Can I tell you something about my building's elevator? It makes me a bona fide risk-taker. Were it made of rotten wood and twine from an archaeological dig, it couldn't possibly be more creaky than it is now. Can I note also that this is my second entry today, which doesn't bode well for the other writing I've been doing. Not at all.
Things forebodingly missing from the elevator at 840 Van Ness Avenue:
1. A placard denoting inspection and safety certification.
2. A fully operational door.
3. The sense that the elevator is confident in its ability to defy gravity.
Logically, I'm not all that sound when it comes to this elevator. I feel fine when the elevator is descending. But the dread in my soul is palpable when the elevator is on its way upward. I guess it has to do with the addition of -- rather than the subtraction of -- feet, meters, stories to fall. It also seems more rumbly and jumbly when projecting skyward.
Generally I skip the elevator altogether. But tonight I'm physically exhausted for no real reason and thus lugging many pounds of laundry up and down six flights of stairs seems untenable. But all that is over and I've lived to blog it. So I'm going to fold the aforementioned laundry and pass out.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Change
Writing in this blog is a little like that homeless guy having a conversation with the crosswalk button at Grove and Market because he thinks it's an alien that speaks in hushed machine-gun-like bursts. Speaking of homeless people, am I doing a disservice to the needy when I base my change-giving decisions on how nice I think the person is? For example, there is a really unimposing dude who hangs out by the Mel's on Van Ness and Geary, and I gave him a dollar yesterday and have probably given him several dollars overall throughout my tenure here downtown. He's always really grateful and in a great mood. But yesterday after I gave him my dollar, there was a guy in one of the alleys who resembled what I imagine would be the human manifestation of a San Francisco pigeon. In a classical sense of the word, surely the pigeon man would be more in need of "help." But the other cat seemed like he just wanted to get a burger. There is also the lady who simply sits outside of the Naan N Curry looking like a long-lost relative of Mark Borchardt and kind of snorts, "Spare a quarter?" She never gets change either because she is abrasive and there is something slightly ominous about the way she sets up camp between the tree and the newspaper dispensers. It smacks of a trap. Anyway, this all seems unjust to me, but in this wintery economic climate I have to be selective with my change. I sometimes imagine that some beautiful woman will see me giving someone my spare money and think to herself, "Now, there is a young man who could afford to buy me a multiple-course dinner." So far though, nothing. Perhaps they are all not hungry.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
I killed it.
We're starting from scratch. This blog is now officially for one thing only: taking that mental and verbal shit so you can get on with the day. I want to get some things off my chest. Like, on the reg. I don't feel like going to a therapist though. Maybe later, but that shit is probably expensive.
So here's how it will go. Generally, I'm going to write in here for 5 minutes, 2 hours, 30 seconds...some amount of time until I'm done or ready to write a few pages of my screenplay. I've had a week so shitty that it's hard to comprehend. For like 8 straight nights I've felt that it was a strong possibility that I wasn't going to wake up the next morning. And I still don't know what's up, but it feels like I've been bottling some things up. Or more like I know I've been bottling some things up. It's time to start taking the proverbial baby steps to dig myself out of this. For the longest time, I've kept what I shared so reined in. But now I'm going to lay it out. Maybe this will help convince some people they don't like me, or that they like me more. Maybe it will help some people know me better, or understand strange choices I've made. Maybe one of those aforementioned people will be me.
Listen. I'm not here to whine, but that is going to happen. Let me begin by saying I'm sorry. I'm sorry to everyone that has experienced how shitty of a friend I can be, or how terrible I can be as a family member. I know, I know...many of you might say, "Huh?" But there are absolutely some ("some" is an official quantity) of you who would snort a knowing chuckle from your nostril. I need giant quantities of me time. Exactly how much has been in flux for years now, but I'm in a peak stage at the moment. I don't do it to mope. And "me time" doesn't mean I'm locked inside. A long walk to your house might do it. A trip to the grocery store. I am not a sad person, or angry. I am not a recluse or a loner. I just have to spend time in my head, and I need to not be bothered while I'm there. I like to live life without some minutely detailed plan, but to do this I have to create a general outline to follow. I need to have a few options that I can pick out on the fly, accessible instantly or nearly so, and in almost any situation. Without paper, that's difficult to do. Ever been around me and notice that I'm unable to carry on a conversation, or that I'm barely even concealing how little I'm paying attention to you? Congratulations, you've spent time with me when I didn't feel like it. I'm never going to be a phone friend. I'm never going to be able to be "on" all the time. I can't make contact daily, no matter who you are. This is adult Kyle. It's not pretty. I apologize not because of these things, but because I'm unable to change them. I'm sorry. And for those of you who just get it and don't take offense, thank you.
Alright. Next topic. The aforementioned 8 or so days/nights. Something deeply troubling has been going on inside me, physically. My chest gets tight, my breath gets short, and I become hyper-aware of my heartbeat, my breathing. It coincided with taking a promotion at my stupid job, and accelerated into "Am I having a heart attack?" levels on the day I found out my raise would be nearly $5/hour less than what I'd requested. For several days, I just hoped the discomfort and pain would go away. It didn't. I went to the doctor and he said that I seemed fine. Problem was, I wasn't having symptoms then. I think it's anxiety. I think it's my body finally reacting to the way I store disappointment.
Not to get into too many details about my shitty retail job, but the two stores at the Airport, one of which I manage, help save payroll dollars. The average percentage of payroll to sales is 18%, we do 12%. Oh, also we're the only stores to pull a million bucks. So...why am I one of the most underpaid managers in the region? Oh, right, because God is telling me that I'm too good for this shit. You know why I'm not, though? One, because I think God isn't real. Two, because I don't try hard enough. True, I've searched and applied to jobs relevant to my talents and abilities and, you know...EDUCATION AND TRAINING...and true, I haven't landed anything. But have I been as active as I could have been with respect to starting my own corporate video business? Or with my writing? A resounding "Fuck no" will suffice. Why, you ask? I'm busy. Working a shitty job. Or working during my downtime on video projects that end up taking hundreds of hours and paying me wages comparable to what I made as a 17-year-old at Carl's Jr. No joke. So, while that's all in the pipeline, the past few months have made it a little bit tougher than usual.
Tangents are something you should just expect with me. Back to my chest. I may see a cardiologist per my doctor's suggestion next week. However, these consultations and tests can get, uh, expensive. Why should I pay hundreds of dollars for a specialist to tell me he isn't sure what's up, but I may want to seek counseling? I just did that for free. Well, relatively free. Blogger may not cost anything, but like any Google product, there are costs I probably can't even begin to imagine. I wonder if it tracks the number of times I rewrite a sentence or word or how often I scroll up to review something I already wrote, and if there's some kind of algorithm that can translate that information to tell them how clothed I am. Such banal evil, Google.
Anyway, the reason I know that it is probably anxiety is because I've had anxiety before. And I have reasons to be anxious right now. But my anxiety never manifested itself so physically before. I mean, I lie there in bed for literally hours just feeling my heartbeat, breathing too frequently and shallowly, clenching things I had no idea I could clench. At several points yesterday it seemed as though my heart was trying to break out of its ribbed jail, like it was pounding on my breastbone in its best Jack Nicholson impression. I really don't want my final moments to consist of my freed heart grinning at me, screaming "Here's Johnny!"
The only benefit I see to getting an official clean bill of health would be so that I can get back into a regular habit of exercise. That was one of the ways I cured myself last time. But right now I'm worried that my heart will explode. I guess I could test it. I have done that a couple of times. I went on a long, fast walk to Fort Mason on my last day off, and I felt fine. But once I got home, there was a steady progression into "What is happening to me?" Curious that it seems to revolve around my proximity to traveling to work.
Oh man, so many topics to cover. What a treat for everyone. Until next time.
So here's how it will go. Generally, I'm going to write in here for 5 minutes, 2 hours, 30 seconds...some amount of time until I'm done or ready to write a few pages of my screenplay. I've had a week so shitty that it's hard to comprehend. For like 8 straight nights I've felt that it was a strong possibility that I wasn't going to wake up the next morning. And I still don't know what's up, but it feels like I've been bottling some things up. Or more like I know I've been bottling some things up. It's time to start taking the proverbial baby steps to dig myself out of this. For the longest time, I've kept what I shared so reined in. But now I'm going to lay it out. Maybe this will help convince some people they don't like me, or that they like me more. Maybe it will help some people know me better, or understand strange choices I've made. Maybe one of those aforementioned people will be me.
Listen. I'm not here to whine, but that is going to happen. Let me begin by saying I'm sorry. I'm sorry to everyone that has experienced how shitty of a friend I can be, or how terrible I can be as a family member. I know, I know...many of you might say, "Huh?" But there are absolutely some ("some" is an official quantity) of you who would snort a knowing chuckle from your nostril. I need giant quantities of me time. Exactly how much has been in flux for years now, but I'm in a peak stage at the moment. I don't do it to mope. And "me time" doesn't mean I'm locked inside. A long walk to your house might do it. A trip to the grocery store. I am not a sad person, or angry. I am not a recluse or a loner. I just have to spend time in my head, and I need to not be bothered while I'm there. I like to live life without some minutely detailed plan, but to do this I have to create a general outline to follow. I need to have a few options that I can pick out on the fly, accessible instantly or nearly so, and in almost any situation. Without paper, that's difficult to do. Ever been around me and notice that I'm unable to carry on a conversation, or that I'm barely even concealing how little I'm paying attention to you? Congratulations, you've spent time with me when I didn't feel like it. I'm never going to be a phone friend. I'm never going to be able to be "on" all the time. I can't make contact daily, no matter who you are. This is adult Kyle. It's not pretty. I apologize not because of these things, but because I'm unable to change them. I'm sorry. And for those of you who just get it and don't take offense, thank you.
Alright. Next topic. The aforementioned 8 or so days/nights. Something deeply troubling has been going on inside me, physically. My chest gets tight, my breath gets short, and I become hyper-aware of my heartbeat, my breathing. It coincided with taking a promotion at my stupid job, and accelerated into "Am I having a heart attack?" levels on the day I found out my raise would be nearly $5/hour less than what I'd requested. For several days, I just hoped the discomfort and pain would go away. It didn't. I went to the doctor and he said that I seemed fine. Problem was, I wasn't having symptoms then. I think it's anxiety. I think it's my body finally reacting to the way I store disappointment.
Not to get into too many details about my shitty retail job, but the two stores at the Airport, one of which I manage, help save payroll dollars. The average percentage of payroll to sales is 18%, we do 12%. Oh, also we're the only stores to pull a million bucks. So...why am I one of the most underpaid managers in the region? Oh, right, because God is telling me that I'm too good for this shit. You know why I'm not, though? One, because I think God isn't real. Two, because I don't try hard enough. True, I've searched and applied to jobs relevant to my talents and abilities and, you know...EDUCATION AND TRAINING...and true, I haven't landed anything. But have I been as active as I could have been with respect to starting my own corporate video business? Or with my writing? A resounding "Fuck no" will suffice. Why, you ask? I'm busy. Working a shitty job. Or working during my downtime on video projects that end up taking hundreds of hours and paying me wages comparable to what I made as a 17-year-old at Carl's Jr. No joke. So, while that's all in the pipeline, the past few months have made it a little bit tougher than usual.
Tangents are something you should just expect with me. Back to my chest. I may see a cardiologist per my doctor's suggestion next week. However, these consultations and tests can get, uh, expensive. Why should I pay hundreds of dollars for a specialist to tell me he isn't sure what's up, but I may want to seek counseling? I just did that for free. Well, relatively free. Blogger may not cost anything, but like any Google product, there are costs I probably can't even begin to imagine. I wonder if it tracks the number of times I rewrite a sentence or word or how often I scroll up to review something I already wrote, and if there's some kind of algorithm that can translate that information to tell them how clothed I am. Such banal evil, Google.
Anyway, the reason I know that it is probably anxiety is because I've had anxiety before. And I have reasons to be anxious right now. But my anxiety never manifested itself so physically before. I mean, I lie there in bed for literally hours just feeling my heartbeat, breathing too frequently and shallowly, clenching things I had no idea I could clench. At several points yesterday it seemed as though my heart was trying to break out of its ribbed jail, like it was pounding on my breastbone in its best Jack Nicholson impression. I really don't want my final moments to consist of my freed heart grinning at me, screaming "Here's Johnny!"
The only benefit I see to getting an official clean bill of health would be so that I can get back into a regular habit of exercise. That was one of the ways I cured myself last time. But right now I'm worried that my heart will explode. I guess I could test it. I have done that a couple of times. I went on a long, fast walk to Fort Mason on my last day off, and I felt fine. But once I got home, there was a steady progression into "What is happening to me?" Curious that it seems to revolve around my proximity to traveling to work.
Oh man, so many topics to cover. What a treat for everyone. Until next time.
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