Ass Burgers - An Odyssey out of Autism

Let's Talk about Us

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Sat, 19 May 2012 03:11:00 +0000

I've joined a spiritual group that meets on Wednesdays. A thousand repetitive instincts are currently working to make sure I never return, but I've set my intention to keep up with it, because it is casual, moderate, and interfaith. At my first meeting last Wednesday, I think I realized why these instincts are so impossibly flighty. I have no concept of connection.

One of the main tenants of this group is the connectedness of all things. I've looked into it. It's the food chain, the circle of life, the works. In that way, it makes sense, but trying to apply it to my personal life is like dividing by zero. It just doesn't compute.

Growing up in Utah, sometimes dubbed "Mormonia," when you're not a member of the fold and are raised to embrace that fact, you belong to "US," and the Mormons belong to "THEM." It's the same when you go to a Catholic high school. If you cross yourself with a smiley face, it's because you're part of a smaller "US" compared to a greater "THEM." If you're not Catholic, Mormon, Evangelical, Buddhist, Muslim, Jewish, Hindu, Zoroastrian, or even Atheist, suddenly, tiny you, of "US," are separate from a titanic "THEM." So long as you embrace that separateness, you will never belong to any one of those groups. That's tricky when looking for a place in the world.

That doesn't just apply to religion, mind you. When developing a personality and a relationship with people at large, if you don't want to be too mean, too nice, too smart, too stupid, too funny, too melancholy, too analytical, too spontaneous, too dramatic, too down-to-earth, too admiring, too condescending, too passionate, too apathetic, too macho, too effeminate, et cetera, but you look around and see hundreds of people who are too much of something, suddenly, "US" shrinks to 12-point, Helvetica "ME," and "THEM" becomes the remainder of this blog post.

Twenty-four years down the line, the insanity of this mentality has suddenly become clear. I am actively resisting belonging to any particular group out of fear that belonging to that group would alienate others in other groups. In so doing, I have distancing myself from every group and wondering why no one has decided to join me. Maybe it's just the word "alienation" that's taken me to this extreme. I've been friends with people from all sorts of different backgrounds, so why is it so hard for me to accept that they could be friends with me if I belonged to something that they did not?

I'm going to stick with this group. If I'm going to learn how to progress in life, it will not be alone. Maybe that's the secret to overcoming Asperger's. The more time I spend around people, the less trouble I will have with seeing the truth that there really is no "THEM." It's all "US."

500 Miles in Someone Else's Shoes

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Sun, 29 Apr 2012 05:15:00 +0000

I've been hesitating on what to write about the Camino. I'd thought the lessons would all become apparent to me along the Way, but to be honest, they're only just starting to peek out of the shadows. It is like the ease with which one can solve the problems of others but not one's own: the issue has to be seen from a different perspective. Now that it has been nearly a month since I finished walking, the experience is finally folding together to the point where I can start making sense of it.

That's not to say the Camino was completely free of life lessons learned. In fact, I ran into an Italian hippie in Galicia who pointed out that the roads were paved with cow shit (I'd noticed) and said he had the realization one day that the more time he spent watching the road to avoid the cow shit, the more beautiful scenery he was missing. I agreed and added that, even if one steps in the shit, it can still be washed away. However, it was the "missing" aspect that I've only recently begun to notice.

I've been working heavily on another blog, Bill Beaver's Best Laid Plans, a travel blog. As I've been writing and incorporating pictures, I noticed how few pictures I have of some areas and how few are actually of higher quality. This may be a standard ratio among photographers, but it has only highlighted what has been missing: time.

There are ten commandments of the Camino. I have been unable to locate a full list online, only references to the list I saw but did not fully process in Castrojeríz, but one stands out right now: You shall not change your pace to match another's.

I had mapped out my Camino to start on March 3rd and conclude on April 8th. A day behind in Pamplona, I figured I would sacrifice a day in Santiago to compensate. Instead, I met two other peregrinos with whom I decided to keep pace, not the least reason of which being that one was close in age to me and attractive. I kept pace with both of them for half the Camino, hurrying through some towns I'd originally planned to explore in more depth. I caught up to my missing day and surpassed it. True, we seldom walked together for long, and by the midpoint of the Camino, both went further than they'd said, and I was left behind.

Someone wiser could have seen these two as faces who had entered and left my life, as is the natural way of things, but instead, feeling hurt and abandoned, I continued at the pace they had set. I made photographic sacrifices: it was too much of a hassle to take out the camera, and I was losing time and distance behind them. What if I didn't see them again in Santiago before they left, four days before I arrived? It became this huge, important matter that I somehow catch up with them, so much so that, even on the days where I decided to go slower, I still put in the same distances and made the same photographic sacrifices. I stopped making friends in the same way as I walked. I became hurried and impatient with people who wanted to chat. I was pushing myself to catch up with someone else's Camino and had given no more than a fleeting glance at my own Camino and what it meant to me. That, at least, has affected my journal and work afterward, especially as I read more into these places and learn more of what I missed.

Now, that being said, 480 miles is a long walk with lots to see and limited memory card space. I was subject to the complaints of my body and the more pressing matters at hand than just snapping photos, like where to rest. However, the fact remained that the complaints of my body were directly proportional to the number of kilometers walked in a given day, as set by my desire to catch up to my past friends in the future. This is a very important parallel to daily life and one that demands awareness.

I'm a people pleaser. After a year in Codependents Anonymous, this still presents a problem, especially in the way I pace my life. Right now, I am unemployed, but my biggest concern right now is not that I'm running out of money (I'm okay for a while longer); my biggest concern is that I will have to justify myself to my mother. Each time I get a text message and see it is from her, even if it's a funny picture of the dog, I immediately get ready to explain my actions in a way that she will find acceptable and thus let me off the hook. It is a mentality that regularly takes me away from what I was originally doing. I'm trying to walk her Camino.

On a project level, for the last year, I have been floundering in a field of non-creativity, owing to one of my college lessons that said something to the effect of "You only have a few years to make it in the business." This thought led me to blaze through and submit my first screenplay to multiple companies, a screenplay with which I was not personally happy but which I thought the readers needed to see soon. I jumped to match their pace and sent them inferior work. I have tried to churn out short scripts for my director friends quickly, the idea being turnover, turnover, turnover. Thus far, I have not had anything produced because the work is hurried and inferior. I'm noticing the same in my photography, ignoring lighting and rushing framing to churn out content before I'm overlooked by someone who does not exist. I am walking the Camino of the professional world.

In romance, well, hell, what haven't I already said about romance? To the present, I've operated my relationships on the idea that my date needed constant entertainment, a complete sharing of interests, and anything else they may request, as soon as they request it. Otherwise, they would leave me behind. And this was important to me. I have put down my own work, beliefs, and interests because someone else, whom I happened to find attractive, found them subpar. I have been walking the Camino of everyone I ever dated and completely lost myself in them each time.

So what now? The physical Camino is over, and now I'm almost a month back in Los Angeles. The question now floating in and out of my head is "How do I get back on my Camino?"

It's not an easy process. I've built so much of my worldview on expectation and assumption that the idea of dropping them is confusing. I've lost so much of my ideation process in the grand hurry that I now have to dig deep in order to get it back. I have to find a job that, yes, will pay the bills, but at the same time, I may also need to be a little more picky with what I choose instead of just picking something to be employed again and not have to explain. Hovering over this is the concern that, if I couldn't figure this out with all my alone time on the Camino, how could I possibly figure it out back in the big city of LA?

The process is already starting. It takes a return to the old world to see what has been picked up from the new one (or is that reversed?). Writing Bill's adventures, above all things, is highlighting how much is lost in trying to walk someone else's Camino. The point is, people will wait if they know it's worth their while, and if not, it is no catastrophe. I have walked to the End of the World, and I remember enough to know that this is not it. So the plan, as of now, is to finish the blog, to focus on writing a good book instead of a quick book, and to find a job that lends itself to both of the previous. It may take until May to accomplish; it may take longer. I have time, and I have my lessons to back me. However, I have to stay on my Camino now. The plantar fasciitis reminds me of that.

In Training

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 01:56:00 +0000

I haven't written much about my physical health in a while, suffice it to say that sitting for 9 hours a day, 5 to 7 days a week, takes its toll. The back aches, the eyes blur, and the... well, we'll leave it with back and eyes for the time being.

In any case, things are about to be shaken up in a few short weeks. I'm going to be unemployed! Huzzaaa... what was that again? Yup, after being extended from 4 months to 13 months at Disney, I am about to reach my last extension. Then the playing field changes, and for at least one month, I will no longer take my seat in the shitty chair with the corroding back support and the poor lighting that magnifies the deleterious effects of an otherwise thoroughly adjusted computer screen. Instead, I will fly to Spain. On a plane. To cross the plain. In the rain. AND NOT ONCE COMPLAIN.

I've had a hankering, ever since Junior year of high school, to embark down the French route of El Camino de Santiago de Compostela. For those unfamiliar, it's a roughly 500-mile pilgrimage route that starts (among many places) in St. Jean Pied-de-Port in France, traverses Basque Country and the high meseta, and settles into stormy Galicia, ultimately culminating at Cape Finisterre, considered in Medieval times to be the end of the world. Is it ironic that I finally have the time and resources to walk there in 2012?

This morning, I completed my first 14-mile training walk to test out my mettle and my Merrells. I walked from Glendale to Chinatown to Silver Lake and back to Glendale via Los Feliz. To my advantage, the weather was pleasant, the hills minimal, the way familiar, and the feet new to the experience. I completed the trek in four and a half hours, stopping along the way to watch a brown widow spider kill a caterpillar and to buy a lunch of my own. Mapquest told me I should have finished in 5 1/2 hours... Umm...

One of my constant concerns with my body is overdoing it. I've screwed up my shoulder doing weights and my hamstring during Capture the Flag (getting old sucks), and Vishnu knows I've had issues with the heat on the track. As I sit here typing this, I've been back for five hours. My fingers are no longer swollen, though my legs and feet are not used to this degree of walking. I managed to avoid blisters but did feel hot spots. I will probably wake up tomorrow and hobble into work as the stiffness sets in. I remind myself that this is training, but will the little training I can manage over the next few weeks suffice? I mean, I will be repeating this walk every day of the week for four weeks. Actually, I take it back; this will be a mid-length walk.

As much as the pilgrimage itself is about faith in general, I suppose it will also be a test of faith in my body. Lately, with all the sitting, I have begun to feel a lot older than my coworkers remind me, and I wonder if the Camino will make this better or worse. It then begs the question of what comes after? More sitting? Most likely... But, perhaps, I will one day find a place with better chairs and better lighting. Who knows for sure? Those are things to address on the long walk. In the mean time, it's time to rest and plan, rest and plan.

The Upcoming Year

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 20:41:00 +0000

Wow... I'm really having trouble remembering the last couple of weeks. I think that's just the nature of the year: January starts off with the slow, post-holiday hangover, continues into March's bowl of cosmic cereal, realizes it's been dawdling at about August, blazes through the rest of October and November and explodes into exhaustion at the end of December. Then the cycle starts again. Whee.

Seriously, though, the holidays were a particularly blurry blur this year, and now 2012 has begun. I sacrificed the midnight "Hurrah!" so I could see the year's first sunrise over the dunes of Death Valley. And you know? It didn't matter that I had traveled by myself. I was surrounded by similarly minded people, and the night before, I was invited to dine with a family who then purchased my dinner (part of the "New Year's Special" menu, a.k.a. the same mediocre fare for ten extra dollars). All in all, what could have been an unbearably lonely weekend turned into a lovely experience, and how ironic that it should take place in the shadow of the Valley of Death.

I'm not making as many resolutions this year. Frankly, I overburdened myself for 2011, "My Year," and I forgot 75% of them before February even hit. I believe I had intended it to be the year of the relationship, when, in fact, it turned out to be my most independent year ever. I sacrificed the late nights for the most sunrises I'd seen in years, but I also sacrificed most of my sense of belonging to anything.

For 2012, I'd like to reverse that, but not by making a checklist of all the same old friends I haven't heard from in years and painstakingly contacting all of them to rekindle something that had never ignited. My adventures in 2011 taught me that relying solely on any one person is not healthy or enjoyable for either party. The people I've met on my landmark quests, though our relationships have not endured past a conversation, have reawakened two things that had been missing during all the time and effort I'd put into maintaining crumbling relationships of the past: curiosity and joy.

A socially healthy person (at least in this society) makes new friends throughout his/her life, so attain social health, the time has come to start expanding. If I can talk to a new person every week, it would lead to the sort of breakthrough I spent the last year convincing myself was impossible. All I need are guts, practice, and a willingness to let slide. It's a big risk, but one I'm willing to take if it means being a social animal once again. Of all the people I meet for the first time, at least one has to stick around for the second. Maybe two. Maybe that will lead to a bunch. Then, perhaps, I can stop feeling like a monk outside the abbey. After all, even monks have their brothers.

You Know... (Part 5)

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 21:00:00 +0000

You know you're getting older the first time you tell your youngest cousin "Geez, you've gotten tall."

Winter's Heat

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Sat, 22 Oct 2011 06:04:00 +0000

The signs of oncoming winter: fewer leaves, more sugar, less daylight, more precipitation, less time at work, more time on holiday... But in one aspect, all things run contrary to the natural workings of the world. From mid-October to late February, I go into heat.

I don't know if it's the temperature or the spirit of sharing, but something switches in my body, and I become a moody, hormonal mess who is ready to jump on the hunt for lovin'. Rarr... For the last three years, I attempted dating during this season. Before that, I used the snowy weather as an excuse to get others into the hot tub. Invariably, the results were as follows: disappointment, disappointment, disappointment, disappointment, a little bit of longing, and a lot more disappointment. I'm detecting a pattern here...

In any case, as the sun goes down and the Christmas lights come up (yes, they're already up in Glendale), I'm feeling the stirrings again: the discontent, the longing, the lust, the madness, the fear of not being good enough for someone I haven't even pictured in my mind yet. It's all coming back at once, just in time for the holidays.

It's the most wonderful time of the year!

The big difference this year is that I'm not using the internet to find anyone. No internet, no find, no date, no projection of expectations, no disappointment. But the heat is on. Woof. There's a knock at the door and a threat to blow the house down, but this little pig needs to stay practical, put the kettle on, and keep warm with wolf tea this year. The house is still under construction. Until it is built, there shall be no breaching of doors or chimneys.

One Year Since

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Sun, 09 Oct 2011 03:40:00 +0000

I admit, I'm a little off on time. Technically, it should have been last Saturday that I noted the one-year milestone for this blog; however, as I was about 300 miles north without access to the internet, let alone electricity, now is as fine a time as ever to look back.

The launch of this blog was, as are many of my hare-brained ideas, met with utter ambivalence, though it did once cause a prodigious argument on my Facebook profile, back when I had one. It became utterly critical for me to keep writing and publishing, writing and publishing, always with humor at the forefront because, I figured, no one wanted to read anything else; life was depressing enough without me adding to it. It took less than a month for me to start obsessively monitoring the weekly view statistics, cranking out more entries when I didn't get enough responses on the previous ones. I wanted feedback. I wanted dialogue. I didn't get it. People were hung up on the title. Finally, that's when I realized how tired I was of the constant posting and the constant monitoring, of setting myself up to use my personal information to please other people. I was giving myself away and getting nothing in return. At least whores get money for their services.

It's taken me a year at least to realize that I don't actually have to please anyone. Mostly, this came from re-reading The Way to Love, which I don't feel obligated to chronicle chapter by chapter anymore. Check it out if you want to learn more. From it, I have learned two truths that are gut-wrenching in their difficulty, based on my ingrained habits, or programming:

I don't have to please anyone.
- Pleasing another person fuels a desire for further pleasure and becomes, above all other things, a chain. Realizing this has made it so much easier to overcome my fear of talking to people. Not giving a shit what they think about me, because there is nothing they can do to ruin me, has made dealing with people so much less stressful than ever before.
Happiness is not a destination.
- I devoted nine years of my life to the search for a "soulmate." In so doing, I lost a great deal of my creativity, my focus, and my self-esteem. What I learned is that the soul does not need or even have a mate. Can we call the Enlightened Ones who did not marry "incomplete?"

For the first time in recent memory, I'm finding the very thought of a relationship repulsive. To me, a new relationship, while pleasurable to the senses, would be a spawning pool for insecurity, distraction, and self-deprecation. The idea of returning to the old habits of paranoia and codependency, of making sacrifices for the personal benefit of others, makes me physically ill. When I talk about the last year of adventures that I've had, my married coworkers wag their fingers and cluck "Wait 'til you get married and have kids; then we'll see about your freedom." There is absolutely no appeal to this.

However, I do sometimes still feel alone. It's not easy converting your love for a physical human to a love for something intangible: a feeling, an idea, or a deity. Yet, I seldom feel alone when in solitude; it is when I am around people that the feeling strikes. I spent my birthday camping in northern California, alone. I had no problem driving, dining, or sleeping alone; nor did it bother me not to have a cake and presents. In fact, it was lovely all around. The trouble came at dinner time the second night, when I was camping at Mount Madonna. I was alone at my table, surrounded by people chatting with each other. Need I say more on the matter?

So, after a year of delving into the inhibitions surrounding Asperger's, I've reached the following status: I am now secure enough to choose Will over Obligation and start building my social base, but after the years of a false journey, I am disillusioned enough to see no real point in building such a base up again. People are too busy for me, and I for them. A thousand moments of solitude eventually drown out a moment of loneliness.

Though the foundation and the walls are built, there is still an empty space inside. Building on the progress of the last year, the new quest will be to find what will best fill that space.

The Way to Love (Part 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 03:41:00 +0000

Moving right along, I'm a mere five pages into the book, and already I'm back at the chapter that gave me the most trouble. It starts with a quote from the book of Luke (14:26): "If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple."

In my ongoing search to not just be "good" but also to be "content," I've attempted putting this into practice by itself, and it's only led me to be bitter toward my family and my friends when they don't play by my rules. "Hate them, treat them disdainfully, and you'll be free" was the philosophy. But when it comes to seeking happiness, that really doesn't work. On re-reading, the point was sort of along the lines of a superhero movie: Those people and things you hold most dear are also the most dangerous to your personal well-being. I look at the recent death of my roommate's grandfather. She and her mom spent the better part of four months living with the grandparents and their cantankerous adopted son. It challenged some relationships and ruined others because of the obligation to help those who refused to be helped. The obligation, the commitment, was for family. Now, the family principle is one that I struggle with, because in so many of the religious "guidelines" I read, the central path to God, the Dharma, or what have you, is independent of family and other earthly "ties." So this is troubling.

"Hate" is a strong word that's thrown around loosely, and it doesn't work for me. I don't hate my parents. I don't hate my life. Is this why I'm not perpetually happy? As I read on, the terminology fit my tastes a little more. De Mello suggests not that we renounce our family, our friends, our ambitions, or our possessions all at once - he points out that violently ending a tie binds it to you forever - but rather to realize that they are attachments, that they are not eternal, and that, should they go away or turn against us, we should be ready. Perhaps "ready" is too pessimistic a term, but in all actuality, nothing lasts forever. Eventually, the whole human race will go extinct, for Pete's sake. But that's beside the point.

The book suggests making a list of all one's worldly desires and, having done so, addressing each of them with the following phrase: Deep down in my heart I know that even after I have got you I will not get happiness. So let's do that. What all do I want that's making me miserable?

A spouse/partner
A group of reliable friends
Approval from:

My parents

My extended family

My friends

My acquaintances

My employer/coworkers

Complete fucking strangers

My inner voice/God

Success/Influence

As a writer

As an actor? Performer?

Financial (money for travel)

Travel (happy without?)
The garden
The collections

This could be interpreted rather pessimistically, but the text doesn't say that having these things will make me miserable. Rather, it is pointing out that getting any one of these things will not magically make me happy. Happiness is not a goal. Making it a goal puts it in the intangible future, like a carrot at the end of a stick. Phrases like "the good old days" or "things will get better" are distractions that, no matter how you phrase them, force you into an unhappy present. This doesn't mean you have to go around all day repeating "I am happy. I am happy. I am happy." Lying doesn't help. However, letting yourself be happy, appreciating what you have and what you gain while being open to further gain or loss, is the sort of serenity that permits happiness, whatever that may actually be.

For the majority of today, I was sitting in a beautiful place, watching bunnies and butterflies and listening to birds and distant laughter, yet part of me was horrifically worried that someone would be trying to contact me via the cell phone I had intentionally turned off and locked in the trunk. Suddenly, there was a whole explosion of unintended worries: Who could be calling? Why? What could I be getting done? Who will hold me accountable for what I'm not getting done? Are all the people here wondering why I've been sitting here so long? Do they approve? That's six thoughts desperate for approval in the span of a squirrel's hop. Thought trains like this, or rather, Big Brain Bangs (BBBs) are more frequent than I wish I had to admit. They go something like this:

The Appearance BBB

Find defect (zit, flab, unwanted hair)

Sign of age, wasting away

Unattractive

Will not attract mate

Will live and die alone

UNHAPPY

The Intelligence BBB

Make a mistake (at work or in writing)

I was careless

I don't care - why not?

I'm lazy and have no sense of responsibility/concentration

I never accomplish anything of consequence

I will live and die alone

UNHAPPY

The Friendship BBB

Friend cannot hang out

Friend doesn't like me

Friends never hang out: none like me

People in general don't like me

I'm an unlikable person

I will live and die alone

UNHAPPY

If we cut out all the extra fluff, we can pare this down to "To live and die alone is an unhappy existence." While I could point out that no one with an active imagination can truly live alone, that might defeat the purpose. To point out that nearly everyone dies alone, or rather, not in the company of those they love, helps a little more. What has bugged me lately is the work, which I've considered a distraction to keep me from thinking about my perceived lack of love. The question I've never, up until this point, asked myself is, "Is this the sort of work I'm meant to do?"

As mentioned before, I'm clinging to an idea of what I should be, when the fact is, I may not be so well suited to that idea after all. The inability to let go of that idea has brought my focus to unhappiness, but letting go brings with it the fear of "What comes next?" There is so much fear surrounding this, which comes out of the belief that I need approval... of EVERYONE. So maybe, this is my first thing to address. What things are there to do, which others might not approve of, but which are good for my soul? This can't be something that will earn me praise or a cheap thrill from another source, even myself (Yay, Kyle!), but the point is, as today demonstrated ten years ago, any day could be your last. Why go out wishing for what you want when what you need has been there all along? There are a lot of things I could stand, not to eliminate from my life, but to loosen the hold. This will probably solidify better as I read on.

The Way to Love (Part 1)

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 22:22:00 +0000

I'm re-reading The Way to Love by Anthony de Mello on account of a realization the other day. I'm smart, something my peers, professors, and parents have all admitted, even myself. However, pure intelligence comes at a high cost, that of the soul. By soul, I mean that energy that not only gets a person out of bed in the morning but also instills joy and a sense of purpose. Read it as you will.

This thought train started rolling last week when my friend, who has asked me to write a short musical for him, asked a simple question: Would you like to work with a lyricist? Immediately, the thorns shot up, the mask was back, and I slunk back into the corner with my poisonous jaws at the ready, while inside my lair of instant defense, the worm that already lingered there began to gnaw at me again. With every nibble came the crippling doubts of why I had failed so spectacularly at this one task when I had promised to succeed. All of this took place in the span before I could even form a rational thought, and I sputtered a little, asked instead to work with a musician, and went home feeling miserable. Why? It wasn't that he had said anything with intent to offend or put me down; it was the fact that I had shat out inferior material and presented it as something to be proud of. It was a song, yes, but it was soulless.

To be a skilled craftsman, artist even, a person needs feeling and expression, a message, if you will. What I've noticed in my work as of late is that an idea will spring into my head, and I'll start writing it without thinking it through. I've never completed a full outline, and it shows when the piece falls apart at the end of Act 1, where I lose my patience. By then, I revert back to form: "Stick to the form, and you'll get through it. End your Act 1 at page 15, your midpoint at 60, and your end before 120. It does not matter what you lose in the process." Oftentimes, the idea may not have had an actual meaning behind it, but it seemed cool at the time and became a commitment, for which I held no love or interest, like my past attempts at dating. Without love, there was only commitment, and from that commitment came soulless things, things about which I still hang my head to this day, years after the fact. I commit because I crave success, but even more than I crave success, I crave approval.

The first chapter of the booklet addresses this directly. It asks the reader to compare the feeling of receiving praise with the feeling of taking in a gorgeous sunrise. One is fleeting and leaves a person wanting more, while another is simply satisfaction. Screenwriting, in which I have my degree, demands commitment for success in a business where soul is only as deep as a pocketbook. I have committed myself to writing because I gave up on veterinary medicine. I was afraid to have responsibility for an animal's life, and in the process of giving up that goal, I lost responsibility for my soul.

I entered writing as a relative newcomer. I did not have an all-consuming passion for movies and, honestly, I still don't. In fact, I don't have much passion for anything anymore. At age 23, having not yet produced something I am proud of or that has evoked any kind of meaningful response from anyone else, I have deemed myself a failure and resigned myself to the remainder of my life as a worker ant, occasionally churning out pages to satisfy the writer's group and hopefully one day get noticed and asked by rich men to write soullessly for money. I don't have my money or connections. I never made those real connections in college. I observed the other writers, either with jealousy or resentment, and never took the time to learn from them. Their perceived success on and off the page amounted to my failure, and that was it.

The fact of the matter is, the picture is enormous, and my eyes are glued to a scuff on the frame. It's like when I was in my single-digit years, rock climbing with my dad, and I suddenly let go of the rope and the rock to hang precariously by my dad's belay and examine a particularly fascinating species of lichen. I get called an asshole on occasion on the road for misjudgments of distance. My focus is on the minute. When I write a story, I will occasionally get stuck on a scientific question that will send me on a three-hour internet hunt, which, by the time I finish, I realize I didn't need to take anyway. I'm in a constant state of distraction from a goal I haven't even really made concrete yet.

In summation, my illusion is I need to have fulfilled two things already: to be a genius and to start a socially-condemned relationship and make it work 'til death do us part. It's quite simple, really. Just write something that's not only brilliant, but also that people will read/watch again and again and incorporate into their personal philosophies and cultures that have been shaped by countless other sources for thousands of years like J.K. Rowling. After all, according to Chris Ciccone, you only have to be a genius once. Next up, I have to find a man who genuinely loves and cherishes me tantamount to my own feelings and be at my beck and call yet understanding that I need lots of space. And it needs to happen three years ago!

After a while, you can only lie to yourself for so long. You can only crank out so many half-assed pages and force so many half-baked relationships before the pressure becomes absurd and the victim mentality takes hold. The recoil continues. The nightmares about insufficient sleep end with a clenched jaw, receding gums, and TMJ disorder, among others. And for what? Out of this whole flea-bitten circus, what good does it do anybody? I tell myself I have let go of fame-lust and love-lust, but it is always there, in waking and sleeping, always adding pressure, always reminding me that I'm not doing what I want to be doing, that I'm not where I should be. I should be successful, dammit! Why am I not?

My brother gave me this book for Christmas two years ago. I read it in two days, loved it, and then gradually perverted the message for the subsequent two years. I had to give up all hope of success, all hope of love, and turn instead to the invisible figure of God. After all, isn't that better than everything else? It was better to withdraw from people and shut myself up than to be a part of the clingy world. The thing was, the book never said anything like that. This first chapter, a heavy four pages long, points out that there are fleeting joys and substantial joys, but we are programmed to pursue the fleeting ones. I am at peace when I go for a drive and see the history of California. I tear my hair out writing pages that I don't even like, and I beat down on myself for not being good enough or accomplished enough to talk to someone I find attractive. There is this rancid bitterness that piles up from time to time, because, deep down, I know that what I am pursuing cannot, in and of itself, bring me contentment. I could write a renowned screenplay and then be pushed back into obscurity immediately after. I could start a great relationship and lose him to cancer shortly thereafter. The focus needs to be on something greater. If I'm going to write, it has to be for a reason other than fame. If I'm going to have a relationship, it has to be for something other than sex and sharing insecurities. There needs to be something bigger, and right now, I can't figure out what that bigger thing is. Maybe re-reading this book will help.

Aether

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 19:26:00 +0000

It's easy to forget there are stars when you live in Los Angeles. Let me rephrase. It's easy to forget there are stars in the sky when you live in Los Angeles. Night in the city doesn't really turn dark, just orange.

I ended up spending the weekend at my grandparents' house in southern Utah. The total population of the town where they live is approximately 120. The air is clear, the sounds are soft and natural, and there are stars. There are so many stars.

I stood on the deck for about half an hour, gazing up at them, feeling overcome with an emotion I thought I'd lost: wonder. They're still there. The Milky Way still flows. The Big Dipper still points north to Polaris. There are still tiny, blinking satellites weaving among them like alien ants.

I think that most people, myself included, spend the majority of their lives looking ahead, looking back, or looking around. It's easy to forget to look up, past the glass and rooftops, into the deep vastness, wherein lives the grand Mystery that puts all one's own tiny problems into perspective. There, nestled in the star fields, sits a profound peace that only requires a glance. I have been gone too long. That's a trend I do not wish to continue.

Little Armenia

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Mon, 08 Aug 2011 19:26:00 +0000

I've moved into an interesting neighborhood. It's a lot safer than the areas I'm accustomed to inhabiting. There are no bars on the windows, and I'm the only person who still puts a security bar on his steering wheel at night. It's also very Armenian.

I have no judgments to make on Armenia or its culture, because I have never been exposed to it until now, so I have no idea what to make of it. What I have gathered from recent interactions is that it is a proud and friendly culture, notwithstanding the hell it's been through. There is one couple in particular, however, that have left me scrambling to sort out the underlying meanings of their actions, sort of how I imagine a lot of people scramble to sort out the underlying meanings of my own...

My first introduction to this couple came as a knock at my door around 8:00 at night. They're an amiable, older couple, so I wasn't immediately scared that I was about to be shot to death in my doorway (remember, this area is safer than I'm used to). The moment I opened the door, the first thing they asked me was, "Are you Armenian?" There was no "Hi, we're your neighbors, the Jonesians," or "Welcome to the complex," so all I could really say was, "No, but I'm not a bad guy. I promise." They shrugged and introduced themselves, saying in very broken English that they used to be friends with the woman who lived in the apartment before me. There was a certain humble dignity to them that I admired, but there wasn't much time to do so before they excused themselves for the night and left me thoroughly puzzled.

Yesterday, the old man walked past me while I was futzing about in my pseudo garden. We exchanged nods, and I went back to what I was doing. Two minutes later, he set three kitchen knives on the ground in front of me. I didn't even hear him coming; suddenly, there were three knives on the ground by my hand. He smiled and nodded, so I suppose he meant well by it. Still, I wasn't sure quite how to respond. Maybe this is how people feel when I give them random gifts or favors, but I'd never thought of depositing knives in front of people working in their gardens.

Now, of course, there is the question of how to respond. It would be courteous to give them something back, but I don't quite have utensils to spare. I'm sure there are all sorts of cultural do's and don't's to gift giving with Armenian folks, but I have to wonder whether the internet is 100% effective at spelling them out. I suppose I could bake them some paklava, but I have no idea if that would be appropriate or not, especially if I end up burning it. Who knows? Maybe food will transcend the cultural-linguistic boundaries. I could take pictures of the process in which I make the pastries with their knives. Then again, they might misinterpret my meaning.

Driven Duck Says: Work, Work, Work

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 02:27:00 +0000

By crikey, it's been a while since I've put a post in here. Life updates: I'm finally settled into my new apartment, still vehemently single, and still working in LP. What do all of these have in common? More alone time! Whoo hoo!

To be quite honest, the first few weeks of coming home to a quiet, ratless apartment and making real meals in my own kitchen have been quite wonderful. It's only when I go elsewhere, such as work, where this seems pathetic. All the isolation I don't feel in my quiet apartment or on my adventures alone comes up in droves when I'm at work. For instance, last Friday, one of the HR staff came over to LP to deliver invitations to a baby shower for one of the other HR folks. She wanted to make sure "the whole team" was included. She didn't even address me (actually, she averted her eyes), even though I helped out in HR through the busy holidays. I understand that the role of a temp excludes one from certain perks of being at a company, but to be excluded from "the whole team" was a jab I wasn't expecting to receive.

Let's also take yesterday, for example. We had a volunteer fair at work. I shopped around to see if I could find something meaningful to take up my time. One of the groups was handing out kids' backpacks to be filled with school supplies and returned. I asked to participate (mind you, this is a charitable cause, not for self benefit), but my request was met with, "Sorry, we don't have enough supplies for temps." I mean, I get it, but after working there for nearly a year, it feels strange to have felt like part of something only to be reminded that I'm not.

Right now, what's keeping me on edge about this job isn't that it could end soon but that it could keep going. My boss is going on maternity leave in November, which means I may be recruited to cover into next year. That's easily another six months in a position where there is literally no room to transition to part of "the team." I have really mixed feelings about this. I do get a steady paycheck; I don't get benefits of any kind. I have started to grow accustomed to the area's amenities and the people, but is it all just a grand cage?

Also in question is my trip to El Camino, which I had considered taking after my assignment expired. I don't know when or if it will expire. Some might say "Take the journey; live your dream!" while others would caution "Build your nest egg; journey later." The rumor is that I can only be a temp there for a total of 18 months, but who knows what validity lies in rumors? Either way, the state of things is that I'm getting paid to help out a team to which I don't belong, which makes me feel much lonelier among people than I do when I actually am alone. There's also the alienating issue of my coworkers assuming I'm not only straight but also a womanizer, but that's the subject of a different post altogether. In the mean time, there have been no official talks of extending my position past July 29th, only more rumors. If I have no other offers by then, I will stay; if my time is up with nowhere pressing to go, I will write for a month and walk El Camino in September, Insh'allah.

Una Carta de Carlitos

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 03:39:00 +0000

Remember my kid? Well, if not, go here first then hurry right back. I got a letter from Carlos, er, his mom because he's not old enough to write letters yet. This is technically the second letter from Chile, but as I was in the middle of script-writing madness, I missed writing about the last one. His mom is so proud of his intelligence; in fact, apparently the whole family is intelligent, even the dog. Actually, she emphasizes that the dog is "very" intelligent.

Even though there are only two letters per year, it's still quite extraordinary to get a response from someone living in not only a completely separate hemisphere but also a completely different state of being. Nonetheless, it seems education is transcending all ways of life. Carlos is excelling in his early classes and is showing a knack for sports and art. Eeexcellent... Padrino Kyle may have to find ways of fostering these talents.

I'm trying to figure out what to write next. I've been practicing writing in Spanish, which has been fun, and I've been sending pictures from my adventures. Of course, for me, it's dreadfully difficult to write at a 6-year old's level, though I was able to ask him last time whether "Hay nieve allá durante el invierno?" to which his mom replied "No tenemos nieve. Ya que solo en la cordillera nieva. Él aún no lo conoce." She says she is very proud of me for graduating college. I think she has the same dream for Carlitos. I have no idea whether Carlos' older brother, who is my age, has graduated college. Maybe I'll ask that in the upcoming letter. Oh, and he colored a picture of an elephant for me. I'll have to add it later, once I've unpacked my scanner. Warm fuzzies.

Farol Verde

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Sun, 19 Jun 2011 04:08:00 +0000

I finally decided to put to use the two free AMC theatre tickets that have been hanging on my wall since November. They went toward a viewing of Green Lantern, one of the summer superhero movies on my list but predominantly the only one for which I could find a viewing buddy. As far as superhero movies are concerned, what it lacked in character development, dialogue, and continuity, it possessed in imaginative set pieces. As usual. But that's not the point of this post.

The mythos of the Green Lantern franchise is that the universe is built upon the conflict of two powerful energies: Will and Fear (think light side and dark side of the force). Those that succumb to fear are quite literally consumed by it, and the journey/wandering/stroll of our protagonist requires him to overcome such basic human fears as jumping off a towering skyscraper and facing a giant Androssian monster. While I'd love to go on about how many times I've found myself in the same situations, I'll focus a little more on something more general.

I've written about fear a lot in this blog: the fear of making eye contact, speaking out of line, being thought stupid or threatening, etc. My good friend in Germany related a story to me in which he made sustained eye contact with a guy at a bus stop, which then led to a mutual smile and a sort of rapport. Of course, I countered with the theory that, unlike Germany, America is as paranoid, if not more so, than I am. Therefore, sustained eye contact with a stranger on the street would be nicht gut. Yet he advised me to try it. Three seconds. Four, even. An eternity for me. But he presented it as a challenge. Damn it!

So, for the past week I've started to force a full second of eye contact. I've started talking to people with whom I don't normally associate, including the Adonis-type at work who may or may not have been flirting with me in February. And you know what? I get smiles out of it! People respond pleasantly. I mean, it takes quite a bit of reading to determine whether it's an appropriate time to talk to somebody, but an impromptu chat with a stranger is actually very empowering. You sustain eye contact with somebody, and suddenly, you're on their level. You no longer have to worry that your head is going to swell up like a giant tumor and your eyes glow yellow out of fear (see the movie), because in the end, to misquote Hamlet, words are just that: Words, words, words. There really is no need to look further than necessary into them.

I'm going to keep practicing eye contact. It's getting easier as I continue my adventure to see the Historical Landmarks of California and have to ask directions and information from complete strangers. Still, as of yet, these have been older, humble types, not as intimidating as the younger, firebrand sorts that breed so much insecurity in me. I'll take it one step at a time, a question here, an observation there, maybe even a compliment, troublesome though they may be. It takes time to learn how to conjure a racetrack out of pure energy, so if I keep viewing this as a journey or challenge, I just might be more enthusiastic to overcome it.

You Know... (Part Four)

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Wed, 08 Jun 2011 01:17:00 +0000

You know you're giving off the wrong vibe when young, attractive, Chinese students flock to your brother and even your parents to have pictures taken with them over the course of the trip, but the only photo request you receive is from a grinning 60-year old man.

You know you're hanging with the wrong crowd when after two minutes of recounting your adventures in China, you're interrupted by a half-hour monologue on personal drama and food, and the conversation is over.

You know there's a good reason for being paranoid when your boss hides a camera on his desk, films you brushing crumbs from your shirt into the trash can, and shows the entire office how, from that angle, it looks like you're taking a piss.

Googly Eyes

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Tue, 07 Jun 2011 02:14:00 +0000

So I'm back from China. Technically, it was almost a week ago, but you know how things go when you have a thousand pictures to upload, three blogs and a website to update, a full-time job, an apartment to find, and roommates to avoid. This is a comment on the latter, plus a few other things. But to preface this rather gloomy musing, watch this first. If you actually come back to the blog after watching it, well, cool!

Christopher Walken is about as awesome as it gets. When you're done reading here, go watch his dance video to the tune of "Weapon of Choice." But I digress. I'm here to talk about googly eyes. No, not quite the same googly eyes adorning cactus, shrub, and palm in this greenhouse; I mean the principle of googly eyes: inventing a way to know where you stand with people.

After three days in China, I noticed how regularly I was making fun of people, the customs, and especially my other family members. Ninety percent of my sense of humor is based on pointing out flaws in others and exploiting the shit out of those flaws. I try not to make them overtly mean-spirited, but one of the nastier parts of Asperger's, the one that has cost me a lot of friends over the years, is not recognizing when that line is crossed. That's a topic for another blog post. I want to talk about googly eyes.

Snarky remarks, showing attitude, dealing back double what's dealt unto you: these are my googly eyes. By keeping people mildly amused, annoyed, or even angry at me, I know exactly where I stand with them. My default assumption about other people is that they don't like me, even when I do nice things for them; ergo, it's become second nature to adopt behaviors that enforce their dislike so I don't have to play the guessing game. This helps me to avoid more complicated emotions like Love, Empathy, or even Like, and to keep people at a distance with the conviction that, if we were to build something great without googly eyes, I would ultimately destroy it anyway. They who hope for little are seldom disappointed. Therefore, bring on the snarkasm.

My roommates and I are finishing up our time together, and honestly, I can't wait. We were great friends for years, until last November, after an attempted favor went disastrously south, spawned a monster. Conditions were laid out before me; I had to change a number of my behaviors. Having self esteem half the size of a public school teacher's paycheck, I asked one thing in return: tell me when I do something wrong. Since then, we have sunk into a silent war over the dishwasher. I have learned, by watching them silently correct the positions of what I put in the dishwasher, how to put the glasses in correctly, load the dishes from back to front, wash all dishes by hand before putting them in the dishwasher, and avoid washing all plastic items because they'll melt.

The latter is where I'm drawing the line. There is a measuring cup and a spatula sitting in the sink as I type. They have been there for four days. The evening before they appeared, I put them in the dishwasher. Good plastic. Durable. It won't melt; I promise. Yet, after months of ignoring my one condition of verbal openness in favor of passive aggression, I've decided to leave them in the sink. They took them out of the dishwasher; they can put them back if they so desire. These are my googly eyes, and so I know at all times where I stand with them. By the time our lease runs out and I find my own place, I don't expect to see or hear from them again, but I know they will leave with a bad final impression of me.

Is it my fault? Some of it is, but for the fact that this venom has been building so steadily to the point that one roommate hasn't looked me in the eye for two or three months, there's more to this than the position of dishes. And it feeds me. And it feeds my worldview. And it lets me retain my fear of plants, er, people. And it lets me resent them for being. And it keeps me well supplied with googly eyes, for anger is something I understand, and surrounded by anger, though it fills me with endless negativity, I feel secure.

Marriage Mirage

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Wed, 18 May 2011 19:40:00 +0000

I try not to write about other people in this blog, because eventually it will come back to bite me in the ass. However, though isolated I may be in waking, the Dreamworld is full of people influencing me in ways they would never imagine while awake. For cases like these, I must maintain anonymity. I'll refer to the persons in question as X and Y. Like the chromosomes.
Rock on.

I understand that a long dream is normally around five minutes but feels like an age. The one that concluded last night's slumber was a doozy on the sense of wellness. In it, Person Y announced his plans to marry Person X. Their relationship was widely known and supported, they had stable jobs, and they were very much meant for each other from the start. The issue was that I never saw or spoke to Person Y throughout this entire dream. My job was to go pick up the bride-to-be at a party.

When I arrived, there were about five brides-to-be, all about the same age and description. Somehow, I knew which one was the right bride, but I couldn't bring myself to approach her. How would I introduce myself? What if she was truly charming? I wanted something to be wrong with her, and she morphed through all phases of crassness. I lingered on this for a long time.

I'm at a stalemate when it comes to romance. When I see a happy couple, I'm filled with two emotions: bitterness that they've found their other halves and hubris that I am still free to do what I like without accounting to another person. These are easily the two strongest emotions I've been feeling the last few months. I know I'm unsuitable for a relationship, because of my cynicism, paranoia and need for solitude, but the longing still presents itself at times. The happiness that surrounded the prospective union of Persons X and Y left me feeling empty on awakening, though it is important to me that I not find myself entangled in another naive, possessive, loveless mockery of a "relationship." Each additional day that I've been single feels like a landmark, and truly, when I am adventuring alone, I barely miss other people at all. But it's in the planning and the aftermath, when I ponder what it could have been like with someone else, that I feel very sad.

However, because of the steps I have taken in the last few months/years, I decided I was not going to let this resurgence of self-pitying emotions spoil my day. I combined a few techniques in the shower: the feeding of the demons and the cleansing radiance. I gave the loneliness demon a morsel of my angst, and it went away. I envisioned myself as a blazing light cracking through the gunk the demon left behind, and when I got out of the shower, I felt clean in more ways than one. Nonetheless, I still wish I could find a more lasting approach to this, preferably a social one that doesn't turn the social experience into an obligation but marries the need for companionship with the desire for freedom. Maybe it will be there when I wake up next.

Practice

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Wed, 11 May 2011 19:40:00 +0000

I spent the weekend in Spokane, watching about 1200 caps and gowns file up, across, and off stage. My grandma told me to yell for my brother when he came into view. I found that I couldn't. Seriously. I could not raise my voice.

In 2009, while doing a documentary on the placebo effect, I had my aura read by two different people in two different states. Both readers noticed my crown chakra (mental) was ablaze with energy, while my throat chakra (communication) was about the size of an amoeba or Donald Trump's charm. I've been getting steadily quieter over the years too. I sound perfectly intelligible to myself, because what I say registers clearly in my mind, but it's rare anymore that I don't have to repeat a phrase two or three times to be understood. It gets unnecessarily frustrating.

The cause is two-fold: one, I don't want to be disruptively loud as I was growing up, and two, I prefer most conversations to be private without bystanders leaping into the dialogue at the first convenience. The issue is that my concept of volume is shot to hell. As a child, I was a screamer, an exclaimer, a singer, etc. In short, I was loud all around. It drove many people nuts, particularly the adults in my life, who invariably told me to tone it down. After a while, especially during the pivotal 6th grade year, which saw the first big blow to my self-esteem, I learned that it was better to be silent, discreet, inconspicuous and therefore hidden from critical eyes.

Where this presents a problem is in real social situations, like graduation, or a sports game, or really any exchange in which more than two people are involved. I can't hold my own in these situations. I don't know how to barge in, cut people off, or make my point. I'll start to say something, but it's either too quiet or devoured by the existing momentum of another's soliloquy. I may have a very good idea in mind, but I just can't get it heard. This has been a great contributing factor to my ongoing isolation; it's not that I want to be in the spotlight all the time, but to actually be included, heard, welcomed would be so very nice. Nonetheless, this has remained elusive over the years.

A runner's legs grow thick and strong, a swimmer's arms as powerful as legs. That which is not used atrophies. Such is the case with my voice. There is this need inside me to shout, proclaim, sing, project, SPEAK for crying out loud, but my voice does not follow my heart and stays timid and weak, still afraid of sixth grade disapproval, despite the extraordinary progress I've made in other fields. I understand the mantra of "Practice, practice, practice," but I have no direction to motivate me through the mire of imagined criticism. I'm afraid to sing in my own room and car, for Pete's sake, out of fear for disturbing others with a sound not unlike a cat with its tail caught in a garden edger. Yet, I want to be loud again, badly, and I'd rather not wait until the magical age of 75 when all inhibitions go to shit and I can say and do whatever I want while people understand that I'm just old then smile and nod. Maybe I just need a better grasp of what it is I want to say. What do I want to say?

Re-bloom

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 01:20:00 +0000

I had a really nice surprise today at work. My supervisor apologized to me. It's not something I'm used to, so the occasion really stood out.

Here's the scenario: we had to reorder some record boxes from storage. My job was to search for the box numbers in our database, E-mail them to my supervisor, and she would take it from there. So I did, and I checked it twice, sort of like Santa, but not.

Today, I was informed that I'd ordered the wrong boxes, a big faux pas, because to reorder boxes costs about $50 per box. Though confused, I was sure I had made the mistake out of sheer laziness and prepared to enter the classic area of self-punishment. Still, my supervisor wanted me to re-verify in the database, which I did. Much to our mutual surprise, the numbers were wrong in the database, hence the apology. Much to my greater surprise, the error was not my own.

Over the years, I've grown accustomed to accepting blame for a lot of things, whether or not I'm actually responsible for them. Since my memory of each step of a monotonous process isn't fantastic, I err on the side of criticism because I simply do not have the instant recollection to say with 100% conviction that the error was not my own. At that point, I jump on the criticism bandwagon and start berating my work, my work ethic, my memory, how I'll never really be a good employee, etc. It's basically a frenzy to assure myself that I'm not stupid, just lazy, but not lazy, just tired, but not tired, too stressed, which leads to a whole new surge of criticism and compounds the latter problem.

In the past year, these trains of thought have begun occurring less frequently, but when I do jump on one of them, it does start down a lot of the same tracks. I'm obsessed with assuring people that I'm not stupid, that I'm not lazy, that I'm not mean, that I'm not emotionally invested, that I'm not a writer, that I don't take part in the USC-UCLA rivalry, that I'm not attracted to anyone, that I'm not religious, that I'm not an atheist, that I'm not like a Californian, that I'm not like a Utahn, that I'm not like an American, that I'm not like an Earthling... Toot toot!

And so today, this simple sentence, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to blame you," knocked me right off the train. The strange revelation that I did the job right reminded me of one thing that I am: thorough. To me, it was greater than a compliment, because it wasn't intended to be such and was thus devoid of all insincerity or social compulsion, just good manners. It boosted my confidence, and I'm ready to keep doing good work. I mean, hell, they've already extended my assignment by a month and a half, so I can't be that awful, right?

I came home at the end of the day, and found that all three buds on my orchid had bloomed. Most people throw away their orchids after the flowers wither, but I kept this one for a year, and now, it is beautiful again. There's one more thing I can do. I wonder what else is out there.

Easter Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Mon, 25 Apr 2011 02:46:00 +0000

I can't remember what I did last Easter. I think I was staring at the screen, growling over my thesis and wishing I could be frolicking about like a bunny hopped up on chocolate creme eggs. Pun intended. Not being raised religious, Easter has pretty much been another time for presents and goodies, basically like Christmas and Halloween all in one (after all, the Easter Bunny scared the crap out of me). Fast forward a decade or so, and it's taken on new meanings, not the least of which being the end of my Lenten experiment.

I'll start with that first. How did my Lent go? Did I make it all forty days without processed sugar? No. What, Kyle? You caved? Not exactly. I had crazy nightmares about being duped into indulging in sugar, and I have a six-inch pile of deferred confections on my desk at work to prove it. Nonetheless, it is absolutely astonishing how sugary the American diet is. These were my three downfalls: salmon sprinkled with brown sugar, a chicken sausage flavored with maple syrup, and finally, and most diabolically, a piece of kettle corn deposited into my hand by a vendor at the Poppy Festival, and instinctively put into my mouth and chewed before I even realized what it was. Yikes, yikes, yikes.

Nonetheless, I learned a valuable lesson from this experience: that there is no pleasure in life that cannot be replaced by something better. Despite the onslaught of "I'm sorry," "You poor thing," "I could never do that," et cetera (notwithstanding the fact that this was my decision and not some punishment thrust upon me), I upped my fruit consumption, focused on improving the variety of my diet overall, and even starting to lose some of my sweet tooth. My gums have even stopped bleeding when I floss! TMI? Whatever! This is freaking awesome, and I have to call the bluff of anyone who says "I need my ___."

But aside from the physical aspect of things, the Easter holiday is based on the resurrection of Jesus and thus is a time for great celebration and hope for new life. This is an aspect I'd never associated with the holiday, so I decided I would go to a service today. Combining goals, I arranged to visit the Self Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine for a group meditation and service. Unfortunately, the website did not mention that the service would be canceled for the holiday and replaced by a much bigger, much earlier event. C'est la vie. Not to be daunted on this day of new life, I kept searching.

The temple garden, dedicated to religions of the world, is rightly hailed as one of the most beautiful in the state of California. Straight away, I found a lovely tiled bench on the lake shore, sat, and watched the fountain bubble, the turtles courting each other in the water, the ripples, the callas, and suddenly, the most miraculous thing happened: I was calm. The chaos that had filled my mind for the past few weeks was gone, replaced by that pair of turtles caressing each other's faces.

As I moved from the bench to the Windmill Chapel, I became aware of a new mentality. I felt free from the rush; I didn't have to go anywhere. I could just sit and listen. I could feel the air of bodies coming and going. I could hear their breathing. A woman entered behind me and began to talk but cut herself off. Normally, this sort of action in a quiet space would have irritated me disproportionally, but this time, I had only one question: What did she just discover that made her cut herself off? It's the sort of idea I'd entertained a few times before, but I'd never really felt before now that people can still discover, still wonder, if not about the same things that I wonder. It was the effect of the silence, stripping away the misanthropic cloud to remind me that I am among people, that I am one of them... that I belong with them.

As I left the chapel, feeling renewed, I reflected on that which truly fills me with wonder. Mist. Sunsets. Stars. Tears. And on thinking of them, the realization occurred to me that all the stress I'd put myself through, all the sacrifices I thought I was making for good, all the self-denial I'd made for the wrong reasons, did not matter. I did not have to do anything; the way I live my life is my choice. Then I came to understand the name of the place, and I left in peace on a bright Easter Sunday.

A Thousand Feet in the Air

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 19:39:00 +0000

Whew! Okay, I'm back after quite the hiatus. Where have I been, you ask? I've been face-down in the pages of a script. I received a follow-up E-mail from one of the Script List folks, basically asking me, "Dude, where's your script?" I decided it was time to stop putzing around and get the thing done.

And now, it's done! I sent in all 120 pages, rewritten to death and resurrection, this morning, and now, there is so much potential ahead. With this weight taken from my shoulders, I have leaped a thousand feet into the air, but it is important, on my way down, to find a place to land.

Writing a really great script requires a firm grasp on human emotion, something I struggle to understand on a daily basis. The way to reach the intense anger, joy, and sadness depicted in movies is foreign to me, owing to spending so much time isolated in my head. I can handle complex systems; I can create cultures down to the assistant to the middle shaman in charge of sprinkling shaved rodent hair over the heads of ceremonial dancers, but for the life of me, I cannot be satisfied with my characters' reactions. I can write "She YELLS" or "He breaks down," but I can never tell if the situations surrounding those short statements would, in the real world, elicit such responses. I have no gauge, and it's made writing an incredibly frustrating process.

Emotional people fascinate me. When I see someone cry or laugh out loud or really lay into someone, I'm almost paralyzed with wonder and sometimes end up having to give account for my staring. When friends are emotional, I struggle to relate, but being unable to do so, I resort to intellectualism. "Interesting" is a favorite, non-committal word. The roots of this are many, but the fact of the matter is, while I can feel emotion inwardly, my inability to express it outwardly, like those fascinating people I observe, is inhibiting me from getting my work to reach beyond the system and touch the heart of the reader.

I used to write scenes that made me want to cry, but I believe they were in prose. When I can get inside the character's head (my realm), it works, but in the screenplay format, where all is visual and audible, without scent, touch, or thought (which must be depicted visually on film), I'm stuck. I cannot convey the emotion as I want, nor can I get my readers to understand the emotional depth that I had envisioned. So, sticking with New Year's Resolutions, I've got to figure out how to open the bottle of tears and let the words flow out. This next script had better make someone react, or so help me, I will figure out how to express my annoyance off the page.

Sweet Tooth

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Fri, 04 Mar 2011 20:30:00 +0000

I'm getting zombie teeth. You know the type, long, sharp, hungry for the brains of... well, maybe not the third level there, but I'm getting, as they say, long in the tooth. I'm 23; this doesn't normally happen until after 40. So what is the deal?!

Back in October (Around Halloween time... Ooo, zombies...) I wrote up my hypothesis for the digestive issues I'd been experiencing: that they were caused by the reawakening of a latent dairy allergy. This was quickly disproven by the fact that the issues persisted for a while, notwithstanding the use of orange juice for cereal (which is pretty darn good anyhow). Now, it's gone from the middle of the tract to the top, and I'm a little miffed.

It turns out that periodontal disease is pretty darn common, somewhere around 75% of adults get it. In this case, the gums recede until the roots are exposed and sometimes require dental extraction. Not my cup of tea. Oh, and by the way, it seems that the issue has intensified since joining the adult work force and upping my consumption of tea. Turns out, that's a factor. I've also been upping my sugar consumption. It seems that's not only a factor in my mouth but also in my gut. Excess sugar consumption feeds bacteria, which then produce toxins that can kill gum tissue and upset the stomach. Oh really? Tell me more! All that rigorous tooth-brushing I've been doing to massage the gums and clean up the teeth has actually been stressing out the gums even more! It's a zombie trio, and they've caught my chompers by surprise!

A couple of things will need to happen here. I don't think the tissue can regrow, but the shrinkage can be stopped. Fortunately, my smile (when I show it) is unaffected, but I really don't like the idea of going full-zombie. Fortunately, next week is the start of Lent, which gives me a great opportunity to give no processed sugar a test run. That means 40 days of no dessert. Yikes. This will require some serious creativity. I may even include 40 days of no tea and incorporate a new, softer toothbrush. At this rate, I can only hope that this plan succeeds where "no dairy" failed so miserably. Updates in April. Now if only I could find someone willing to consume all the sugary delectables piled up around my apartment...

Lovely Lady Liberty

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 20:43:00 +0000

I just finished uploading my photos from the long weekend in Sequoia National Park. Lots of people were excited to see them. Of course, a fraction of those "lots" actually knew I'd been to Sequoia.

In the weeks preparing for this trip, I'd gone through a lot of internal debating (big surprise there), mainly on the subject of whom I could invite to accompany me on this trip. It had to be someone available, someone with whom I could get along for three straight days, someone who could get along with me for three straight days, and someone with whom I could feel comfortable sharing a bed for two nights. The list narrowed and narrowed and narrowed until I was left with one person: myself.

Of course, this less than ideal decision presented a number of other concerns. What if I got stranded in the snow without cell phone reception? What if I went hiking in the foothills and either fell or encountered a cougar? The thought of being alone in the wilderness frightened me; I felt it was my destiny to die out there, but I was going to go anyway.

When I actually got there, the fear melted away. The place was so beautiful. If this were my time, I'd gladly take this as my place. Over the course of the next three days, I set my own schedule, ate where I wanted, took as long as I wanted for photography, and felt wholly free to interact with everyone I met along the way, mostly travelers from Europe. I was not alone; I was not lonely. Of all the feelings I felt most strongly, freedom was the chief.

I've spent much of my life and most of my school years holding back from doing things because I wanted someone to go with me. A combination of indecision on my part and indifference on the part of others kept me indoors, on the computer, away from real experience. I loved it and hated it. It was fuel cell for my fantasy but a prison for my reality. However, since graduation, since logging off of Facebook, since ending my utter reliance on other people to have fun, I'm doing more and I'm having more real experiences.

I realize that I am failing miserably at my New Year's Resolution to make 2011 the year of the relationship, that shying away from others is contrary to the mission of this blog (to overcome the isolating symptoms of Asperger's), but to be honest, the feeling of freedom standing in the snow, surrounded by a cathedral of red trees and nothing else but the sound of silence, was supreme. I felt happy. I felt whole. I did not have to give account to anybody.

Of course, this leaves me with one final dilemma: Where is that line between freedom and loneliness? Would I have benefitted more from bringing someone along, or was this the right choice? I suppose the only way I can know is by going on more adventures, seeing who's interested in joining me, and putting forth the effort to meet new people who might be more interested. Fortunately, I still have the freedom to make those decisions.

Feb 14: V-Day

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Tue, 15 Feb 2011 05:27:00 +0000

A day that will live in infamy... Yes, I am mixing up my Pearl Harbor with my stormin' Normandy, but that aside, yes, today marks the second year since the end of my last official relationship. Two years of deliciously drippy cynicism, which reminds me of something I've often speculated on Valentine's Night: how many people across the world are, at this very moment, having sex? Additionally, how many people across the world are having sex simply because it is socially mandated that February 14th be a day of sex?

I mean, let's face it, Valentine's Day is specifically designed for men to disguise their carnal lustings, mask their pelvic thrustings, and put on a bit of a show for their significant others in the hope that such show will lead to aforementioned lustings and thrustings. Suddenly, those hearts and roses seem a little... icky, no?

Nonetheless, I have just returned from a lovely (non-sexual) evening in with myself. The show was extraordinary. I made a special dinner for myself, equipped with such exotic dainties as blueberry-coated goat cheese, slipped on my slippers and my chair-back massager, and tuned in to Pan's Labyrinth, which was, admittedly, still as sad and disturbing as when I last saw it four years ago. Nonetheless, as sad and pathetic as this scene may seem to the observer, it was actually surprisingly nice. I gave up my worries, my deadlines, and my stresses for a few hours to just enjoy being there. There was no one to impress, nor was there anyone to please. It was just pure relaxation and pure fantasy.

What's making it easier for me is that I've learned an important distinction. Valentine's Day used to be painful for me because I felt it reminded me of the lack of love in my life. What I've learned is that love is not lacking in my life; it's romance. There's a difference. Valentine's Day is the day of romance, the show, the penis masquerade, but it is not the day of love. I don't believe that, for anyone living a full life, there is a single "Day of Love," unless you want to count a wedding day, but that's a whole other post. Just listen to some Rent or Reg Presley, and you'll know what I'm talking about. Happy Valentine's Day, all.

Swish Flip Swish

noreply@blogger.com (Kyle) — Tue, 01 Feb 2011 00:55:00 +0000

I've concluded that a sure-fire solution to the desires of any sympathy-seeking person is to take a job in filing. In the last three weeks that I have been filing at Disney, I have received apologies from my boss, my coworkers, and even random passers-by. "I'm sorry," runs the line, "I couldn't do that."

I don't understand the outpouring of pity. I started filing before I was old enough to work...legally. I organize for amusement. Of course, this is an odd little character trait by itself, but there is one further argument for filing that actually occurred to me in the midst of the swish flip swish of pages.

Filing is actually an ideal day job for a creatively minded person. What a paradox, I know! How can such a mindless, monotonous activity possibly contribute to the well being of a creative person? It's for that very reason! It's mindless, but, what's more, it's meditative! I can sit there for hours with nothing but the swish flip swish and shut off all of my brain except the creative side. While the senses focus on the pages, the mind focuses on the concepts. Since starting this job, my at-home productivity, after a day of brainstorming, is booming.

So to my covey of well-wishers, I raise a palm and say, "There is no need for your pity, for filing and I are old friends, and the more time we spend together, the more we get done. Now you may return to your exhaustion and groans on another Monday's monotone, while I and my files frolic in the silence of the mind. Boom!"