When Your Back Is Against The Wall, You Can Still Surrender

My friend Eric Meyer recently asked this question on Twitter:

Is bravery possible in the absence of choice? And, conversely, cowardice?
— Eric A. Meyer (@meyerweb) November 11, 2013

I’d wager this is not simply an “Asking for a friend” post, as, if you’ll recall, Eric is dealing with a daughter who has brain cancer and low odds of survival.  And there is an abundance of stiff upper lips in the Meyer family now, as there are Things That Must Be Done: getting Rebecca to treatment, being strong for their daughter, remaining calm for their other two children – who, being children, don’t necessarily understand that Mommy and Daddy need some alone time.
What is your other choice in that situation?
To paraphrase Mythbusters, breaking down is always an option.
And I know the temptation.  When I was at the hospital with the Meyers during the onset of this, when we weren’t even sure Rebecca was going to survive the next 24 hours, let alone the next six months, I was under a huge strain.  I was terrified for Rebecca, terrified for Carolyn, terrified for Eric and Kat, terrified for myself.  And there was the real temptation to just break down and cry, or to have a nice satisfying argument with Gini, or to do something really psychodramatic and stupid.
I did not.
I am really proud of myself that I did not.
And on one level, that absence of action isn’t something that shouldn’t be lauded too heavily: In the game of life, “Not being a burden to the family of a child in life-threatening danger” is a snap-keep decision, one that I really shouldn’t bandy about as “Yeah!  I did that!”  Because if I hadn’t done that, I would have been a miserable human being, adding to the already-overwhelming stress of the Meyers and forcing them to deal with me.
Yet there are people I know – for I’ve heard the tales – who when something huge like this hit made it all about them, they wailed and moaned and pestered the sick and the caretakers alike, unable to control their anguish.  And so they made the world worse in the worst situation, acting out at a time when they really shouldn’t have.  And often, people let them get away with it because they’re family, and this is a stressful time for all of us, and it’s understandable that Aunt Jocinda might act out…
…but it’s not cool.  It’s never cool.
Breaking down is always an option.
And for families of people like Eric, on one level, there’s no choice in what they’re going through.  You have to be stronger than you ever thought you’d be for your kids, and your wife, and your friends.  You have to grow new muscles to support this weight that the world is tossing so cavalierly on your shoulders.  To them, there’s no choice because the alternative is failure.  And yet there is a choice, because there’s plenty of families in similar circumstances who do break down consistently – ignoring the stressful reality to insist that everything is fine in ways that circumvent the medical reality and damage their kid, giving up and tossing the burden onto the kids or other relatives, giving up on the kid’s future and just cocooning them in a swathe of toys and candy and no responsibility.
Most don’t do that, thankfully.  Because most do the thing that gives them no choice.  But enough do to serve as proof that there is almost always another option – you’re just so completely unwilling to make it that it doesn’t occur to you.
And those who make that choice, even though it is the thing that is 100% expected and moral and correct, deserve a pat on the back.
There is bravery when there are no choices, and there is if not cowardice, a weakness of character.  Because the only time there are no choices is when you are dead.  As long as you’re alive, you have the ability to give up on your family, your friends, your life, and your morals.
Every day you don’t do that, particularly under stresses that have torn other people apart?  It’s a triumph.  It’s a medal of honor.  And it’s a direct thank you from me to you for fucking doing the thing that must be borne.

How Do Y'All Feel About Dating?

So my friend and rock star Monica Byrne (author of the upcoming The Girl In The Road) posted this question:
If you say you’re dating someone, what does that mean to you, at a minimum? The word “dating” seems to mean such different things to different people.
And what I said it meant to me was, “I am smooching this person regularly whenever we meet.”  Which wasn’t really accurate, but then again I live in a poly world.  In my world, “dating” is a nebulous zone hovering between “You have say in who else I date,” as my wife and my girlfriend A do, and “We’ve played together at a BDSM club and think fondly of each other.”
To me, “dating” is frequently a way to avoid putting a relationship in a box, because it’s no commitment to go out on a date with someone.  You can date and walk away.  But to be dating is to say, “You are, however vaguely, on the track to having my girlfriend and wife okay you for sex.”  Which is a long process.  Because I tend to be attracted to the drama-prone, I’ve instituted a six-month waiting period before any sort of serious sexual shenanigans happen, and usually that time is more – the last person I got the approval for, I dated for over a year before opting to make the move.
So I’ll use the term “dating,” but I don’t like it, because to be it’s redolent of pressure: this nice evening out is a shaped charge, pointing towards an officialized relationship.  Whereas I’ve found what works better for me is if I just hang around you for a while because I like you, not trying to push the relationship towards OMG WE MUST HAVE TEH SEX but rather “You’re cool, you’ve continued to be cool after several dates, and now that we’ve connected on every level but sex, let’s see how whether that’s something we wanna pursue.”
And Lordy, does that sound weird, even to me: “Things are really good right now, do we have to mess it up with sex?”  But that’s my poly-bureaucracy for you: Asking for new partners stresses my current ones out, so I choose to ease back on that.
But it does mean that I’m often “dating” a variety of people, my life peppered with occasional smooches, because I like smooching and I like people and I especially like smoochable women.  My love life is a Gordian knot of attractions, often incomprehensible even to me.
So I don’t like the term dating.  Yet I wonder what dating is like for you other people.  Is “dating” a threshold one must pass to get to somewhere, or can you be “dating” someone you’ve gone out twice with and intend to have a third get-together?  Does dating signify some commitment, however loose to you?  Or is dating an irritating term you use because there are no better ones available?
Tell me.  I’m curious.
 

Living By Evidence

I have a friend who thinks he’s quite good at admitting when he’s wrong about something. When he stated this as a strength of his at a party, all of his friends spluttered, “You think you’re good at that? You?”
He still maintains he’s good at admitting when he’s wrong. The fact that everyone he knows sees him as an impersuadable butthead (albeit a lovable one) has not shifted his view of himself by one iota.
This is just one way of living your life wrong, to my mind.
Being a depressive is generally living in the Land of Suck, but you do have to learn one vital secret of life in order to survive: A thing can be emotionally true and factually a lie. Which is to say that I wake on certain mornings consumed by the idea that nobody in this world loves me, that everyone would be much happier if I drank the Drano, and that my funeral would be attended by no one. This is not how I feel; this is how things are, so much so that on three occasions I’ve actually tried to end my worthless life.
Then, slowly, I gather the facts around me: My wife is cuddled up next to me, evidently content. My phone contains texts from people who wanted to talk to me. My blog occasionally contains some nice comments.
And I think: Though I feel as though no one cares, the evidence around me suggests otherwise. And, gripping the facts like I would the rungs on a ladder, I haul myself back to reality.
That evidence-based technique is useful in all sorts of other circumstances. For example, there are times when my wife is being ridiculously hypersensitive, crying and withdrawing at a perfectly reasonable statement I made, and I think:Hang on. Gini is not prone to overreact like this. If she’s so upset about something I said, evidence would suggest that I’m the one being an asshole. And so I take a few minutes to reexamine what I just said, conclude objectively that I’m being a jerk, and go in and apologize to her even though internally I feeltoweringly righteous.
My legs are stitched with angry red scars where they yanked veins out of my legs to implant them in my failing heart. These scars are so ugly that sometimes I weep when I’m surprised by them, these puckered hideous reminders. And I’m convinced that no one could possibly find me attractive despite them. Then I list off the people who do find me attractive who’ve seen the scars, and despite my instinctive post-surgical terror, I conclude that I’m probably overreacting.
What all of these have in common is that I’m minimizing the shrieking interior voice and prioritizing the exterior facts. Maybe, yes, from your perspective you’re a lamb, easily persuadable when the right facts are presented, but if all your friends tell you that you’re a butthead, logic suggests that:
a) You have a group of friends who each have very poor judgment, or:
b) You’re a butthead.
And I’m not saying you use this technique to not feel this way. You just act differently based on that evidence. Like I said, I feel absolutely justified when Gini’s upset because I’m having a bad day… but I separate that emotional sensation from how I’m going to react to her, because frankly apologizing to her right now even if I can’t fully sense what I did wrong is usually the correct move.
(Likewise, you know, the whole “not drinking Drano” thing.)
This technique isn’t always usable, depending on your evidence. When I’m writing fiction, Lord knows I have the days where everything I do to fix a scene makes it worse, smearing flaw upon flaw, and eventually I feel like I’m fingerpainting messily with a dog’s turds. I’m a terrible writer. I should just give up.
And for me, I can use the past evidence of my published short stories as proof that I’m not as bad as I think I am. That wouldn’t have flown a decade ago, when I had no notable publications. I would have had to find some other way to get around that feeling.
(Though it should be noted that me not giving up is a large portion of the link between “Whatever success I have now” and “The struggling dude I was then,” proving that your internal monologue can be absolutely incorrect even if the facts seem to support it. I probably should have given up… and yet by dint of persistence, I got to a better place.)
Regardless, the point I’m making is that a lot of people would probably be better off if they could find a way to prioritize the evidence on the ground over their internal feelings. There’s tons of people like that: folks who feel persecuted by the world, when the truth is they make really poor decisions. People who act as though they’re unattractive when they have people lusting after them. People who feel disrespected when people disagree with them.
All of ’em could stand to throw a few facts in front of those surging emotions. Or at least that’s the way I feel. I’m open to evidence that I’m wrong.
…I think.

Some More Thoughts On Podcasting

So podcasts have shot to the top of my hobbies list with a stratospheric speed, thanks to two factors:
1)  I have to spend an hour a day walking the dog.
2)  I have to spend three hours a week doing cardio rehab at the hospital.
All of this has meant that I have a lot of time walking, and I need something to occupy my ears.  And I gotta say, there are two podcasts people have referred me to that are stellar:
99% Invisible is a beautiful little oddcast of investigations into the background.  It’s supposedly about design, and yet it never feels restrictive; each podcast is an NPR-style investigation that feel like illuminations of some area I’ve never seen before.  A guy who’s drawing every building in New York.  The ethical conundrums of architects.  The guy who drew backgrounds for Chuck Jones.  Every time I listen to one of these, they’re perfect for the twenty-minute amble around the block, as I’m pulling to a halt just as the piece closes.  It’s wonderful.
The Memory Palace has these beautiful, bite-sized chunks of forgotten history.  They’re all about five to seven minutes, and deal with these weird little eddies of the past that people seem to have forgotten about.  And the wonderful thing about it is that since I too love these backwaters of history, I usually know the details, but Nate DiMeo tells the tale so well that it’s like hearing about The Piltdown Man all over again.  His piece “O How We Danced” will take you five minutes, and it is flat-out the most beautiful thing I have heard in months.  I’d listen if I were you.
As it is, I’m sufficiently interested in podcasting that I bought a microphone.  On the advice of some lovely people on Twitter, I bought a Blue Snowball USB Microphone, as it was the cheapest of the most recommended options, and it’s pretty imposing: on its stand, it looks like a Magic 8-Ball ready to broadcast.  The tentative name of my podcast is “We Will Steal Their Souls,” and I don’t intend it to be a huge thing or a regular one: just whenever I have an interesting thought on the topic, I’ll record a short broadcast.  I did a regular schedule for Home on the Strange, and while HotS was very successful in many ways I often felt constrained by the deadlines, and there are certain storylines that were ZOMG WE HAVE TO HAVE SOMETHING FOR NEXT WEEK that I just hated in retrospect.
The regular schedule is really a good thing, if you intend to be popular.  The best way to become popular (in addition to being really good, of course) is to become one of someone’s habits, and I know that Home on the Strange was increasing in popularity in part because folks had conditioned themselves to tune in Monday, Wednesday, Friday.  But if I do a podcast, having to do it every week or every other week might make it a more popular podcast but would make it less fun for me.  I don’t even know when I’ll start it.  Could be tomorrow, could be next month.
When the muse strikes, I’ll put my voice to her.  And we’ll see what happens.

Sleepy Hollow vs. Agents of SHIELD

I’ve only seen four episodes of Sleepy Hollow, and yet I’m hooked.  It’s not a great show, but it’s a fun show.
Yet it’s weird.  When people said, “Hey, we have this Marvel show created by Joss Whedon, starring Agent Coulson, and there’s this show about Ichabod Crane,” I know everyone was like, “Aww, man, Whedon is gonna be a good time!”  But Agents of SHIELD is like the functioning government bureaucracy it covers: workable, mostly humorless, marginally efficient but uninspiring.
And compared to Sleepy Hollow in particular, SHIELD’s lack of ambition is killing it.
I think the central problem is what SHIELD seems to think is really spectacular.  Last week’s episode, which was arguably the best to date, featured as its X-Files creepy moment bodies, hanging in air.  That was the crazy thing!  Something was causing magnetic impulses that caused bodies!  To hang!  In air!
Whereas the episode of Sleepy Hollow I just watched featured an albino mouthless sandman that, once it determined you were its victim, turned your fucking eyes to sand.  And then to fight it, you had to be stung on the belly by a scorpion and face it in the Dreamlands.
Which is the problem with SHIELD: it shoots low, so low, as if it’s never heard of Jack Kirby.  The reason people love the Marvel universe is that it’s got all of this crazy stuff: Tony Stark building a goddamned set of power armor in a cave!  Thor crossing the Rainbow Bridge with his goddamned hammer!  Spider-Man swinging through New York City while the newsmen yell out his name!
And SHIELD has… a bunch of guys in suits.  They’re cookie-cutter: the hot young buck, the hot female hacker, the nerdy hot scientists, the hot not-really-old old hand with Secret Trauma.  We’ve seen all this stuff before.  It’s recycled before we got here.  And what we’re getting is CSI procedurals with a touch of Marvel magic, but it feels grudging, as though really they don’t like all of these whacky superhero antics and don’t want to spend the budget on it.
Whereas Sleepy Hollow features Ichabod Crane, former revolutionary soldier and eidetic mastermind, who slept 200 years and woke up in 2013 as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (one of which is, yes, headless) are bearing down on a small New England town.
Ichabod Crane has more colorful story in him than we have seen in the entirety of Agents of SHIELD to this point.
Much has been made of Sleepy Hollow’s casual racial mixture, with three major black characters having conversations, but that’s not why Sleepy Hollow’s a hit.  Sleepy Hollow is a hit because each of those characters are already more interesting than Agent Coulson, and they’re all being forced into a larger plot that doesn’t wrap up neatly at the end of every episode.  Sleepy Hollow takes American history and throws it in a blender – last night had me going “Angry Hessian agents in 2013? Bring it on!” – and as such, what it winds up doing is creating a must-see TV we can’t get with Agents of Shield, because Agents of Shield seems to treat “craziness” as some sort of bizarre spice you can’t put too much on or who knows what’ll happen.
Agents of SHIELD is a bit of salsa next to a heaping vat of corn chips.
Sleepy Hollow is Sriracha sauce poured on a bowl of kim-chi.
And as such, SHIELD is disappointing people because they make such a big deal about “NEXT WEEK WE’LL SHOW YOU SUCH CRAZINESS LIKE YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE!!!!” and the craziness is something the X-Files would barely have blinked at.  Whereas Sleepy Hollow is packed full of crazy, revels in it, rolls in it, and maybe it’s taking big risks that should have collapsed but hey, you don’t know where it’s going.
With last week’s SHIELD, twenty minutes in, I knew exactly how it would end.  I’m not the kind of guy who’s good at anticipating plots, either.  But – SPOILER WARNING – when one of the characters fell into deathly danger, I said, “Well, she’s infected with a horrible virus, I guess they’ll engineer a cure, because it’s too early in the season to kill anyone yet.”  And I bet pretty much everyone watching thought that too.
Whereas with Sleepy Hollow?  I have no idea how it’s going to turn out.  I watch because I’m four episodes in and there’s crazy Sandman people and Ichabod Crane talking to the Onstar lady and crazy sisters and all sorts of things where when they go to commercial break I actually don’t have a good sense of how it’ll end.
I think that predictability is killing SHIELD.  It’s a 1970s show in 2010 trappings, where everything is going to be wrapped up at the end of the episode.  It’s a CBS show for an audience that doesn’t much want CBS, and I don’t know how it’s playing with the CBS crowd but considering it’s hemhorrhaging ratings I suspect the sixty-plus crowd isn’t tuning in either.
Maybe Sleepy Hollow will get too wild and lose us.  That’s always a danger.  But better a high-wire act that falls off than a guy walking the beat.