When my phone vibrates, I try to wait. I try not to stop what I’m doing to pick it up immediately. But I want to, I have to admit. I want to see what’s popped up on the screen, especially if it’s someone texting me. I want to respond right away, but I make myself wait.

Like a high-functioning addict with a high to look forward to, I make myself finish my work before I pick up my phone.

The road workers tore up the parts of the sidewalk that were cracked. They poured new cement for the new sections of sidewalk and paved them just pretty and fine. But on the sides of the new sections where the grass was tore up, they didn’t sprinkle of grass seed in the dirt. So the balding patches of dirt look even worse than the cracked sidewalk. But at least nobody will trip.

Even sunny days seem dark, like I have a personal cloud hovering above me, following me around. I mean this more than metaphorically. When I think back on recent memories, they actually look dark in my mind’s eye. 

Winter is coming. And the days are, in fact, getting shorter and darker. So maybe that’s just it. And I’m screaming about the sky falling when it’s only a raindrops. 

Standing in the shower, waiting to dry, I exhale. A smudge of fog appears on the glass door, expanding as my outbreath continues to blow hot air against its surface. The edges of the condensation grow unevenly, with rounded front forces, like bacteria multiplying in a petit dish. There is a brief pause just as I’ve expelled all the breath I have, and then I inhale, and the opaque shape starts to shrink. All the bacterium that were born just seconds ago, die in mass

I stared at the words on my computer screen for long enough that the depths and dimensions beyond the edges of my computer screen started to play tricks on my perception—slanting slowly side to side, zooming out and then back in. I leaned back and pushed myself away from the desk, rolling in the wheeled chair. I looked at things to the left and right of the screen—a stack of books, a coffee mug. I stared at them and concentrated until I felt that my perception was back to normal. Then I pulled myself to the desk and started typing again.

I wonder if our nine-pound Maltipoo is aware that his occupation is Lap Dog.

He still growls when he sinks his teeth into his toys and shakes his head, as if he were tearing prey limb from limb. He still barks when the delivery man drops off a package on the front porch. He still leans forward, pulling on his leash, trying to run, when we’re out for a walk. He still sniffs and marks his territory.

If he were suddenly cast back into his natural state in the wild, he would almost certainly die quickly.

When I’ve stood writing at my desk for long enough that my back starts to hurt and I’ve skipped a meal or two.

When my addiction to writing becomes apparent in moments that I am incapable of leaving unwritten.

When I become aware that what I am writing will be read and then start to write what I imagine readers will enjoy.

When I think deep down about my reason for writing in the first place and realize that it comes from my desire to be loved.

When I am editing or working on any part of the writing process other than the original moment of creation.

When people ask me what it is that I do and I tell them that I am a writer.

When I even consider the possibility of writing for money.

I was lying on the ground. The door was halfway closed. I wanted it all the way open. So I rolled to my side, reached over, and pushed. It swung open, hit the wall, and then swung back until it was even farther shut than it was before.

All of us in the kindergarten class were sitting criss-cross applesauce with our hands in our laps, looking up and listening to the teacher.

She was sitting in a rocking chair, reading a book in an overdramatized voice, her puffy cheeks swelling under her eyes when she smiled.

She stopped reading, looked down at me, and ordered me aloud to stop picking my nose. All the other kids looked at me, with my finger still stuck up to the knuckle in my nostril.

He was doing pull ups on the monkey bars in the park. She came up to and asked, nonchalantly, hey can I ask you a question? He let go of the bar and hopped out. Curiously, he said, yeah sure what’s up?

She asked, do you want to take me on a date sometime?

He laughed because he was caught off guard and he didn’t immediately know what to say. He honestly thought she was going to tell him off for working out on the jungle gym that was meant to be for children. But there were no children around it was the middle of the day the kids are at school it was just him and her standing on the playground. 

He looked at her as he considers her question. She was pretty, so he didn’t have to take long. How about right now? He said. 

Now it was her turn to be caught off guard. 

Well, I, um, yea, I mean I was going to get coffee, but sure, yea, I have a few minutes. 

Okay, he said. You can start out with ten pushups. 

I was on the baseball field, holding a plank. A high school cross-country team was running on the path. They were nearing the end of whatever distance they were running, however many laps. 

There were two coaches standing near the path by what I assumed was the predetermined finished line. They were clapping their hand and shouting the following instructions:

“Quicker.”

“Run faster.”

“Come on.”

“Faster.”

When I am worrying about something incessantly, sometimes all I need is another word to come along. For some reason I can’t worry about two things at once. Now the second worry must be big enough to take my attention from the first, like a planet that is big enough to attract the gravitational pull of my worrying. But it shouldn’t be too big because then I will be in the same place I started: worrying about something equally bad, ego is terrifying, equally as debilitating with its promise that life is not worth living anymore and I might even might as well not put any more effort because if this worry is realize that nothing will matter anymore my life will be over. Tori needs to be big enough for the gravitational pull big enough to get my mind off the other worry but spa enough they can forget about it after all my attention has been focused on it. And then for some reason the first worry has gone away and doesn’t come back. 

I drag the bottom of my sticker and arcs along the dirt and gravel of the baseball fields in Field of the holy Davidson left by the cleats of the last team practicing here smoothing out my section as best I can. I look up and see there are holes in David’s all the way across the field at least 60 or 70 feet wide. But at least this small section is smooth now. 

I tap tap tap the palm of my hand on top of each plank in the fence on my left side and then lean over to tight rope walk the edge of the sidewalk on the right side like a kid again and step far is short to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk like a kid again making up games out of nothing.

Acorns are all over the sidewalks in this part of Kansas, this time of year. I’d very the length of my steps, sometimes shorter, sometimes longer, in order to step on them with my heel at first only a top then as they launch forward through the rest of the step and my weight all focuses on my ear I hear the crunch of the acorn beneath. I know I am not but, in the back of my mind, I’d like to think I’m helping the squirrels by breaking the nuts for them.

While I was sitting at the kitchen counter, eating my oatmeal, I thought about dying. Then I thought about how there could be nothing. Everything could just not exist.

Then I looked outside, through the glass door. I saw the branches of our oak tree waggling, light dodging around the edges of the leaves, dropping onto the deck around the tree-shaped spots of shade.

And I was glad that it does exist, all of this.

And I was glad and grateful that there is what there is and that I am here for it. 

I thought about death and how it could all go black in an instant, which made me wonder, what if it had all been black from the beginning, always was and always will be, forever and ever, the end. 

While I was sitting at the kitchen counter, eating my oatmeal, I thought about dying. Then I thought about how there could be nothing. Everything could just not exist.

Then I looked outside, through the glass door. I saw the branches of our oak tree waggling, light dodging around the edges of the leaves, dropping onto the deck around the tree-shaped spots of shade.

And I was glad that it does exist, all of this.

I don’t stop writing, get up from my desk chair, and lie down on my back to think of new ideas for my writing. I do it because my back hurts. But I’ve realized that lying down and looking up at the ceiling, just taking a second to lie down and breathe and let your mind wonder away from your work—is an excellent creative exercise.

When I’m driving, I like to see the light change from green to yellow just as I’ve gotten into the intersection. It gives me the sense that I’ve just made it, but I’m getting where I’m going faster and not stopping.

[insert the rest from Otter recording]

Do you think you’re feeling like that because of the drugs from this weekend?

Yea, maybe. But I was honestly feeling a little off before this weekend. Maybe I’ve been working too much.

I was excited for this weekend because I just wanted to get away. But maybe I did too much. Now I feel like I’m lost somewhere in the middle. I’m back in the grind but I feel like I’m off away somewhere else. I’m back in the very demand job and having to focus on a computer and be productive but now after this weekend I just wanna listen to music and feel good.

James wake up in the middle of the night to pour a few shots from his dad’s vodka bottle to take to a high school party. James thought he was smart, refilling then missing liquid with water. The next day, Mr. Oliver went to put his nightly cocktail, but the liquid in the bottle was frozen. James wasn’t so smart after all. There’s a reason you put vodka in the freezer. It doesn’t freeze. But water does. 

I went over to my grandparents’ house with two of my younger cousins, Jon Henry and River. Jon Henry is five and River is seven. My grandparents live on some acreage in a more rural part of Kansas. I went out into the backyard to play. Before I went out, my grandpa told me, “Jon Henry has a brand new basketball in the bucket in the barn.”

First, Jon Henry ran out to the barn, lifted up the garage door, and came riding out on a bike. River said, “Hey, that’s my bike.” Jon Henry has his own bike. I tried to talk to him,

Before I went out, my grandpa told me, “Jon Henry has a brand new basketball in the bucket in the barn.”

She was my best friend’s sister. She enrolled at the university, two years below us. I was studying abroad in London during the semester that she was introduced to our friend group. I met her when we came back to school the next year. We moved into a house off-campus. She came over a lot, asking if my best friend was home, but he wasn’t usually. So we started to spend time together. Not much at first. She’d linger in the kitchen, take something from the fridge, sit down on the couch, look at art on the walls. One afternoon, I was in the kitchen cooking dinner. She came in through the front door without knocking. I turned around and there she was in the doorway. I can’t remember if she said a word. Maybe she said, “Hey.” And I said, “Hey.” Then she walked across the linoleum tile and gave me a hug. And that was what did it. There was electricity and warmth. It was the most natural thing. But it still wasn’t appropriate. She was my best friend’s sister. She was two years younger than me. We had the same friends. We had never thought of … So she dropped her arms and picked through the fruit bowl and I turned and kept chopping onions on the cutting board. We talked about my day and her day and if my best friend would be coming home soon. Then she left. It was a week later, maybe a month, when we found ourselves at the local sports bar, eating dinner, just us. I think that was the first time we were alone together. Then we were back at her apartment. The living room was psychedelic. Multi-colored lighting. Posters and paintings all over the walls. She lay in the corner of the couch. I sat nearby. We watched music videos and documentaries on TV. The only bathroom in the house was upstairs. I asked her where it was and went up there. When I came back down, she had her shirt off, and she was sitting up straight on the couch, looking at the stairs, waiting for me to come back down. 

He always said that his art was what he loved for. When he lost his sight in the accident, everyone that knew him knew that that the car might have killed him. He wasn’t going to live long without his eyes. They found him dead the next day. At the bottom of the staircase of his apartment building. He apparently hadn’t died after throwing himself down the first flight. He flew himself down eight more before he died from head trauma. He was determined to die. For him, the only world worth living in was the one he could paint. And he was banished from that world as soon as he lost his sight. 

Doing an indie showing with a few other visual artists around here .

“Those people in there, they just don’t get it. They look and they nod their heads, but they don’t know why they’re nodding.”

He dropped the hand that was holding his cigarette, let it hang at his side, exhaled smoke. They were standing in an alley in New York, leaning against a brick wall.

What’s the right thing to say when somebody tells you they’re sorry to hear that. 

Maybe you just broke up with your partner, one of your relatives died, or you’ve found out you have a serious illness. 

If you’re too sad, then it’s just awkward for the other person. It’s hard for them to console you, especially if they’re not a close friend. 

But if you’re not sad enough, they might think you’re a psychopath.

I struggle with the second one. I tend to be rational about things. It is what it is. 

But when people tell me they’re sorry to hear that, I feel pressure to act the appropriate amount of sad. 

So I end up sharing something like, “Yea, thanks, it’s tough.”

If I was responding honestly, I’d probably say, “Seriously, no worries, we’re moving past it.”

What’s the right thing to say when somebody tells you they’re sorry to hear that. 

Maybe you just broke up with your partner, one of your relatives died, or you’ve found out you have a serious illness. 

If you’re too sad, then it’s just awkward for the other person. It’s hard for them to console you, especially if they’re not a close friend. 

But if you’re not sad enough, they might think you’re a psychopath.

I struggle with the second one. I tend to be rational about things. It is what it is. 

But when people tell me they’re sorry to hear that, I feel pressure to act the appropriate amount of sad. 

So I end up sharing something like, “Yea, thanks, it’s tough.”

If I was responding honestly, I’d probably say, “Seriously, no worries, we’re moving past it.”

I was down in the basement, where it was dark. Before she left, my mom said I should take the dog out. I went up the stairs and stood in front of the door. We have an angry neighbor who gets upset if the dog comes over into his yard, so I always check to make sure he’s not outside before I let the dog out. The door has two side-by-side windows that are slightly higher than the top of my head. I stood on my tiptoes to look through the windows to check for the neighbor. What I did not expect was that the light outside was much brighter than the dark basement. It hurt my eyes and, for a second, all I could see was white. 

The first sound I hear comes from the fan. It is mostly a low, monotonous drone. But then there are subtle groans in brief moments when the fan seems to be exerting more effort. These moments come every three or four seconds and last about a half-second.

Mmmmmmmm-yu. Mmmmmmmm-yu. Mmmmmmmm—this is the continuous drone. Yu—this is the extra-exertional groan. The groan sounds like a car’s engine—softer, far away; then louder, coming closer. Except the car is not driving on a road perpendicular to my ear. Instead, the road is in a circle that loops out away from my ear and then back around. It is when the car comes back around that I hear the groan. 

Other than the fan, there is the sound of silence. It is like the static, salt-and-pepper channel on a television, turned down to the lowest volume. Or, like a million bugs in the trees at night. Not big and loud cicadas; more like little mites, whispering softly. And so many of them. Ssssssss. But the ‘s’ sounds too much like a snake. Silence doesn’t stick out its tongue or slither, so the ‘s’ can’t be right.

The sound is consistent. There is no inbreath, no reprieve like the groan of the fan. Just one soft, constant, slightly high-pitched exhale. So I assume the onomatopoeia for silence should have only one letter.

—If it’s like the bugs, though, it’s not completely constant. If it was recorded and slowed down, the sound line might have slight wiggles.

I try out other letters. Tttttttt. Yes, maybe ‘t’ is closer. Actually, more like this: teeeeeeeeeeee. But there can only be one letter. So maybe just ‘e’ then. Eeeeeeeeeeeee. That, as of now, is my best guess at the sound of silence.

Today, at 1:45 in the afternoon, I realized that I has missed a 1 o’clock appointment with a therapist, to whom I needed to talk, about my problems, which include working too much, and ignoring important things.

At 1:45 in the afternoon

I realized that I had missed

A 1 o’clock appointment

With a therapist, to whom I needed to talk, about my problems, which include working too much, and ignoring important things.

In the few years after the war, he was as happy as he could be, happy just to be alive, that he survived.

Then he started to feel guilty. Why me? Why do I get to go to the bar and get drunk and make love to women? But Johnson and Frederick and all the other guys got to be nothing but worm food.

So he started to kill himself, little by little, until he eventually, ultimately, succeeded.

When I walk, unless I run to the point of pain, my mind wanders. I try to focus on my steps—when my heel strike to the sidewalk. Left, right; one, two. I went to the shoe store one time and the salesman videos me walking to analyze my gait. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but I think it was something about trying to step so that my foot lands flat, as opposed to leaning back and striking with my heel first and my toes last. This is a good example actually – thinking about the shoe salesman and the gate analysis – of the thoughts that creep into my mind and distract me from focusing on something simple like just my steps. When I really can’t stop my thoughts, that’s what I actually enjoy running to the point of pain. Persistent physical pain is a good object of mental focus. If the pain is dangerous like a pain that might kill me and I would be worried. But when I am running, I know the pain is just from exercise, so I enjoy it and focus on it and don’t worry and even see if I can test my limits.

Do you actually think you’re right?

I don’t think I’m right. I know I’m right.

Well, that’s where you’re wrong.

No, I’m right.

Okay, but how do you know?

There’s such thing as morals.

There are certain things about which knowledge of right and wrong is not possible. Morality is one of them. 

When he joined the football team freshman year of high school, he was barely five feet tall. His father was only five and a half feet tall and his mother was shorter than that. But his great grandpa Eli had been five feet and eleven inches, so he still had hope.

By his senior year, he was almost exactly five and a half feet tall. Despite his best efforts in the weight room and eating as much as he could in the cafeteria, the most he ever weighed was 160 pounds. Coach put him in the games after they were already winning.

He went to the same college as some of the other football players from his high scool team. He enrolled in business because that’s what his great grandpa Eli had done. One day, he got a B+ on a test. Then he met a recruiter. They said he could make $100,000 per year. He looked at the requirements for the job. There was nothing about his height or his weight.

There is a panel with two electrical outlets in the corner of my room. Four cords share these two outlets. They are chords for my electrical toothbrush charging stand my phone charger, a floor fan, and the lamp. I need to use these electrical items at different times of the day so I’m always playing musical chairs with the outlets sometimes I have some of the items r Running that are already plugged in. But I want to plug in something else for example if I have the lamp on and the fan on but I need to charge my phone. Tonight I was in the situation I had the lamp I had the fan going and the lamp and the fan or both plugged in I wanted to keep the fan plugged in because it was hot and I was about to turn off the light for the night but I need to charge my phone so I wanted to unplug the lamp the only problem is both the cords are black and they look the same usually I follow the cord along their paths to find out which one is going to the electrical appliance that I don’t mind unplugging tonight I looked at the two cords there and I didn’t have any patience for some reason so I just unplugged one and I looked at the fan to see if it would go off but it did not he kept blowing so it must’ve been the lamp that I am float I had guessed correctly.

Looking down at the shower drain, chin against my chest, aiming the drops falling from my forehead to land in the holes of the drain, waiting to dry. I close my eyes and the image of the drain persists, only with inverted colors—the surface of the drain cover as dark as the drain pipe running below and the holes in the drain as light as the white shower floor. 

I dug up a boxwood bush in the front garden today. I got back from my walk, and mom was already out there with a shovel and a spade in the bucket and some gloves, and she said she needed some help.

I started driving the spade into the dirt and pushing in farther with my shoe. But I realized it wasn’t going to be easy because there’s so much rock around. I would drive the spade in and the metal spear hit the rock and it would spark. So I had to get down on my hands and knees with a smaller spade and shuffle away the dirt and the rock to create space in the soil where the bigger shovel could really drive through. I built the moat around the bush. And then I really started driving in and leveraging up, and I heard the roots snapping underneath and the soil. Finally I got it where I could grab a hold of the bottom of the branches, and pull it out and break the rest of the roots manually. I took it out by the curb. Mom said one of her friends, is going to come by to pick it up later. Then she had me dig up another one of the flowering plants and put it in the place of the boxwood bush.

I was sweating from my forehead. Once I was done. I don’t usually stuff my forehead, even though I work out pretty much every day. There’s something different about yard work. It’s different than exercising your whole body is engaged and you have a goal so you’re only thinking about the goal, you’re not thinking about how your body aches. And so I think you ended up working harder without even thinking about it. It was nice to work my body like that, a nice break from working so hard mentally just standing still at my desk just staring at the screen trying to solve a problem with my mind and my body being no help at all. Except for to keep in the same position and keep staring at the screen. I should go and ask my mom she has any more bushes for me to dig up.

I posted a short prose piece yesterday titled This should have been painted [link].

I have some more thoughts …

Here’s my conclusion. Certain art forms are best to capture certain experiences. Certain experiences are differentiated by the senses to which they appeal.

Or, because the senses of the experience weren’t matched with the senses of the art. This is something I’ve been asking myself lately: are certain experiences captured more aptly by certain art forms? I think so. I think certain experiences appeal to our senses more than others.

But it was more particular than that. Too much? But too much of what? There is always too much. In this case, there was too much to see.

The backyard was primarily an experience of sight.

[None of my other senses were receiving much input.] It was quiet in the early morning on a weekday. All I could taste was the remnant of minty toothpaste in my mouth and all I could smell was the crisp air. The only physical feelings were my knees on the hardwood and my forearms on the sill.

[[[My eyes were the windows where the beauty shined through and it seemed that there was too much of it for words.]]]

Why though? Why could I not capture something seen with my words. It’s not that I couldn’t, but writing just wouldn’t be the best.

>>>

It didn’t seem that a reader would enjoy a catalog—separated by commas and periods, organized in block-of-text prose—of what I was seeing.

I am not a painter or a photographer, but I think these visual art forms would have been more capable of capturing the beauty of the backyard scene, at least more capable than poetry or prose.

“A picture is worth a thousand words” proves true in this instance. Our eyes are eyes. They are not lips and brains. What part of us processes the written word? What experiences are most appropriately communicated in the written form?

But how many words, exactly, was this backyard scene worth? At 40 words per minute, I could surpass the painter in less than a half hour. But if the picture were worth 10,000 words, then I would be writing for over four hours.

Okay, then zoom in. Focus. Don’t bite off more than you can chew. Don’t pick up more than you can carry. And I tried this. You’ve already read how I tried this—by focusing on the leaves, the dew, the lemons, the flying bug.

But those were not the sources of the beauty. The beauty came from the whole scene of the backyard. All of it, working together in codependent unison somehow.

It was like a piece of abstract algorithmic art that my friend recently made and showed to me. In the center of the piece, I saw a face—a lizard head with one eye, sharp teeth, and a stuck-out tongue. I thought if I looked closer, I could see the reptilian head more clearly. So I zoomed in on the image on my computer, but the apparent image of the lizard head dissolved. It was even more abstract, the farther I zoomed in.

The point is: I didn’t want to zoom in on the backyard. I wanted to somehow wrap all the way around it and capture the amount of detail just as it was.

Well, what is it that you’re so worried about? I’d rather not say. Why? What is it? What could be so bad? Well he said. Then he stopped he was about to say it but he didn’t. Yeah, you know, I really just not rather say rather not say. I OK, the other guy put his hands in the air and then slapped them down on his lap and picked up his beer to take a drink. If you’d rather not say, that’s fine. We can just talk about it generally. So there’s this thing italicize thing, and it’s been bothering you.

Cole Feldman:

For the beginning of the short story about the guys having a beer… The first dialogue should be so what did the doctor say? She said I’m fine the EKG the bloodwork and the x-rays all came back normal. So what does she think it is then. She doesn’t know. She said it might be anxiety. Well, have you been feeling anxious? Yeah, a little, I guess. I didn’t really think about it until she told me she thought that’s what might be causing my chest tightness. This other nurse came in and asked me a bunch of questions and then I feel Out of form and they asked me if I want to meet with a therapist about my worrying problem I said what do you mean by worrying problem and she pointed to a section on the questionnaire where I circled three for all the answers. Then she said it looks like you worry a lot. Well I guess I do. The other guy asked what are you wearing about?

Cole Feldman:

Well, if it’s probably not gonna happen, can you just forget about it? I’ve tried. I can forget sometimes, like when I’m focused on something else. Reading a book or working at my desk or exercising. But then it always comes back but I have nothing else to think about it’s the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning.

I don’t understand why can’t you just forget about it it’s gone. I know I don’t understand either I guess I have less control over my mind that I thought. Maybe if I drink 10 more of these beers then I can forget about it.

Cole Feldman:

Hey man, when’s the last time you shaved? Ahlf looked up, he did stare down into the bottom of his beer, as of coming out of a days his eyes were glassy what? He asked then he raised his palm absentmindedly to his cheek and rubbed it. Oh, he said. As if he had just realize he was growing a beard. I don’t know maybe a week ago, maybe two. Clive noticed Ahlf was maybe a little more drunk than I thought. Say, when did you get here? You said to meet you here at 7 PM and I was here right on time. Did you make it here before me and start drinking on your own? Yeah, I got here a little early. Oh hey, I need to go to the bathroom. Then I’ve got up and walked to the back of the bar. Clive took a drink of his beer. Then the bartender came over washing a glass of the rag. Hey Sir I don’t mean to be eavesdropping but I overheard your conversation with your friend And I thought you should know he’s been here all afternoon. I think that’s his fifth beer is made if my accounting is correct and he ordered two shots first thing when he sat down on the bar.

Lake Heckaman:

hello

hows your doctor appointments/heart doing?

Cole Feldman:

Hey friend

Appointments went well. I got an EKG, blood work, and an x-ray. All came back normal. Doc said it might be anxiety. I have another appointment with a “behavioral consultant” on the 12th

Thanks for asking ?

How are you doing? Posted up in NY?

Lake Heckaman:

what do you think is causing anxiety

ya i’m just chilling enjoying the fall and trying not work too much haha

Cole Feldman:

Generally, I have more time to think and less distractions as I’m not working 10-hour days

Specifically, I obsessively worry. The small possibility occurs to me that something bad could happen and then I follow that train of thought to the worst case scenario and then run that worst case scenario on a loop in my head.

A year ago I thought they were external problems but not I’m starting to see the mental pattern and realizing that I literally make up things to worry about

And there are actual risks but they are like 0.00001% risks and I’m not spending the appropriate amount of time thinking about them

Like there’s a chance I’ll get in an accident every time I get in a car, but I don’t think about it, ya know?

Lake Heckaman:

yes totally – that seems like a somewhat painful but probably healthy realization to have

but it sounds like you know it’s irrational – what do you think causes the worries to continue after you say to yourself “there’s only a 0.00001% chance of this happening”?

or is it more like you’re just in the part now where you’re trying to retrain your mind

Cole Feldman:

That’s the question!

It’s like my mind isn’t obeying the rationality

But I think what it is is the magnitude of the worst case scenario

You know, kinda like expected value

Except more like expected doom

Even if there’s a low chance

The possibility is SO bad that even the slightest chance is worrisome

Lake Heckaman:

yeah i get that

i think everyone struggles with this to some degree  – i def used to way more than i do now

and still actively do esp related to work stuff sometimes

so i guess a better question is

what are you gonna do to try to change the way your mind is working?

Cole Feldman:

Mainly meditating

These worries are thoughts

When I meditate, I see my thoughts, but don’t engage them

I’ve been spending 10-15 minutes nightly

I can increase that

Lake Heckaman:

if i can make a suggestion

i think you also need to learn how to engage them in a constructive way

simple engagement is not me easily enough

easier said than done but i think important 

Cole Feldman:

Hmm, I think you’re right

Maybe I’m trying to avoid them too much

Do you have any suggestions for engagement methods?

Lake Heckaman:

something that i do a lot when it comes to non-fatal worries is when reflecting to almost assume/believe the event actually did happen

and think of the world as it would be then / what i would actually practically have to do in that scenario

for me, that does 2 things

1. most of the time i realize the actual impact of an event would be lower than my first instinct (eg what happens if i get fired tomorrow)

2. establish a clear plan for just in case which for me just eases my worry since i know what i’ll have to do. even if that thing is unpleasant

i’ve also been increasingly a fan of trying intently to put actual probability on things and then instead of worrying about the worst possible thing, force myself to first worry only about the most likely worst case – whcih also let’s me plan and feel more at east

ease

there’s a different class of worry that i would say is more existential dread (what if my family dies tomorrow or i die today or i never see my gf again) that the above doesn’t really work for – those are harder but at least for me, grounding in probability theory and really internalizing “okay if this is just as likely to happen as getting struck by lightning in the next minute, and i’m not scared of that, then…”

Cole Feldman:

I think this makes a lot of sense: trying to put actual probability on things and then instead of worrying about the worst possible thing, force myself to first worry only about the most likely worst case

And makes me realize how irrational I am

I definitely worry about things that are .0000001% and there are probably things that are like .01% and way more likely that I’m not even considering or actively working on preventing

What exactly would you say makes the existential dread class different? Just because they’re way worse outcomes?

And it seems like your answer to the existential dread ones is also probability?

Again, I think this logic makes a lot of sense: “okay if this is just as likely to happen as getting struck by lightning in the next minute, and i’m not scared of that, then…”

Lake Heckaman:

yeah the general logic is the same, the difference is just in how you frame it

since you can not really imagine how to act ina world i’m which ur dead

all comes down to accurately assessing the probability or at least making an attempt to

https://ift.tt/2WH3Bqw

not 1:1 on this issue but it drives the point home

Cole Feldman:

Sweet, I’ll read that article later

Thanks for helping me talk through this

How’s it going with trying not to work so much?

Made any dope art lately?

Lake Heckaman:

i am always happy to talk

esp on things like this

honestly i’m working a ton

https://ift.tt/2WH3Bqw

In a relationship with another human being, do you together become more like the grander society? In the context of all human beings, can one become a more unique human being by remaining alone? The more humans one relates with the more they become like the average of all humans. 

Here, I find my ego again. Define ego. I don’t want to get deeper in a relationship with a partner because I fear losing my ego. 

I am reminded of an advertisement I saw on a pouch of loose-leaf tea, “Be in harmony with the flow of life.”

I am holding on too tight to my ego. I am resisting, as my girlfriend said. I am holding on to my ego because I want to be somebody. I want to make something of myself. Because I want to be loved. I don’t know why exactly. 

This seems like a waste of energy. If I just woke up each morning and went with the flow of life, I would have more energy. 

>>>

You have thoughts that form into memories, feelings that develop into fears and ambitions.

The longer you watch your biopic alone, the more alone you become.

You remain yourself when you’re alone. But then again, you are never yourself. Even if you are not with another person, you are with the chair you sit in, with the wallpaper you see on the wall, with the wind whistling through the branches outside the window. We are always in relationship with everything around us. And our relationships change us. We cannot be alone because we were never alone in the first place. 

Our idea of solitude is the result of a narrow, human-centric worldview. We think we are alone when we are not with other humans. This is more than just a human world. 

But fellow humans have a different kind of effect on us than a chair or wallpaper, or even than plants or animals. Other humans have knowledge and opinions. They can talk and sing and be beautiful. 

You never think about how heavy a 16-inch frozen pizza really is until you open the freezer and pull it out to get at the frozen ground beef at the bottom and it falls out of the cardboard and lands on your foot.

The smell of asphalt on a hot day reminds me of recess. We played kickball in the parking lot. Dirt from the ball combined with sweat to fill the wrinkles in my hand with little lines of mud, like mountain ridges on a topographical map. I wiped them on my white polo shirt. My mom always wondered how it got so dirty. 

Like rivers on a map

At three in the afternoon, the sidewalk on the east side of Johnson Drive was in the shade of the trees, so I stopped, looked both ways for cars, and then crossed the road to walk on the side that was still in the sun. 

Me:

Second, in a note from an editor regarding a recent collection of poetry, the editor wrote something like this (paraphrasing): happenings are beautiful because of what they can tell us, not just because they happen.

I judged a debate tournament today 

I don’t wanna miss it. 

You don’t to miss prom, but homecoming is whatever. 

There’s gonna be so many people there though. 

I’m just gonna go home and play video games. I don’t wanna risk being around that much coronavirus.”

I was doing leg raises, hanging from the crossbar above the dugout on the first-base side. A little boy and his mom came in through the third-base side. She sat down on the bench in the dugout over there and opened a book. He came running across the infield and hopped up on the chain-link fence next to me. He climbed up until his feet were higher than twice his own height, then he plopped down and, without pause, squatted and started digging in the dirt with his fingers, as if that were the very next idea that popped into his mind

My little cousin wouldn’t finish her dinner. She had barely taken one bite of her burrito, which was really just a tortilla with a sprinkling of cheese and a speck of ground beef. She sat there and grumbled until everyone else had finished their food, got their desserts, finished their desserts, and all left the table. It was just me and her left at the table.

She wanted dessert (apple strudels, cherry turnovers, and vanilla bean ice cream), but she could only have dessert if she “cleaned her plate,” and she knew that. So she started nibbling, at first. Then she took big bites with her eyes closed, munching fast to get it over with.

Her dad (my uncle) came back into the dining room to see if she had finished. He said to me, “She’s skinnier than her little brother.” I asked her, “Do you like being skinny?” She put her tongue in her cheek and cocked her head up and to the side and thought about it. Then she said, “Yea, because what if someone has to fit in a small space, like if we want something and it went behind a wall and there was only a small hole to get through then nobody would be able to get through and get it, but I could. Or if there was a little doggy door. Nobody else could crawl through it. But I could.”