The Mob Mentality

Last night I went to my first concert.  Ok, my first "small-venue concert packed with people in a kinda sketch part of town".  One of those kinds of concerts.  It was an intriguing experience.

As it turns out, I'm rather claustrophobic.  Not horribly, fit-throwingly, mental break-down-y claustrophobic, but apparently emotional and stress-out claustrophobic.  There was a girl standing in front of us in the crowd who also seemed to have a hard time with the cramped quarters.  She took enough space for two people.  I didn't begrudge her a little breathing room...or at least I wouldn't have had she granted me the same.  However, at the slightest touch she would suddenly push back against you as though you were trying to strip her of her acreage, and at one point I was literally being smooshed between her jutting backside and the hip/groin/stomach area of the tall gentleman behind me (who generally didn't react when I was shoved into him, but at this point was pushing back on me I can only assume to let people across the room pass through the crowd).  The only feasible option to access my hands was to remove my arm from my body at the shoulder and withdraw it vertically.  It was this moment that I suffered the most intense attack of claustrophobia.  To my horror I discovered that my instinctive reaction to being pancaked between two complete strangers is to burst into tears.  This was not an acceptable response however, so I quickly began to cast my mind about to find some way to calm myself.

As my mother likes to point out, my traditional method of coping with emotions which are beyond my control is to dissociate and become analytical and academic.  She likes to imply that this is a defect in my personality, but I was deeply grateful to the habit in that moment.  After that initial burst of stress, I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths and allowed my rational brain to step in.  Suddenly, instead of focusing on the sharp hip pressing into my own, demanding ever more of the personal space I did not have to give, I was considering the concert-going experience (and thence mob-mentality) as a whole and that hip was data I could incorporate into an overall analysis.

First I considered the general "formula" of the modern-day concert.  The performers that night were Guggenheim Grotto and Ingrid Michaelson.  You wouldn't really call either of them hardcore or anything.  They both have heavy folk influences, though Ingrid balances those with only slightly less pop influence.  The point is, most of their music is fairly acoustic and mellow.  And yet even in a show like this it was absolutely expected that there would be something beyond simply the music.  Flashing lights, cloaks, SOMETHING.  Not to mention the sheer volume.  Several times I admit that I covered my ears.

As I examined my surroundings I became more and more bemused by them.  Why has this formula evolved?  I simply couldn't come up with a satisfactory answer.  I mean, ostensibly, the purpose of a concert is to hear the music, right?  But all the lights distract you, and the amps have been turned up to the point where they're actually obscuring the sound rather than improving it.  In every way, the spectacle on stage is actually detracting from the music to which you're listening to.

Not to mention the phenomenon that got me thinking about this in the first place.  There are hundreds and hundreds of people smashed into a very small space all to only kind of listen to some music.  Why do we do this?  But as I looked at the people around me--the friend I'd come with, the guy she knew that we ran into, that same girl with the sharp hips, Mr. Tall--all of them had huge grins on their faces.  Every one in the room was cheering and singing and loving every minute of this experience that should, technically, have been miserable.  We'd all been standing for hours, we were cramped and smelly, and our ears were being damaged by excessive sound.  But everyone around me was having a blast.  That was the answer.

The purpose of a concert is not, actually, to listen to music.  It is, rather, an exercise in voluntarily submitting, even striving for, the "mob mentality".  The flashing lights, the high volume, all of this over-abundance of stimuli are simply tricks that have evolved to make the process easier.  Essentially, a concert serves as an excuse and a means of filtration.  Ingrid Michaelson is playing?  Oh, well I'll go to that because I like her music--as do a bunch of other people.  In the enjoyment of her music we share a bond (be it ever so tenuous) and that is enough for me to join you for an experiment in community.  People at a concert are, for those two hours, forming a great writhing community that eventually gains independent existence of its own.  Once you become a part of such an organism the varying moods and tones of the crowd take the place of your own emotional response.

Don't mistake me, I don't actually think this is a bad thing.  At least, not in the context of a concert or Harry Potter release party or midnight movie showing.  I think forming random temporary bonds like that with complete strangers is likely quite beneficial if for no other reason than that it teaches us that anyone really can get along.  Feeling as though you have ties to your community and the people around you is what being civilized is all about really.

So then what about me?  Here I was, surrounded on all sides by this web of connected humans and I was all alone squished between them.  I can't even really say that I isolated myself as a coping mechanism for my claustrophobia.  Rather, I think I was anxious and full of anxiety because I was already feeling isolated mentally whilst simultaneously being lost physically in the pulsating masses.  It occurred to me at that moment that I almost never feel that "mob-mentality" bond.  Not on any level.  Not when I was a little girl and my group of friends would become possessed of the spirit of mischief and get carried away doing silly things or talking about boys, or whatever.  I remember myself as constantly standing in the back offering the ever-ignored voice of reason.  And not now either, when I'm at a concert or chilling with my friends.  I almost never get lost in the moment.

As I stood there and thought about all of this I felt a wistful sense of longing.  I wanted to join in...or rather, I wanted to want to join in.  I wanted to surrender control of myself to the group and feel connected to everyone in that room.  I wanted to be a part of a whole.  I couldn't figure out why I'm so disconnected from such experiences.  I still don't really know.  But now, looking back on that evening I'm ok with it.  I'm not entirely incapable of some version of this experience as one or two of my friends can attest to.  And in the end, if I'm not a participant I can be an observer, which is a role I've always preferred.  Because I didn't get involved I was able to see it all from a completely different perspective than most of the other people there, and that is not an invaluable thing.

Eventually my musings calmed me enough to endure the remainder of the concert, despite Bony Hip Girl and Mr. Tall.  Nonetheless, as I snuck out of the crowd early to snag a t-shirt for my band I couldn't restrain what probably appeared to be a rather seizure-like spasm as I finally passed into open air.  The liberty to move my limbs freely was truly a sweet one and I simply waved my arms about for a few minutes relishing it.

Reminiscing

So, as I was walking home the other day I happened to look down upon the ground at exactly the right moment to see a little pink tube of chapstick laying under a shrub.  Instantly a memory popped into my head from way back in my freshman year of college.

*cue rippley flashback screen*

So, my freshman year of college was spent in the dorms, specifically DT, U Hall, 2nd floor.  I came to a school that actually practices curfew, which in practical terms means that precisely at midnight all the doors into the buildings lock up tight and the only way to get in is if you have your ID card and you're supposed to be in that building.  Swipe the card and you're in...forget your card and you're basically SOL.

Pathetic as my life was my freshman year, I did manage to find a couple of friends who were willing to overlook my extreme social eccentricity and hang out with me.  We established my freshman year tradition of walking to the Dollar Theatre for the midnight movie (we walked because none of us owned a car).  These were good times.  Let's face it, a girl straight out of high school...the freedom of staying out till 3 in the morning with no parents to object was a heady thing.  I cherished those Friday nights.

I cherished them, that is, after I got the hang of my new dorm.  Our first expedition went well until I got home.  It was at this point that I realized that I didn't have my ID card.  And it was 3 am.  And both my friends were gone, to their own respective homes.  Ahhh.......

Lucky for me, I discovered that I had a fellow nocturnal creature on my floor--recall I was lucky enough to live on the second floor.  There was one light on.  But how to get her attention?  Being the intelligent, problem solving, straight A student that I am, I came up with a great solution!  Throw something at her window!  Now I just needed to find something to throw.

If you care to know, there was a shocking dearth of small rocks in the general vicinity of Deseret Towers.  All I could find on the ground was wood chips and they lacked the necessary mass to create any sort of sound on impact.  On to things on my person.  There was not much.  There were my keys and my chapstick.  The keys I thought perhaps too heavy, but the chapstick...

You have to understand something about this chapstick.  You see, while I was giddy with the freedom of college life, I still missed home.  Quite a lot.  To assuage my melancholy my mother sent me the first and only care package I was ever to receive from her (no point in coddling me, after all).  Within said package were useful things like chicken soup, lime green plastic cups, and a potato peeler.  My mother is a pragmatic soul.  Also included was a tube of strawberry chapstick--I'm not quite sure why it was there considering the fact that I had never used chapstick my whole life, but she thought it prudent to include.  Perhaps because I was so unfamiliar with the product, I was deeply struck by the flavor...strawberry!  Who'd ever heard of strawberry chapstick?!  You couldn't find that anywhere!  My mother must really love me to find strawberry chapstick to put in my package.  I will carry it with me everywhere as a talisman of her love!

Remember how I said I was a touch eccentric back then?

The point is, I had a sentimental attachment to this chapstick.  Ridiculous, yes; real, very.  So here I am at 3 in the morning, stranded outside of my dorm, with this tube of chaptsick in my hand, preparing to throw it at one of my dorm-mates' windows.  I haul back and throw and...it hits the brick next to the window and falls back to the ground.  No problem, I'll just go grab it and throw it again.........I'll just grab it........hmm.......I know its here somewhere.............Let me just look a little bit harder................perhaps if I get down on my knees I will see it more easily..................

It was at this moment that some nice couple, out enjoying each other's company perhaps a little later than necessary, walked around the corner to discover me rooting about in the shrubbery that surrounded the building.  Judging by their expressions, they had several ideas of what I was doing, none of which were remotely close to the truth.  However, bless their hearts, they stopped and asked me if I was ok and when I pathetically related to them the fate of my beloved chapstick--because this was IMPORTANT--they both came and squatted down and helped me look.  And yet, even with all three pairs of eyes looking, the chapstick remained lost.  Finally, in despair, I sent them away.

Of course, as soon as they were out of sight it occurred to me that not only had I lost my chapstick, but I was also still locked out of my dorm and now I was again without a projectile.  Aw crap.  But, putting my keene problem solving mind again to the problem, I quickly found a solution.  The beauty of living in the dorms your freshman year is that your RA gives you magnificently useful things to "keep you safe".  Like the Rape Whistle.  This clever little device is given you to prevent your imminent rape.  Because, on the off chance that your rapist approaches you from a distance and alerts you in advance "I'm going to rape you, so if you have any means of defending yourself or summoning aide, you should probably get that out now," you can pull out your trusty whistle from the depths of your pocket and blow gustily till he punches you in the face.  Yes, its a handy tool that no freshman girl should be without.

Being the good, rule following girl that I was raised to be, however, I had dutifully attached my rape whistle to my key chain.  It was not without some satisfaction, then, that I pulled it off that night thinking "you know, I thought this would come in handy some time,".  After several tries (I've never had particularly good aim) I finally managed to hit the window with the whistle...and after a few more, I managed it with enough force that I actually produced a sound.  An ID card changed hands, and I quickly let myself into my dorm.

The story doesn't end there, however.  You see, I could not abandon my chapstick so easily.  Yes, I really was still stuck on that.  Having gained access to my room, I procured a flashlight (and my own ID card) and returned to the shrubs to hunt.  15 minutes later I was still doomed to dry lips forever.  It was no good.  My chapstick had vanished from the face of the earth.  I was, needless to say, quite heartbroken.

But never let it be said that I gave up on something without giving it my full effort (ok, so I've done that several times...but this wasn't one of them).  The next day I sprang forth out of my bed with a mission.  I was going to go back down there in the daylight and reign vengeance down on those shrubs until they yielded up my strawberry chapstick.  I was determined.  I was energized.  I was powerful and nothing could stop me.  I marched forth out of my dorm and over to those shrubs with what I imagine was much the same sort of resolve a firefighter might feel as he returns to the burning building the third time to find the last stranded victim he knows is in there.  And there, lying innocently on the ground, with what I imagine to be the nearest thing to a smug grin an inanimate tube of plastic can manage, was my stupid chapstick.  It wasn't even hidden.  Nor was it in some alternate location to where we'd been searching.  No.  It was right there.  Right in front of my face.  It had caused me so much anxiety and now it thought it could just waltz back into my pocket as though nothing had happened.  Geez.  Some people's kids...

*Rippley flash-back effect brings us back to the present*

I didn't pick up that chapstick I saw under the shrub yesterday.  After all, someone might miss it.

A musical interlude

Somehow, I can go from a morning spent listening to this, to an afternoon accompanied with this.  And I love all of it.

(incidentally, while searching youtube for the second video I mistakenly typed in "Heartbreaker" instead of "Troublemaker" and discovered this little gem.  I need to own this song! :-D )

Core Values

Ever since I can remember my mother has always stressed to me the need to be "thoughtful".  This was her "thing", if you will.  Did your parents have a thing?  You know, that one thing that they stressed above everything else.  Always my mother was saying things like "Don't forget to be thoughtful."  "That wasn't a very thoughtful thing to do, was it?"  "The most important thing is just to be thoughtful."

"Being thoughtful" covered a myriad of things for my mother.  Sometimes it was small, like anticipating that mom will need the hot-pad right next to your hand when she is taking the roast out of the oven and handing it to her instead of making her come across the kitchen to get it.  Or going to help bring in the groceries without being asked.  Other times it was much larger.  When my mom married my step-father we took to him right away.  We were practically calling him dad before they were even married.  But my mom thought that might be a difficult thing for my father.  So she told us we ought not call our step-father "dad" around our real father.  We should always refer to him as "Larry" in consideration of our father's feelings.  I personally felt (and still feel to this day) that this was a bit over-kill.  But that's the kind of person my mom is.  For her it was all about putting yourself in another person's shoes, understanding their wants and needs, and to the best of your ability, making life easier for them.  Often at your own expense.


This lifelong training from my mother has influenced me in many many ways, some of which I'm sure I'm not even aware of yet.  Though I don't think I live up to her standard of thoughtful behavior yet, I am hopeful that one day I will.  However, though I will strive my whole life to live up to my mother's example, the fact of the matter is that being thoughtful was her thing.  I must discover for myself what it is that my children will hear over and over again as they grow up

I suppose we all must have certain core beliefs that rest beneath everything else that we are, shaping us from the foundation up.  Each of us have dearly held virtues that inform every decision we make and are the last bastion of our souls; untouchable and sacred.  It may seem odd to couch my mother's preoccupation with being thoughtful in such terms, but when you look at the sum of her life thus far, you see that truly, such it is.  The trick of such beliefs is that they lie so deeply rooted in our hearts that often we little realize what an influence they hold over us, and therefore how dear they are to us.


It has recently become clear to me, however, that I have one of these core values and that it truly does influence virtually every aspect of my life.  Over the last two or three months I have had several conversations/experiences/interactions that have emphasized over and over again the immense value I place on the idea of Commitment.

Like my mother, I fit many things under my particular soap-box.  People, ideas, values, life-styles, behaviors.  Everything can be traced back to commitment in my world.  Unfortunately, I seem to see less and less understanding of this idea in those around me.  The contemporary concept of "personal freedom" has mutated into an almost religious devotion to the "right to change your mind".  Perhaps it is a reach, but to me, a failure to understand commitment leads to an inability to accept the principle of consequences.  And it seems like so many people today suffer from both.  No one wants to commit to anything; they don't want to commit to their partner, they don't want to commit to their religion, they don't want to commit to their morality, they don't even want to commit to their job or identity.  They always want a back door, just in case things get unpleasant.

I have spent enough of my life in the wasteland of the undecided.  I make decisions now and I commit to them, consequences included.  I choose who I want to be, how I want to act, and what I want to believe, and then I proceed according to that decision.  This is not to advocate close-mindedness or an inability to process new information.  I am firmly dedicated to the idea that no human being can ever have complete understanding, and to assume that you do is to damn your life more thoroughly than any convict or drug addict ever dreamed.  One ought to always keeps the mind open and accepting.  What I advocate is something a little bit different.  

While, as I say, I apply commitment to nearly everything in my life, the facet of this principle with which I am most concerned, most of the time, is commitment as it relates to people.  Being a student at BYU, land of eternal marriage, lends its own slant to the issue of course.  All I have to say on this front is that it is, perhaps, a good thing that I have, thus far, avoided actual relationships.  For, having entered in to one, it seems likely that I would find it monumentally difficult, yea nigh unto impossible to get myself back out.  And since, as I love to point out, every relationship is doomed to failure until the one that isn't, I think it may be best for someone of my particular mentality to keep the number as low as is humanly possible.


But, believe it or not, there are other relationships in life besides romantic ones.  I know, it is hard to accept.  But it is true.  And commitment is just as much a factor in friendships as it is in romances.  I often wonder why it is that I continue putting forth so much effort into some friendships when it is clear that I am the only one who feels such a compulsion.  You can guess the answer.  It applies, however, not just to the friend, but also to my idea of what a good friend ought to be.  


As always, I've written far more than was really necessary.  However, I think that understanding things like this about ourselves and those around us is so important.  Can you really ever communicate or connect with someone if you misunderstand their most fundamental beliefs?  I really don't think you can.  So I would like to know, then...what are YOUR core values?  What runs right through your heart?

A curse

I have a friend who mocks me whenever I make allusions to fate or karma or any other such ephemeral force.  But it is at times like these that I must, even in the face of his derision, assert that, when it comes to cars, I am cursed.
Let me give you a brief history first.  Well, I'll try to keep it brief.

1. My first car (affectionately referred to as "The Carcass Mona") developed a fun quirk of blowing smoke in through the vents--you know...to keep life interesting.  The last time I drove her I was bundled up in hat, gloves, coat, and scarf as I drove her through the Provo canyon in mid December with all the windows down.  She promptly retaliated such harsh treatment by enveloping me in a choking cloud of smoke the moment we stopped moving.  So chalk one up to attempted murder by asphyxiation.
2. Next car that I drove wasn't actually mine, but my brother's.  I borrowed it to drive to work the summer he spent in Alaska being manly.  Unfortunately, I didn't get a job till half-way through the summer, and as such, was without any money for to procure insurance.  Unfortunately, the week I finally got my job with Target (but had not yet been paid) was the week that the police decided to pull me over for the tail light which had been out on my brother's car for the last three years.  I would have gotten off with a warning had he failed to ask me for my insurance.  Instead, I got a hefty ticket, a nice tow to an impound garage (plus the fee to keep Steve there for three days, as my dad couldn't take me to pick him up any sooner) and the cost of insurance.  In a matter of three days I burned through a little over $1000.
3. A week or two after posting bail, I was driving to my second job when my tire blew out.  Not just blew, but shredded entirely, all the way around.  One helpful biker, three family friends, and a call to AAA later, I drove on Steve's little donut tire over to Les Schwab (one of my favorite companies of life, by the way, right after Geico) where I showed them my impressively shredded tire and they told me that, not only would I need to buy a tire to replace that one, but I'd have to buy three others as well.  They were all dangerously cracked from the heat and in danger of the similar fates.  My brother informed me that it was my job to pay for all four tires.  Another $400 dollars down.
4. A few weeks after that my brother returned from being manly in Alaska and took his car, with its four new tires, down to Utah.  Having recently payed out almost $1500 dollars in the last month I had deferred out of school.  Which meant remaining in Oregon and continuing to work.  Which meant I still needed a car.  Which meant borrowing $2000 from my dad to purchase a "new" car from a Mexican man whose wife was deported so he needed the cash.  But hey!  It came equipped with a BYU sticker in the rear window!  What are the chances?
5. Two months after that, as I was slowly digging myself out of debt to my parents, yet still cherishing dreams of returning to school in winter semester, my head gasket died, causing my engine to overheat.  Against all the expert expectations of my mechanic, the engine block did NOT crack (I do have small blessings here and there), but the new head gasket, water pump and...um...some other stuff came to a nice round total of $1600.  Goodbye school.  
6. After a year and a half in Oregon I finally accepted that I would never actually come out ahead on the financial front.  I moved back to Utah and re-entered school.  I was promptly pulled over by some bored Provo policeman for driving 9 miles over the speed limit on University Ave.  Ticket.  Can't even remember how much.  It came days after witnessing my friend walk away scott free after being pulled over going 65 in a 35 zone.
7. Driving my roommate to the airport a few months later.  My brand new tire, purchased mere weeks before, blew out a smidge past Thanksgiving Point.  After calling my friend to rescue my roommate and get her to the airport on time (at this point my friends are beginning to notice the curse) I drove 40 mph on a donut tire down about 15 miles of a Utah Interstate, nearly get killed by a semi truck, and finally make it to my friends at Les Schwab (seriously.  love these people)
8. Its the end of the semester and I'm booking it up to campus to make it to a test.  Turning left on the tail end of a yellow light I get in a fight with an SUV who also wants to spend time in the intersection.  My car, being made of metal, comes out ahead, with only a shattered headlight casing and a peeled back fender (but leaving the bulb in tact) as opposed to his mangled fender and door.  Unfortunately, the police don't see things quite this way, and give me a ticket.  Bless my dear friends at Geico--the only people I love more than Les Schwab--they don't hike my insurance.  Another sneaky blessing.
9. I am at a friend's house the day before I am supposed to leave to drive up to Oregon.  I've run inside to grab her and the car is idling out front waiting.  At least, that's how I leave it.  We return from the house to find it dead and nothing will get it started.  After a huuuuge favor in the form of a ride up to Oregon, my brother takes the car to be fixed while I'm gone.  I still don't know what they said was wrong with it.  I just remember that it cost me another $600 to get it fixed.  
10. Fixing the fixing over the next two months costs me another $200-ish.
11. Despite my almost obsessive habit of clipping my keys to my purse the moment I take them out of the ignition (a habit born of one too many desperate hunts through the apartment for keys 10 minutes after I am supposed to be gone for work) I somehow manage to leave them in the ignition and then lock them in the car.  Thankfully my dad was in town and was able to break into my car (we don't talk about the clanking sound my window now makes when you close the door) and rescue me.  And then rescue me again when the car battery, which was dead, marooned me at the grocery store an hour later.
12. It's been a year and I've not had any problems.  It's about time for something to go wrong, especially as I'm leaving again to Oregon the next day.  Always to be counted on, the curse comes through and again, the day before my planned departure, my car refuses to start.  This time, however, it seems that time alone is all that is needed.  As soon as my expert is called in to diagnose the problem Sharry Baby starts like a dream.  I am left to drive in Oregon in an uneasy state of mind, wondering every time I turn my key if this is the moment she'll choose to shaft me...
13. A few months problem free and I've been lulled into a false sense of security.  Just to keep me on my toes though, I get another two days of car failure.  She wont start and she also wont tell me why.  Again, as soon as the mechanic friend gets in touch, all problems mysteriously disappear.  I am still waiting, therefore, for the other shoe to drop.
14. Interspersed throughout this four year history are innumerable dead batteries caused by my failure to turn my headlights off, culminating in the purchase of a new battery ($70) when the old one starts dying WITHOUT the lights being left on.

And there you have the history of my car curse.  I grant you, plenty of those are caused by my own failures--of memory or whatever.  But you must admit that plenty of them aren't.  Enough to make anyone start to wonder if she is suffering from a car curse.  Brand new tires blowing out for no discernible reason.  Mechanics who mess the job up, but still charge you full price to fix it.  And a neurotic car that plays mind games...

...and last night the curse struck again.  Upon walking out of the [Two] Dollar Theatre in Provo I was confronted with the rather confounding sight (or rather, lack thereof) of nothing but air where my car was supposed to be.  It would seem another hidden blessing of my colorful car history is that I have learned to take such disconcerting blows with a fair amount of equanimity.  At this point I rather expect something to happen to my car than the opposite.  So I stood and looked for a few minutes, as though I thought my car was simply teasing me and would step out from behind a light post any minute, chortling mischievously.  Once it finally registered that a.)my car really doesn't chortle and b.)she certainly wouldn't fit behind a light post I kicked my brain in gear and called one of the other people who'd been at the movie with us.  While my two companions started asking me what my car looked like to begin looking for it around the parking lot (I don't put it past her to do something like that to me, but so far her powers of movement under her own volition have been fairly limited so I had my doubts as to the likelihood of this possibility) I went to examine the signage to find some hint as to the fate of my car.  While I did notice the heretofore UN-noticed red curb that had most likely instigated this entire fiasco, I did not see a sign anywhere telling me how to find my car.  It was around this time that my friends showed up and gave us all rides home.  

I woke up this morning uncharacteristically early, no doubt because of the lingering awareness in my subconscious that my car had not made curfew last night.  I'll make such a great mother.  Anyway, I thought through my options and resolved on calling BYU Parking services.  No answer.  Ok...um...front desk?  Still no answer.  I guess it IS Saturday after all.  One last try to BYU Police, even though I know they can't help.  But theoretically they should still be answering their phones even on a Saturday and maybe they can tell me who I can call.  Turns out that when you're towed you are supposed to call the police.  Just not the campus ones.  So they transfer me over to Provo police who finally confirm that yes my car was towed last night and not stolen.  Well, at least I know where she is.  To make a long story short, $145 later my car is back home with me, safe and sound and the curse remains alive and well.  Here's to fate!

A bit of philosophy

I’m going to apologize preemptively for this post, as I already know that it is going to be kinda long, kinda disorganized, and kinda less polished than I like my posts on this blog to be…in general.  What can you do?

It is difficult for me to organize my thoughts on this one.  I don’t know where to start or where exactly I want to end up.  I suppose I ought to begin with a little philosophy.  Not Deep Philosophy.  Just a little philosophy puddle, really, of my own creation.  This philosophy states that, in general, every person acts in the very best way they can, according to their understanding.  While I acknowledge that there will always be exceptions to every rule, I am going to say that, insofar as I can ever consider anything absolute or “across the board”, I consider this rule to be generally applicable.  Hence, no matter how bizarre a person’s behavior may appear, or how callous or cruel or insane, if you could only understand his or her thought process, experience, and just the brainpan in general, you would understand why that behavior was, to him or her, a good thing/logical thing/right thing to do.  This does not mean that people don’t make mistakes, or do bad or wrong things.  Just that, in the moment, they almost always think that they’re doing the right thing, or at least the least bad thing that they can.  I find that if I interact with those around me with this assumption it always helps me to understand them better.  If you believe that everything they do has some sort of rationale (as opposed to being specifically calculated to offend or hurt you) and all you have to do is figure out the thought process that led to it, you are much less likely to get your feelings hurt or at least, you won’t hold the hurting of those feelings against the person.  Hmm…did that sentence make any sense?  Oh well.  Pressing onward!

This being said, we’re going to leave my philosophy puddle sitting there on the mental sidewalk for a moment and turn our attention elsewhere.  Which is to say, we’re going to talk about me for a second.  I can’t help it.  I have to tell the story that goes with a new idea.  Anyway…

See, here’s the thing.  While most of the time I walk around doing a fairly good impression of a sane person, every now and then my disguise cracks and I become perceptibly crazy for a few days.  Not terribly frighteningly dangerously insane.  Just a bit unhinged and irrational.  I daresay it happens to more people than like to admit it.  Or maybe I just tell myself that to make myself feel better.  The point is, when this happens I desperately need to be around my fellow human beings.  If nothing else I can ape their behavior as a means to moderate my own.  Of course, it is inevitable that when one of these spells strikes all of my favorite people are out of reach.  Out of town here and there doing good and worthy things that I nonetheless resent them for because it means that I, in all my selfish glory, must deal with my unhingedness all on my lonesome.  Which is a very bad situation for me.

Such was the situation last weekend.  The insanity was coming, inexorable as the tide, and I was desperately seeking to stem the flow and failing on every effort.  My last hope was a visit to a dear friend of several years.  Alas, it was not to be.  I am still ignorant as to the explanation of his behavior, but upon my arrival at my friend’s home I was quickly made aware that something was wrong and my presence was not just a burden, but utterly unwanted.  Suffice it to say, I only spent a few hours in my friend’s company.  After those few hours I left in a state of such agitation, confusion, and hurt that I wished earnestly for the release of tears (which, of course, would not come), a thing I have never wished before in my life. 

I promise I’m coming to a point eventually.  

You see, I was sharing this painful experience with my mother this evening and she, like one or two other friends, advised me that I had done nothing wrong, and this dear friend of mine had treated me terribly.  She told me not to punish myself or go groveling to my friend trying to apologize for some unknown offense when he was the one who had actually acted wrongly.  She told me that it was up to him to make amends with me, and that until he did I ought to try to put it out of my mind.

Here we come to another puddle of my personal philosophy.  Is it philosophy when you just have a particular perspective about something?  Whatever.  The point is that I believe that all relationships are, ultimately, an exercise in cost-benefit analysis, where the value of the relationship in question is weighed against the value of one’s personal will.  The higher the value of the relationship to an individual the more likely she is to defer to the health of that relationship at the cost of her personal will.  Of course, in any good relationship both parties are engaging in this balancing act, saving one person from having to give up their entire self for the other.  Ultimately, it is this give and take which defines the importance of the relationship to you.  And when it is really and truly a deep and abiding connection you might be amazed at what “nonnegotiable” opinions/resolutions/behaviors you are suddenly willing to negotiate in order to maintain it.

This post isn’t meant to be so specific, related only to my bad experience of this weekend.  That experience simply serves as a very effective example of the point I’m trying (rather unsuccessfully) to get at.  I am trying to bring my two philosophy puddles together into one great big giant doo-HOO-zey of a puddle.   See, when I first considered my mother’s advice I thought she must be right.  That I had been mistreated and I ought not succumb to the impulse to abase myself at the feet of my friend and beg forgiveness when I didn’t even know what I had done to offend him.  But then I began to wonder why that was such a bad idea.  You see, if I know that my friend is acting with a reason that is valid to him (puddle #1) then does it really matter what that reason actually is in the determination of my reaction?  To answer that question you have to ask yourself why it is so important that your friend apologize to you when he or she mistreats you (rather than vice versa).  Again acknowledging that nothing in life is ever an absolute, I will put forth that essentially it is always nothing more than an affirmation of the value of your will over the value of the relationship (puddle #2).  This, by the way, is a fancy way of saying pride. 

What am I saying?  That that need you feel to be recompensed for abuse, even if with nothing beyond an apology, is actually a demand that your will be acknowledged as more valuable than the person who wronged you.  But what is our will, that it should hold such a valuable position?  What are we gaining from such an evaluation?  Really, I want you to think about it…  

Perhaps what is more important is to ask what would it cost us to evaluate things differently?  In the case of my friend, I can say without a moment’s hesitation that our friendship is infinitely more valuable to me than the ephemeral satisfaction I might gain from “holding strong” and forcing him to admit HIS error.  Indeed, to do so would cost me so much more than simply accepting that I am in the wrong, though I may not know why.  So in the case of my friend, I am going to disagree with my mother and go ahead and apologize.  Clearly I have done something to cause him to act like that, so in the end, it doesn’t really matter what it was because I am more interested in fixing our relationship than in proving myself to have been in the right.

But I said I wanted this post to be about more than just this one isolated incident.  It is obvious that this friend is very dear to me so it makes sense that I’m willing to value him so highly against my own will.  What about people who are not quite so important in your life?  Surely with them you are justified in valuing the relationship lower.  But I ask you again, what are you gaining by doing so?  Nothing more than the satisfaction of being right.  Of course, I’m not implying that such satisfaction is not very…um…satisfying.  But in the end, of what real value is it to you in comparison with real, healthy relationships with those around you? 

Sadly, I am not exactly as good as my philosophies and ideals.  There are still times that I don’t value those around me above myself.  Many many times actually.  But I think that it is a goal toward which I want to work.  

A walk

There is a street in Provo, more commonly known as 200 N, that also secretly goes by the name "Shakespeare Street".  

There is a certain type of pine tree (possibly the Weeping Cedar or Hemlock) whose needles grow in round star-burst patterns from the branch, and whose pine cones are miniature and perfectly shaped.  The needles are soft and waxy, and the branches droop almost like a willow.  The pine cones grow in bunches like some sort of fruit.

No one can resist freshly poured cement, but in Provo you don't just get hand prints.  You get a rendering of the Space Needle.  Go look.  It is on the west side of 700 E, just before 200 N.

Our return missionary population makes itself known by also contributing to the fresh cement artwork.  Asian characters of some sort adorn a slab around 500 E.

When you are wearing shoes puddles are an annoyance to be walked around.  In bare feet they are a refreshing aquatic adventure!

Some cement, when wet, feels slimy under foot.  Why is this?

Walking under fruit trees offers an intriguing experience not unlike walking through a squshy mine-field. 

There is an apple hedge on 700 N.  It is magnificent. 

You eventually stop looking at the ground for rocks if you just keep walking long enough.  

A vivid spring green tree against a bright summer sky, punctuated with black seedpods, is a most arresting combination.  Especially when the sunlight is shining through its small leaves which are shaped somewhere between Maple leaves and stars and the seed pods are round and spiky like little UFOs.  

As I walked down 800 E, just before I got to the park, I came upon a delightful little house with a porch and shutters and a Great Dane on the lawn and bushes under the windows and a tree to one side.  Sitting precisely in the middle of the open doorway, with his little elbows on his little knees was a wee boy about 5 years of age.  He was wearing the most delightful little sandals with delightful little tube socks that came half-way up his little legs, and a delightful little striped polo shirt.  He watched me seriously as I approached his domain, turning only his head as I came along.  Just as I came directly in front of him, without cracking a smile, he lifted one little arm and waved to me.  I waved back, which seemed to encourage him enough to say hello.  I said hello back and paused a moment.  He asked me where my mom was and I told him she was far away.  I asked him where his mother was and he told me that she was in the kitchen.  She was making lunch.  I asked him if the Great Dane on the lawn was his.  He looked around, unsure which dog I was referring to, and then carelessly waving his other arm in the general direction of the dog said "Oh, my dog is right there."  From inside the house I heard a laugh, and his mother appeared at the door.  "Hello!  He just loves talking to people walking by!"  With a smile I continued my walk as I heard my little man asking his mother where I was going.  "She's going for a walk.  Isn't that nice?"  And thanks to you, little man, it really was.