Tag Archives: Introspective

Scrambled

When I was in college, I decided to write a sonnet.

Perhaps I should step back for a second and say that this was a strange time in my life. I was really, really into the whole “tortured artist” image. Assuming I recall the timeline correctly (it tends to blur for a couple of years), I had just come out of a near-Goth period that was marked by an obsession with Poe, and had become quite enamored with Shakespeare’s poetry. Or, maybe I have those two events backward. In any case, I tried to write a sonnet.

As you probably know, I was a theatre major, and I was exploring some great playwrights’ other literary endeavors at the time (Shakespeare’s sonnets, Tennessee Williams’ fiction). So, it was this whole exploratory phase in which I wrote a disastrous attempt at a poem about a girl I thought I was in love with (unrequited, of course) and had this bright idea that I would write so many sonnets that I wouldn’t have names for them all, and have to entitle some of them by number. You know, like “Sonnet #3.”  Because that would just be artistic and cool.

Have you ever tried iambic pentameter? And I thought unrequited love was rough!

The point is that I was branching out my interests, and was early in a process of changing my mind. I began my college career as an applied music major. That lasted a semester before I became a music education major. Then the entire school had to go. My new school, which became my alma mater, welcomed me as a communication major. Then theatre became a second major. Then psychology became a minor, and somehow ended being how I make a living. During the process I wrote for a newspaper or two, took some print layout and technical writing courses, and eventually decided to do a master’s degree in theology.

Honestly, I just can’t seem to make up my mind. Do you see what one little innocent sonnet turned into?

Over the last year or two, I’ve decided that I’m up for a second career, and that I really need to decide on something and stick with it. Ever since that sonnet (and likely before it), however, I’ve had so many interests rolling around in my head that the only thing I can land on as being workable is to be a professor. That leads me to my current preparation to apply to PhD programs, but narrowing my interests into anything less than nebulous is just…well…more difficult than unrequited love and iambic pentameter combined.

Tonight, I was discussing a fast-approaching application deadline with a friend who’s giving me advice from the other end of the whole doctoral thing. He made a passing comment that suddenly seemed to synthesize a really fantastic research idea for this “interdisciplinary” program to which I’m going to apply. It was eureka! moment of sorts, a lightbulb-over-my-head kind of way to pull everything together…but then there was that one loose end that occurred to me that I didn’t think I could make fit…

…and then that led to another…

I’m just a little bit jealous of people like my wife, who has completed two degrees in the same field and will likely stay in that field for her third. That would make life so much simpler!  Perhaps I will at some point settle upon which of my interests are primary and which are secondary, come up with some way to triage them into a course of coherent study. But that just doesn’t seem fair when there are all of these really great things that interest me out there.

At best, I’m trying to just stay with my current interests and not pick up any more. That would just leave my brain scrambled. And as for the ones I have, I’m clinging to that magic word, “interdisciplinary,” and pondering, “how am I going to incorporate them? Let me count the ways…”

Free Standing

Here’s something you wouldn’t believe: When I was young, I was narcissitic.

No, no, its true. To call me self-absorbed wouldn’t have been giving my high-school identity crisis nearly enough credit. I was a musician. I was an actor. I dressed sharp and hung out with the preppy, popular group (if it makes your brain hurt to try to understand how I reconciled those things, don’t worry…it does mine, as well).

Those days are long gone, and at a wise and proven 35 years of age, I’ve seen the error of my ways. For example, the time when I voluntarily “dressed up” has been cast by the wayside. I’ve left more serious symptoms of self-absorption behind, as well. At that age, I was far too focused on being civilized and engaging in “higher,” creative, and academic sorts of things to be bothered with household chores. I helped out only with much groaning and attitude, and never enjoyed it. Growing up in a rural area brought its share of outdoor, agricultural sorts of chores, all of which I loathed. I promised myself and loudly declared to all others that I would not live in this “Farmer Joe” lifestyle in adulthood, because the convenience and fast-paced lifestyle of the city called my name.

To be honest, I have no idea what a farming lifestyle would entail, because that certainly was not what I grew up experiencing. I did keep my promise to be an urbanite in adulthood…civilization for me is defined by how many Starbucks I can drive to in 5 minutes or less. What I have not carried over…or, at least, what I am beginning to lose…is my self-absorption.

This leads me to a sort of active repentance when Karen and I visit my parents. My father now walks with a cane due to a old back injury and other medical issues. I find myself anxious to help him with anything that might require assistance around the house when we visit. Carrying a piece of outdoor furniture? No problem. Take out the trash and bring in the paper? I’m all over it. Things that are even an inconvenience for me in our own home are not when visiting my parents. Each visit brings a new bout of zealous penance.

This Christmas was marked by a nasty little windstorm that did significant damage to the local infrastructure and took the power with it immediately after Christmas dinner. Power wasn’t restored for several hours. This isn’t entirely uncommon in the snowy, rural North East, and so my parents and their neighbors come prepared. It was time to fire up “the generator.”

For the uninitiated, “the generator” is essentially a gasoline powered engine that sits in the gardenhouse, and, when running, sends electricity through a line into the home, which is then used to power critical appliances (yes, I consider a coffee pot critical), lighting, and so on for the duration of a power outage. That’s a bit of a challenge for my father to manage, and I was anxious to stop grumbling about the outage and be a part of the solution. Even therein, however, lay things that my father stubbornly steadfastly pursued on his own, occasionally worsening his health for the weekend, but arguing with me over my offers of assistance. Eventually, I will just back down. I won’t let this turn into a real dispute.

I understand fully my father’s desire to hold onto his independence. I do. I also recognize, however, that none of us are capable of doing everything without requiring assistance with something. Life just isn’t a solo sport. In looking at this (occasionally humorous) dynamic over our Christmas weekend together, however, I’ve also realized that there are times when we need to permit others to help us even when we don’t need it, because they need to help us. I needed to be forced to help as a child, even when my father was more than capable of doing everything himself (he is, after all, Superman…didn’t you know?), because I needed to learn that responsibility. I did learn it in the end, but I wouldn’t be constantly overcoming my feelings of guilt now had I done so then.

Perhaps I will be able to make progress toward shedding some of the rugged independence of our Western culture that can, at times, be damaging to us in the end…especially when I can see that voluntarily doing so will be of assistance to another human being. In seeing what I’ve seen this weekend, I’m certainly going to try to at least strike a balance.

Hopefully without any further power outages in the process.

Here’s hoping your Christmas was blessed.

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Orchestral Variants

Not to get weird on you or anything, but I think there’s another me from an alternate universe floating around out there somewhere.Or maybe he’s floating around in here and just comes to visit me in my head sometimes. Or, maybe that’s way too philosophical. Or, maybe I just need medication.

Its just that he came to visit while I was listening to the Trans-Siberian Orchestra a couple of days ago. This other Dave exists in a universe that differs from our own, beginning when he made a different choice during his junior year of college. Not a specific, “I turned right and I should have turned left” sort of choice like you see in the movies. This was more of an attitude choice, a choice to listen to others or listen to himself. A choice to focus on specific skills or move with natural talents. The choice was a choice to really pursue his dreams, even though he couldn’t even see the potential of them from where he was, or to listen to those around him who were encouraging him to learn “marketable” skills, to move in the direction that “real life” was taking him instead of trying to change things around in pursuit of some crazy dream all of the time.

From that point on, this alternate Dave’s future…now his present…became much different than mine.

Now, I know that nearly all of us have been rock stars in our dreams. I’ve certainly used my air-guitar to rocket myself to stardom numerous times in front of numerous mirrors, and I’m sure that most of you have, as well. This other Dave (shall we call him “Alternate Dave?”) succeeded. He actually played guitar. He had picked it up after I had stopped focusing on keyboards during my brief experience as a music major. Except he had stayed with the keyboards…and the drums as well…and picked up the guitar later. I admire Alternate Dave’s taste in music…he likes a good rock n’ roll guitar line just as much as I do. He also appreciates classical and jazz just as much as I do…that’s why he plays with TSO, you see. He also writes for them, though. He writes lyrics, and writes stories on their CD jackets. He’s involved in directing the stage production of their performances, as well. He uses all of these random talents that I’ve used only sporadically (and then only seriously in the past 5 years) and uses them together, not to be successful, but just to do what he loves, and let the rest work itself out.

The difference is the guitar. I don’t think you’d want to hear what would happen if I picked up a guitar.

I write this only to say that I’m really jealous of Alternate Dave. I wish I was using all of the things I love and pursuing them for a living. That would just be cool. I wonder if Alternate Dave would consider trading places with me, even if just for a little while? Or better yet, perhaps he can give me pointers on how to re-arrange this particular reality. After all, its never too late, right?

Even better, because things might become strange in my head if I start quoting Alternate Dave, what if you gave me advice?

Go for it. My comment chain awaits.

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Warp-Speed Requiem

I’m inept.

Well, not skilled, at least. A few years ago, a friend who was in law school told me her opinion: that the higher you move in the realm of academic knowledge, the more common sense you lose. At last reading, mine should be functioning at about 50%. The forward shields took a beating with that last academic encounter, and we’re diverting all the extra power to impulse engines to keep from socially drifting. In order to keep power to life support as well, non-essential functions had to be shut down temporarily.

And, with it, common sense in the realm of interpersonal relationships.

Now, people tell I’m cranky. They chuckle a lot and shake their heads as if to say, “Oh, that’s just Dave.” In fact, they usually tell me that I’m like House, and they’re not really joking. Except, its just when I’m around groups of people. Alone, I’m a lot more like Monk.

It bothers me the most when I realize I’ve done it to family. I miss obvious gestures from my father-in-law that are invitations to build a relationship. I inadvertently speak to my parents in a way that sounds condescending.

To make me feel better, I’m labeled as an “introvert,” or told that I “do better one-on-one.” In my defense, part of this has to do with the fact that I’m a Northerner that has been transplanted to the South, where politeness and social expectations are of a decidedly different flavor. At the end of the day, though, be it due to academia or whatever other reason, my social common sense has died, and this is its requiem. Or, perhaps its just malfunctioning, and in need of repair along with the other systems.

I’ll let you know after the overhaul. Hopefully, the ship will be repaired soon, and able to jump back to hyperspace.