Digital Demolition

I spend some time in a cabin in the woods. Its snowy and quiet and lovely (except when the cabin mates decide to all come up simultaneously, which is makes it crowded and not so relaxing). Last night’s drive was an exceptionally hard one – a three-hour trip took nearly seven hours. This included more than an hour of sitting in the cold in the dark in traffic on Highway 80. No explanations, no ETA on when the suffering might end. We finally edged our way over to the on ramp, backed up the damn thing, past giggling 20-something chicklets scampering down the road in the dark exclaiming, “careful, you almost got killed!” It probably would have been a blessing – they looked like breeders and that’s bad stock. But we had an all-wheel drive car and just the movement made us feel better. We did get around the no-reason block and eventually found our way to Truckee around 2:30am.

We finally got to the house and hit the hay. After about seven hours of sleep, I got up and started meandering around the house looking for caffeine and food. I discovered that the power was out, which threw me into a crying jag because I’d packed for a very short trip, which did not include those things I like to do when there’s no electricity. I wandered the house, admiring the snow that had fallen since my last visit, and paying special attention to the circle between the trees (now filled with snow) where I did Shivanata one day. It was a most powerful practice that day and it’s given me lots of new thoughts. About boundaries. And making your own space. And claiming your space. Jumping up and down saying “mine mine mine!” Though I’m too exhausted this trip to repeat the experience, the lessons have stayed with me. Stating my boundaries to coworkers. Explaining that on a given day, I might be cranky and that it has nothing to do with them. Engaging the Hippie Hubby in painful conversations about his mom’s failing health when he gets snippy at me. Trying to use NVC. But mostly knowing (in my gut) that I have established my sovereignty and am starting to own my space in this world. It only took 42 years. Heh – only.

The point here is this: stamping out your space in the snow (or the beach or even your living room) is a powerful thing. It gives this sense of rightness in your heart that helps to make other aspects of your life easier. You have the right to be here. You are important. You have a place. You have a you-ness that you previously lacked. And it feels like I’m headed in the right direction because I’ve taken this step. Our future has possibilities. And choices. And no matter what else is Hard in my life right now, I know that I have my space. And from this space I can conquer anything. It’s there for me. It is me.

Cory has been a good friend of mine for more than 20 years. I wouldn’t say that we’re close now – life does have a way of rending friends from one another without careful care – but each time I see him, it is a joyous and all-too-short encounter. I thought that one day I’d make an entire site dedicated to his stories, but now they’re just going to live here.

In his 20s to 30s, Cory was a bit irresponsible and a lot experimental. He walked an adventurous path with a great attitude and more courage than I could ever muster. No matter what the outcome, he was always up for more.

In Our College Days
Cory used to save his farts in jars. Yes, plural, making it all the more unusual gross. He inherited the most vile toxic emissions from his father. Words are incapable of describing how foul his farts could be and he took great pride in this. So he saved them, to share with unwitting friends, in jars in his bedroom. As if the practice itself wasn’t strange (weird, crazy?) enough, the results were hilarious (as long as you weren’t the victim, of course). He once unscrewed a cap for a friend to elicit the extreme inhalation disgust, then rapidly resealed the jar so he could spring it on someone else another day.

Encounter at Coit Tower
Not long after Cory moved to San Francisco, he was visiting Coit Tower at night (possibly Halloween or another fall holiday) with some friends. He was on acid, and probably some additional illicit drugs, as he’s always been an experimenter. (I’ve mentioned his tendency toward bad judgment, right?) Well, on this particular evening, Cory was walking around the Tower, admiring the views of the city from this lovely spot. All was going great until a strange girl came charging up with her boyfriend in tow and pointed at Cory and said something to the effect of “He’s the guy who tried to rape me!” Well, in addition to the statement itself being false, Cory had never before seen the girl or her boyfriend, and was incapable of such an act. He’s a really nice guy, with good intentions, and possibly one of the most compassionate people I’ve ever met. He’s also a raging homosexual. Not that he didn’t try a few girls back in the day, but by this time, he knew his love was for the boys.

His protestations of innocence, along with his slight frame, led to him getting a solid pounding at the hands of the boyfriend and the boyfriend’s friends. His only crime? Wrong place at the wrong time. (A crime that is probably the single most common in San Francisco.) His friends came along shortly and took him to the emergency room to get patched up. No serious harm done, except to his sense of security and a few bruises he didn’t earn.

I think that’s enough for today. I’ll post some more later.

A long time ago I was downloading nearly every free application for my iPhone. (I think the original goal – to fill up all nine screens of the phone to try to get Weather and Stocks to fall off the backside – failed.) The experiment left me with a lot of apps still to delete, but one is a keeper: iPet Cats.

It’s an easy enough game. Keep the virtual pet alive. Like tamagotchi for the iPhone. But here’s where I find the fun. If you go to the Search function and search for ANY likely cat name (I usually do “scooter” in honor of The Schmoo’s original name), you’ll find some dead ones. Feed the tombstone and the cat comes back to life. Hungry and sad, but alive. Magic! Keep petting and feeding and eventually the resurrected fake cat has the happy-smiling-sun icon of a happy healthy fake cat.

For every time you pet a cat (other than your own), you get three points. When you feed a cat, you give up one point. Ultimately, bringing back a dead cat results in you having nine additional points and the practice gives you oodles of karma points.

I think my real cats know I’m steppin’ out on them, though, because if I play the game in my living room, I immediately have real cats in my lap. (Yes, I quit playing the game when that happens. The irony of ignoring my real cats for the fake ones is not lost on me.) So, yeah, don’t tell the iPet folks about the loophole because saving fake dead cats is more fun than a Facebook poke.

Today, over at the Fluent Self, Havi asks the question, “where is the bridge?” I read her post and the comments right before my morning meditate-y thing. Even though I was trying to intention myself into calmness and strength, that bridge question lurked around the back of my head, like the monster that hides just beyond the treeline in the woods. (But not as scary – more like a mouse in the house, sneaking along the baseboard, just out of sight.)

I started to answer in a comment to her post and quickly realized that I was going to take up far too much room. So here we are. My bridge.

This version of my bridge is pretty damn new. We hastily built it within the last three weeks, out of recycled materials and combined purpose. It’s not exactly rickety, but it’s clearly not meant to last forever. It’s strong enough to carry us on our quick, unexpected move.

I don’t know what this bridge looks like, except that it is wide enough for Dave and I to walk side-by-side comfortably. It has intermittent spots with overstuffed chairs, soft blankets, classical music, and tissues. It starts at our current apartments (we have two, across the hall from one another) and vanishes into a fog. It’s not a cold fog, just a haze that obscures the other end. My bridge starts in a sad place, once filled with homey safety and now filled with fear and uncertainty. It ends at our Happy New Home. We have a vague idea of what might be there, but we haven’t fully seen it yet.

Dave doesn’t have time yet to start across the bridge, but he’s right there, ready to go. I’ve been foraging ahead – exploring – a little bit at a time. Finding those little comfort stations, having tiny breakdowns, giving myself permission to fall apart for a few minutes, but also to be scared and to go running back to Dave for hugs and support. I know I don’t have to cross this one alone. Together we are stronger.

I’m actually pretty happy with the bridge. I see that in creating the comfy rest stops, I’ve learned to start building the need for comfort and safety (and the ability to ask for them) into my life. It’s a surprise to see this progress when the last few weeks have been so chaotic. And I’ve been exploring this bridge, seeing glimpses of our Happy New Home, and considering exciting new possibilities (a garage! a garden! no bums! no sirens! the hilarity of cats sliding around on hardwood floors!).

So, yeah, that’s my bridge. At least for now. I suspect I’m secretly (even from myself) already building new bridges in new directions. New ones that will start once we’ve found the end to this one.