An unsatisfactory visit, part 2

[Continued from Part 1.]

The next morning, after breakfast, I asked her what she was worried about. She settled into a comfortable chair and started to explain.

Where did her money go?

In the first place, it's not that all of Mother's money is gone. Or at least that's not what she ended up saying. It took her a while to explain this, because she wandered elliptically around the subject. But the way I understand it, this is what happened.

1. Ever since Father died, she has kept most of her liquid assets in two big bank accounts: one savings, and one checking.
2. Mother still works part time. She doesn't make a lot, but she said she always hoped that her earnings would more or less cover her day-to-day expenses.
3. But she doesn't know if they do. She doesn't really know what her day-to-day expenses add up to. All she ever did was to look at the overall balance of her two big accounts: as long as they didn't move much, she figured she was OK.
4. Some time back in the past, she (or maybe "they," if Father was still alive) took out a home equity line of credit (HELOC), because of some reason. It was no longer needed, but for too long she had just placidly paid the interest on it.
5. Finally at the beginning of this year she decided it was stupid to keep paying interest on a loan she didn't need. (Yes, that's true.) So she paid it back in a lump. That meant something like $30-35,000.
6. Then Brother and SIL came to her, asking for a loan. They have done this before, for smaller sums. This time they wanted to borrow $66,000 in cash.
7. Their explanation was that their credit cards had gotten away from them, and they needed to clear them out. Mother said they did not tell her how their credit cards had gotten away from them, and she said she did not ask. But she also said that she was very worried, because what's to stop the same thing from happening all over again? I agreed with her. 
8. She added that for the past few months they have been paying her back a thousand dollars a month. She did get them to sign a note for the full amount, but she did not ask for any interest. She is also aware that, at the rate of a thousand dollars a month, it will take five and a half years to pay back $66,000.
9. Anyway, what with paying off the HELOC and then lending so much money to Brother and SIL, her bank accounts are down something like $100,000. And yes, that arithmetic sounds about right.
10. So when she sees that her overall balance is so much lower than it used to be, she's afraid.   

Is this truly something to worry about? Who can tell? There's no way to know without more information.

"Why don't you ...?" "Yes, but ...!"

So I started to ask more questions, and to suggest things she could do to address her fears. Turns out this was not a good idea.

For every idea I had, she had a reason that it wasn't practical. It began to feel like we were playing "Why don't you ...?" "Yes, but ...!" In fact at one point I even referenced that game a little obliquely, reminding her that Father used to accuse Wife of playing it all the time (Mother remembered this part very well) and saying "But of course that's not what is going on here! You are just identifying parameters that any solution has to meet."

Translation: Yeah, that's exactly what we were playing.  

I admit that some of the things I suggested might be a lot of work. Mother has no idea how much she spends for her day-to-day expenses, so maybe she'd like to go through the last year's utility bills and credit card receipts? Then she could come up with a rough number, and she'd know whether her part-time salary covers it or not. Of course that's a lot of work, but is it worth it to buy the peace of mind that she would get from a definite answer? Maybe to some people. Maybe not to her.

There were other suggestions. None of them was trivial. And even if one of them were trivial, that doesn't mean she would do it. How hard can it be, after all, to fill out a Medical Power of Attorney form?

In earlier years, I was inclined to think my mother was something of a saint. (See for example here and here.) But in retrospect, that was largely because she was quieter than Father, so it was easy to assign all good qualities to her by default. I have already remarked elsewhere that the stories we (as a family) normally told about Father and Mother weren't really true.

Speaking of synchronicity

Mother has many fine qualities. But if she doesn't feel like doing something, she's not going to do it—even if "doing it" would solve some other problem that bothers her a lot!

In a sense that's self-defeating, just the same way all my failed conversations with her all weekend long were self-defeating.

And gosh, wasn't I recently writing something else about self-defeat? Indeed I was. That's why I started Part 1 of this story by talking about synchronicity ... because the topic of self-defeat seems to be haunting me these days.

Maybe I should pay attention. 

           

On self-defeat, part 2

I just wrote about how Wife's whole life—so it seems—has been one long exercise in self-defeat. This is a line of thought I started after looking at the journals she left behind when she vacated Son1's apartment.

But my reflections didn't stop there. Oh no.

Father undercut himself the same way. I've talked here and here about how he undermined his own authority as a businessman. I don't know the details of his stint as a university professor, except that he failed his first tenure review (after three years) so his contract was not renewed. Decades later he found a letter he had written to the Dean after his contract was canceled, and read it to us over the dinner table. As a piece of rhetoric or invective—as a letter that burst into flame upon reading—it was a remarkable piece of work. But by that time I was already an adult, and in fact I was a manager with employees of my own. And what I thought privately (though I never said it aloud) was, "Gosh, if that's where your head was at the time, I'd have fired you too." The letter was all about him, and never mentioned the needs or strategies of the university. And even if he didn't care about the university, anyone who wanted to play the employment game should know enough to pretend to care. Not Father. 

After he retired from business, he tried to make a living as an actor. There he was dogged by a special kind of bad luck that repeated over and over. Time and again, he would get a part in something very small whose schedule neatly prevented him from auditioning for something large and rewarding. To hear him tell it, this happened so often that he could almost count on it. Now was this self-defeat? I have no idea. All I know is what I heard from him, and he made it sound like random bad luck each and every time.

On the other hand, we've all heard the saying: Once is chance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action. I just don't know which "enemy."

In other words, the topic of self-defeat is one I probably need to spend some time with, because I've lived around it much of my life. First Father, then Wife. That's definitely why I need to think about it. Right?

Ha. I should be so lucky.

Regular readers of this blog know that I have discussed my own self-defeating behaviors many times. Good luck seems to be wasted on me. And I never had the skill to advance up the corporate ladder. I hide myself, and I seem to court failure. You can multiply other references throughout the blog without breaking a sweat.

I think this is why Kimberly Steele told me (three years ago!) that publishing my book "is going to be an act of will that will act as one of your major tests in your life." I have spent too much of my life trying actively to fail. I have worked at defeating myself, and I have surrounded myself with masters at self-defeat. So the challenge is, Can I pull out of such a dramatic dive? Can I get my ass in gear and make it happen?

The questions about Wife matter to her therapist, but I'm not her therapist. The questions about Father are of biographical interest, but after all he's dead. The questions that have to matter to me are about me. 

I have achieved two long-term goals in my life. The first was my marriage (and children). The second was my separation. What comes next? Now that I'm a senior citizen, what long-term goals can I still accomplish? And can I do them without ruining myself in the process?

Those are the questions that matter now. I suppose I should be grateful to Wife's old journals for making me think of them.   

           

On self-defeat, part 1

I've been thinking more about those journals that Wife left behind, when she moved out of Son1's apartment.

She must have been writing them under the guidance of some psychotherapist, or at any rate under the guidance of some psychotherapeutic ideas—ideas that she might have read somewhere, or might have gotten from a therapist in the past. The journals specifically talked about her experience of compulsive thinking, and she set up tables to work out concrete examples.

• Column 1: Initial idea.
• Column 2: Compulsive idea that it triggers.
• Column 3: Rational idea towards which she should redirect herself.
• And so on ....

Examples included:

• Initial idea: "I hurt Hosea by my infidelities and by overspending the budget."
• Compulsive idea: "I am a terrible human and don't deserve to live."
• Rational idea: "I did cause pain but it will be manageable if we work together on it." [Actually I don't remember this entry, but I assume it would have to be something like that.]
• I don't have more examples, because you remember I left the journals there.

It all looks like a very logical therapeutic approach. But the single most important fact—overwhelming everything else—is that it didn't work! Self-understanding counts for bupkes unless it results in meaningful changes of behavior, and Wife's behavior never changed! So all these journal entries were just masturbation, nothing more.

During my most recent visit, Son1 mentioned as an aside (as if it were an obvious point, while explaining something else) that Wife still suffers from these compulsive ideas. Someone criticizes her and right away she falls into a spiral of ranting, "Oh I'm a terrible human and don't deserve to live!" Then whoever's talking to her backs off, because he (or she) didn't mean the criticism to be quite that extreme. And therefore nobody ever succeeds in talking to her about behavior that she actually has to fix.

As I typed those words, I found myself thinking, "Nice work, if you can get it."

And indeed, in the short run it seems like this uncontrolled and disproportionate response is an effective tactic to prevent Wife ever having to face any serious criticism. It insulates her. If narcissism means having to preserve her self-image at all costs, it's a very sturdy form of narcissistic defense, ... even if it is awfully remeniscent of Russian roulette. 

In the long run, of course, the tactic is self-defeating because it means she never confronts the habits that make her fail. So she never learns new habits instead, and she continues to fail. At this point, Wife has failed:

• As a musician. (Good enough to be a church organist, not good enough to be a professional.)
• As a scholar. (She dropped out of one graduate program for complicated reasons, and then failed her Qualifying Exams in her second program.)
• As a businesswoman. (She alienated several employers and they fired her; then her health collapsed while she was still working for the last one and she had to go out on permanent disability.)
• As a church-goer. (I don't know as much about this. But she transitioned over the years from Wiccan to Baptist to Mormon. She was pretty open—to me and the boys—about joining the Mormon church because they look after you. But I think I remember her saying a few years ago that her bishop had actually thrown her out of the church for some reason. Maybe freeloading.)
• As a friend. (Wife keeps making new friends and then keeps alienating them. She tried to contact her friend Leia to say goodbye before leaving town, but no such luck.)
• As a wife. (OK, maybe I'm prejudiced on this point. But read the first ten years of this blog to see my perspective on the question.)
• As a mother? (Whatever else is going on, Wife has clung to her identity as a mother of two wonderful boys. But the last long email I got from her makes me think she is reconsidering what that relationship really looks like.)

If you run into an asshole one day, well, tough luck, you ran into an asshole. If everyone you meet, all day long, is an asshole—it's because you are the asshole.

What this means, in turn, is that Wife's whole life is one long exercise in self-defeat. And it didn't have to be. It was all avoidable. I mean ... maybe her bad health was baked in from the beginning. But the dysfunctional personality, that squandered every opportunity she was handed? That seems to have been something she did on purpose. And it is sad.

           

"And what have you done?"

So this is Christmas
And what have you done?
Another year over
And a new one just begun

I'm pretty sure I first heard this song on Christmas Day. It was sometime in the mid-1970's, at my parents' house, and Brother had been given an album which included it. At any rate, that's the image that pops into my head whenever I hear it ... the living room, the tree, the lights, and the stereo system. (Gosh, remember stereo systems?)

The other thing that I always hear is that question: "And what have you done?" Does everyone else find that challenge depressing, or is it just me? On the whole I think my answer is, "Not much." It makes me see why people are so eager to make New Year's Resolutions. Of course, I don't even do that: after watching Father go on so many diets that he swore with great fanfare would make him thin, ... and then watching him go off them again after two weeks with no visible change of girth, ... I figure it is better simply to fail quietly than to fail after calling a lot of attention to yourself. (No, it never really occurred to me to treat success as one of the options. Why do you ask?)

I'm not sure I have much more to say about this. But I'm sitting home alone, watching out my window as the weather lurches dramatically from stormy to calm and back to stormy again. It's Christmas, but without any of the usual Christmas-stuff going on. So here: have a song. 

Incidentally, I had a thought this morning. When John and Yoko sang this song, their slogan (referring to the Vietnam War) was, "War is over if you want it." That sentiment probably sounded idealistic to many, but in fact the events proved it to be remarkably practical. Because in general there is always one quick and certain way to end any war: Let the other guys win! And as long as your commitment to peace is stronger than your commitment to victory, that avenue is open and available. Sure enough, it worked in Vietnam.

Here are the lyrics:

Analysis through movies

The other day I was wasting time on Twitter, and I ran across someone who claimed, "Tell me your favorite Christmas movie and I’ll tell you your trauma."

I'd recently re-read this post from last year, so I felt I was game for the challenge. I replied, "Can you do this with favorite non-Christmas movies? Favorite Christmas movie: 'It's a Wonderful Life.' Favorite movie all-around: probably 'Lawrence of Arabia'."

The next morning, he had replied back: "you are deeply concerned about the impact you have on other people’s lives and often fear that you’re not doing enough."

Umm ... OK, I guess. Actually that's not too far off. Good to know. 

What you deserve

A few days ago I saw a short video on Twitter. It never uses the word deserve. But somehow that's the way I remember it. As if it had been about What you think you deserve in life.

Here's the YouTube version:

So naturally I started thinking: Is it true? Could someone judge—based solely on seeing that I married Wife—how much I love myself? Could someone assess what I think I deserve in life?

Yeah, probably. It's not a good look.

The next day, I got an email from Debbie inviting me to join some software tool called Giftster. Apparently it's a tool that lets you publish wish lists for all sorts of holiday gifts. She invited me to join a group that includes her and her family. 

Well, I haven't done it yet. Partly I hate the idea of having to set up yet another user ID and password for yet another tool that I'll probably never use. Or rather, I guess I'll use it twice a year: a few weeks before Debbie's birthday, and a few weeks before Christmas. But of course there's no way I would ever put any preferences of my own into such a tool! I've written about that before: Dorophobia!

And then suddenly all kinds of connections started to cascade down around my head. I've written about this topic before, in different flavors and through different lenses, all too many times.

With respect to romantic relationships: "Harems" and "Encouraging non-exclusivity? Why?" and "Punishment for my sins?" Also this post about a quote from Tolstoy applies too, if you think about D's principle (elucidated here) that (on the whole) spouses are of comparable attractiveness. Why should they be? Well if each spouse is competing with a large pool of others for the most attractive possible partner, that's just how it sorts out: those with the greatest drawing power (the most attractive) will get the most attractive mates, and likewise down the ladder. But if someone (like me) doesn't look for the most attractive mates—either because he doesn't think he deserves them, or for some more idiotic reason—then the pattern breaks down.

With respect to family: "My apartment" and "The empty table."  

At work: "On being the boss."  

And just at the level of general discussion: "Seventeenth date 3, Depression, dignity, arrogance" and "You don't count" and "What is money for?, 2: fear of beauty."

 

And there are probably more, that I didn't think to look for.

It's not a good look. Maybe I need to think about it, or take it seriously.

   

The romaine lettuce incident

OK, this story is from long, long ago. I don't really remember when it happened, but I think it was before Wife and I were even married—back when we were just "dating". (This means I was living in her apartment and we were regularly fucking, but the whole thing hadn't been formalized yet by a ceremony.) Call it ... well, maybe early-to-mid 1984. All our big turmoil was still in the future. I was still baffled when things went wrong, instead of cynically resigned to it. But the interesting thing is that I'm telling you the story now, not to tell you anything about Wife but actually to talk about me.

What happened?

I remember we were visiting my grandfather. Also, my parents were both there. Maybe we were helping him sort through the immense stacks of useless clutter that he and my grnadmother had accumulated over something close to fifty years of marriage. But it wasn't a holiday, because nobody had done any advanced planning for meals.

In the middle of the afternoon, Father (my dad) realized that the refrigerator had basically no food in it, because my grandfather was very old and lived alone. So he went shopping only when he absolutely had to, and he shopped for one person with a small appetite. I don't know whether he had known in advance that we were coming out to see him, but in any event he hadn't bothered to lay in any supplies. My grnadfather never really thought about other people except when he was forced to, and for many decades he had been able to rely on my grandmother to do all that for him.

So Father realized we were all going to need something for dinner, and he began making a shopping list. (He also planned to do the cooking.) So he asked for suggestions. 

What would we like for dinner?

Someone made a suggestion, and he wrote down the ingredients.

How about a salad? Would everyone like a salad too?

Sure, that sounds great.

What kind of lettuce should I get? 

At this point, Wife—who of course was just a Girlfriend back then, but you all know her as Wife—said, "Pretty much any kind would be fine, except please don't get romaine lettuce. I hate romaine lettuce."

My heart sank. Maybe it's too grandiose or self-important to say that I had a premonition of what was going to happen. But at some level that's exactly what I had. From that moment, I knew the whole evening was going to turn out badly.

And I say that because of course—maybe this doesn't sound like an "of-course" situation to you, but to me it was absolutely predictable!—when Father got back from the store we discovered that he had bought romaine lettuce for our salad!

So the arguing began.

Wife: Why did you buy romaine lettuce when that's the one and only kind of lettuce I told you I don't like?

Father: Well why the hell do you have to be so fussy?

Wife: But you asked for suggestions! Nobody expressed any different preferences, besides me! So why would you buy this? It wasn't to satisfy anyone else's preferences, because nobody else expressed any. Is this just a deliberate slap in the face because you hate me?

Father: My God, you think the world revolves around you! Jesus H. Christ, I bought what I bought. Leave me alone and don't give me so much shit over it. If you don't want to eat any salad, you don't have to!

Bad at chess

I was talking with Marie today, and she mentioned in the course of the discussion that she had never learned to play chess very well, not past the most rudimentary level. Neither have I, and it was no big deal. But then she told me why not: she found that she had a very low tolerance for losing! And of course the only way to learn to play chess well is to play a lot of it even though you start off playing badly; and that, in turn, means accepting that you are going to lose an awful lot of the time.

She also acknowledged that this low tolerance for losing might have made her life harder in other ways, but we didn't pursue it too far. (I still remembered sitting up talking a few nights ago, and didn't want to push anything too hard.) But I did start to wonder—silently, in my own mind—how far this preference had affected her other choices in life? In a post last year, I toyed with the idea of picturing Marie as a kind of atheist nun; but is it possible that she chose that path simply in order to reduce the number of direct contests she would have to fight? After all, if you never enter the arena, you can't lose. (You can't win either, but it doesn't feel to me like winning is nearly so important to Marie as not-losing.) 

Or consider her fears for many years about my continued friendship with Debbie, fears that seem only to have been put to rest recently. Of course it is more or less typical for a girlfriend to worry if her boyfriend keeps in touch with one of his exes. So maybe what is interesting is all the things that Marie didn't do. She didn't force the issue, or give me any kind of ultimatum. She didn't ask a lot of questions about Debbie, though sometimes if the subject came up she would cautiously ask one or two things before dropping the subject. Only once do I remember her ever criticizing Debbie (when I told her about how Debbie contracted COVID-19 ... I guess I never told that story here); after that I was careful to say less about Debbie and for a while she was careful to ask less. And she never overtly tried to compete.

In other words, Marie lived in fear that she was going to lose to Debbie, but she never did any of the common things that would have forced the contest out into the open. And maybe this was because she was afraid she might lose, and couldn't handle losing.

So what about me? I have remarked before that Marie and I have a lot in common, and that one thing we share is that our accomplishments are far smaller than our talents would lead you to guess. Do I share her unwillingness to lose?

It's possible. And after my ruminations last year on the concept of the Jungian Shadow (see here and especially here), I want to be careful about dogmatically asserting that I don't have this or that unappealing trait. There's always the risk that I have it but don't want to admit it.

At the same time, I don't think the data support it. Am I fearful of other things? Heavens, yes. But maybe not losing, at least not per se. When I was in high school, for example, I joined the cross-country team because I wanted to get in shape. I always came in last in all our races, but I knew in advance I was going to. It wasn't a problem. And in my long marriage to Wife, I learned that when she worked herself into a towering rage, the best thing I could do was to lose the argument. When we separated, I lost the marriage. I have put myself in the position of losing things a number of times—not as often as it would take to learn to play good chess, maybe, but still. So it is at any rate not obvious to me that this specific liability is one of mine.

Of course I have plenty of others, so there's no risk I'll run out. But it was interesting to think about.  

 

Psychological safety

Yesterday I too a couple of online classes related to job skills. In a sense it was silly of me to waste the time, because I'm retired—why should I need to improve my job skills now? But they were offered for free and I hated to waste them. Anyway, one of the classes was about how to develop your employees, and it made what should have been a commonplace observation: your employees need to feel psychologically safe before you can talk about developing their skills or their careers. Otherwise they won't take the risk.

Psychologically safe??

And right away I thought about this post here, plus any number of other times at work that the same topic came up (but I didn't write about it).

Looking back with the perspective of ... gosh, it looks like seven years by now! ... I think I was too harsh in my assessment of what was going on. You can go read the post itself for the Grand Narrative that I spun at the time, but I think the simpler explanation is that I didn't feel psychologically safe. And this was for a couple of reasons.

One is that I really felt our Human Resources department (by that time) was dangerous, or even predatory. Years before, when we had our own local HR staff, I had a good relationship with them. But by the time all this went down, HR was located elsewhere and I felt a distinct sense of menace from most of them.

Another is that I was working in a discipline that I had learned entirely on-the-job, and there were huge parts of it I didn't know. I had established a good position for myself over the years, but I knew that there were large provinces of my own field that I knew nothing about, and I didn't even know what the possibilities were in the profession. So I had no idea where to start a conversation.

Finally, I could never really bring myself to care about making any serious, long-term contributions to the business. I talk about this phenomenon here.

All in all, I think the lack of psychological safety I felt at work was largely just an extension of my status as the Consummate Outsider. (And see also the story about Aristotle that I tell in this post I already referenced.)

Is that a good thing? No, I guess not. But it's not as discreditable as the Grand Narrative I came up with seven years ago.    

Failed again, 2

This afternoon I logged into my bank account, and on a whim I looked up what you have to do to link a savings account as the backup to prevent overdrafts on a checking account. I discovered that the service is free. Next I wondered: Since I'm still listed on Son 1's accounts—that's why I get copied on his overdraft notifications—I wonder if I have the authority to link his savings account to his checking account?

Only one way to find out. So I tried it. Less than five minutes later, it was all done.

This should prevent future overdraft notifications, I think. Unless things get really bad, I mean.

I emailed Son 1 to tell him I had done it, and to explain that he could undo it if he chose. (I think.) I have heard nothing back from him, but I didn't really expect to. I hope this solves the problem.

    

Why do I court failure?

At one point back in 2016, when we first got back together, Marie told me that decades earlier—when we knew each other in college—she had been racking her brains trying to figure out why we got along so well. That sounds like a strange thing to say, but here's what she meant by it.

By the time she was in middle school, Marie's home life was hopelessly dysfunctional: her father had committed suicide, and her mother was a blackout drunk who had once molested her all the way to orgasm (back when Marie was 12 and didn't understand what was going on). See, for example, this post and this one. And when Marie looked around at her friends, the only ones she felt naturally at-ease with were the ones whose home lives were equally dysfunctional. So she just figured that's how it was: she was messed up, and the only people she could really relax around were equally messed up.

Then she met me, and right away felt at ease around me. So she tried to create conversational openings to let me explain how my family was dysfunctional, while she shared how her family was dysfunctional. She figured it would be a bonding exercise.

Only I never took the bait. On the one hand, I had long since internalized the rule that you Never Talk Your Family Down to Others. And on the other hand, I genuinely didn't understand that there was anything dysfunctional about us. By conventional standards we were all pretty normal. My dad sometimes drank a lot, but not to the point that he ever lost his job or got into fights. My parents stayed married during ten disastrous years of running a business that they hated and didn't understand (or not at first). We didn't have a lot of money, but somehow we got by. So I never had any lurid tales of dysfunction to share with Marie, and she was left baffled. How can I possibly feel so at ease with him when he and his family are so normal?

In the first couple of months that we were back in communication, she kept probing at this point until I finally asked her to stop. Also after a couple of months we started fucking, and we had better things to talk about.

Over time, of course, I have come to have a clearer understanding of some of the mind games that Father played ... mostly not, I think, out of actual malice, but in an attempt to placate some of his own demons. And I've talked about how he interacted with me using a power dynamic that felt very sexual, even if we both had our clothes on. (See, for example, this post and this post; for a more light-hearted approach, you might also try this post.)

But just this evening, I thought of a neat formula that summarizes the profound ambivalence—and that's putting it nicely!—that I feel about great achievement.

Father forced me to feel pride in my achievements in the same way that Marie's mother forced her to feel orgasms.

I'm not sure I have stories to back that up—well, I've got one but I'm not ready to share it yet. Other than that one, I think it mostly took the form of little remarks here and there by the way, bits and bobs that I probably can't remember accurately or at all but that contributed to an overall ambience of expectations.

But the end result for both of us was very similar. 

• For years, Marie could not take pleasure in sex, or at best she could take only the limpest and most qualified form of pleasure. 
• For years, I have not been able to take pleasure in my achievements, or only the limpest and most qualified form of pleasure.

What does this look like in practice?

• When people praise Son1 and Son2, I agree that they have both grown into fine young men; but I insist that parents don't have a lot of influence on that, and that the credit goes to them for choosing to become so good. The only parenting victory that I will own is my forcing Wife to let both boys go to boarding school, in order to get them away from the two of us!
• Back when I was working, my greatest victories at work were the kind of thing where I could easily say, "Everyone came together as a team and did their parts really well. All I had to contribute was a little organization, and taking minutes." And you can bet that's exactly what I said.
• I have confessed to you lot (who would never tell a soul, and besides I'm hiding behind a mask) that yes, in odd moments I have occasionally felt little wisps of pride in my ancient academic achievements, back during the Buchanan Administration; I have also said that those wisps of pride feel like "a really degrading sexual fetish," or like "masturbating in public." And of course you remember the cartoon I posted about it all. 

So honestly I think it's a pretty good analogy. It captures just how slimy and unclean I feel around the whole topic of achievement.

And how much cleaner I feel around failure, by comparison. 

P.S.: I think this insight helps explain much of the ambivalence I have around school and anything that looks like it. I've talked about that a lot over the years, but see especially this post and this one. Now I'm wrestling with the question how much of this post about Marie applies to me too. I think any simple answer will be wrong, and that the true answer is "Not 100% but also not 0%."

  

Failed again

Yesterday—good Lord, was it only yesterday?—I had a totally pointless fight with Son 1. I don't even know if "fight" is the right word. All I know is that—ironically for someone who talks and writes as much as I do—sometimes I really suck at explaining what I mean. (As a point of comparison, consider, "I never could teach my sons to do their math homework.")

If you are reading this and you have any suggestions for how I can fix it, please leave me a note in the comments. [Update a month later, 2025-08-22: I may have solved the problem since then, as explained here.]

Background

It all started ... well no, it started long before that. Years ago, when the boys were first graduating from college and starting out on their own, they authorized me to have access to their bank accounts. From time to time they needed little boosts of cash while they were getting their footing in the real world, and it was easier for me simply to transfer funds than to write a check, mail it, wait for it to arrive, and wait for them to deposit it.

But it turns out that an arrangement like this is a lot easier to set up than it is to discontinue. The only way to cancel it is for the owner of the account (this means, respectively, either Son 1 or Son 2) to walk into the bank and ask for a new account number. (Actually two new numbers, one for checking and one for savings.) Then as the bank sets up the new accounts and transfers over all the history from old to new, the account owner has to say, "Oh yeah, one more thing: don't put my Dad on the new accounts." This is cumbersome. Also it's a nuisance in case (for example) the account owner has set up Direct Deposit for his paycheck, because now he has to re-set it with the new account number. Then he has to wait for the bank to issue new ATM cards, and all that. It's a pain. And since at this point Son 1 and Son 2 each live somewhere else, we haven't gotten around to dealing with it.

It's weird. If Father had ever had access to one of my bank accounts (which he never did, once I was in college), I would have been eager to shut off that access as soon as I possibly could. I suppose in some sense it is a vote of confidence that the boys have been so blasé about the issue.

Talking about vacation

Memo to the reader: I thought about titling this piece "On vacation," in the same way that one might title a treatise, "On the Gods," or "On human nature." But I realized that most people would assume it just meant, "I'm going to be away from my computer and not writing for a while." In this case that's not what I mean. Hence the slightly clunkier title.

It's late at night. I've drunk too much. And I need to do things in the morning. Why am I not in bed asleep?

Well, I almost was—at the end of another highly unproductive and useless day. (I keep hoping my days will be productive. But that would require that I actually had the will to accomplish something, and that will is often missing.) But then I thought of an interesting pattern. I wanted to record it before I forgot it, and so here we are.

It's just this. You've heard me complain about being stuck, dead in the water, accomplishing nothing. I've blamed it on booze and on Twitter, both of which are indeed serious contributors to my time-wasting. But both of them are enablers, not root causes. The reality is, This is something I do.

So for example:

The unlived life of the parents

While I'm posting random quotes from Twitter (that's a reference to this post over on the Patio), here's one I found yesterday that is way too accurate.

"The unlived life of the parents," or in other words, we get stuck on the same things that our parents got stuck on. 

Is it true as a general rule? I haven't the slightest idea. But does it explain why I'm so stuck right now? O boy, howdy.

I don't even mean that it explains things at a causal level (though of course it might). But at a descriptive level, it is unerring. Father worked for years running a family business in a field that didn't espcially interest him, but in which he became (by necessity) something of an expert. Then events conspired to allow him to retire early, so that he could do whatever he wanted. He made a few half-hearted attempts to find other work—he got certified as a hypnotherapist, for example, and also as a college-loan planner, and for each job he set up an office for a little while. But what he really wanted to do was to act. And in fact he found work in a few small things here and there—commercials, and bit parts in unsuccessful movies. But he never made it big in acting, and he pissed away a lot of time on the Internet.

Sound like anyone else you know?

The worrying part is that if "the unlived life of the parents" really does affect the children, then I risk passing this very same stasis on to Son 1 and Son 2 in their turn. 

And as if that weren't enough motivation, you remember that Kimberly Steele told me that getting a book published is a major task of mine for this lifetime. So if she is right (and if I have more lives beyond this one), I'd better get my ass in gear or I'll be dumped into exactly the same situation next time (but with less favorable circumstances).

I don't know whether I believe in future lives (except in this sense), but I certainly believe in my children. So maybe I'd better get my ass in gear.

Maybe tomorrow.   

 

The virtue of procrastination

Someone on Twitter wrote:

"What is the evolutionary advantage of putting off a task? This is the sort of thing that makes me believe in original sin."

Without thinking, I immediately shot back:

"Every action has risks, including death. So the best strategy is to save all your energy for when you really need it by doing nothing UNLESS you need it. This means real needs, like escaping the tiger; not socially-constructed 'needs' like impressing your neighbors." 

Probably I'm wrong. But I felt I had to put in a good word for procrastination.

Hosea's island

"There is a bittersweet loneliness in the life of an exile that exerts a romantic appeal to many people. They see themselves as a mysterious figure on a Mediterranean island, seen by all, known to few, living a life of intense privacy in full view. The problem with such a life is that it cannot sustain trust; the very essence of exile is the belief that one can only really count on oneself."*

Was Roger Ebert writing about me? He might have been. I'm not sure how "romantic" my life is (and of course I don't live on a Mediterranean island) but the rest of it fits: intense privacy, known to few. And a lack of trust, for sure.

But "exile"? Maybe, in a sense. When I was very little, my parents were graduate students and they rented houses from professors on sabbatical. That meant we moved every year. Then my dad got a teaching job clear across the country (so we moved) … which he hated (so he looked for another job right away and we moved again). When I was a few months shy of my sixth birthday, we moved abroad, to another country. There I met a girlfriend (but then we moved) … and then finally we landed in a house where we stayed for five years. A neighborhood where I could ride my bicycle for hours and learn all the streets. A place where I could begin to put down roots. Not that I was ever fully rooted there—already I kept to myself the knowledge that we were Americans, because Americans weren't always popular in this new country. Also my parents sometimes smoked pot, which in those days was illegal both in that country and back home. So I had to be careful how much I told my friends about my family. I had to draw lines, and compartmentalize my world. But on the whole I felt like I belonged there.

Nothing ever lasts. When I was a few months shy of my twelfth birthday we moved back to the United States. At the time I believed the move was only temporary: I no longer remember if my parents said that explicitly, or if I just chose to believe it. But this time they bought a house, instead of just renting it. It's the same house Mother still lives in today. So no, the move wasn't temporary.

So it was another exile. Another layer. And then my eccentric interests and bookishness added more layers on top of that. You've heard all this before. (I realized after starting this post that I've said it all before here and here. Maybe elsewhere too, but those will do for a start.)   

But I did want to capture that quote from Roger Ebert.

__________

* From Roger Ebert's review of "Pascali's Island," August 12, 1988, reprinted on RegerEbert.com. 

Stuck

I haven't written—anything—in a while.

In the middle of October, I traveled for a week and a half. I visited Debbie at her home with her family (Mattie and her husband and their two boys, Debbie's grandsons); then I flew on to a city in another state, where Marie was attending a conference. I got back home a week ago.

My last post for this blog was something I wrote on my phone, during the outbound flight. My last post for the Patio was back in July, when Joe Biden was still a candidate for re-election to the Presidency. You may remember that I have a blog about professional topics, under my real-life name, but I wrote that ahead through the end of October so that it would still post while I was out of town. Consequently I have written nothing since that post introducing Fawn. Nothing in the last 18 days. Nothing.

The Red Shoes

A week ago, I visited Mother. We talked all weekend, as usual. Partly we talked about this potential job that I've been mulling, because I wanted to assess how tough it would be on her if I moved 400 miles away to take it. Her answer was basically what Brother had said: it would be sad to have me farther away, but not devastating. (And, knowing my Mother, it would have to be pretty damned devastating before she would ever admit it.)

But somewhere along the line she mentioned casually that "The Red Shoes" (1948) had been Father's favorite movie, back when he was alive. Whenever it came on the Late Show on television, he made sure to see it; and then he would talk about it long after. She said she thought it was deeply meaningful for him.

It must have been. But what does that tell me about him, that I didn't already know? Is there anything?

Well, maybe. Of course he was an actor, not a dancer. And he was dedicated to his craft. Even if he was playing forgettable roles in silly, summer stock shows he approached them with professionalism: to portray the character the best way he could, and to give the audience more than they had paid for. I remember the theater critic who wrote for the local paper when I was in high school used to roast the local theater company for failing to bring out the subtleties of "Charlie's Aunt" or "The Mousetrap" … and he always qualified his scathing remarks by saying, "… except for [Mr. Tanatu], who delivers, as always, the solid, polished performances we have come to expect from him."

He loved the fine arts. In a sense it's funny to say that, because I don't remember him going out to art galleries a lot. And while my parents had a large collection of LPs [that means "long-playing vinyl records to be played at at 33⅓ revolutions per minute," for those unfamiliar with the term] it seems like they played a lot of music when I was a baby or young child, and not so much when I was older. It is as if their music-playing dropped off sharply when they reached their mid-thirties. (Maybe there were external factors involved, because of things going on in their lives. I can only guess.) But I know that he thought of himself and described himself as someone who loved the fine arts, so I'll give him credit for that here. (That self-understanding also caused him problems in other ways, as I discuss in this post here.)

What do I want?

Yesterday I spent several hours reviewing my resume and preparing for my interview. I had the interview. Then I wrote up my notes, looked up some relevant data online, went to the store, and talked with Brother on the phone for an hour afterwards. It was a very productive day.

Today I accomplished bugger-all, except for sending a couple of (very belated) thank-you notes for the interviews, and going to Sangha in the evening. Maybe it's just a reaction against having actually achieved something yesterday, but I also think that my compulsively doom-scrolling Twitter might be a way to avoid thinking about what I really want.

Do I want a new job? I don't know. But I do think I have stumbled on the worst way to find out.

Bad habits, 3

A couple days ago I got an idea for a post to write here, and it turns out I've already written it—or at any rate the first half of it. (You can find it here.) It was going to be about how I've gotten into a lot of bad habits lately. Self-destructive or suicidal habits, if I don't correct them. Habits that are guaranteed to shorten my lifespan. I'm too isolated from others. I don't exercise enough and I'm putting on weight again. My alcohol consumption is on its way up. (In 2021, I averaged 3.3 drinks per day; in 2022, 3.6; in 2023, 4.1; in 2024 to date, 5.2.) I do some volunteer work for the professional society that covers the profession I used to follow, but I feel grumpy and alienated about it. It's been months since I cleaned my apartment. And so on.

Why do I feel no push to do anything better?

Well, in a sense I do feel a little push. Otherwise I wouldn't feel bad about it and write you now. But it's not a strong enough push to overcome the lethargy that holds me in place.

Most immediately, I don't have anyone in my face, that I have to report to. I don't have anyone making me do anything. I'm sure Marie would be happy to offer to nag me if I asked her to, but I don't want to ask her to.

Besides, when I bang this drum too loudly there's another side of my brain that fights back. "Geez, what do you want, anyway? I already set myself a major life goal, and I hit it. Isn't that good enough? Can't I relax now?"

I think the answer is No, it's not really good enough. I think the answer is that, as long as I'm alive I should keep pushing forward.

But it sounds like a lot of work.