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the problem with the internet is that there's entirely too much of it.

I wonder what I would be doing with my life today without it:

would I work more and be less distracted by instant information? maybe my desk wouldn't be such a mess and I wouldn't be so behind. or maybe I still wouldn't completely do everything I'm supposed to be doing, and would have created a pile of doodles instead. or maybe, just maybe, I would be working somewhere completely different and feeling ultimately more productive.

would I know half of what I know about my allergies and illnesses? maybe I'd feel better if I didn't. maybe I'd be a happy little human running around eating low doses of things and slowly building immunities instead of becoming more sensitive to foods. maybe I'd be less cautious about certain things, or at least less serious, less of a down.

would I read more actual newspapers, and buy more actual music? maybe I'd get so much work done that I'd get out early and have time to sit in a bookstore and read, or stroll down the block to buy music, and support two professions I actually respect.

would I stress out about communicating with long distance friends? I mean, maybe I would use all that free time to write more real mail. maybe I would check my voicemail more often, and make more phone calls. maybe I would live somewhere else entirely, just to stay close to a handful of people, or just one.

would I remember half of the people who drop me oh-so-convenient comment posts? maybe I would come upon them in a picture in a box in my mom's basement and grow instantly happy at the snapshot where I hold them in my head, instead of grow sick to my stomach with envy or disappointment in the people they've become.

would I notice that I am suddenly less important in someone's life than they are in mine? maybe life would be easier if, rather than being bumped off of someone's top friends list, or left off of their page completely, I just never knew that they took that picture of me and them off their shelf, or never put one up to begin with.

but it's there. it's all there. and it's how I use it, it's how I see it, it's how I take it. I guess I can choose to use it less; to pay less attention to how other people use it (or don't); I guess I can be less offended or excited over things I do and don't see or read. I guess I can make more of an effort to make more tangible efforts in the dimensions I understand more.

I guess.

I harp on this shit so much, it might as well have a tag. oh, now it does.

back to it.

gathering moss

I think I got too used to academic years. I think that my internal clock has been so aligned with the coming and going of the scholastic seasons that I find myself in a state of panic once something outlasts those seasons.

for example: I've grown tired of my last three post-graduate jobs around the six month mark, and have been ready to quit (or have quit, in one case) all of them at the eight month mark. I know, I know - the traditional scholastic year is nine-ish months long. but I know I'm not the only one who, sometime in the middle of that bleak month of february (the sixth month), always took a look at the calendar and waged such an internal war:

if I quit doing homework now, I'll fail out of this year. which will be nice, because then I can start summer vacation early! ...but will also suck, because then I'm going to have to wait tables for more hours per week, or find another part-time job, and my family will be disappointed in me, and my friends will move on without me... and worst of all, I'll have to take (insert stupid business class I never used anyway) with (insert asshole teacher's name here) again next year... as a sophomore instead of a junior!

so, I would tell myself I could cut it for another couple of months. I would suck it up, keep doing most of my homework, and basically wait out the rest of the year in depressed anticipation of whatever ridiculous adventures I had planned for the summer.

my seemingly recurring problem in being an adult is that there isn't a particular ending point in sight. I have these jobs until I choose to leave them, or until I choose to fuck them up badly enough that someone tells me to leave (hopefully more often the former than the latter). I mean, at least at camp different seasons meant different programs and slightly different mindsets. but without actual markers to "divide" my time, without semester breaks, I'm having trouble marking endings and beginnings with any kind of mental relaxation or excitement.

maybe it is so much easier for someone, like me, who is used to floating through experiences, and therefore attachments to friendships, working situations, relationships, etc, with an air of disposability, to get used to a lifestyle where familiar people and places come and go so quickly. where my interactions are not prolonged. where I join a social group for a while and never have to maintain it for longer than the calendar tells me. maybe I'm still not used to working at 830 every morning in an office where the lighting and air conditioning continue to screw with my seasonal affective tendencies. and where I plan things according to fiscal and academic calendars, but see no real benefits of working by either.

I don't know. lately, I feel like all I do is go to my day job, walk my dog, then either go to my night job or wait for my boyfriend or friends to get out of work, do something silly (or not), and go to bed... only to wake up too tired to want to do it all again. and while there are programmatic and calendar milestones to be met - like upcoming weddings, research department events, the new WFM store opening, moving into a new place (eventually), etc - I just feel like I'm missing out on the fun that is everyday life... like I'm finally gathering moss in a place I really like, surrounded by people I enjoy... but I'm still wondering if anyone will notice when I roll away.

relativity

I have a memory of my father that I can't let go. in this memory, he is 31, I am eight, my brother six. it is valentine's day and I am crying.

the valentine my father gave me was actually quite perfect for me, the wannabe designer and maker of kleenex ballgowns: it contained paper dolls. my brother got something to do with racecars, which, for the matchbox-toting little boy that he was, was also perfect. and the fact that it came from dad, from someone we barely saw but adored from our imaginations, made it a true occasion. the imperfection came later, when we actually started playing with our paper productions; I with mine, my father and brother with his.

this memory is so brief, almost cloudy, that sequence and exact details become unimportant. all I know is that I cried and my mom took action in two ways: she protested to my father, and she came back to me to explain that, "sometimes dads and brothers don't understand the stuff that girls like to play with, so they like to hang out together." I'm almost positive I cried quietly, or at least pouted, through her attempt to be the interested adult in the kerrie-plus-valentine equation.

there are a lot of ways I could take this post. there are a lot of familial details, social history, and psychological theory that could apply. but for now, I've decided on this: interpersonal relationships all about finding, creating, and holding interest... even if it takes decades.

keep reading.

as any childhood outcast can attest, the difference between being misunderstood and disliked is often so small that the conceptualization of such an adult feeling is out of the outcast's emotional range, not to mention above their heads. in fact, many adolescents and adults have difficulties understanding that the two are far from mutually exclusive. both can produce similar feelings in both the outcast and those doing the casting, but both do not necessarily start from the same place nor do they beget the other. the more they understand this, whether naturally or through years of learning and therapy, the easier the outcast finds it to engage others in a socially productive manner. the outcast can sense their point of misunderstanding with another individual, and, if they care to, find a way to repair the social dissonance.

I think I'm right in stating that the hurt behind such a set of ideas is lessened by higher self-esteem and higher self-motivation. I think I'm also right in saying that the individuals who are most misunderstood but who have the highest self-esteem will push themselves to engage others until they've either won them over or they've turned them off entirely. something in them just allows for this adaptability, this persistance, this creativity in communication, and this obliviousness to the thought that playing well with others shouldn't be that hard.

simply put, some of the world's strangest people have the ability to garner positive interest and affection from almost anyone else in the room. and for a flash of a moment this weekend, I walked away from the hurt eight-year-old mentality into the shoes of that persistant but well-meaning outcast... and found a new approach to relating to my dad.

on saturday, in the interest of possibly slowly improving my throwing arm for my non-competitive adult softball league, I asked my brother if he wanted to play catch. I thought how easy. scott used to play catch with me when I was little, and I'm pretty sure he won't make fun of me if I throw like a girl. I was rejected, but only because scott had other sporting events to attend. almost instantly, however, I realized that this rejection also impacted the other social function my brother was to serve that day: the buffer between me and my dad, step-mom, and grandmother.

what could have been more painful than necessary was suddenly an opportunity for familial growth. as stated in a previous post, I rarely attend family functions, so I tend to rely on scott to update me and hold my hand for the first part of actual interaction. a year ago, without my brother, I would have been lost. but between all of the strange events of the last few months, something just clicked, and I became the confident kid I sometimes am: I knew that I could eliminate that awkward feeling of forced conversation if I asked my dad to play catch.

I honestly don't ever remember playing catch with my dad and without my brother, step-siblings, or cousins. but with my memaw watching from the small deck, dad and I threw and caught and laughed and tripped all over the uneven backyard along a blue michigan highway. we talked about everything from bugs to phd programs. and the short catch-related anecdote about my grandfather (and the accompanying re-enactment by my dad) is something I will hold onto for the rest of my life.

in the end, my dad is a happy-go-lucky and giving man, a little slow at times, but always serious when dispensing advice about life and always quick with that deep chuckle of his. he is a different person than the one I knew in 1989, for more reasons than I can write. but beyond the recognition of the changed man, I am proud of the change I noticed in me, and am grateful for the growth that 19 years of ardent study and awkward social interactions have produced. I may still revert to the past mannerisms of a hurt kid, but at least I know I can do differently. that, along with the thought of making new memories that I can't let go, is what makes the this post so glorious.

non-specific pain

there is a list of things that could be causing the "all-over" hurt I feel today:

• I didn't stretch before softball, or after.
• I drank quite a bit last night.
• I slapped the bar too many times.
• I threw a drunken fit over something and someone entirely not worth my time.
• I slept with nick in a bed that's not made for two adult-sized people.
• I didn't get enough sleep.
• I am not excited to spend yet another day in front of a computer.
• I haven't been eating well, if at all, lately.
• I don't drink enough water in general.
• I am worried about things over which I have no control and no insight.

or... I could just be depressed.

I have this funny nostalgia for sights and smells of the places I used to inhabit. and with this funny nostalgia, as alluded to in an earlier post, comes this sense that if I could just find a place in st. louis that does the same thing for me - but right now, in the moment, instead of in that days-gone-by way - I would feel okay. I'm beginning to think that I'm lying to myself about that. I'm beginning to think that I just need to embrace point twenty-six on my lifelist and simply fall in love with everything I'm doing in that minute, whether that minute is full of noise or silence.

my friend tim suggested that I start doing more for myself. you're always so busy, he said to me on the phone this morning, after I took a walk for a break from my office. you need to just do something that makes you feel better, something small, something away from other people, something just for you. I agree with him. I just don't know where to start.

anda stories: what you don't know won't hurt you...

for those of you who've met my mother... or maybe just heard stories about her... you know that she is a funny little lady. she says and does quirky little things that make me laugh. sometimes I remember these stories and think, I should really write this shit down.

so here I go.

I was 22 and sitting in ASU's student health center. my feet planted on the ground, I was sitting hunched over with my elbows resting on my thighs and my head in my hands. as I stared around the room, my mind was lazily wandering through the typical waiting room thoughts: am I the next person to get called? oh, I hope I don't have what that guy's got. will this lady notice if I read that magazine over her shoulder?

then my attention was turned to my feet: I think I need new flip flops. or a pedicure. or... why does my left foot turn in like that??

what the eff?!

and from that point on, I kept noticing it... my awkwardly turned left foot:

when I would sit at desks. when I would get drunk and be standing up at a bar. when I would get nervous. when I would go to the bathroom. for weeks my attention turned toward my left foot and the way that it turned inward, ranging from a slight angle to almost ninety degrees, while my right foot unfailingly faced forward. it suddenly occurred to me that I might be a little pigeon-toed.

I was mildly distressed - having some tangential thoughts about feet and walking and shoes and arthritis and swaggering and general chiropractic and social health - and decided to bring it up to my mom while home for semester break. our conversation - the tiny exchange I'm about to write - took us all of twenty seconds, and sums up perfectly why I need to tell the stories about my mom: she is nothing if not truthful to a point of being slightly absurd. she is not ever deliberatly hurtful, but what she's thinking always seems to pop out in an innocent yet slightly socially incorrect manner. you know - the kind of thing that would induce the laugh-track if my life were a sitcom. and this was one of those moments:

me: mom, have you ever noticed... well, sometimes I look down at my feet, right? and I've noticed that my left foot kind of... well, it turns inward.

mom: (blank look)

me: I mean... I kind of think... and I don't want to over-react or anything... but I kind of think that I might be a little pigeon-toed.

mom: (relieved look, with an easy tone and a hand-wave through air in that swiping manner that tells the other person "no problem, no big deal!") oh! yeah! that! you're fine. we had that checked out when you were little, but the doctor said you'd turn out perfectly normally.

and that, friends, is my mom. I'm not quite sure I can do her as much justice in print as I can in person, but the more stories I tell, the better I'll be at it. keep reading.