A Normal, Chanting

Hollywood Blvd. 6:15 Across the street from Barnsdall Park.  Bus Stop.

There's a Hispanic man, forty years old with mid-neck-length combed-back hair in a security uniform, sitting on a bench chanting out loud. He's staring out into the street.  Next to him is an over flowing trashcan. Wrappers and cups and fries and straws and newspapers tumble by his feet with the wind from passing cars.  His gaze is forward and locked, housed in an unshakable concentration.  I'm on foot, passing through the space.  Twenty feet out I start to get a faint gleam of the hum. I don't think much of it though, maybe it's a car radio or something.  I get closer and can discriminate between the different pitches, but still don't know what it is.  I pass by a homeless man digging through the trash on the near end of the stop. I continue forward and notice him sitting there.  Only when I'm directly behind him do I realize it's him that's chanting. It's a person making the sounds.  What the hell's this security guard doing chanting in public? This kind of behavior is reserved for crazies.  It feels almost like a violation of social order - that a man that's put together, in a security uniform no less, is singing foreign hoolera in public.  It's not wrong, but it's also not normal.  Certainly, it's noteable.  I stand there and stare at him.  He doesn't look at me, just continues looking forward, chanting.  He doesn't seem to care that I'm staring at him either.  Actually, he doesn't seem to notice me at all and there's something about this that makes me want to stay longer.  I close my eyes and let the chant hit my ears.  It feels nice, like I'm being bathed in something. You don't need to know what something means in order to find peace in someone else's expression.  He doesn't care what his blessings hit.  I open my eyes and he's staring at me, expressionless, still going strong.  Like I was a tree or something meaningless like a lamppost, he brings his eyes back to the street and continues.  I realize I'm holding my breath. I release it and back away.

The Thingything and the WhatHow (The thing you call the self)

If you have a problem and you know what to do to solve the problem and how you know how to do it, and you still don't do it, you have at least two problems, and neither happen to be the problem you think you have.  Lets say, for example, you have a chunk of stubborn belly fat that wont seem to go away.  You know you need to work out, you know you need to eat right, you've done your research, you know which works outs to do, you know which foods to avoid, and you find that when you work out you get to those specific workout that will target your chunk and you do one set of half assed whatevers and then you pat yourself on the back and you go grab a burrito even though you know that's going to fill up the chunk cavity even more.

So this stubborn chunk is what seems like your first problem.  The truth, however, is that the chunk of fat that's sitting above your waist is not your problem at all, and/or if it is, it's a third problem that's actually a manifestation of the other two.

So what are the other two?  You're first problem is the fact that despite knowing the what and how of getting rid of that chunk you still can't do it. Your second problem is of the subtle variety, which makes it more difficult to recognize, though no less of a reality.  This second problem is thinking and believing that the fat on your waste is the problem in the first place.  This is not your problem, because once you get over the real problem the fat can't be there.  It's not allowed to be there because you know what to do to get rid of it and how to do it, right?  And so once you recognize this, you're left with just problem number one:

What exactly is preventing you from doing the 'whathow'?

In short, it's you that's in the way, but that's difficult to wrap your noodle around since it's also you that's got the solution.  Basically, though, you are a machine that forgets things, but you're always thinking something (unless that then there - not thinking - is your practice of practices, in which case you'll do the whathow and you won't need to worry about the problem in the first place because you wont have one), and since you're always thinking something, as soon as you hit that wall where the whathow, the key to success, is necessary to apply in order to start chewing away at that chunky rim, a thingything becomes real important to you.  This thingything is so important that it/you inflate/s to a proportion that makes the whathow seem like a grain a rice next to a 16oz steak.  You kind of just shovel the piece rice off the plate, eat up the steak and wonder what's on Netflix tonight. 

This thingything is a habit of sorts.  A tendency you have and one that you become as soon as you're there.  It consumes your mind and pushes out whatever was present before it arrived.  You become this new mind, this thingything, and you have no access to anything that was there before.  This is habitual and it is natural, but it is not inevitable, and since this thingything is the phenomenon that you inhabit (or vice versa) when you get to where you need to be, this thingything, this mind, this habit, is your actual problem.  And your first step in solving this problem is figuring out the whathow.  Just keep an eye out for the thingything, because it'll be there for this problem too.

Validation

I'm on a walk around the Neighborhood. I have my ear buds in and I'm on the phone.  Rodney Ave is a suburban  street with little foot traffic.  A full block away, about one hundred yards, I see the shape of, what, at this point, looks like a young woman.  She has brown hair and is wearing something yellow.  Maybe she's wearing a hat.  The conversation I'm having is with my Brother-in-Law and we're talking about Dads.  It's a serious conversation, i.e. one that would require attention in order to be a valid contributor.  I find myself switching between listening to the conversation, and wondering what this person will look like.  At fifty meters I can confirm to myself that it is a woman.  It looks like maybe she's light brown in color.  It's interesting to talk candidly about your own father with a person who is now married into the situation you've been in your whole life.  You start to hear things you have been thinking for years but only now feel understood or that your thoughts aren't delusional.  Another person having them validates them in some way.  She has long brown curly hair that falls over her shoulders.  Her yellow shirt has a blue square in the middle of it.  She's twenty feet and it looks like there is a small red dot in the middle of the square.  I wonder if he likes my father.  Not just as an in-law, but as a person.  He has an objective opinion about this man, and I wonder what his thoughts are about him as a person.  There is no black and white here, you don't just like or not like him, but typically a person will sway positive or negative in your mind as you judge.  There are actually three small red dot in the middle of the square.  I bring my eyes up to her face.  She's in her mid twenties. She wears red lipstick.  The same things tend to bother my brother-in-law that bother me.  I dash my eyes away so it doesn't look like I'm checking her out.  If a guy looks at a woman he's checking her out and it's creepy.  If a woman looks at a guy it's flattering.  This we know.  So as a rule of thumb you only have one or two glances once she's within five feet. A couple more if you can time it out so that you look while she's in between her breaks from looking at you.  She'll look a couple times before ten feet and then maybe, if she's into it, she'll look at ten feet.  Within ten, she's eyes ahead.  If she looks within five, she likes what she sees, guaranteed. As we are about to pass she glances and we lock eyes.  I think she smiles.  It's as awkward as it is romantic.  I want to look back but you don't do that.  Not on this kind of street.  More validation.

Two cats no mouse/Or maybe just one mouse.

8p. Vermont Ave. Dusk.

I step out onto the street and walk to the crosswalk.  My car is a few blocks North, on Franklin.  As I settle into the crosswalk, there is a very beautiful woman standing there.  I notice immediately, as most straight men probably would, and most of what ensues is, in some fashion, helplessly calculated.

The walk signal turns and we walk.  We are neck and neck, a few feet lateral one another, but by the middle of the walk she takes the lead, or I give it to her, and I trail a few feet behind.  She slows up as she arrives on the other side, as if waiting to cross the adjacent street.  I need to do the same thing, but take it all in stride and without going on the sidewalk at all, I continue across the next street and begin walking North on Vermont.  As I round the corner to enter the next crosswalk, I come within a foot of her.  I get maybe a little too close, though this was unintentional.  Mostly, it was dictated by the design of the street.  As I cross, now alone, I wonder if her slowing up meant that she was going to come this way as well.  I don't want to look back, but I can't help but wonder if she is behind me.

I pass by Figaro and get to a small shop that has a window display.  I figure if I pretend to look at something in these windows I can also glance behind me to see if she is there.  She's There. Still making her way through the Figaro crowd.  She's wearing a white shirt with loose fitting light blue jeans and sunglasses.  She has Olive skin.  

I have no intention of talking to her.  I don't even want to necessarily, but there is a very real sensation forcing my mind onto her.  I don't understand it, but to disobey it would feel almost dirty.  I don't know what it wants.

I continue walking, past skylight books, past the movie theater and across Russel to Fred 62.  I gently glance back again and she's still there.  What are you doing. Just go to your car!  The problem is that even if I wanted to say something, I don't really have anything to say, and even less of a reason to say something. Hi, I saw you walking and have been watching you all this time, you know with my mind, and I think you're attractive.  I'm Matt.

I continue up the block, keeping occasional checks on her.  The space between us remains remarkably equidistant - like she's making sure to keep her distance. 

I cross over Franklin.  My car is a half block to the east now, but as I arrive on the other side, I notice a collection of used books sitting on a ledge.  I glance back and notice my girl, still back there, waiting to cross.  If I stay right here she's going to come this way.  The books are terrible.  It's almost embarrassing to be looking at them.  "How to live your life like a PRO", "Biology for Gamers", "Smile, its nice!".  I feel her getting closer and keep her distance in the corner of my awareness.  Her foot steps get louder.  She's wearing sandals.  And as she passes behind me, her sounds goes silent.  Is she standing behind me?  Is she going to confront me for watching her? I'm in the eye of the storm. Absence.  I slowly turn around, but she's not there.  She's still walking, of course, continuing up the street, away from me, and with each step, the sensation, the need to look thins out until she becomes just another normal.

A little game of distraction

LA Dodger's Stadium. Early July.  9p. 7th inning. 72 Degrees.  Friday.

I'm at the top of the stadium with a friend I hadn't seen in a few years. We had been talking about getting older and the phenomenon of spreading apart from high school friends.  We enter a lull in the conversation and I look down at the guys playing the game.  What a strange thing to do.  A group of people spending all of their energy, donating all of their mind, consuming themselves entirely to play a game in front of a group of other people who want nothing more than to likewise lose their minds completely in the game.  What are we doing here? We are existing, we are aware of ourselves, but it is too hard to really understand that, so instead, we distract ourselves so thoroughly that that we spend years and years developing the skills to play a game that is followed religiously by millions and millions of people who also can't think about what they are. But if you can't think about it, what else are you going to do but distract your self with a game and a piece of meat and surround your self with others that are doing the same thing to reassure the self that what you're doing is good, it's right, it's healthy, it's living.  Yes.  This is living.  And you sit back and soak it in. The game, your family, the drinks, the beer guy, the jumbo tron, "Hey that's us!" The lights, the field, the players.  Yes.  What a good end to an ok week.  Yep.  But okay is better than bad.  And you tell your self this, and it's true, but is it? It is, but is it actually any more real than the thing you're telling it to.  And then you think, Well, it beats feeling like shit. And your right. And a run scores and everyone cheers and you look around and it feels goodish.

How to stand when you're looking at nothing

Vermont Ave. Outside Apartment building. 4pm. Late June. A Thursday. Holding a camera bag and a gym bag - both slung over my shoulders.

I cross the street and get within feet from entering my building, but I notice my mind is a bit racey and I don't want to leave the street in a frazzle. I decide to stop, pull off to the side a bit and collect my mind.  I turn to the street and decide that whatever I see I am going to stare at until my mind is still.

Two middle aged women stand at the crosswalk waiting to cross. I can hear their conversation but it's Armenian so I shut it out like it's the wind.   Across the street is a large tree in front of the Christian Science Church - whatever that is - and it casts a large shadow onto the side of the building. This is what I look at.  Only moments in I start thinking about how much you notice when you stare at things.  The same things you walk by every day you start to notice new details.  You start to get new thoughts about these things.  The shape of the tree in particular comes off as odd.  It's like saying a word over and over again until it loses it's meaning.  The tree is strange, like no longer a tree.  A speckle of light beams off the cars as they pass and streaks across the shadow.  A passer enters into my periphery and passes through my vision.  What do I look like standing here? My arms are to my side. I'm still. Definitely a bit strange, but I don't move.  Back across the street, a couple of unrelated people, that is to say, strangers, both wearing variations of blue walk behind the tree and pass through the shadow.  I want to follow them but I don't take my eyes from the space.  The light on the building that surrounds the tree shadow is so bright it starts baking colors into my eyes. The red curb turns purple. Whizzing cars pass through swirls.  I blink and the tree turns back into a tree.  I look down then shift the bags onto my shoulders for better comfort. I look back at the tree, pull out my keys and head to the door.  A woman is there fumbling with her keys. She looks back at me, flustered and smiles.  I smile back and wait.

Looks

Coffee Bean. Americana. Glendale, CA. Late June, Early Evening, a Wednesday.

 I'm in a chair against the window with my computer on the table. There's a lot of action in the store, a continual flux of new folks.  I can't keep my attention on my screen for more than a few minutes before looking to see what's new - mostly just keep looking at the same people, though.  Directly in front of me is a group of Chinese women rendezvousing for some ice coffee.  One of them has a six year old boy who is thrilled to be a part of the group.  The other's don't seem to care one way or the other that he's there.  He's a demanding little guy, holding his Iphone like a rotten Banana - dangling it between the index and the thumb.  A fifty year old Armenian lady sits in a chair a few feet away with white apple headphones inserted upside down.  She's watching a graduation of some sort - locked off shot from the back of a room with folks in robes on stage.  Every time I look up I catch her eyes and at least one of the Chinese iced coffee-ers. If I'm lucky they're not looking, but it's too busy in there; they're doing what I'm doing.  What you do is you end up looking around until you lock eyes with someone, which forces self-consciousness back into you. reminding you to get back to the damn work.

About fifteen minutes in to my session, I get this sense that more people are looking at me than normal.  I wonder if it's more women than men, and this becomes the unofficial game - are women looking at me?  An Asian lookin' Armenian lookin' lady holds the hand of her five year old (male) at the pickup counter.  Hundred percent looks at me, then back to her kid, then back to me, then to the counter, then to me, then to her kid, then back to me.  Is she into me? Is something on my face?  Would I be interested in her even though she has a child? Stop.  A teenager enters, walks by me, no look. Thank God.  A twenty year old enters, does she glance at me? Maybe. Stop.  A guy across the room, sitting alone - mean face, Bernard from 90's version of 'Guess Who' - looks at me.  Something's up.

Of the two hours, I do about twenty five minutes of work and stand up to leave.  As I curl my charger to pack it up, I glance at my shirt.  Right! A sentence of small white font across the chest of the black T, "Baltimore: Actually I like it." Lesson: If you want to feel liked, wear shirts with text. High contrast,  Helvetica. Bold. Under 20pt.  Then forget you're wearing it.