PTSD and 9/11

I originally posted this in 2008. I see little need to change it now, but there will probably be some "9/11 + 10" comments at the end.

Everyone has their "Where were you on 9/11?" narrative, and I'll get to mine in a minute. First, however, I want to take a moment to discuss post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). The Department of Veterans Affairs describes it as follows:

Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is an anxiety disorder that can occur after you have been through a traumatic event. A traumatic event is something horrible and scary that you see or that happens to you. During this type of event, you think that your life or others' lives are in danger. You may feel afraid or feel that you have no control over what is happening.

All people with PTSD have lived through a traumatic event that caused them to fear for their lives, see horrible things, and feel helpless. Strong emotions caused by the event create changes in the brain that may result in PTSD. Most people who go through a traumatic event have some symptoms at the beginning. Yet only some will develop PTSD. It isn't clear why some people develop PTSD and others don't. How likely you are to get PTSD depends on many things. These include:

• How intense the trauma was or how long it lasted
• If you lost someone you were close to or were hurt
• How close you were to the event
• How strong your reaction was
• How much you felt in control of events
• How much help and support you got after the event

Many people who develop PTSD get better at some time. But about 1 out of 3 people with PTSD may continue to have some symptoms. Even if you continue to have symptoms, treatment can help you cope. Your symptoms don't have to interfere with your everyday activities, work, and relationships.

There are four types of symptoms: reliving the event, avoidance, numbing, and feeling keyed up.

Reliving the event (also called re-experiencing symptoms):Bad memories of the traumatic event can come back at any time. You may feel the same fear and horror you did when the event took place. You may have nightmares. You even may feel like you're going through the event again. This is called a flashback. Sometimes there is a trigger: a sound or sight that causes you to relive the event. Triggers might include:

• Hearing a car backfire, which can bring back memories of gunfire and war for a combat veteran
• Seeing a car accident, which can remind a crash survivor of his or her own accident
• Seeing a news report of a sexual assault, which may bring back memories of assault for a woman who was raped

Avoiding situations that remind you of the event:

You may try to avoid situations or people that trigger memories of the traumatic event. You may even avoid talking or thinking about the event.

• A person who was in an earthquake may avoid watching television shows or movies in which there are earthquakes
• A person who was robbed at gunpoint while ordering at a hamburger drive-in may avoid fast-food restaurants
• Some people may keep very busy or avoid seeking help. This keeps them from having to think or talk about the event.

Feeling numb:

You may find it hard to express your feelings. This is another way to avoid
memories.

• You may not have positive or loving feelings toward other people and may stay away from relationships
• You may not be interested in activities you used to enjoy
• You may forget about parts of the traumatic event or not be able to talk about them.

Feeling keyed up (also called hyperarousal):
You may be jittery, or always alert and on the lookout for danger. This is known as hyperarousal. It can cause you to:

• Suddenly become angry or irritable
• Have a hard time sleeping
• Have trouble concentrating
• Fear for your safety and always feel on guard
• Be very startled when someone surprises you

Once upon a time, PTSD was called "shell shock," as men coming back from the Great War returned to civilian life exhibiting a variety of terrifying wounds, physical and mental. By World War II, the highly descriptive term had been softened to "battle fatigue." And by Vietnam, it had been translated into the more clinical term we use today.

Soldiers are not the only ones who have experienced PTSD through history. It probably goes back to the Black Death, or civilians enduring sacks by the Huns and Visigoths. And PTSD need not be experienced directly, or only in acts of war (as seen above). How many people were traumatized in the '30s or '40s by radio broadcasts? And then came 9/11, probably the largest purposely induced case of PTSD inflicted via television.

"So Where Were You on 9/11?"
I'm treating this as my "definitive" essay on 9/11, so I won't have to write this again. I was not in any particular danger, I just want to explain my particular sensitivity to this event.
I was flying that day.
My friend Tim's dad had celebrated his 60th birthday that weekend (BTW, happy belated birthday, Dale!), and Tim, Gwen (his wife) and I were flying back to Orlando from Cleveland. We had a stopover in Nashville, which landed at 8:30 a.m. We landed, no problem, and hauled our overweight butts over to our second plane. Then things sort of slowed down and got weird. The staff at the gate dithered as the crowds got bigger.
Gwen wandered over to the bar next door. It was closed, but the TV was on. She came back and said, "I think I know why we aren't going anywhere," and directed me toward the TV set. One of the World Trade Center towers was on fire and the folks around the TV said a plane (a Cessna?) had hit it. I commented that that was a lot of smoke for a Cessna, and went back to sit next to Tim. I explained to him what was happening, and then quipped, quoting a Snickers commercial, "Not going anywhere for awhile?"
I had two books in my carryon: A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (it was neither), and Voyage, an alternate history of the space program that was not inspiring me. I reread the same paragraphs several times, getting nowhere, but figured I'd try again until the airlines figured out what they were going to do.
Gwen, being a news junkie, went back to watching the TV. The next time she came back, her eyes were wide and alarmed. "Just come see this." She wouldn't talk about it, and I quickly understood why. A second plane. It was deliberate. Jesus.
My next comment, after repeating the Snickers commercial, was to say to Tim, "This won't end until some part of the world is turned into green glass."
Tim and I went into male analysis mode, trying to figure out who could've financed an operation capable of taking over and crashing a couple commercial airliners. Our guesses ranged from Saudi Arabia and Iran to Russia and China. News was sketchy and chaotic, and would remain for the next couple of days, so we were free to speculate.
Finally, after enough people had gotten freaked out by what was on the TV, the line at the counter started getting longer and a little raucous. Tim, Gwen, and I, dedicated travelers that we were, waited until the "I'm not flying anywhere, give me a refund" people got out of the way. I was about the last person in line for the flight. I told the agent to take a breath, relax, I wasn't going to yell at her, and said she was doing a great job. She managed a smile, and I asked what Southwest was doing about this.
"We've booked some rooms at the Clarion. We'll get you on a shuttle. You won't have to pay for that." I presumed she meant the shuttle, but SWA was willing to pay for the room as well. Bully for them. The young lady at the desk (Heather) gave me my vouchers and sent me on my way. She got a compliment letter from me when I got home. The best compliment I could offer for SWA's people that day was that they were "very Disney" under pressure.
I passed the TV once more, seeing the WTC looking much the worse, and thought seriously about going to church.
I've read where passengers and sailors have grown the most panicked at sea, not during the shipwreck, but afterward, when rescue is in sight and they are awaiting their turn. That sort of captures the atmosphere at Nashville's baggage claim area that day. We had already seen all the planes get rolled back, away from the jetways, lest anyone else get the bright idea to slam-dunk a 757.
TVs were going in baggage claim, and the thing that set off the waiting-for-the-lifeboats feeling was the collapse of the two towers. As cartoonist Art Spiegelman put it, "The Lord's name was taken in vain a lot that day."
I don't know exactly what we expected to happen to us (drowning was unlikely), though the police obviously did: all the cars, trucks, and vans were moved 100 yards away from the terminal, in anticipation of a bombing. I'd never been around such a large group of freaked out people in my life, and I wanted, like the rest of them, to get the hell out.
It's difficult to describe my mental state at the time, but I'll give it a shot. Numbness. Panic. Ohmygodohmygod. A sudden realization that I had family and friends in DC and New York that would need to be checked on. And I was absolutely, scorchingly p!$$ed off. I wanted some part of the world turned into green glass--very hot and very quickly.
Loud sounds began to alarm me: dropped china, engine backfires, slamming doors. I got to the hotel, checked in, explaining that I was one of the Southwest refugees and had no idea how long I'd be staying. The clerk understood, did her thing, and gave me a key. Tim and Gwen went to their room.
I got to the room, closed the door, and threw my suitcase across the room. I bellowed. I cried. I was not sane for about five minutes, though it felt longer. I finally went to the bathroom to wash my face, and my eyes were watery, weak, and scared. This was what terrorism was about, and the bastards had succeeded: I was terrified.
Not needing to pay for the hotel room, I racked up phone charges with a clear conscience. I called who I could, voice shaky, but talking a mile a minute, simultaneously seeking and offering comfort. I asked about my aunt and uncle in NYC; no word at the time, but they turned out to be fine. I asked about Kate, my buddy up in DC. Fine. I called the office (Disney University at the time) and asked for the only person whose name I could remember. I explained where I was and that I obviously wouldn't be coming in to work that day. Talking was clearing my head, but making things worse. The more I thought about things, the more scared I got. I was close to fubar, so I thanked my cohort for passing on the message. She told me to take care, and I hung up.
Finally I called home and briefly chatted with my roommate at the time, Jonathan. I cannot recall now what I said, though he did tell me to check my voice mail because "someone from the National Space Society called."
"Somebody" turned out to be Chris Pancratz, who was VP of Public Affairs at the time. He said my friend Cliff had recommended me as a writer and wanted to know if I'd be interested in writing a presentation "to help sell space to normal people." I laughed at the "normal people" line. I needed it, and appreciated Chris's gruff good humor, given the circumstances. Naturally I took the job, if only to get my mind off things. I thought of a title ("Now More Than Ever") on my way out of the room. I truly appreciated that life raft.
I met Tim and Gwen at the bar and filled my eyes and mind with eight to ten hours of saturation-bombing news coverage. The beers kept flowing, but the real numbness we sought wouldn't come. Tension and adrenaline wrestled with the alcohol, and won. I think I was full before I got drunk. The hotel brought out some chafing dishes filled with whatever was left over from the kitchen. It could've been filet mignon for all we cared. Eating was something to move our jaws around that didn't involve talking.
I remember getting back to my room that first night and having vivid, ugly, and startling dreams about worse attacks on the TV. The dream that woke me up involved a nearby nuclear explosion blasting in the glass of my hotel window. Imaginative people are bad candidates for PTSD. It sends our imaginations in strange directions.
I couldn't sleep, so I turned on the TV, and found a Star Trek: The Next Generation rerun going. That simmered me down and allowed me to sleep through the night. If they were running reruns, not the Emergency Warning System alarm tone, I figured the world would last another day.
Getting out of Nashville proved problematic, of course, for us and everyone else. Again, dedicated campers that we were, Tim, Gwen, and I kept trying to rebook for our flight home. When it became clear that the airborne silence over our heads was likely to continue for awhile, we began calling the car rental places. After about the third call, we managed to get the last car out of the Hertz lot by the simple luck that it was a Florida-based car and needed to be ferried back there anyway.
The car from Hertz was great: a Volvo convertible with GPS navigation system and leather seats. Too bad none of us were quite in the mood to appreciate it. As bad as it is was for our mental health, we kept listening to the news, hoping perhaps that some semblance of order might arise. In between updates, we must've heard Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the USA" and Alicia Keyes' "Fallin'" about 20 times each. Those were the two songs that stuck with me from those days. I noticed that a lot of the schlock and '90s-type angst music (e.g. Alanis Morrisette, Meredith Brooks) disappeared. Maybe people just didn't want to hear that stuff anymore.
We arrived back in Orlando around 6 a.m., in the midst of a tropical storm (lovely timing). We all promised to touch base at Hooters the following evening.
That was one hell of a two-day stretch. I was damn glad I had Tim and Gwen with me through all that. My parting thought as we dropped off the car was, "I love you guys, but don't let's do this ever again."

*

Life Post-9/11
Of course the trip home didn't really end 9/11 for me (or anyone else). The jumpiness continued for a couple years, as did the reluctance to enter large buildings. I had a few months there in '01 where I had to leave the office just to get some fresh air. I imagined aircraft slamming into the Magic Kingdom, or Epcot. My brain would not shut up.
I got my only two B's out of an otherwise straight-A average in grad school that autumn. Partly this was because of my mental state, and partially because of the class content. One class was boring to me (Medical Writing), and one was awash in anti-American, anti-logical cr@p (Rhetorical Theory?).
When the war drums started, I was behind them. Behind the invasion of Afghanistan, hands down. Behind Iraq because at the time I didn't want anyone messing with my country. We knew what sorts of things could happen by that point, and we knew that Saddam Hussein had a history of bad actions. And yeah, we were still hopped up on adrenaline from 9/11. I'm convinced that the Iraq war was the result of a collective case of PTSD. I calmed down eventually. Time heals most things, even PTSD.
We've now had seven years without another 9/11. You can thank whoever or whatever you want for that: God, luck, George W. Bush, or the American Armed Forces (I'll take all of the above). Sanity has returned for me, but not forgetfulness. I'm not likely to "get over" 9/11, if by "getting over it," that means I no longer wish al-Qaeda destroyed. I'm not likely to forget, nor am I likely to forgive. However I have gotten over the idea that we'll be able to remake the world in our image. I call myself an "Eisenhower conservative," not a "neoconservative."
I have never subscribed to the "inside job" conspiracy theory, any more than I bought into the drug running, alleged "hits" on political enemies, or secret airstrips in Mena, Arkansas, during the Clinton Administration. I also refuse to accept that "America had it coming." If I felt that way, I'd stop living here.
And no, I'm not thrilled with everything Bush has done in response to 9/11. The Department of Homeland Security--particularly the Transportation Security Administration--has reduced my enjoyment of air travel without (IMHO) greatly improving my safety. I will wind up this essay by returning to one of the greatest films ever (The Lord of the Rings), and one which couldn't have come at a better time. Frodo Baggins is lamenting the dangerous adventure he has become part of, and Gandalf counsels him:

‘I wish it need not have happened in my time,’ said Frodo.
‘So do I,’ said Gandalf, ‘and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.’
--The Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter 2

I've already decided. I exist, for now, at the sufferance of the Lord. I will think and I will do good with such time as is given me. That, 9/11 hasn't and won't change.

***

Thoughts about 9/11 ten years on...

As Sir Lancelot said in Excalibur, "It is the old wound, my lord. It has never truly healed." I was blessed not to be on a plane that was hijacked, and not to have lost anyone I knew even second- or third-hand on That Day. Perhaps it's best to leave it at that and count my blessings.

Being a Writer

Recently I took a look back through the stories I wrote between the ages of 8 and 28. It got me to thinking a bit about why I do what I do. This might or might not be of interest to you, but if you are someone who writes for the sheer pleasure of it but are not yet paid for your pleasure, perhaps my thoughts will be of interest to you.

My late grandmother (that'd be on the Dorsey/Leahy side of the family) told me that when I was five, I knew I wanted to be a writer. I recall having a discussion with my mother at the age of ten to the effect that I wanted to write for NASA, to which she replied, "NASA doesn't hire writers, they hire engineers." It took around 27 years to prove her wrong, but that is in fact what I did and continue to do: I am a paid contractor writing content for NASA.

This was by no means a direct path. I have not yet finished retyping or cataloguing all those old stories, but the tally is well over 100, and there were probably an equal number of stories I started but never finished, either because they bored me or I lacked sufficient skill or knowledge, or I didn't trust myself enough to say the things that needed to be said. In between stories, of course, I was performing my day job and doing writing on the side.

My day jobs have ranged from stocking retail shelves and mopping floors at my local Jewel/Osco to developing presentations and writing speeches for NASA executives. In between those experiences lay things like answering complaint letters for Walt Disney World; writing letters to the editor in support of space exploration; writing hundreds of letters and millions of emails; developing project plans, event plans, and business plans; writing essays and proposals and theses for school; writing love poems and poems about falling out of love; developing marketing campaigns and calendars; herding volunteers and running a full-blown conference. All this time I was learning my craft, if only because I had to use words to do them.

Despite a large vocabulary and lot of difficult books on my shelves, I'm a pretty simple guy. This comes across in my writing more and more as I get older: I feel I have less and less time for bullshit, so I try to get to the heart of a matter using as few words as possible. That has become my style. When I'm asked to write government documents, I refuse to write in bureaucratese unless absolutely necessary. I believe in plain language and direct accountability: "The Project Manager will..." or "The vehicle engine did..." rather than secondhand, passive language like "Mistakes were made (by whom?)" or "The vehicle experienced dynamic disassembly (that'd be "exploded," buddy)."

For better or worse, I've learned to write in the Corporate Voice and get reasonably well paid for doing so. My employers count on me to create documents that achieve a specific purpose and do so in a way that will not offend customers and that will edify or sometimes entertain our readers. That is not entirely a bad thing, nor does corporate writing wound the ability to write fiction, because to write for people in any line of work, you have to understand people: what do they need to know? How do they think? What are their priorities? What words do they prefer to use? How educated are they? What are their hot buttons? It's the literary equivalent of method acting. And if you can do it for real people to earn a buck, odds are pretty good that you can do so with fictional people.

However, my literary life has had a few downsides: doing technical writing for a living can eat up a lot of bandwidth that might have been used for more "literary" pursuits. I like what science fiction writer Ted Chiang had to say about the matter:

"I can't recommend technical writing as a day job for fiction writers, because it's going to be hard to write all day and then come home and write fiction. Nowadays I work as a freelance writer, so I usually do contract technical writing part of the year and then I take time off and do fiction writing the rest of the year. It's too difficult for me to do technical writing at the same time as fiction writing - they draw on the same parts of my brain."

I need to give that contract-writing and time-off thing a try at some point. In any case, it's absolutely true that if you are a paid writer doing a corporate job during the day, it is very difficult to come home and crank out new, creative prose in another world. In any case, there are things I haven't done because I haven't been sufficiently driven or energetic enough to do, like write a complete, original novel. I've got a Star Wars novel in the pile that I've shared with a couple friends and family members, but that's just me playing around in someone else's universe. There will come a time when I will "get serious" and write the Great Bartish Novel or whatever because I need 50,000 words' worth of storytelling to convey one set of ideas. I'm not there yet. I continue to write short fiction, maybe one story every couple years.

But the bottom line here is that if you want to get paid to write, you can and you will. The market still exists, if only because writing clearly and well is becoming a dying art. You might end up writing technical manuals for hardware that bores you to tears, but your efforts to translate Korean (or worse, American Engineer) into Plain English will be appreciated by some unknown user at some future date. You might have to proofread your club's newsletter or take on some other writing task no one else wants to do because they know they can't write well. It's a skill, really, and the more you do of it, in more varieties, the better it will serve you when you absolutely have to write your Great American Novel.

So if you aren't writing and "want to," stop making excuses: get out there and do it!

This I Believe

This essay is my response to This I Believe, a print compilation of a radio series started by Edward R. Murrow in the 1950s and revived by National Public Radio. The series challenges people—of high stature or none—to speak for three minutes on the philosophy that guides their lives. The series includes statements by folks like Robert A. Heinlein, Eleanor Roosevelt, and Jackie Robinson as well as more modern voices like Newt Gingrich, John McCain, and Colin Powell. The essays range from profound to smile-provoking (how can you not like a statement that begins “You cannot have enough barbeque”?).  I don’t believe anyone’s life will be changed by these essays, but they might at least inspire some thought in readers about what philosophy they use to get through the day. Here’s mine.

***

Try to Be a Good Man

If I’ve had anything drilled into my head by my family, it’s the notion of being a good man. They probably never used those words, but they meant that behind every lecture, every piece of advice (solicited or otherwise), and every gift they ever gave me.

As an adult child of divorce now in my 40s, I lived most of my life without Dad in the house. This is not a rebuke to my parents; I am simply stating a fact. What that meant to a child of the “latch-key” generation was that I was the man of the house. It also meant, when it came to figuring out who and how to be, I was pretty much on my own. So like anyone given an assignment with few parameters and lots of room for error, I winged it. I noted what sort of behaviors were admired by other family members and tried to internalize those models.

I’ve had to learn, usually through screwing up, how to do not just the right thing, but the good thing, or the right thing done well. How should I put this? It is not a matter of just doing your job right or wrong. When I was in grad school for technical writing, we read excerpts of technical manuals from Nazi machines designed specifically to kill large numbers of people. One could do that job “right” but still be flat-out wrong. So being a good man also means having knowledge of good and evil, having a conscience. These I absorbed from church, but also from my experiences of living in and observing the world.

I’ve been called an idealist and a perfectionist by peers and managers and people who have worked for me. That doesn’t quite explain who I am. The goal for me hasn’t been to be perfect. I’ve had the recognition early on, and every day since then, that I will always be imperfect. So my goal has always been, “Get better!”

It means not just knowing the right thing to say, but when to say it.

It means not just knowing the right thing to do, but doing it.

It means doing the right things in ways that are unobtrusive, humble, and polite. I do good for the good of my soul, not because I’m interested in looking better than someone else.

I do not always get these things right, and I lecture myself when I know I could have done better. But every day is a new opportunity to try again. Trying to be a good man filters into everything else you do, so it’s a good place to begin. It’s where I began to think like an adult. And sometimes, even if you don’t hit the mark, others appreciate the effort.

Blah Blah Blah

I haven't been posting here much because quite frankly I'm putting my energies elsewhere. I'm doing a lot of introspecting of late about my state of mind, my social state, my career, my "next big thing," and some of those thoughts I just don't post online. There are all sorts of reasons for that quietude: the blog is an editorial board for me, not a journal. The journal is not for broad pubication. It's none of your d@mned business, which is I'm sure a radical concept in the media-and-data-saturated environment in which we now live. Maybe I have unpleasant things to say. Maybe I don't feel like hurting people a thousand miles away by broadcasting my irritation with them to strangers ten thousand miles away. In any case, I've got other things to do with my time. It's also come to my attention that my readership is down, either because ISDC is over or because I haven't posted anything about the Science Cheerleaders lately. And really, does anybody online read more than 140 characters at a time anymore? Just askin'. I have books to read. Enjoy your Saturday.

Better the Devil You Know

The Down Under Defense Expert (DUDE) sent me an email asking me to read a voter's referendum they're considering in New Zealand. Feel free to read it yourself. I just wanted to expound a little bit on my answer. Here's what I wrote to the DUDE:

"I found it maddeningly complex. But then I'm used to the US system of winner-take-all (the NZ referendum calls the system First Past the Post (FPP)) and having minority party issues subsumed under the major parties. That said, I've heard/read good things about the Australian system. The others were variations on a theme that made little difference to me because I have little trust in the stability of governments with a multiplicity of parties.

"The advantage of a major-party system that incorporates minority views is that much of the assimilation and wheeling/dealing is done prior to the election. Otherwise, you end up with one small party can upset the entire governmental apple cart.

"I fail to see much advantage to the systems that encourage the minority parties, nor do I understand NZ's desire to change their system or the bewildering number of distinctions without a difference. If what you have works, don't fix what isn't broken."

There are three other systems: the existing NZ system (Mixed Member Proportional), the Irish system (Single Transferrable Vote), and the Japanese system (Supplementary Member). My observations are just that multi-party nations and governments seem more unstable than the U.S. The advantage of the multi-party system, if I had to guess it, is simply that it gives broader voice and more formal power to minority parties than exists in a single- or two-party system, as we have. If a smaller party (say, the Greens or Libertarians) had a strenuous objection to a particular law or course of action and their support was necessary to ensure a majority coalition, the government/parliament will be dissolved and new elections are called if no agreement can be reached. Most of these governments are designed along the British model, and nearly all of the major Western nations (incl. Israel and Japan) that use it have shakeups of that sort at one time or another.

The American results are gridlock followed by elections every two, four, or six years. But, again, the national majority parties--the Democrats and Republicans--are coalitions of what would be separate minority parties in these parliamentary democracies. Imagine, instead of the Dems and the GOP duking it out year after year, with the arguments occurring within the party caucuses, the individual coalition members each had its own party and then had their fights in Congress instead of on the convention floor. On the left, you'd have Big Labor/Government Unions, Trial Lawyers, Greens, Minority Rights Activists, Feminists, and flat-out Socialists and other small groups. On the right, you'd have Big Oil, the Moral Majority/Evangelicals, Gun Advocates, Economic Free-Marketeers, and members of the Armed Forces, and flat-out Fascists. Other groups with their own parties might include the Farmers, Bankers (who blow with the wind), Libertarians, and other moderates and Independents. Think our ballots are confusing now? Imagine how many hanging chads could screw up a soup like that!

That, my friends, is why we have primaries. Individuals representing these various smaller interests run off against each other within the larger parties. The winners of these contests have to form an internal platform within the Democratic or Republican Party that the bulk of the coalition can live with, and that final candidate goes up against his or her other number in the other party. Those two candidates, in turn, must convince 50% +1 of their fellow Americans (more or less--we have our own complexities with the Electoral College) to vote for them. The winner, then, must govern wisely and in the best interests of the nation as they see fit. If the majority of the public doesn't approve of their performance, the opposing party gets put into power in the legislature in reaction against the President. And so the pendulum swings, again, back toward the middle. That is the point and the genius of the American system. It gives me a headache to think of having to adjust to another one. I wonder what our cousins in New Zealand are thinking that they wish to reconstruct their system.

If it ain't broke, don't fix it. And if it is broken in places, fix those places before doing something stupid like trashing the whole system and tossing out whatever good the old system had. So sayeth this voter, anyway.

A Little Blast from the Past

Just added this little gem from the '80s to the iPhone. Brian Setzer in an earlier incarnation. Crazy, man.

What, Another Orbit Already?

This weekend I took a road trip to an undisclosed location to celebrate my 42nd orbit around the sun and to get away from the office and people in general. It was a good trip. Father Dan has three basic criteria for any tourist destination:

1. Something to do
2. Somewhere decent to eat
3. A decent saloon to have a quiet drink after the above

It's a good mix, and my undisclosed location provided all three. I'd forgotten how crucial getting away to somewhere different has been important my morale--heck, my sanity! The more I give this INFJ thing thought, the more I wonder if I'm better off away from people. This introvert needs quiet, downtime, and a time and place to recharge.

I've always been this way, actually. It used to baffle my friends how I would willingly take myself to dinner, a movie, or even full vacations (Europe? Three weeks?) on my own. I'd go to parties for a couple hours and then disappear after a couple of hours without making any sort of announcement because I didn't want to kick up a fuss--I'd simply had enough. Perhaps I still baffle people that way. So what? I'm not tied to someone else's idea of a good time if I'm given the choice, nor am I going to accept the premise of someone's pity just because they feel bad that I "don't have somebody." Last time someone gave me the pity speech and asked why I wasn't married, I answered, "Why? I'm happy." My response to them was as incomprehensible as their compassion for me.

This is not to say that I hate people as a rule (I don't) nor do I always prefer to be alone. But solitude is my default. I've lived alone for eight years or more now. I suspect that this will only become more pronounced as I get older. It baffles me, a little, that introverts pair up at all. We're often paranoid about others' demands on us and protective of our personal space and quiet. Kinda reminds me of the joke, "How do two porcupines make love? Verrrry carefully."

What the heck, I get enough talking/socializing at work, and the social talk is often ABOUT work, which is about the only thing I get animated about anyway. And if it's not work, it's about intellectual/philosophical stuff. If someone is interested in small talk or gossip or what's on regular TV or in the movie theaters, they are going to be incredibly bored around me, because I don't talk about most of that stuff. Part of that is me. Part of that is the effect of my parents, aunts, and uncles, most of whom talked about their jobs after work. I always assumed that's what grownups talked about, and I wanted to be a grownup when I was a kid. As a result, I didn't relate to my peers well, and sometimes still don't. Whatever. If I'm happy, I don't really expect others to "get" whatever's going on in my head, so if you don't, you don't.

Quoth Arthur C. Clarke: "A well-stocked mind is free from boredom."