On looking inward

I just finished reading Quiet, by Susan Cain.  I understand that am an introvert, and most anyone who knows me would agree.  I always have been a quiet person, a bit eccentric, but always quiet.  And I have taken the Myers-Briggs test before.  Of course the result was a big fat "I" (introvert).  But what did that mean?  I've never quite grasped it to the extent that I do after reading this book.  In this post I hope to help you better understand what it means to be an introvert.

The best synonym I have found for introvert is highly-sensitive.  The part of the brain that processes emotions  and sensory information is called the amygdala.  Studies have shown that the amygdala in introverts is especially excitable.  This means that for an introvert, a high level of stimulation can easily be overwhelming.  If you consider this, you can see why a large group of people can be intimidating for an introvert.

Now that you understand that, the following characteristics will make sense:

1- An introvert doesn't care for small talk.  Introverts like to talk about subjects of depth.  This could be philosophies, politics, personal problems.  They like to listen and process what the other person is saying and when they speak, they want their words to be meaningful.  Empty words are wasteful.

2- Introverts gain energy from being alone, verses extroverts who gain energy from being with people.  They will often find themselves looking for excuses to get out of social obligations because they simply don't have the energy for it.

3- Introverts like to take in all the information and look at the big picture.  Because of this, many are slow to come to decisions and tend to be more cautious.

4- Introverts tend to be very empathetic and prone to feeling guilty.  Because of this, most are extremely loyal and honest people.

5- Introverts are good at focusing.  As long as an introvert is in a quiet, not overstimulating environment, they can be with their thoughts for hours.  This is why many scientists, artists, and thinkers are introverts.  That doesn't mean that introverts are inherently more intelligent, they are just better at spending time alone, letting their thoughts take them away.

That's all I have for now.  If you want to know more (and you should!). I recommend reading Quiet, both to you extroverts and introverts out there.

On Stephen King's Pen Name

Today I began reading a book written by Richard Bachman, The Long Walk.  The book included an essay Stephen King wrote on his pseudonym (which, by the way, he still occasionally uses.  The last book written by Bachman was in 2007).  If you have a chance you should read the whole thing: http://www.liljas-library.com/bachman_king.php.  From it I fell in love with this quote and wanted to share it:

"The good folks mostly win, courage usually triumphs over fear, the family dog hardly ever contracts rabies; these are things I knew at twenty - five, and things I still know now, at the age (almost) of 25 x 2. But I know something else as well: there's a place in most of us where rain is pretty much constant, the shadows are always long, and the woods are full of monsters. It is good to have a voice in which the terrors of such a place can be articulated and its geography partially described, without denying the sunshine and clarity that fill so much of our ordinary lives"

I read this on the train ride home from work.  It wasn't a hard day, not a particularly long or stressful day, but I was tired and ready to be home.  On one stop a couple of boys (probably six and eight, if I had to guess) got on, along with a gentleman who was having a conversation with them.  I overheard him asking them about how many meals they were getting every day.  I learned that they were on the way to the library "for the books".  They recently found a home in the homeless shelter with their mother.  They had seen something very terrible that no child should ever see (I will not say because that's not what this is about).  They were getting two soupy meals a day.  And they had to get up around 7 am everyday, "even though it's summertime!"  

To me it was an oddly timed reminder the truth that these terrors do exist, both within and outside of us.  You must acknowledge that they are there.  Do what you can when you can.  But don't lose the sunshine that should fill your life.

As far as I got.

Final blog post on the "novel" I wanted to write when I was in high school.

Last one.  This is it, my friends.  As far as I got.  I'm going to tell you what I think about the whole thing at the end.  When you finish reading, you should form your own opinions before you read mine and share by commenting.  It helps to know my strengths and weaknesses and I won't be offended.

         “Come on now, Son, don’t dawdle.  I need to talk to you.”  My father spoke in an eerily kind tone, one that would be on a TV show, the family seated happily around a kitchen table with a plate of old fashioned cookin’ placed in front of them.  The youthful version of myself hurried over to the doorway.

            “Have a seat, Tim,” my father offered, pulling a wicker chair over to him.  The two of them sat on the porch, and timidly, Tim lifted his head until his eyes met Father’s. 

“Now Timmy, I know that I made a mistake, but we all make mistakes once in awhile.”  Tim nodded.  “And we will be much better off now anyway.  I can spend more time with you, and we won’t have to do those awful chores, won’t that be great?”  A small giggle escaped Tim, as he continued to nod, a giggle that sent chills up my spine. 

Father continued, “You just have to promise me one thing.”  Tim’s smile faded away quickly.  “You have to promise me that you won’t tell anyone.  Not a soul.  And if you do, I may have to make another mistake, only this time it would be with you.”  Those words echoed in my head, and vaguely I remembered hearing them before.  Tim only nodded, looking in the direction of his feet.  Father’s voice rose, “Do you understand?”

Again, Tim nodded.  Turning red, Father screamed at him.  “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!”  Tim raised his eyes to meet his father’s in a hard glare, and sternly, he answered the question.  “Yes.”  The power of the young boy’s voice made my jaw drop, and Father retreat to the inside of the house.

            I awoke to an odd little man mumbling something about dinner, sliding a plate of bread and grits under the door, accompanied by a plastic cup of water.  I rolled over with a groan and let myself succumb to sleep, once again.

            A new picture formed in my mind.  This one came more quickly, but was less vivid.  The same young boy, I, was sitting in front of a black and white TV, shoveling cheerios into his mouth.  A stream of milk ran down his chin and back into the bowl.  On the television a stout man with a toupee broke away from a commercial involving singing socks and laundry detergent, talking intensely into a microphone.  Tim instantly sat up straight and all attention was on the news broadcast.

             “Today, in the small town of Greyville, the body of twenty-six year old Kathryn Deleroy was found in Larson Lake.  Scott McCoy and his daughter were fishing when they came across a badly mutilated body. An investigation was put into action immediately.  No evidence has been found, but the police are determined to find the person who so brutally killed this woman.  Now available to us is an interview with

the husband of the victim, Matthew Deleroy.”  Now I was watching just as intently as Tim, shocked out of disbelief, and yet not surprised.  Little Tim was staring, expressionless, at the television.  A single tear trickled down his cheek and off his chin, following the stream of milk into the bowl of cheerios.

            “I am heartbroken.  I hope whoever did this burns in hell.”  The voice of Father, Matthew Deleroy, floated across the room and I suddenly had an overwhelming feeling of nausea. 

            “Thank you, Mr. Deleroy.”  The cameras went back to the reporter as he wrapped up the report.  “The prayers of this small town go out to Mr. Deleroy and his seven year old son, Timothy, in hopes that police will find the murderer and the family may sleep more easily.”

            This time I awoke to find myself vomiting violently over the side of my plywood bed.  My stomach wrenched, and I felt that every organ in my godforsaken body might just come up.

Ok, my thoughts.  First off, for some reason the formatting got messed up somewhere between copy and paste, so I'm sorry.

The good:

-I feel like I was pretty effective at writing a creepy little story, or the beginning of one at least.  I felt a little insecure posting it because I didn't want anyone to think that it reflected me.  Stephen King days.
-There were a few spots where this is not true, but for the most part I did a good job at avoiding redundancy.
-I could see some of my descriptions.  So that is good.

The bad:

-Commas everywhere.  Like I said before, I love them and I somehow need to learn how to cut back.  I'll just put all the "had"s here too.  Maybe they just bugged me.  And I'll lump any grammatical/formatting error here too.  I remember struggling with sentence comp in dialogue situations.
-Dialogue in general.  It has always been a struggle for me to write a dialogue that didn't feel forced or awkward.  Maybe because I'm not eloquent when speaking for realzies either.
-Dramatic.  Geebus.  A bit cheesy too.
-I did not write an outline for this story.  I had no idea what would happen.  This is always my problem.  Directionless, plotless.  I can put a pretty sentence together, and maybe string a few of those together to make a pretty paragraph, but the real essence of a good writer is plot.  Right?  This is THE BIG ONE for me, the reason I failed with this story then and continue to fail even now.  This is why I will never be a writer.

Observations please.

Novel page 3 of 4 plus TRAX adventures

You know it's a good day riding public transit when you see:

1) An adult carrying around one of those American Girl dolls that you can design to look like you.  Said adult was also wearing a matching outfit.

2) One of the largest men you've ever seen with one of the smallest dogs you've ever seen.

3) People from Honduras traveling to the Real stadium to see the U.S. Men's National vs. Honduras game.  Cool.

And here's a continuation of my story.  I'm a bit embarrassed that I decided to put this on here (the last two posts too) because I was so dramatic and cliche, but better here than on my old hard drive, never to be seen.

All was darkness, and the black was unbearable.  I was frightened and confused, lost in the shadows.  Just as panic was setting in, I caught a glimpse of orange.  Twisting together and unraveling again, teal and violet came into view.  Yellow swirled about, teasing the other colors with its vividness.  Gradually, more colors came out of their hibernation until every color imaginable danced together, to a hypnotic beat.  They were one and I was their offspring, gazing up at them with amazement and awe.

These colors gave birth to a new earth, an earth with crimson oceans and more beauty than ever known.  Warmth radiated from the soil and bathed my body in purity.  It was clear to me that I was in the wrong place.  Yet, I couldn’t turn away.  Something grasped my eyes and held tight, not that I put up much of a struggle anyway.  There was something about this heat, something familiar.  I pondered this warmth with a quirked brow.  The answer came to me in an almost eerie whisper in my mind.  It was love.  This was a world of affection, one not of hate or enemy’s blood.  I suddenly felt out of place and uncomfortable.  Sure that I was not supposed to be here, I searched for a way out.  Then, from this world a universe exploded, and light was shot from the heart of the explosion to every pore of my poor soul.

As this blinding light broke free, a sound began from the distance.  It was faint, but I could make out a melody.  Growing louder, the sound transformed into a tantalizing song.  Harmony combined with the melody as I was lured into captivation.  The serenade convinced me to stay, and stole from my mind all previous thoughts.

The colors settled into a picture, and in this picture I saw a grass field, very familiar to me, yet I couldn’t place it.  The music transformed into a voice, yelling a name I couldn’t quite make out.  I watched a young child scamper around, bounding through the long, lush green grass.  His laughter was much like the music, and it captured me as well.  My heart was lightened with the joy of this boy and in my mind, I thanked him.  Suddenly, the boy looked up at the source of the yelling.  My eyes drifted in the same direction and when the source was found, they grew wider as I saw my childhood home.  My own father was standing in the doorway, bellowing my name.  My younger self looked away quickly to avoid eye contact with the man, but I stared into his eyes with rage, and I felt my fists clench.  He gazed past me as if I was the soulless wisp of wind that I was, his eyes preying on the boy.  The boy shook with fear, but took a step toward the house. 

My first novel-continued

I've decided to post the whole thing on here-don't worry, I only made it to about five pages total.  I'll just split them up because I know long posts = people not having the time or interest in dropping everything to read.

Also, I have not edited this in any way since the last edit date on the file: 11/22/2003.  I know the too many commas (I still have a problem with this, I just love them sooo much) and the too many "had"s etc. can make for a painful read.  Too bad.

The dimly lit room was painted a fleshy color, one that had always made me nauseous.  I could hear a dripping sound coming from the corner of my 7x7 foot box, and I hoped the bucket put there to catch the falling liquid had not overflowed.  I stumbled over to the bucket and sure enough, water was gushing over the edge, reminding me of an open wound.  My food landed in the puddle nearby, and any sense of balance I had was lost as I crashed to the hard, unsympathetic ground.  A deep groan escaped me as I lie there, writhing in pain. 

The light bulb flickered, threatening to go out.  Sighing, I rolled onto my stomach and rancorously pulled my knees inward toward my chest.  Then, biting my bottom lip to contain the yells, I pushed my weight off the deathly cold floor with my arms.  Gingerly, I crawled over to my bed, limping as if I was a hunting dog injured during the chase. 

When I reached the bed, I paused to gaze upon my place of respite.  Four pieces of plywood, here because they were rejected by any standard of acceptable lumber, formed my mattress.  On top of this mattress rested two wool blankets; one to keep me from freezing to death during the night, and the other to prevent slivers in various locations.  Sadly enough, I had experienced some of these slivers in places that shouldn’t be mentioned.  The pillow was only a thin cotton one, but the smell of freshly cleaned linen found its way to me and I smiled.  I hoisted myself up to this resting-place, and buried my face in the pillow.  My head pulsated in agony, for the fall had worsened my headache.  But soon I found myself drifting to sleep, and any sleep light as it may be, was welcomed warmly.

The big dreams of a 17 year old

When I was 17 years old my life plan was to complete a novel by the time I graduated high school and sell enough to support me while I finished college and wrote a second novel, which would then support me as I wrote my third.  Teens always have big dreams.

This was the beginning of my first novel:

      The walls appeared to breathe in this perdition I had called home for the past few months.  They had a life of their own, and seemed to watch me with judging eyes as though I was a monster, a being of extreme horror.  I chose to smile back at them.  The curve of my lips was taunting, and I had, by this time, discovered that this tool could intimidate others to a point of submission.  Yet, the walls continued to mock me.  This brought upon a malicious cackle from within me, one that raised every hair on my body.

     What had once been a terrifying delirium had become a game of chicken in my mind.  I had won this game before, but I could feel myself growing weaker, these walls overpowering me.  In the darkness of my mind I searched for a way out, a manner in which to do away with the demons that had burrowed themselves into my head.  Like a parasite, they were sucking the life out of me, feeding on my essence. 

     I took a breath, closed my eyes, and imagined the walls enveloped in hungry flames, clawing at the chipped paint.  Sable black smoke twisted and curled into demented shapes and faces, with eyes hell bound and claws searching for a succulent piece of life to sink themselves into.  The smoke was a weaver, intertwining itself with the lapping flames and peeling wall.  The walls themselves much resembled a sunburnt back, the skin parting from the surface of the back and falling to the floor in a shriveled heap.  Heaving for breath, the walls struggled to fight against slumber, but the smoke was singing its virulent lullaby.  Flames crept to the ceiling, and the walls were swallowed.  I could hear their blood wrenching screams as I defeated them, perhaps for the last time.

     When I opened my eyes I had a pounding headache, but the walls ceased to breathe, and so I felt it was worth it.

Regarding Dragons (or why I love Game of Thrones)

Everyone is a closet dragon-lover.  I mean, look at this shit.

When you were a child, you were in awe.  What could be cooler than a giant scaled, flying, fire breathing monster?  That's right, nothing.  

Somewhere along the way you find out it isn't cool to like dragons.  Dragon fans are nerds.  You throw away your dragon posters.  You pass by the dragon figurines.  But deep down inside, that awe never goes away.

Thank you Game of Thrones for making it socially acceptable to think dragons are badass.

Happy Laboratory Professionals Week

Often when I tell someone what I do they are quiet for a few seconds, then ask "what does that mean"?  This week is national laboratory professionals week.  So cheers to those who work in a lab.  The shifts are usually crummy, the recognition is little, but the job we do is important.  

I chose a medical profession because I love the idea that what I do actually makes a difference.  This is the reason most medical professionals (the good ones at least) choose their line of work.  When you go into the medical field you are accepting that you may be working shifts that require you to miss spending time with friends and family.  You accept that you may be working hours that feel like they destroy your body and any resemblance to a normal lifestyle.  You accept that you may work nights, weekends, holidays, or all of the above.  I hate the shift I work.  I feel like I am missing out on much of my life.  So if you are thinking about going into a medical profession please consider it seriously.  It will not be worth it unless you love what you do.  And to everyone, please thank your nurses, lab techs, phlebotomists, CNAs.  They all do it for you.

I love my job because I am a huge nerd. I still think it's cool that I wear a lab coat at work and I use a microscope daily.  I love that whenever we get an uncommon hematology slide at work, like sickle cell anemia, everyone I work with gathers around and takes turns looking at it.  I love when we see something unusual in a urine specimen and my coworkers all drop what they are doing to help look through textbooks to figure out what it is.  I smile when I listen to the people I work with debate about what bacteria is growing on a plate.  I "freak out with my geek out".  So to me, it's worth it.

Thrift Shop (not the song, though the song is great)

I've grown up frequenting thrift shops.  When I was little my cousins and I would go with my grandma and play with all the toys and maybe buy a game missing a few pieces or a stuffed animal (I still remember the funny smell of my stuffed Shamu) while my grandma would be looking though all the nick-nacks and lamps.  When I was older, in my quirky weird girl stage, I would go for the clothes.  I loved the bright floral 60's print dresses and itchy polyester shirts and the wide legged pants and the acid washed jeans.  My closet smelled of thrift store and I once was shunned by a boyfriend all day because I wore a chicken dress to school.  A dress with chickens all over it.  When I grew tired of trying to define my individuality through my clothes I would go for the books.  Oh, the books.  I would read every single title, pick them up and feel them, fan through the pages so I could smell the history in these books.  I loved imagining the previous owner sitting in a park reading, growing teary eyed at all the right parts, staying up late to get through the climax, and sighing with the finishing of the last sentence.  So yeah, thrift shops and I have a history.

The other day I stopped by a thrift store hoping to find a piece of art for our bare walls.  I went in and walked to the back where all the household items were.  Browsing through the usual thrift store items, I was suddenly (and very unexpectedly) in tears.  I saw a picture frame with the picture of a young girl still in it, a hand made sign saying "Grandma Beth's Kitchen", a journal with a note inside, "for John".  I pictured my grandma's things here, where inevitably they may well end up.  Isn't it weird to mourn for someone through things?  But these things become a part of the person.  These things they touched every day, or used on special occasions or hung on their walls or cherished.  My grandma, to me, was her coffee mugs.  She was her barn pictures.  She was her piles of mystery books in paper bags that she had stacked in her spare room.  She was her lamps.  She was her gardening shears.  She was so much and I know that things aren't important, that the memories are what to hold onto but damn it, at that moment I wanted to hoard it all. 

Driving home I thought about the things I will leave behind.  When I die, what will be dropped off at the closest thrift shop?  What will end up cherished by my family, my friends?  Will anything leave a lingering effect on those who knew me?  Or will it all be junk?

Resolution update

Here's a little update on how all my resolutions are going.  You know, resolutions?  Those things everyone made January 1st?  What?  Yours fell through?  My plan doesn't seem so crazy now, does it? 

-Walk Cooper daily: While I certainly have not been walking him daily, I have made an effort.  With the crappy air and 9 degree January weather, I'm proud of myself for how often we have been going (probably 3-4 days a week).  Now that its warming up, however, I'm faced with another problem.  The melting snow is exposing so many smells!  I know I complain a lot about the amount of smelling Cooper does on his walks, but really, its almost embarrassing when I have to drag my dog along on his walk.  Here's a video to prove my point about Bassets and smelling.  You know how puppies romp and play with each other?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6VJqpdNsTwM
Anyway, I still plan on working towards this goal and every day that I fail to walk him, I work on another goal.  The "fuck it" goal.

-Chore list:  I just barely finished my updated version of this for the new house.  Yay.  If I were to give myself a grade on this one it would be "satisfactory".

-Actively seek social or intellectual stimulation: I'm currently listening to a podcast class on the Philosophy of Religion from the University of Oxford. You too can listen to this class and many more here:
http://podcasts.ox.ac.uk/open
Its pretty nice as I can listen to it in my car on the way to work. I'm thinking my next class will be Bioethics. My friend Meghan and I are talking about doing something once a month that I think could fit under this category. We will go to things like plays, operas, ballets, etc. I'm so excited for this.

-Relax: I'm doing surprisingly well here. I'd like to thank my "fuck it" philosophy. I understand the crude language may turn some off from it. It works for me. But if you'd like, you could use "who cares" "let it go" or if you need it to pack a punch but not the kind of punch that "fuck it" packs, try "screw it". I feel that's a fair compromise. Now I just need to figure out how to maintain my relaxed state while I'm sleeping. I think the next step would be some kind of meditation before bed.

-Eat Better: We've been eating at home a lot. So that's good. What isn't good is that the boss at our pizza place is sending us hand written thank you notes. Well, you can't win them all. But seriously, I'm spending a lot on fruits and veggies when I go grocery shopping, which shows that I'm buying the good stuff. I think, though, that I should start doing Bountiful Baskets again because you get so much for $15. Don't know what that is? Here ya go:
http://bountifulbaskets.org/

-Spend more time with family and friends:  The last few weeks I've done so well here!  Feelin' good about it and I'm hoping to continue.  I think it helps that Alex is working a similar schedule to mine.  We can spend weeknights together so that by the time the weekend comes we are ready to share our time with family and friends.

-Spend more quality time with myself:  I have been working more on hobbies that interest me and it has been nice.  One thing I'd like to work on more is writing.  I think I am too critical of myself.  I get an idea and I talk myself out of it because I know I'm not a great writer.  This thing that, in my mind is beautiful, may be destroyed by my inability to put it down on paper.  But it's therapeutic and makes me feel all whole and stuff so damn it, I need to get over it and do it.

-Less time browsing the web:  Doing well on this except for my stupid phone.  Since when was it a good idea to have internet on your phone?  Oh, time black hole, socialization killer, leave me be.  I need to show some restraint.

-Expand my music library:  Do you call adding new stations to your Pandora radio expanding your music library?  Cause if you do, that's a big, fat check.  I've added Etta James, Elvis Presley, and M.I.A radio.

And that's it.  A work in progress.  Rather than considering my failures, see this as a success.  I do.

Resolutions

I always laugh at people who make new year resolutions but somehow I always end up making some too.  This year I've decided to do several so that when I inevitably fail on a few, my overall percentage of failure will (hopefully) be not so bad.  My track record is horrible, though I feel a little better about it because I think most everyone gives up their resolutions by February.

Here we go:

-Walk Cooper dog daily.  It's hard to be motivated sometimes and boy does he piss me off when he stops and smells EVERYTHING (you don't get it unless you have a hound) but once I get out there the sun and fresh air sure make me feel good.  Oh, and he loves it too.

-Follow my chore list.  Last year sometime I made a cute laminated chore list that assigns all my weekly chores to days of the week.  Bonus is that I get to cross each one off as I complete it.  Gotta love Pinterest inspiration.  Since I made it before we bought our house it may need some modifications so the plan is to start following my list for a few weeks to see how it fits into my new house requirements and modify it when I figure out what needs to be changed.

-Actively seek social or intellectual stimulation.  I think an important part of being human is continual growth and improvement.  Once I become stagnant I don't feel right.  I tell Alex I feel "itchy inside".  I want to avoid that as much as possible because for me, itchy inside leads to depression.  Here are some of my ideas this year:  yoga class, pottery class, dance class, online intro to coding class, writing workshop and, as always, vacations.

-Relax!  I worry.  A lot.  Reading "F*ck It, The Ultimate Spiritual Way" by John C. Parkin was helpful to me this year.  I don't agree with everything in the book but the overall theme is lovely.  This is what you do.  When you start to worry about something, say "fuck it" instead.  You can try other phrases but nothing quite works as well.  Stressed out about how you look today?  Fuck it.  Worried about if you made the right decision?  Fuck it.  Think maybe you should censor your blog so as not to offend anyone?  Fuck it.  You get it.  See, you feel better already.  I know I do.

-Eat better.  This one is boring and the same as just about every one else's.  Eat healthier, better quality food.

-Spend more time with friends and family.  This is the important part of life.  I need to do more of it.  Every day could be your last.  Blah, blah, blah.

-Spend more quality time with myself.  Also important so that my time with friends and family is quality time.  I need time to relax and reflect.

-Spend less time browsing the web.  So that I can spend more quality time with myself which, in turn, allows me to spend more quality time with friends and family.  Follow that logic?  My optimistic limit is 20 minutes a day.

-Expand my music library.  Music makes me happy.  I haven't updated my music library in so long its embarrassing.  I want to be able to put my ipod on shuffle and enjoy every single song.  (Yes, I still use an Ipod.  30gb, white, purchased in 2006.  My ipod is older than most of your relationships.)

That's all I can think of for now.  Suggestions?