Month: August 2012

Secretary joke

Recently, a large corporation hired several cannibals to increase their diversity.

‘You are all part of our team now’, said the HR rep during the welcoming briefing. ‘You get all the usual benefits and you can go to the cafeteria for something to eat, but don’t eat any employees.’ The cannibals promised they would not.

Four weeks later the cannibal chief remarked, ‘You’re all working very hard and I’m satisfied with your work. We have noticed a marked increase in the whole company’s performance. However, one of our secretaries has disappeared. Do any of you know what happened to her?’ The cannibals all shook their heads. ‘No.’

After the boss had left, the chief of the cannibals said to the others, ‘Which one of you idiots ate the secretary?’

A hand rose hesitantly.

‘You fool!’ the leader raged. ‘For four weeks we’ve been eating managers and no one noticed anything. But NOOOooo, you had to go and eat someone who actually does something………….

A Thousand Kisses Deep

A thousand kisses deep.  If one were to kiss once per day every day, Kiss 1000 would arrive around two years and nine months later.  The idea of being a thousand kisses deep into a relationship (and beyond) holds a fascination for me. 

When a relationship first starts, the intensity of feeling generally comes from the newness of it all.  The mystery that is the other person holds an infinite degree of possibility waiting to be explored.  The presence of that mystery typically coincides with “being in love.”  However, the mystery fades as the other becomes known.  Superman becomes a mortal man.  Superwoman becomes a mortal woman.  With the faded mystery often goes the feeling of being in love.  Many relationships end there.  However, it’s when you move beyond the waning feeling of being in love towards the knowing of the other that the action of loving begins.  Loving the other with full awareness of all their foibles, inadequacies, and bad habits and off moments.  Loving the other, often, in spite of themselves.  Loving the other when their present-day reality is severely diminished in comparison to the dazzle of their initial possibilities. Being in love is a feeling, a state of being.  A passive state, if you will.  However, truly loving someone is an action.  It is something that you do…

Years ago, I was a member of an old church built in 1867.  The church was located in the center of Atlanta’s historic Black community and its members were especially active during the Civil Rights Movement.  Unlike the mega-churches in Atlanta that offered prosperity preaching with a side of super-sized salvation, this church was small and simple.  It was just the right size for my people watching.  The people I watched the most?  The older couples who came to church together most Sundays.  Creatures of habit, most people sat in the same seats each week and I did the same (this goes for almost anywhere I go repeatedly).  Each Sunday, I would look forward to watching couples in their seventies and even eighties arrive together and sit for worship.  After having been together for decades, it seemed as if they were no longer two wholly separate individuals but two people who had spent the majority of their lives together to the point where they merged into a unit.  They had their own synchronized rhythms about how they entered and sat down.  Each Sunday as I sat watching the couples, I marveled at how serene and content they seemed to have been and wondered how could I ever move from being unceasingly, unrelentingly single to accomplishing that type of relationship longevity.

I still don’t absolutely have the answer (or better yet, the relationship that reveals or supports the answer).  But my guess is that along the road of their relationship they faced many types of hurdles, temptations, disappointments and setbacks.  However, looking at the couples it seemed as if the act of loving, the commitment to the act of loving, in spite of the other circumstances, carried them forward to a point where foibles, bad habits, inadequacies and off moments were small, distant blips on a long-lived love.  Truth is, no one is perfect.  Not the person with whom I may fall in love.  Nor me in the eyes of the person who may fall in love with me. 

I’ve experienced loving someone for a period long enough to know that, yes, I am capable of loving someone for who they truly are, in spite of themselves.  At a certain point, I remember making conscious decisions to remain involved with him.  I chose to continue the act of loving him.  I could have just as easily chosen not to.  At a later point, I did choose to love him differently – not in a relationship.  The love is still there, the circumstances have changed.  I’m sure the couples that I saw in church, years down the path of their relationships, had already passed the choice point(s) years ago and possibly several times but chose to remain.  My relationship was obviously not meant to be one of longevity, although we do remain in contact as friends. The lesson(s) remain with me though.  In spite of the ending and because of its occurrence, I still hold out hope for the relationship that goes “A Thousand Kisses Deep.”  And beyond.

Here is one of Leonard Cohen’s takes on the concept of a “Thousand Kisses Deep.”  This piece has been a work in progress for years so this is only one variant.  Not to be confused, he has a song with the title “A Thousand Kisses Deep” that is different from this.

I Shop Therefore I Am: When the Package Is More Important than the Contents

I lived in Atlanta for almost ten years.  During that time, I was able to grow professionally (and exponentially) from my start as a front desk clerk to an executive assistant working for a telecommunications company.

However, as I progressively moved up in Corporate America, in the success-oriented metropolis that is and was Atlanta, I realized something was afoot.  I shopped frequently.  My friends shopped frequently.  Everywhere you turned, people were resplendent as they went to and fro in their daily lives.  Only in Atlanta have I seen men dressed to the nines and looking so well put-together.  And the women on their arms (or the others who wanted to be on their arms), were equally or more put-together. 

As an expert sewer who wished to be a fashion designer when I was in high school, I selected clothing that had rich visual appeal in addition to textures that I enjoyed against my skin.  I would study the angle of a heel on a shoe and its relation to the overall shoe as if I were judging an architectural awards submission.  My hair was usually cut and coiffed in the latest fashion.  I’ve never been a big wearer of makeup but my skin shone from the unctions and potions I applied to it with daily care.  I’ve never been a big wearer of nail polish either yet everyone chastised me about not having my nails “done.”  Nail salons have hated me because I’ve gone to have a manicure and pedicure to remove any unwanted skin/cuticle (which is a fancy way of restating skin) but always insisted on no polish – not even clear.  Special volumes of chastisement were devoted to the criminal offense of me wearing sandals, revealing my feet with unpolished toes.  Maybe it was the nail polish debate with special emphasis on the feet that first gave me the feeling that something was – afoot.

As more and more of my time was taken with conversations about what I bought, what my friends bought or what we were going to buy, I began to question is this all there is?  I would meet men who would walk over to me when I was out and strike up a conversation.  We both would be dressed in all of our finery.  The initial stages of conversation would include a rundown of his material status.  Within minutes I would know what luxury car he drove, the subdivision in which his house was located (or the general area), his title at his job and the company for whom he worked.  After this dazzling array of information thrown in my direction, they would then ask me about myself.  Although I was an executive assistant, I would drop my title a notch or two and reply that I was a secretary.  With that response, quite frequently, I would see the back of the resplendent suit as the person wearing it walked away. 

Over time, it became somewhat of a sad game.  Yet another bright-eyed person would saunter over and reveal his status to me, I would reveal myself as a secretary.  Sometimes I would get the long drawn-out goodbye, which included a few lackluster phone calls.  If so, I would then try to engage the person with questions about himself that would help me to know who he was as a person.  What I found is that quite often, the package was far more important than the content.  I would find myself regaled with stories about events on the job, successful moves up the ladder, and the thought process behind their house choice – all manner of things that avoided the essence of the person in question.  Some went to church; if it were a mega-church I didn’t count that as real church – just an extension of networking.  Sadly, most attended mega-churches.  The process of meeting people, over time, became progressively arduous as I attempted to discover the content underneath the packaging and continued to find myself stymied by the continuous presentation of the packaging.

Although I love packaging (after all, I wanted to be a designer of packaging), I longed for actual connection.  Ever so often, I did meet people who peeled back the layers of packaging to reveal the content of their character and personality.  Those relationships I valued.  Now, I tend to have a varied package.  When I work, I have an armada of professional clothes purchased during my Atlanta heyday that still reflects that I am a professional among professionals.  However, while in college the last couple of years, I wore jeans and T-shirts that peeled a few years off my age.  I don’t think most would have mistaken me for someone in my 20s but a few guys did find themselves surprised in initial conversations when I mentioned my age.  I’m equally comfortable with packaging that says “I’m a professional” as I am in packaging that says “I’m as casual as can be because I’m going to class then home.” 

The reason?  Despite the packaging, I try to put forth that the content beneath the packaging is what is relevant.  Usually it works.  A little bit of personality.  A little bit of intellect.  A “lotta” bit of humanity.  That’s what lies beneath this packaging and I value the relationships that allow me to show it.  I am; therefore, I am.

Accidents and falling

Yesterday, we were on the bike pedaling to our heart’s content.  When all of a sudden, I ran into the back of my friend’s bike when he stopped.  It was almost as if I were outside of myself looking at the incident.  I never used the brakes, I just plowed into his bike from behind.  It was definitely the non-motion of his bike that stopped me.  I realized that my mind was a million miles away and it was if I were coming back to myself just in time to see the accident happen but not soon enough to prevent it.  I could not remember what preoccupied my mind so that I didn’t react to his stopping.  Ultimately, there were no injuries, no problems involved.

Then, there was this morning.  I was on my way downstairs when my foot slipped and I found myself butt-bumping my way down several stairs.  Yesterday’s good fortune didn’t shine on me this morning.  I scraped the surface layer of skin off my elbow in two small places and have aches in a couple of other places (literally, I butt-bumped my way down).  I’ve had times in the past where I’ve had serial car accidents (people running into me) and was told that somehow I needed to slow down and pay attention to life.  The Universe has a way of trying to get your attention.  It starts small (bicycle dust-up Sunday) then gets progressively bigger (butt-bumping down the stairs).  I think I’ll meditate today so that whatever it is, I can acknowledge it, do something about it if necessary and move on.  Move on accident free that is.

Number of days since last life accident:

0

In honor of my own, personal tumble down the stairs, I give you a band I saw perform in Italy some years ago, aptly named “Tumbled Down the Stairs.”  Needless to say, I much prefer their music than the literal translation of their band name…

And of course, here’s one more for the road…

The existential peril of gun violence


http://www.truthdig.com/cartoon/item/on_your_mark_20120809/

Years ago, I was preparing for my first trip to Europe, Paris to be exact.  Life and fate decreed that I would find the wherewithal to venture to the city of my childhood dreams about three months after the United States invaded Iraq.  At the time, I had a coworker who was very concerned that a terrorist would potentially blow up the plane and a host of other tragic scenarios that ran through his mind.  When he asked me why I wasn’t afraid or concerned enough to cancel my trip, my reply was something very lighthearted.  However, the truth ran far deeper than my lighthearted response. 

The truth was and still is that I am far more frightened of the harm a fellow gun-wielding American can do to me than any terrorist scenario that someone can conceive.  That is as it should be.  Although there are always references to terrorist plots in the United States that were foiled, those are fewer and farther between than the average United States citizen, armed with legal machines of small-scale, yet still, mass destruction.  At 19, I had a man in New Orleans threaten to shoot me, my friend and his friends (friendship wasn’t that precious to him obviously).  I took that as a credible threat and said last prayers.  Fortunately, I’ve lived to tell about it. 

However, whenever I make decisions they always include considerations for safety.  Will I be out very late in a bad area?  Bad is relative as I’ve spent my life living in cities that cling to the top 10 for crime in the United States.  I remember being in high school when a fight broke out, from my position in the front of the crowd I saw one of the fighters reach in his clothing and pull out a gun.  Needless to say, I NEVER attempted to watch a fight since then. 

Even Corporate America must contend with the existential peril of gun violence.  I had a coworker that I knew owned a lot of guns.  In different conversations with him, I became worried about what could happen if ever his job were threatened.  Would he come to work with his collection of guns on his person and begin to kill his coworkers?  I even wondered if there were a mechanism in place that would allow an employee to express concern for the potential violence they suspected a coworker could be capable of in a bad situation.  At the time (and probably even now), stories were rife about disgruntled employees coming to work and killing coworkers – friends and enemies alike.

And now, the narrative of gun violence has been expanded to include a former doctoral student in neuroscience.  Just as bad is relative, so too is safe.

Mike Luckovich’s cartoon is hilarious.  However, the truth of the matter is that it is a sad state we live in when, as a country, we are so conditioned to the clear and present danger of our own gun violence while still obsessing over the potential threat from international terrorists.

Stillness

In the most trying of times, when I don’t know which way to turn, which action to take and my emotions are running high, I seek stillness.  Not the superficial stillness of not moving but the deeper stillness of inner solitude and quiet.  In my experience, prayer is like initiating a request.  Stillness is the necessary state of attentiveness in order to receive the answer.  I often think that what people regard as unanswered prayers are nothing more than that “still small voice” going unheard amongst the “noise” of life.

Although stillness is the optimal state in which to hear or receive an answer, for me, it is one of the hardest states to maintain.  By its very nature, stillness means doing nothing.  However, in the midst of trying times, anyone you mention the situation to will ask, “what are you going to do about it?”  In the absence of a third-party I ask myself the question.  Yet, from a multitude of previous experiences whose lessons don’t always remain in my memory, in the midst of the stillness the still small voice comes along with a course of action or something in the situation shifts without effort on my part and the situation moves forward.  Once I surrender my will over the situation, change somehow comes. 

Frequently in these instances, the answer is not always an easy course of action.  I’ve found that an easy course of action is not always the best.  I’ve also found that the best course of action doesn’t always appear to make the most sense from the outside (or even from the inside for that matter).  However, returning to stillness provides the reassurance (sometimes) to continue going in the direction of that still small voice.

I enjoy going places and doing things.  Movement is essential for me because I am full of restless energy.  However, I will always ensure that I have some way of leaving the “noise” behind so that I may tune in to hear that still small voice.

Partial draft of an unfinished piece

I recently wrote a short blurb about (American) society’s inability to overcome the problem of identity politics that leaves politics in an us vs. them situation.  Continued reading brought this article to my attention not very long after writing the blurb.  Appropriately, it is entitled Us vs. them.

This article actually covers one of the questions that I always ponder in my mind when reading of or hearing about revolution – what is the society that you wish to create?  One of the simplest ideas to communicate is what one doesn’t want – however, the way forward seems to lie in the details of what one does want.  Conversations abound right now around the 99% and the 1% and the role that capitalism plays in the inequality we are currently seeing in the United States.  However, what does the blueprint for going forward look like?  I’m as guilty as the next person (I think) in that I can get caught up in the dissension among groups that leads to severe fragmentation when confronting the coalescence of power that the 1% achieved.  Yet, if I were to step away from the “don’t want that” mindset, a simplistic statement of the society I would want to create is dominated by a term introduced at the end of the article – rehumanization.

Rehumanization of healthcare so that it is not an option for only the employed, nor a better option for some than others as different companies provide different levels of health insurance coverage.  Losing one’s job should not entail losing precious medical coverage.  Changing jobs, thus healthcare plans, should not expose a person to variations in coverage.  Nor should it be so exorbitantly expensive on one hand, while on the other hand managing to pay for nothing.  Health is the foundation to any endeavor.  However, for so many, access to  healthcare is not a part of everyday reality.

Rehumanization of how we view each other in relation to the work we do.  I’ve worked in a corporation that had a laid-back approach to hierarchies and in that environment everyone was encouraged to professionally develop themselves for the next level or to increase their current skill level.  No executive was out of reach, as evidenced by the CEO of the company having quarterly lunches with the executive assistants.  There were times where I considered myself “just” the executive assistant but was still encouraged to pursue activities beyond the scope of my executive assistant duties.  Years later, I worked for another corporation that had the strictest hierarchical structure I’ve ever seen.  I was reprimanded and chastised because I was going to call a vice president of the company direct because his assistant had not responded to my emails or returned my phone calls regarding an upcoming critical deadline involving her boss.  As I listened to the person explain to me why it was “not done” at that company to call a vice president direct, all I could think was how did I manage to slip down THIS rabbit hole?  It was as if I were in an alternate reality.  Somehow, my being just an executive assistant didn’t allow me the humanity to be able to make a one-minute phone call to ask a business-related question for which I was under increasing pressure to get an answer.

Rehumanization of the work environment.

On the Border – Immigration

Immigration concerns have been top of mind for me for quite a while.  I have not immigrated although I would like to some day.  I thought that day would be soon but, alas, that is not to be the case.  I have one friend who has a “to hell with papers” attitude which makes me smile.  Considering the plight of “illegal” aliens in the United States, I have no desire to have an intimate knowledge of the everyday fear that being in a country illegally entails. 

Two years ago, I was aboard a bus coming from Italy going to Paris when the bus pulled over and was boarded by border agents checking passports.  As they moved down the aisle checking passports, I thought nothing of it.  Then I saw one agent keep a passport with the promise that he would return with it.  My first thought was “uhh-ohhh, this guy must be in trouble.”  When they got to me, he kept mine as well with the promise that he would return it.  I’m sure someone behind me was thinking “uhh-ohh, she’s in trouble”.  Funny how the pendulum swings.  They then proceeded in checking IDs until they reached the back of the bus, then left the bus with the confiscated passports.  The bus sat quietly (and nervously) awaiting the return of the officers with the passports they had collected.  As the seconds turned into hours, I started getting nervous – had I done something that put me on an international watch list?  Did they know that I was THINKING of ways to smuggle Parma ham back into the US?  I didn’t have any on hand from this visit but I’ve always wondered if there is a way to smuggle my own portion of gastronomic heaven back into the country.  Did they know?  Were the passengers seated behind me staring holes in the back of my head because my presumed illegal activities were holding up the bus’s progress?  Were they trying to figure out what sin I had committed to have my passport detained for an extended period?  As sweat probably started forming on my forehead thinking of all the things that could go wrong in a 21st century database with my passport number and name in it, the officers returned to the bus.  They returned my passport and that of several others, however, the guy ahead of me – not so lucky.  They escorted him from the bus in the middle of that night.  I sat there with my passport in hand, thinking – “uhh-ohh, that guy really is in trouble”, glad that it wasn’t me.

Just this evening, I spoke to someone who is trying to arrange to visit someone she knows who has been detained for being in the country illegally.  As I listened to the ins and outs of her attempts to visit, I realized that I wouldn’t want to trade places with the detained friend at all.  I have already died a thousand deaths already from any number of things that I’ve anxiously awaited (and these were positive things), I would not want to increase that to a thousand deaths per day as I try to live an “illegal” life in a “legal” world. 

With that I leave you with my first punk rock band – Gogol Bordello.  Guitar riffs, violin and accordion.  What a combo!