Dynamic Hypocrisy

I dunno when it happened, but I don’t get lost as much as I used to. Final Fantasy VII is being remade, and it should be the most exciting thing for me. That video game was incredible to me when I was growing up.

I loved the story, and the fights, and the cutscenes, and the characters.

And here I am, decades later, I’m watching the clips, and while nostalgic — I’m not in that world anymore. I don’t think I’ll even play it.

I also used to play D&D, the table-top role-playing game. I had a lot of fun with my friends. Years later when I had already stopped, I would still occasionally listen to podcasts or watch videos of other people playing. It was fun to see what they did, and how they enjoyed themselves.

But I dunno it made me think back about how my friends talked after we had a gaming session. And I was realizing even back then, I was experiencing it differently from others.

They would talk about the things that happened in the game as if it was disconnected from someone crafting a story. They embodied the experience that seemed fundamental. While it seemed like I had fun in the sense that I was watching people co-create a world rather than being in the world itself.

I have that feeling now when I play games. I sense the mechanics and triggers of a game rather than the game itself. I see the numbers and statistical probabilities being played out. And it’s satisfying, but not in the way that I think my friends were talking about it.

It’s at the point now where I don’t play some games because of that, I can already feel its mechanics and how it’ll play out. I have that with tv and movies too. There’s a comfort not in the world or story, but in feeling where the author deviates from the prior work or examples. Sensing their interpretation and philosophy rather than what the character’s motivations are.

It feels cold I admit even in the moment, but that’s where I’m at. Some pieces move me. I was very moved by Danny DeVito’s short “Curmudgeons” It caught me in a moment where I was present with the people in that world, and I let it surprise me. But then I’ll watch something like “The Mandalorian” and go “That’s a cool twist on the Western.”

“Rick and Morty” is the sublime example. The show itself is almost inconsequential. It’s an artifact of Dan Harmon and his writing team having conceptual conversations, and pushing the framework. If it was just a stack of post-it notes, I’d probably get the same amount of enjoyment.

Nothing really actionable out this thought, more of a marker of a self-observation.

I like to do things in a big burst. Like a sprinter. Get it all done in that excited jolt of when the spirit moves you.

Or rather finish before your mind wanders.

Or really get it done before the pangs of doubt get to you.

So I’ve always feared the other way of working. Slowly and methodical.

The doubt is scary, and got me before. So like Indiana Jones I run from that boulder chasing him down.

But I have to admit that chipping away works well. And a lot of times better.

And paradoxically less scary sometimes.

I use a habit tracker on my phone. It tracks the obvious thing like exercise. People do that all the time.

But I also track if I produced art this week. And daily journaling. And reading. And going outside (in my soul, I’m a hermit.)

Reading is a good example. Two years ago, I hadn’t read a book in years. I was afraid I forgot how. I was only skimming articles, and got really good at parsing a few words before moving on.

A book seemed daunting.

So I started with easy small books that were in my wheel house. Design books. Web design, typography, layout, whatever. Less intimidating.

Two years later, I just wrapped up a book already for the new year. I was reading this Chinese history book about three sisters who had great influence on China at the last turn of the century.

In 2019, I finished 40 books which is crazy. Considering all I did was read a bit each morning, and then tapped on my habit tracker app.

Chipping away while still blurry-eyed from waking up. And here we are, 40.

Was watching Tarantino’s “Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood” on the plane recently. And was thinking about how the era of Westerns seemed to match what the American Dream was. That grit and hard work (and avoiding noon gun show-downs) could provide opportunity and change. That in a new town, you could do what you wanted — start a farm, start a business, or try to be a hero.

But the Western died by the time I was growing up in the 90s. And now as an adult, we’re firmly in the era of super-hero movies.

And in some ways it might seem optimistic. Super powers over dusty saloons.

However, I think this era’s superhero speaks to something different.

We aren’t the superhero. We’re still the humans in the collapsed buildings, and explosions. This era is about coping with a new class of humans that are above the normal humans. Doing things that seem incomprehensible, and seemingly unconcerned with the rest of us.

We’re settling into a world where a handful of tech giants and unregulated class of rich people are making and shaping our world in ways we don’t immediately grasp.

We participate in it. Uber cars, Amazon packages, Facebook posts.

But we also don’t a chance to reconcile the assaults that happen with bad drivers, the regressive work policies of warehouse logistics, or the unfettered and unfiltered junk delivered to newsfeeds.

The “superheroes” say they’re dealing with bigger issues. Meanwhile, we’re left in the wake of rubble.

There’s a marked difference between the world of Westerns and super-hero films. There’s cruelty and bad luck in both. But in one, at least everyone had a gun, a chance to take down the villain. The other…it’s harder to tell if the good guy or bad guy was the one that smashed your house.

It’s strange what comes out of difficult conversations. Coming out of one last night, having almost nothing to do with the topics talked about — I woke up thinking about my memory.

I have a sporadic but vivid memory. In high school, I could see the pages of the textbook when taking a test. (Mind you all of it promptly disappeared after the test, so it was lose-lose for both me and the public educational system.)

But now I think about what I still remember. I can’t remember what I ate yesterday. Or what I wore last week. I don’t remember anyone’s birthdays except my family’s (three people.) I don’t remember events that’s all in the calendar. I don’t remember to water my plants I have a reminder for that.

But I do remember the time I fell asleep in kindergarten, and yelled “CHOCOLATE MILK” during roll call.

I remember the gold velvet suit Raphael Saddiq wore when I saw him in concert.

I remember the orange shag carpet in my uncle’s brown van. We used to take road trips to other family during the summer. I would sit in the front on the cup holders in the middle. My other uncle telling me what the number markers on the highway meant. How many miles had already past. I remember when we would stop at rest areas, and my mom would plug in the rice cooker.

There’s many things I forget all the time now, but the things that still there are vivid and detailed.

I couldn’t ask for more from my memory that it holds on to the precious thing: the stories.

I’ve been trying to think how I got this way. People who know me now see a very organized and procedural person. I set up systems of alarms and reminders and processes to keep things humming along.

But I’m personally surprised by that. I remember the random drawing I would do, and the running around, and the wanton changing of radio stations to find interesting sounds. I see the mess of thoughts in my own head.

And yet I have to agree that to look externally is to see a very orderly person.

I’ve been wondering how I got that way. And a thought occurred to me, I think it’s partly because of asthma.

I used to have pretty heavy episodes. Like go to the emergency room, and breath through a mask bad episodes of asthma.

So I got used to the all the meds. All the inhalers and pills. This inhaler was two puffs twice daily. While this one was just as needed. This pill was two daily for 10 ten days after a really bad attack. So on and so on.

And I had very tangible feedback when I missed it or messed up. I couldn’t breathe. Literally.

And I think that’s where I learned this organization. Because my breath depended on it. It eventually just steeped into all parts of my life.

So here we are. I’m a procedural efficient robot because of my most animal of experiences with breath and breathing.

I think about how to leave a party all the time. Mostly when I’m at a party.

I have fun, I enjoy the people, but I also enjoy watching people.

I like the shifts and checks and little glances we give each other.

So towards the end of the party gets fun because people start thinking about when they want to leave, and when best to do it to not be rude.

There’s the outliers, of course, they come and go as they please, and so it goes.

But roughly a few hours before the perceived end of the party, it happens. One person will shift and check, and then shuffle their feet. Before finally finding the host, doing a little apology for leaving so early, but they had fun. The host hems and haws, but ultimately lets them go.

As I said though it’s a wave. That person broke the barrier, and that causes several other groups to consider and shift and check. But they then also pounce. It’s the first wave.

Then there’s a lull. Because it’d be rude if the host was forced to keep saying goodbye. And that’s a vibe killer.

So people chill, or fidget because they missed the window. So they hang until the perceived end time. That varies of course depending on the host, party, and nature of things.

But that’s the second wave. It’s bigger, if not the biggest wave. It’s natural, it’s expected. So no faux pas on anyone’s part.

And the party mostly ends. Except for the stragglers. Ideally, they’re the close friends, and there’s no qualms. Worst case, it’s the strangers and drunks that can’t read the room, and linger too long. Or they’re hoping to snag some romance out of the night–so they stalk.

They comprise the third wave. The awkward time where the vibe has died, but everyone has to play nice one last time before sleeping.

Don’t be the third wave. Be a good person.

I was always bristled at writing poems. Love writing in general. But rather irritated when learning about specific formats or particular rhyme schemes or syllables.

It was part that I couldn’t hear the syllables or think that way.

But mostly it felt so arbitrary, and I couldn’t feel what it was adding.

It seemed like a 500 meter race, but everyone decided to blind-fold one eye and wear one old shoe. I couldn’t see what value it added to be iambic pentamer.

And honestly even today, I don’t quite understand it.

But now I’m thinking that maybe it’s less for the reader but for the poet. That even a infinite stack of paper and infinite ink and infinite words that the format asks of the poet “What do you really want to say?”

What is the essence of your thought or feeling?

And when you answer that, boil it down further. Because chances are that essence still doesn’t fit the format. It’s stricter, it’s a burden.

But it’s an exercise to think deeply if the you truly believe in what you’re conveying, and whether you care enough about it to go through this strife.

So I’m thinking about wireless charging. And how the next step would be no need for a charging pad at all. Like the whole room should inductively charge our devices.

How high tech that would be!

And then I realize that’s the sun. The sun is everywhere, and plants grow with sunlight.

It’s super low tech.

I have the soul of a lazy developer. Which means I dislike repetitive boring tasks, and will always try to automate them.

Take brushing my teeth, I couldn’t be bothered. But I’m supposed to do twice a day. My compromise? An electric toothbrush with a two-minute timer. I turn on a podcast, put the toothbrush in my mouth, I move it around until the buzzer goes off. And I walk away. If it was socially acceptable and affordable enough, I would have someone do it for me.

In direct conflict of my soul is my drive to improve and grow.

For example, I really like daily journaling. It helps me take stock of the day, reflect, appreciate people in my life, and helps me remember things. But the idea of doing it every day feels like Sisyphus rolling the rock up the hill.

So what do I do? I found an app. “Day One” is installed on every device I own. So I can’t hide from it. I configured it to give me a daily notification. And when it alerts me, since I can’t hide, I quickly open it, tap some words, chill a bit, and then is always glad I did it.

I realize I’ve built a series of systems to keep me in-step with all the goals I have. Like I have a habit-tracker app that reminds me to not only exercise, but read, go outside (yes, you read that correctly), and do art.

It’s easy for me to tell myself that I’m on-pace when really I haven’t been. So to have digital assistants that keep time perfectly, I have these guardrails to keep me on the road I want to be on. Even if I’m really lazy at my core.

I think I’ve written about it before, but as it hasn’t happened in awhile–I hadn’t really thought about it.

But recently, I got in to an anxiety spiral. Where my brain attaches to one thing, and spirals into all the negative things that could come out of that thing.

I’ve always had that self-protection mechanism. I soothe myself by over-preparing for an event or activity. I think through scenarios and possibilities and then form plans and responses.

I’m actually grateful for finding a job as a designer because that ability is valued and wanted.

But it’s bad when the on-off switch breaks, and it goes wild on something.

Because imagining dozens of website layouts in your brain is one thing. But simulating all the bad feelings that might result in an infinity of bad scenarios is fairly debilitating.

And it happened recently. It wasn’t a concrete situation like designing a workflow or even giving a presentation. But it was about a relationship.

As you may guess, the number of possible feelings, arguments, and paths that could take is overwhelming. And to have your brain cycle through each one in rapid order does not feel good.

Last time I was able to pull the brakes by journaling. Or rather free-writing all the thoughts until they finally slowed down.

But this time that didn’t work. Nor did the other tools I learned from therapy work.

And that was scary. I went a full day in a distracted stupor, and that has been more freaked out than any of the anxiety of the episode itself. Not quite sure what the action plan out of this is just yet, so I’m just gonna take stock and document as it stands.