Making Your Own Reality

Given what I write about, enjoy reading and do for a living, I have recently been thinking about something my brother said to me while we were skiing some fifteen years ago. We were both novice downhill skiers hitting the toughest slopes in Garmisch. I was more experienced and so fell just a slight bit less. When I say hitting, I mean hitting. We fell very frequently, but loved the feeling of speed too much to stop.

Somehow, and I believe it was my father who brought it up, we were asked how it was that despite repeated impacts with the slopes at 30+ mph, we remained uninjured.

My brother grinned and said, "I think it has more to do with an indestructible attitude than anything else."

At the time, my brother was in the 101st Airborne, and the statement grabbed me. Jumping out of planes seemed to me a high-threat practice that would result in frequent injury, yet people do it every day without injury.

I have done quite a bit of dangerous stuff including: a pretty horrific car accident that left the roof of the car three inches from the hood, fighting with a fair number of armed and aggressive people, jumping from heights greater than reasonable, and riding a motorcycle at great speed. I have always walked away with, at worst, minor scrapes and bruises (And memories; some bad, all still there).

I have always gone into those situations with the single-minded determination that I wasn't the one going to get hurt. I focused on that before all else. I came out without great injury.

History is replete with examples of soldiers who stood in the face of fire and were not struck. Of course, one could argue that the reason their situation was recorded at all was based more on the very improbability of their survival than any mindset they had going into the situation. Then again, some of the more narcissitic survivors of such incidents refuse to accept the very possibility of their will being thwarted.

The only times I have suffered significant injury, I was not even thinking there was the possibility of being injured: I broke the socket into which the middle toe inserts while playing water basketball. I broke my finger playing dodgeball. I am sure that if I had been aware of the dangers (Who knew you could break a finger playing fucking dodgeball, really?) inherent in the activity, I would have taken on that indestructible attitude and potentially minimized or entirely avoided injury.

My brother's answer is interesting not only in terms of personal injury, but also in other arenas: business, a trade, or anything where what one's mindset is can dictate success or at least significantly increase the margin of success. Given two people with the equivalent capabilities, the one who wants it more will usually win out. This explains why some guys, otherwise unattractive, otherwise not more successful, attract a mate that seems out of their league. Similar people of similar backgrounds have vastly different outcomes based on their outlook. For example: I will be a success because I won't allow any other outcome.

In effect, we make our own luck. In extremes, we make our own reality.

It doesn't work so well for the pure gamble, which is why there are so few who can make a living consistently as pure gamblers. Sooner or later, forcing reality to bend to your will catches up with you. The greater, common reality bites back on your tiny little reality. As most of us get older, this ability starts to break down. We have other concerns, things we think about all the time that make the degree of focus less achievable.

I hope to continue to manufacture my reality long enough to start another career in writing. I hope to always retain some degree of the capability.

It is useful to be able to change things to your favor, even if only for the length of time it takes the greater reality to detect and destroy your modifications.

Proper Urinal Etiquette:

Never stand closer than six feet behind the person at the urinal. Try and stand off-set so that the person at the urinal can see you, and isn’t made paranoid by the fact that someone’s standing behind him while his junk is being aired.

Never whistle while waiting. It is annoying. It is permissible to whistle while urinating, but only in order to place oneself in the hap-pee zone.

While at the urinal, hit the urinal, not the floor, the wall, the roof, or any other place but the damn urinal.

Do not look at the people using the urinals adjacent to yours. Most especially don’t look at their junk (unless it’s that kind of bathroom and you’re that kind of guy).

If you have a need to scratch, do so, but keep any attendant noise generated by the process below which might be audible at the next urinal.

Don’t drop shit (literal or otherwise) in the urinal.

Never consume drugs from the top of the urinal or while standing in front of one. That’s what proper toilet stalls are for.

You may continue a conversation already begun whilst at the urinals, but only if the pair of you were already engaged in conversation to begin with and the following two rules are adhered to: One should steer away from any subjects that might preclude/delay/or prevent the proper discharge of the function the urinal is meant for. For example: one should never speak of or continue to speak about testicular cancer, castration, prostate exams, or other man-junk issues. Nor is it acceptable to ever mention one's love for another man, as in "I love Dave Matthews" (Not that it is ever acceptable to love Dave Matthews).

You are permitted to comment, once and directing the comment at the wall, about what a fine (insert party, sporting event, funeral, dog walking, marathon, whatever) is going on. Once only. And don't expect a fucking answer.

You are also permitted to heave a long sigh or groan as you urinate, but don’t over-do it or sound like you’re getting off, that’s just fucked up.

Don't you dare try to start a conversation with persons already at the urinal! Your shit may be that important to you, but I guarantee it isn't any where near so important to anyone who has half the brains god gave a drunk teenager.

This goes double if the person at the urinal is in uniform and the severity of the transgression increases exponentially should you dare ask a question that is, on its basis, fucking stupid. For instance, “Where can I find an officer to sign off on my ticket?”
Barring the possibility that they might be on fire, there is absolutely no reason good enough for you to initiate a conversation with an officer whose only crime is to attempt to void his bladder in peace!

Lastly, flush! For fuck’s sake, no one wants to smell your asparagus/antibiotic/hangover or whatever piss.

Hunting Annoyance

I hadn't been hunting yet this season, so I was really looking forward to hitting the fields with my hunting buddy, Chris. I was even going to play hookie from studying for the day.

Saturday I found out that I guy I went to the Academy with is also a hunter. We were studying for the Sergeant's exam when I told him I was going to bail on him today to go hunt. He got the gleam in his eye and said, "Hunting?" Naturally, I would have liked to go out hunting with him.

Being out on a field with an armed stranger is, at best, nerve-wracking. I had to call Chris and run it by him. Chris had his own 'stranger' he wanted to bring. The plus side, this stranger wasn't going to go armed. He just wanted to train his dog up. Chris and I usually rent a dog, with varying levels of satisfaction.

I should come clean and say that Chris and I both have dogs. Neither of which are suited for or trained to bird hunting. I couldn't survive the man-point deduction I would suffer for showing up to hunt with a red standard poodle. His problem is the other end of the spectrum: A bull mastiff isn't all that suitable for game birds.

Given that it is always good policy to minimize the new variables in an equation involving firearms, I contacted my classmate and said it was a no-go on this occasion.

The day started well in that it wasn't raining when the forecast said it would be. We met the dog owner and got along well.

We hit the field ready to take some birds. Chris went to make certain the chamber on his semiauto was clear to load. Something broke inside his gun with a ping and a tiny piece of metal went flying. The club staff agreed to loan him a gun, but he had to run out to Walmart and pick up shells for the 20 gauge.

Meanwhile, me, the dog and the owner were in the field working the perimeter. Chris was gone for forty minutes. No birds. Not one. Guys in the field next to us got birds up, and knocked some down. They also shot at a bird flying so low that I heard the evil whickering of buckshot through the brush far too close for comfort.

The next three hours we managed to get three birds up, most of which we sight-hunted ourselves, watching them fly in from other, more productive fields. We only knocked two birds down. A fourth bird was pounced on by the inexperienced dog.

I fired at one bird, more out of frustration than any real thought I would hit it at the excessive distance it had reached before it was safe to fire on.

There were supposedly eight birds planted in our field.

It wasn't my day.

Then again, if I was hunting annoyance, I was successful.

ADD not +, or is it?

I have the condition known as Attention Deficit Disorder. It is, for me, best likened to an old reel to reel tape system with the thought processes like the tracks on the tape: I can have eight different 'tracks' going on in my head. When I am on it, all the tracks are running parallel and I can make some pretty astounding leaps of intellect. Much of the time, however, the tracks are running in different directions, disjointed.

ADD is differentiated from ADHD in that I do not have the hyperactivity that is so much more clear for teachers, parents, and doctors to observe.

The condition has played a large part in my development. The fact that I hid my condition (somewhat successfully) for nearly thirty years, also contributed to my development, or lack thereof. I felt the need to do so because a family member, diagnosed with a similar condition, was placed in a special school and special education classes. I insisted that there would be nothing about me that would make that necessary.

I detested lateness in myself, mostly because I learned that if I was early, no one would notice I wasn't organized and I would have time to compose myself.

I never completed my college education. I had, until recently, been unable to complete a novel. My wife had noted (with varying degrees of disgust) that I never finished anything.

Growing up, my mother often observed that I would say, "Sure, I'll do it." and then never complete the task she had asked of me.

Things were much worse if I was under stress or fatigued, with me unable to get out the door with everything I needed for the day. Or even carry on a straightforward conversation.

Teachers would say, "He's so talented, but he just doesn't seem to apply himself."

Things came to a head for me three or so years back. Things were so bad, I went and talked to a professional. She was very good at helping me see what was up, and incredibly smooth at getting me to see how simple the solution could be.

I, in the midst of depression and rage, was whining about my lack of achievement.

She said simply, "Well, you know there are some medications you could take if you wanted to get some of these things finished."

I nodded and changed the subject, one track in my head processing that information while I went on about the other stuff that made me miserable. At the end of the hour or so, all my tracks had reached a resolution, and snapped at me, "Grab the lifeline."

I started treatment the next month. I'll have to take the meds for the rest of my life, but it beats not getting the shit I want to do done. The meds have no appreciable side effects, and keep me in that zone where all eight tracks are making the same music. I've completed the first draft of my first novel, and I'm writing my second one now. I have an agent. I think I might make it happen.

Flash forward to a conversation I had within a year or so of starting medication. I was talking about the condition and what it was like, and how simple it was to treat.

The man I was speaking to, a friend of mine for almost sixteen years, has a stepdaughter he loves very deeply. He went silent for a few moments, then reiterated the symptoms I spoke of. He then told me that he thought his stepdaughter might have a similar issues, describing for me some of the things he'd observed. She wanted to do well in school, but the teachers were saying, "She's gifted, if only she would apply herself." They took her to the doctor, and sure enough, his stepdaughter does have the same condition I do.

We were talking last week, commiserating over some tough times we are both facing.

"There are some bright spots," he told me, "My daughter came home with her fourth straight report card: All A's. You had a lot to do with that."

I choked up a minute, and tried to gloss over it.

He wasn't having it.

I got more choked up.

He let it go, point made.

The point, for me, is that while the condition has and continues to make many things harder for me, it has also made me wiser than I would be otherwise.

Hence, ADD not a -, and maybe even a +.

Under the Tree

Riding is, for me, a great experience. Even when traffic sucks and I am splitting lanes for the better part of 32 miles, I find myself enjoying the experience.

It's about focus and rhythm. Sliding between threats, aware of everything in your environment, and making the best speed possible. Rounding a corner in a 45 degree lean and powering out of the corner in a perfect line is just...sublime.

It is difficult to relay the experience to one who has not felt it for themselves.

As I have written about earlier, I came to it late. My father owned a boat when I was a kid, and I was made aware at an early age of the many ways that being a courteous boater could pay off.

Bikers seem to get this too, for the most part, and are generally up for a wave and nod, usually accompanied by a secretive grin, telling the other rider, "You get it too!"

This common experience is an interesting phenomenon that I recently talked about (In a different context) with some people I consider smarter than myself.

Something that I have dwelt on since those conversations was the concept of 'tribe' or 'bonding group' and how one comes to share an outlook, resources, and identify with a group.

I like to think of myself as an individual, and am comfortable enough with myself to be alone. But then my career, my hobbies, and now even the method I use to get to and fro push me under the tree with certain people sharing some commonality of experience.

Interesting to me is the extent to which I can be identified with the groups I consider myself a part of.

Most of the guys I went to college with swallow and say, "What did you say you do?" when I tell them what I do for a living. One even refuses to call me back.

Many of my old associates can't believe I ride.

Most of those I work with find it bizarre that I speak more than one language. They don't understand when I say I have worked 'wet-back' before.

Most of the civilians I come into contact with are floored when the realize after a brief contact that I am not the jack-booted Nazi their bias dictates they beleive all officers are. They can't believe that I haven't had to shoot someone (Or that I don't want to, if I don't have to).

I often wish that people were self-aware enough to know that being in the shade of one tree doesn't prevent discovering the details of the person beneath it with you, or the ones in the sun, or the people under the next tree over.

Move through the trees, taking what shade and ease you find, but don't deny others their place, with you or otherwise.

My Inner Gorilla

My inner gorilla was live and beating at the cage last night. Tormented by the actions of people who should know better, he reached long arms out and started rattling other people's cages:

"Shiit," says the clueless.

"Sir, you shouldn't be speaking, let alone cursing, in here."

Five minutes later, "Shiiiit."

Now he's just being an ass. "One more outburst, and you are done."

Three minutes later, "Man, shiiiit."

The inner gorilla yammers, barks, starts thundering at the cage. I hold the cage in place, but the cotter-pin keeping the gate closed is gleaming in my mind's eye, ready to lift. "Madame clerk, please give this man a continuance so that he might return when he is in a better position to adhere to the rules of the court."

Madame clerk, her gorilla rumbling as well, cranks the paperwork out, hands it off.

I give it to the cursing man, "You are to return on this date. Leave now."

"Man, fuck that! I need to talk to the judge."

I try to give him a glimpse of the gorilla. He refuses to meet my eye, "No, sir. You don't. You need to leave and return on the date given."

"I need to talk to the judge."

"No, you need to leave. Don't make me put hands on you. I really don't want to put my hands on you," I say, but really don't mean it. The cotter pin is now a hair's breadth from falling to earth.

"Fuck you," he mutters. But then he makes a mistake, he meets my eyes. The gorilla makes him shift in his seat, alarm dawning.

"Ladies, please step aside, as I believe I am going to have to remove this man from the room," I ask of the ladies waiting patiently in line to handle their business.

"Man, you ain't the judge," he says as he rises from his seat.

"No, I am not. As I said before, I'm just here to enforce the rules, not make the decisions. Don't make the decision that will make me put hands on you."

He walks from the room into the antechamber, "Man, fuck you. You just trying to be everything you ain't." Despite his words, my gorilla starts to subside. He's leaving.

"Your perceptions of my behavior have no bearing on my behavior, sir," I say as I follow him out. Got to be sure he leaves.

More muttered curses, but he leaves.

Five minutes later, he's back, "Man, I can't come in at this time."

"Then go down and reschedule. The courtesy of the court is reserved for those who can control themselves."

"Fuck you, you ain't the judge."

I am moving toward him, the line of ladies moving instinctively aside. They have no desire to be between my gorilla and it's target, "No sir, leave now."

He retreats, cursing me all the while, calling me racist.

Rather than hear it, I start to say, "Buh-bye." in a loud voice every time he opens his mouth and give him my best princess wave all the way to the elevator.

My gorilla mutters, snorts, scratches his ass and curls up till the next time.

Lots on my plate, hoping for more!

I've got quite a bit going right now: studying for a promotional exam, writing Last Captain, and all the regular day-to-day treadmill it seems that everyone races on.

I've a bright spot coming up tonight: An RPG developer is in town, and I'm having dinner with him and one of the contributors to the game. I am hopeful that I may possibly get a paid writing gig out of it.

We'll see.