Still Figuring Things Out

Is it about who you are or is it about who you want to be? There may not be all that much difference. Let me tell you a story:

There is a woman who I see on the bus most mornings. She is very short, just as wide, of indeterminate age, and obviously mentally handicapped. And one morning recently I was waiting for the people in front of me to leave the bus by the back exit, but nobody was moving. The woman was standing by the door, unable to move, and people became exasperated. And so they went around to the front door and exited that way. I came up behind the woman, who seemed to be afraid to step down, probably because the driver pulled up a bit farther from the curb than what she was used to, and I took her arm. She would not be moved. I slid past her, got off the bus, gave her my hand, and she took my hand, and I helped her down, and away she went without looking back.

And I wondered about all those people that went by her, and I guess most people don’t know what to do or how to help, or they don’t want to get involved or they don’t have time, and I admit that I felt good for helping her, and I wondered about that, maybe there’s something wrong with that, because my initial thought is that I didn’t do anything that anyone else wouldn’t do, but that so obviously was not the case. But then maybe I just want to be a hero.

And so I walked away from there feeling the hero, and that made me stop and ask myself what my motives really are. Do I help people because I’m that type of person, or do I help people because I want to be that type of person, or because I want to think of myself that way, or even because I want others to think of me that way?

Along comes Russ Harris to the rescue. Harris’ book is called The Happiness Trap, How to Stop Struggling And Start Living, and it’s a self-help book of a type I don’t usually read, but it was recommended to me by someone I was seeing professionally, someone who had some familiarity with my personal brand of mid-life crisis, and so I read it. And what it says is this: figure out what your values are. Write them down he says (I didn’t). Values, in this case, can be anything that serve as motivating factors – physical health, financial security, being emotionally connected to people around you – all examples of values in this scheme. So figure out what they are, he says, then take action in your life consistent with those values.

And so if “helping people when the opportunity arises” is a value, and I help the woman off the bus, then hey – mission accomplished. I’m hereby absolved of bad motives. I am working towards being the person I want to be, or to continue to be, and so what if I want everyone in the world to know what a hero I am. At least I’m happy.

And the woman got off the bus…

Vindicated

The meeting Wednesday night of the Writers Support Group started with the organizer, who is an editor / publisher when he’s not leading groups, reading a manuscript that he received two years ago from a hopeful fiction writer with impressive credentials. It was an example, he said, of work in the raw, unedited, unpublishable. Why, people wanted to know, after he’d read a few pages of turgid, clichéd, juvenile, downright embarrassing prose, did you bother with it.

We saw the story in it, he said. And so he and his partner worked with the author to fix up (“rewrite” I said, and he didn’t disagree) the work until it was something worth publishing.

I confess, I would have sent the author packing. I’d not make a successful publisher. I don’t care how good the story is. I’d have sent J. K. Rowling packing, and I’d have missed the book publishing deal of the decade. To me, for what it’s worth, it’s not about the story; it’s never about the story. To me, it’s about the telling. I don’t care if you give away the ending; it’s the journey I’m interested it, not the destination.

The story? Tell that to Hemingway.

“What’s your book about Mr. Hemingway?”
“A man goes fishing.”
“Well, thank you. Don’t call us etc.”

Think of Henry Miller, James Joyce. Does Tropic Of Cancer have a storyline? What about James Kelman? Sure, things happen, but it’s not much of a story, is it. But it’s still fascinating prose. And I happen to be reading, at this very moment, two novels. One is the aforesaid Rowling – yes I’ve finally taken it upon myself to read Harry Potter. At the same time I’m reading Normal Girl, Molly Jong-Fast’s first (and so far only) novel. Rowling has a story to tell, but I find myself caring less and less with each page I turn. Jong-Fast, though, doesn’t really have a storyline at all. She follows a few days in the life of a 19 year old female, spoiled, rich, Jewish, semi-celebrity coke addict, and she does it with such incredible power that I wish the book were longer that its 122 pages.

I have no quarrel, though, with anyone. I realize that literature and writing are very personal, and what’s country for one is jazz for another. The group is more story-oriented and that’s fine. But it made me a bit nervous to read my stuff, because there isn’t much story in my stuff. What I brought with me, it’s all about feeling, personality, the subtle tension that exists between two co-workers who are not exactly flirting and not exactly not flirting.

And so I took a deep breath, read the thing, and waited for the bombs to fall. But I already saw people smiling, laughing a bit even (at the funny parts, not at the piece itself) and when I was done what I got was compliments. And sure, one person mentioned the fact that the story didn’t “go anywhere” (fair enough, it didn’t). And someone took issue with my “he said she said” style, and I expected that, but even he was countered by someone who said that it worked in the context.

And I took another breath, and I was done. It was someone else’s turn. And I thought of the fiasco at the other group, trying to read to people who could not care less.

I just needed to find the right group.

See? It’s not about the story, it’s the telling…

December 24, 2010

Leaving home, 6:45 AM...

Getting to work, 7:30 AM...

The Sound Of Music

It was a concert, classical music, Sunday afternoon, students. There isn’t much to say about it. I walked over there, I listened, I went home, that’s it.

The temperature was around 5 degrees, the sun was shining, there was no wind, I was wearing a parka, and the world was a good place to be.

The ensemble is called Les Petits Violons. I’d only heard them once before, that was about 6 years ago.

“The hills are alive,” sang the Maria character, played by Mary Martin and by Julie Andrews in the Broadway and film versions of the famous musical, respectively, “with the sound of music.” I don’t know what kind of music one hears in the hills, but, unless we are auditioning new audio equipment, the sound of music isn’t what we usually focus on. What we pay attention to is the melody, the words, if there are words, the quality of the performance, the mix if it’s a recording, the emotional temperature.

The first time, though, that I heard this group play… Well they started with Mozart, a string orchestra arrangement of one of his quartets, and when that first note hit, the world changed.

That’s heavy, I know. This is not a world class ensemble, they are not famous, they don’t, as far as I know, record - not commercially anyway. They are students, “composé des membres les plus avancés de l'École” according to their website; some look to be as young as 14, most are older.

But what I’m saying is this. The sound they made was unearthly. The music was beautiful. They played Mozart, they played, if I remember correctly, Kreisler, and they played Britten. But it wasn’t the music itself that mesmerized me; it was the sound of it, a live string orchestra playing the world’s great music in a room optimally designed for acoustics. I can’t describe it.

So I finally made my way back there, this past Sunday, and it happened all over again. This time I was ready for it, so those first notes didn’t take me by surprise. Ha, I said, do your best.

And the music did its best, indeed. I was transported. You close your eyes, you’re not there, there is nothing but the sound, the notes, it’s everywhere around you, you’re not touching the ground.

The entire affair lasted an hour. They played Mozart, Kreisler, Elgar, Telemann. The last movement of the Telemann was entirely pizzicato, and I could not describe it without lapsing into purple prose. Words fail me.

And so I left there a bit after 17:00 and walked out into the still beautiful air, back into the world, which was dark now, this being the first day of standard time, back to the normal sounds of traffic and people talking and The Rolling Stones playing in my ears. But the world was different from how it had been an hour before.

They play again on December 12…

Moments

And I ain’t gonna let this big world get me down
I’m gonna learn to keep a hold of my head
and keep my feet on the ground.

From Moments by Ray Davies

This past week I availed myself of a rare opportunity to fall flat on my face.

I like writing, and I’m proud of what I write. I leave it to others to decide whether it’s any good, but I read it back to myself and it feels right. And if it doesn’t feel right I go back and fix it until it does, sometimes quite long after I originally wrote it.

So I had what I thought was a good opportunity to share some of my stuff, a networking evening, the occasion having been billed as an opportunity to “speak out about yourself… or do a magic trick, make a performance or simply nothing whatever you like. [sic] ”

Nobody did any magic tricks, nobody “made” a performance, and everyone basically did the same thing:

“Hi, I am John Trombone, I work for a drudgery company and I do some terribly uninteresting work that nobody here could possibly be interested in.”

“I’m Alice, I am a chemical engineer and I used to live in Botswana. Now I live here, I wear very expensive clothes, I take myself very seriously, and I don't talk to people whose surname starts with C”

“My name is Yitzchak Pimple and I have my own importing business, I am very boring and I have been looking high and low for a wife for quite some time. Oh, and maybe someone could lend me 5 bucks. “

So stupid me, I thought maybe doing something a bit different, something outside the box, would be a good thing. Wrong. It was a terrible thing. The organizer was embarrassed, thinking that maybe it would take longer than the allocated 3 minutes, thinking that I was bound to bore everyone (she was probably right about that, but that has nothing to do with me nor my writing.) And, assuming she was the one who wrote the promotion, literacy was not her strong point. So she wanted no part of this. Ok just read one paragraph she said, and it went downhill from there.

It was the wrong crowd, the wrong evening, the wrong stuff, the wrong idea. I sat down and I wondered if I’d be able to face this crowd again.

So that’s what it was, a moment of total humiliation. And I sat there under a cloud wishing I could make myself invisible and wondering how long I had to sit there before I could quietly make my escape.

When I finally did leave the place, about an hour later, things were different. I had gotten into a conversation with someone the details of which, and whom, will have to remain unreported for now. But it was pleasant. And it was promising. And later when I contemplated the ramifications of that, I had to admit to myself that there may be no ramifications at all, What it was was a moment, a good moment, and a moment to remember and be happy about, but not expect any particular long term (or even short-term) follow-up. Value it for what it was.

And so with the bad stuff. It was a bad moment, but that’s all it was. A moment. I’m allowed to make mistakes, right? I’m allowed to misread a situation, to misjudge the moment, to make myself look like a complete and total misfit. I’m allowed. Right?

Right?

Some of the moments in our lives are springboards to greater experience and opportunity, and sure, some can have long term consequences, but we never really know. And it’s best to remember that whatever it is, this too shall pass, and let’s just move on to the next moment.

But man, I sure felt stupid…

Walking Helps

My psychiatrist turned out not to be my psychiatrist after all. “I have to prioritize” he said, giving me some lame excuse as to why he could not take me on as a potential patient, two months after his representation to the contrary. That, so far, has been my personal experience with the mental health system. I could pursue this, and I may yet, but I know how difficult it is to get an appointment, how long the delays are, how flaky the services are, and how much easier it is when you have money.

I don’t know if anything ails me or not, but if it does, it’s not something they can give me pills for. I say all this because last Sunday I got to see and hear Margaret Trudeau up close, and whatever it is that ails her she does take pills for. Unlike Maggie, I never got to meet the Rolling Stones, but like her, I got to walk 5 km through downtown Montreal, along with several hundred other people who, red scarf clad, went to support the organizations that provide services to those (of us? Don’t know, the shrink wouldn’t see me) who have mental health issues, and try to make headway in the battle to destigmatize mental illness.

So… I listened to the speeches, I picked up pamphlets, I looked admiringly at people in groups representing organizations and holding balloons, I took a few pictures, and I walked. I got a red scarf, an elephant, a pair of headphone / earmuffs, a few dollars in donations, a good feeling, and good conversation (thanks, Chaya, wherever you are). Oh, and I got a picture of Maggie…

Of Loan Balances, Rainbows, And Chance Meetings...

The translation of tallit into English as “prayer shawl” is somewhat disingenuous. The truth is that non-Jewish culture has no concept of a “prayer shawl,” and the term was invented solely to provide a translation. Saying that a tallit is a prayer shawl is no different from saying that a tallit is a tallit. It tells you nothing. A tallit (pronounced tahl-eet), or a tallis (with the emphasis squarely on the first syllable), as we non-Israeli ashkenzik Jews tend to pronounce it, giving the word a Yiddish inflection, is a square piece of wool, with holes in the corners for tzitzit (that’s a whole other story, and I’m not about to start it now). Those of us who are (or who have been) married, and the unmarried among us who are Sephardic or yekke, wear one during morning services – hence its still somewhat meaningless English designation. The typical tallis is white, and it usually has black (sometimes blue, but usually black) stripes of various widths across certain parts.

Ok. I told you all that to tell you this…

I guess Hans was in his 30s, but then so was I. This was almost 20 years ago. He had a problem, Hans did, though not a terribly serious one. I borrowed money from someone, he told me, and I made all the payments on time, and I made the last payment, and now he says I still owe him some money. Not a lot, he said, but shouldn’t I owe him nothing? Well, I said, it’s a matter of arithmetic and nothing more. Take the opening balance, the interest rate, and the amount and date of every payment (easy, they were all on the same day of the month, for the same amount) and give the information to a data processing service. They will tell you if there is a balance. I gave him the name of such a service. Thank you, he said, and he went.

He called me, not long after. I did what you said, he said. And the creditor is correct, I owe him, exactly the amount he said. Ok, I said. How much do I owe you, he asked. Nothing, I said, I was only with you for 10 minutes. You helped me he said. I’m glad, I said, but I’m not charging you.

Not long after I show up at work and there is a rainbow tallit sitting on my desk. A rainbow tallit? Such was the creation of Zalman Schachter, who had spread a few around my city during his tenure as professor at the university there, and I knew a few people who owned and wore such. The stripes on this tallit were not the standard issue black; they were coloured: purple, blue, green, yellow, orange, brown. The tallit is kosher, but somewhat unusual, and, shall I say, loud. But there it was on my desk. Where, I asked the receptionist, did this come from. That Hans guy dropped it off, she said, he said you’d know what it was. She was puzzled by this strange looking garment sitting on my desk folded up so nicely. I should have told her, wait a few decades, then read my blog.

I was in Jerusalem, he told me on the phone, and I studied Kabbalah with Shlomo Carlebach. (Those pieces don’t fit, but that’s what I remember him saying. Perhaps it was Schachter he studied with, and perhaps it was somewhere else…) He gave me that, and you know I’m not Jewish, he said, but I knew that one day I’d find someone special to give it to. You helped me, he said, and I appreciate it.

I’ve had the tallit ever since. I’ve had several others too, but it’s the only one that’s lasted so long. It’s as robust as ever. There’ve been recent times when it’s been the only usable one I’ve had.

So thank you, Hans, wherever you’ve gotten to. I hope you’ve gotten special things in your life too…