to have a "baseline" level of happiness from which they tend not to diverge for more than a few months at a time throughout their lifetime. In other words, if you are a generally happy person, you will probably always be generally happy. And yes, if you are a sad-sack, chances are that frown probably is stuck on your face.

The most surprising thing I read was about a study that showed that people who were forced to undertake dialysis every day because of kidney problems – something that one would think would have a profoud negative efffect on a person's perceived happines – reported the same level of happiness, on average, as the control sample. A similar study showed that big life events, like a divorce or the purchase of a new home, generally increased or decreased a person's perceived level of happiness significantly for only about three months. After the initial rush of happiness or sadness, people tended to recover to their "baseline" of happiness.

The New Yorker has a good article about all this. They explain it like this:

According to positive psychologists, once we’re out of poverty the most important determinant of happiness is our “set point,” a natural level of happiness that is (and this is one of the movement’s most controversial claims) largely inherited. We adapt to our circumstances; we don’t, or can’t, adapt our genes. The evidence for this set point, and the phrase itself, came from a study of identical twins by the behavioral geneticist David Lykken, which concluded that “trying to be happier is like trying to be taller.” Contrary to everything you might think, “in the long run, it doesn’t much matter what happens to you,” Haidt writes. Consider the opposing examples of winning the lottery or of losing the use of your limbs. According to Haidt, “It’s better to win the lottery than to break your neck, but not by as much as you’d think. . . . Within a year, lottery winners and paraplegics have both (on average) returned most of the way to their baseline levels of happiness.”

So this can all seem a bit depressing. And I guess you could say it boils down to how much you want to torture yourself with the nature/nurture debate. But here is where I get to say that I am proud of myself. I got in this funk, I thought about how the "pursuit of happiness" was all a sham and then, instead of reaching for the M&Ms or a cigarette or whatever, I went outside and took a walk. I got a cup of coffee and I stood in the sun for a few minutes. I drank my coffee and stood there and just let my mind wander. Miraculously, I started to feel a little better. All those positive thoughts that I had been trying to force on the negative ones finally got through. I felt thankful for the opportunities I had been given, for the future ahead of me, for the comfort and support I enjoyed now... And suddenly I felt a little happier. And I did it myself. A weird accomplishment to be proud of, I know, but neverthess it was gratifying.

As for the incredibly disheartening notion that nothing you do will ever make you substantially happier, it appears there is a way out of this mental prison... kind of:

[T]he news that we’re on a hedonic treadmill, so that we end up where we’re always bound to end up, is so contrary to our fundamental appetites for exertion and the next new thing, that nobody can really accept it. So Lykken himself, the fellow who came up with the finding about the set point, went on to write a book about how to become happier... Positive psychology has even devised a formula for how to be happy, where H is your level of happiness, S is your set point, C is the conditions of your life, and V is the voluntary activities you do. Ready for the secret of happiness? Here it is: H=S+C+V In other words, your happiness consists of how happy you naturally are, plus whatever is going on in your life to affect your happiness, plus a bit of voluntary work.

As The New Yorker put it: "Well, duh."

Finally, I will leave you with this closing thought:

...[P]eople [are] most content when they were experiencing what Csikzentmihalyi called “flow”—in Haidt’s definition, “the state of total immersion in a task that is challenging yet closely matched to one’s abilities.” We are at our happiest when we are absorbed in what we are doing... The trouble is that asking yourself about your frame of mind is a sure way to lose your flow. If you want to be happy, don’t ever ask yourself if you are.

Comedy Night... on a Sunday!

V and I took the long [read: 30-minute], arduous [read: effortless] trip up to the City last night to see the 11th Annual Comedy Night at Geary Theater.  My college's alumni association was offering half-price on the tickets a few weeks ago, and in a moment of impetuous job-avoiding, I completely forgot that I am a 74-year-old hermit stuck in a 24-year-old's body and that I never (I repeat: NEVER) go out past 10pm on a weeknight. So I bought the tickets.

Dread slowly enveloped me as I went about my errands on Sunday. By 5:00 I was in an all-out bad mood. "You know, the Desperate Housewives season finale is on tonight,” I barked at V. “Mmm,” he said. Hint not taken. Ultimately, the guilt of wasting $50 on two perfectly good tickets overwhelmed the magnet-like attraction of my comically uncomfortable bed and we made it out the door to the city.

And yes, as I’m sure you can guess, we had a great time! Just being in the theater district on a balmy night was enough to plaster a shit-eating grin on my face. The seven or so surprisingly fantastic comedic acts sealed the deal. V, of course, was not surprised by the sudden turnaround in my mood. After living with me for two years, he has figured out that beneath everything else, I am pretty much just a cheeseball – easily amused and ready to turn every experience into the romantic, high-flying memory it should be. He would contend that a trip to the airport – if it included a stop for a sundae - would likely produce a similar result.

The best part of the evening was watching V belly-laugh all night like there was no one else around. Up until we left for the show, he had been grinding his teeth, struggling with a kink in his regressions. He deserved a good laugh and I’m glad he got several. Over intermission, we left the theater to get hot chocolate. The Starbucks was uncharacteristically cramped and steamy and, for a second, it felt like we were on vacation in another country. On our way back to the theater, we held hands and crossed the casually bustling Sunday-night street like a new couple out on a date. I could feel the relaxed joy radiating off of us. Back inside, we leaned up against a wall and made fun of each other until the show started again.

The star of the night was definitely Jake Johanssen.  I implore you to check him out. He is quirky and hilarious and dead-on. V and I repeated his jokes during the entire long, arduous ride home.

A Slightly Cloudy Saturday

After everybody thought the months of rain were finally, finally over, we're experiencing rain and clouds again. V has hit some roadblocks in his work, so we stayed in most of the day. I took the opportunity to finish a drawing I'd started last week (check out my new "Art and Photos" album) and obsessively check if anyone had left me comments on the piece I posted for my new online writing class yesterday. So far I've received three comments and they have all been positive. Given that there is a rule in this class that you can only say "nice" things about other people's work though, I can't be too proud of this ratio.

All in all, it's interesting seeing how this writing class is progressing. We've had two "sessions" now and I feel like everyone is in some weird kind of honeymoon phase - commenting on every little thing posted, completing assignments within hours of being assigned. I have never found myself in a more fiercely upbeat and positive community in my life. The instructor seems overwhelmingly kind and supportive as well, although I have noticed that her comments on students' work haven't been too lengthy or substantive as of yet. My theory is that in about two weeks about 30% of the class will get lazy and stop doing their assignments. I wonder if the zealous positivity will wean a little bit as the class goes on as well. I'll keep you posted.

Anyway, after the drawing and the writing class business, I started to get a little antsy. V had said he wouldn't mind taking a break and going on a walk, so I looked up some hiking trails in the area. While not a trail per say, I stumbled across a site for the Elizabeth F. Gamble Garden. (As it always seems to be the case in this area, I recently lived only two blocks away from this place, but never knew it existed.) It turned out that the garden wasn't really big enough to do any serious walking, but it was beautiful (in a kind of overly manicured sort of way) and I was able to take some pictures:

And finally (and I'm sure I'm flying in the face of blog etiquette by making this post so damn long), here is the writing assignment I completed for class yesterday:

Getting Better

Looking at Paris in the flickering light, she seems almost happy. I can’t see the sharp lines in her forehead or the bluish pillows under her eyes. The policeman on screen mouths off to his boss and she smiles. Its as if she’s glowing.

Her eyes dart in my direction.

“What?” she asks. She scowls at me and takes a handful of popcorn from the container between my legs.

“Nothing,” I say. I look back at the screen. Something is blowing up; the police car is chasing an impossibly fast 16-wheel truck. “Did you know that all the big trucks and buses in South America are Mercedes Benzes?”

“Yeah right,” she says.

“They are,” I say. I let it go. I grab a handful of popcorn then change my mind and drop it back in the container. A few pieces fall and as I brush them off my knees my hands leave greasy streaks on my new pants. I have a sudden urge to rub my greasy hands all over my face and in my hair. I look at Paris and she looks back at me and frowns.

“Want some coke?” she asks, tipping the cup in my direction.

“No thanks,” I say.

She turns back to the screen and sucks on the straw. I touch her shoulder with the tips of my fingers and am surprised to feel her warmth and her softness.

“What,” she says.

“Can you pass me a napkin?”

She twists in her seat and rummages through her purse.

“Here,” she says, and hands me a napkin. She looks at the screen then looks back at me. “I do love you, John,” she says. She half-smiles at me then looks at the screen.

My stomach flips over inside of me. I want to hug her and squeeze her and spin her around. I want to sing and yell and speed down the highway in a red convertible.

“I love you too, Paris,” I say. I squeeze her hand with my greasy hand and she squirms but keeps on holding on.

Hold Everything

An old man with white hair and a sagging, purple face walked onto the bus yesterday.  His clothes were dirt-gray and he smelled like stale cigarettes.  By his side, he carried an enormous, plastic shopping bag stuffed with what looked to be blankets and clothes and pretty much everything he owned.  The shopping bag was from the container store, "Hold Everything," and the name was displayed prominently on both sides of the bag.  I'd like to think he was chuckling inside at the irony of it all, but I doubt it.

In media res...

[But] I’m 24 years old.  I have a loving boyfriend, an almost-new car that gets good gas mileage, and a job that keeps me interested most of the time.  I read books, watch too much TV, and on weekends I like to run errands in the sunshine.  I’m the only person I know who likes grocery shopping.  During the week I sometimes binge on banana bread and peanut M&Ms, but other than that, life is pretty good.  Oh, and in 15 months I’ll be going to the law school of my dreams.

When I received the phone call from the dean three months ago, my hands shook and my stomach flopped around inside my throat.  I jumped on the elevator and called my parents outside the building where I work, “Oh my god, I got into Favorite Law School! I got into Favorite Law School!”  I had heard they send you a shirt: FLS, Class of 2009.  I was going to receive that shirt – I couldn’t believe it.

And now the shirt’s in my closet. And the big, glossy binder full of pamphlets and booklets and letters on letterhead is resting on my bedroom shelf.  I’ve signed on the dotted line; I’ve sent in my check.  They’ve promised me this isn’t some colossal mistake.  But after some long conversations and awkward emails to my parents, there’s a slight kink in the plans.  No, I’m not pregnant.  But I have decided to spend the rest of my life with V.  And since he’s got to stay another year in Cali to finish up his PhD program, I’m hoppin’ on the bandwagon.  So Favorite Law School here I come…. in fifteen months.  Hence: A Year Deferred.

I really want to take advantage of this year – the last year before my really intense legal career begins.  (Yes, this is scary to think about. And to tell you the truth, I don’t know if I really believe it.  But apparently this is what I am doing. And it’s supposedly going to be intense.)  So I plan on writing as much as I can, reading great novels, drawing and painting, and taking beautiful pictures.  I also want to be just a tad less lazy and try to break out of the blissful, Netflix-delivered-to-your-door, Peet’s-around-the-corner, do-we-really-have-to-go-to-our-best-friend’s-birthday-party-that’s-a-whole-two-blocks-away malaise that V and I tend to lapse into over the weekends.  We live in this incredible area, next to the forest, the ocean, the city and… office parks.  And I want to take more advantage of this. I want to try to take more trips, go to more shows, and be a little more, eh hem, social. 

Finally, I want to grow up a little this year.  I’m kind of a baby when it comes to stress or doing things I don’t like to do.  Last week I had a minor breakdown because I was so anxious about going to work the next day and calling a client I had put off the previous week.  If I could procrastinate a little less and have a little more self-control, I think I’d feel more ready for the aforementioned intense legal career.

Oh, and I want to lose 15 pounds. (Not including the 3 pounds of water weight I miraculously gained last night.)

So that’s the plan.  If you one day end up reading this, I hope you enjoy the ride.  And I appreciate any comments or suggestions on how to make this year the best year of my life (on a relatively tight-ish budget, while still holding down a full-time J.O.B.).