The Direction of Intention

630. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

When she said, “It’s as if we shoot information at each other,” I did what I always do: I lapsed into a ridiculous fantasy: Two cowboys step off the boardwalk on the dusty streets of Tombstone. They face each other, each with fingers twitching to pull their pistols and shoot. The townspeople duck into stores or take cover behind water barrels. The pistols are not loaded with bullets, but with agendas and opinions. The town’s people cover their ears; agendas being fired are loud. There will be no listening even though the object of the gunfight is to be heard. Shout to convince. Scream to negate the others point of view. The clock strikes noon, the combatants pull their opinions and begin shooting information at each other.

I giggled when I emerged from my ridiculous fantasy because it was less ridiculous than some of the stuff I have watched lately on the news. Doesn’t it seem that the rule of the day is to stake claims, shoot information, bomb with data, feign outrage, make headlines, and secure our 15 minutes of fame. Tom used to say, “When I was a boy I had to pay a nickel to get into the circus tent we called a freak show – and it was more appealing than this.”

We in the United States just emerged from a dreadful political season, pistols loaded with red and blue bullets. All of the town’s people jumped behind the watering trough and shimmied under the stagecoach to stay clear of the melee; information bullets ricocheting everywhere and not a single truth to be found anywhere. Sometimes I think we vote to stop the shooting. After the gunfight we head to the bar to wet our whistle and shout at each other. I think it must be the cultural dark side of colonialist’s to need to be right all of the time; we defend our point of view before we listen, thus we have a diminished capacity to converse or entertain other points of view.

This morning I listened (I did, I really listened and offered not a single opinion) to a TED talk by Ernesto Sirolli entitled: if you want to help someone, shut up and listen. “Wow!” I thought, “Now that is a revolutionary statement if ever I heard one!” Subtle but in the age of opinion assault it is worthy of consideration. It might also be a hint for how we might initiate culture change. It is certainly something beginning actors learn to do as a first step toward power: stand still and listen. Imagine what might happen on that dusty street in Tombstone if our information slingers refused to draw their pistols, paused and said, “You first.” Less drama to be sure but wouldn’t we get more done?

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610. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

It is election night and the wind is roaring off the Sound. We are saving daylight now so the sun sets early. It was only this weekend that we turned back the clocks so I am disoriented each evening; “What time is it!” I exclaim looking at the clock, realizing that although it feels like midnight it is actually only 7:00. When I was a kid I’d ride the merry-go-round, spinning and spinning until my inner compass was so bamboozled that I walked like a drunken sailor. Daylight saving time is like a merry-go-round.

Although at this fine age I have no intention of spinning myself into perplexity, I’ve once again decided that being disoriented is not so bad (when I am deep in thought I am perfectly capable of walking into poles or going in the opposite direction of my intention). In fact, so fond am I of being disoriented that I’m considering spinning disorientation into a philosophy so future generations might reasonably aim at utter confusion.

This is the proof for my new philosophy: we spend so much time trying to be found, how could we be anything but lost. A variation on the theme: we spend so much time trying to be right, that we must certainly be continually proving that we are wrong. Another variation: we put so much energy justifying our position that we must be secretly convinced that we have no position. So rather than whip up the illusion of knowing, wouldn’t it make more sense to fully embrace not-knowing? Good heavens, I’m on the verge of writing a syllogism! My inner philosopher is tugging at his beard with cigar stained fingers, muttering, “hmmmmmm. A book, perhaps?” Ominous deep staring eyes will dominate the book jacket design, the teaser will read: there is no map for your soul! The first chapter will be a single sentence: It is all made up.

When puffer-academics ask me for proof of disorientation I will point to American election cycles. So inundated are we with months of campaign advertising, pundits tugging on our perceptual rope, “facts” spun into tasty delirium cotton candy, “truth” slandered and slander twisted into licorice tasting “truth;” we must certainly be on the merry-go-round all of the time. Chapter one: it is all made up. Chapter two: in order to be oriented you have to have something solid to orient to. Chapter three: If it is all made up, then nothing is solid. If nothing is solid, then orientation is impossible. If orientation is impossible, then you better make something up. A near syllogism! My inner philosopher hoots with satisfaction!

No wonder I’m dizzy.

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601. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

Sometimes I worry myself. Last week I was flying through O’Hare airport. I had a fairly long lay over (and isn’t THAT an interesting term!). I was tired. It was dark outside; in airports during the winter 6:00pm and midnight feel like the same thing, just as in old age homes prunes and iced tea taste the same. It’s odd. So, it was midnight or something. My eyes were fried so I couldn’t read. Besides, I was the kind of tired that, if I lay down during my lay over, I’d wake up and my flight would have left me behind. So I was walking and looking at stuff.

Here’s the part that worries me: I saw a sandwich. I wasn’t hungry but I knew my flight was approximately 5 hours long and I could imagine myself getting hungry before the plane landed. And what if the plane never landed? I should have a sandwich. Here’s more of the part that worries me: at the Airport Fresh food stand, where nothing is really fresh, where I saw the sandwich, the sandwich I saw, the sandwich I chose was sitting all alone. There were others further down the shelf, but this one, this lonely little sandwich, sat all alone. It was too small to compete. The other sandwiches were muscly things wrapped tightly in plastic; they were bursting to get out of their wrappers. My sandwich was the runt of the litter, sliced chicken breast with red bell pepper. It was destined to be an engineer. And since no one was talking to it, since it had been abandoned by the in-crowd, I bought it.

As I walked away from Airport Fresh, I had a realization: I am Charlie Brown! My ghost costume has too many holes! On this day of All Hallows Eve I will get rocks instead of candy in my plastic pumpkin head trick-or-treat candy bucket because I projected a story (my story?) on a lonely sub-standard sandwich that a host of other discerning travelers were wise enough to leave behind. I chose the Christmas tree with few branches and no needles because I thought it needed a home. Or, an alternate narrative: mainstream sandwiches bore me and I am much more interested in the deviants in society. More projection perhaps but one with a healthier turn: I chose that narrative.

After all of that, I will not tell you what horrors I suffered when I actually got hungry on my flight. That sandwich pleaded with me for a long time and I had to explain that it had a purpose to fulfill. And, as difficult as the path might seem now, it would thank me later. It went quietly. So I think – all in all – it was a very worrisome affair. Spooky even. Ghoulish when you consider what happened to that poor lonely sandwich.

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553. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

My inner sociologist awoke with a start. He is a sleepy fellow and enjoys his nap more than most folks. I was crossing the courtyard of the apartment complex next door; it has been my shortcut to the other side of the peninsula for more than a decade, a shortcut that I have taken 5 times a week, every week, for 10 years. I am on a first name basis with the caretaker of the property. Today, as I crossed the courtyard I passed a man on talking on a cell phone. He was angry and shouting at the person on the other end. As I passed he snapped shut his phone and called out to me, “Hey! Do you live here?” I stopped and told him I lived in the apartments next door. He responded, “You’re walking on our sidewalk!” That was the moment my inner sociologist woke up and rubbed his eyes, “Huh? Wha…?” His hair was a mess; nap head.

“These are our sidewalks!” the angry man sneered, “I live here. We have to protect our privacy.”

My inner sociologist rolled his eyes and said, “Why are test cases always so predictable.” I cautioned him to watch, to make no assumptions. I said to the angry man, “My name’s David. I’m your neighbor. I pass this way everyday.” My inner sociologist took out his notepad and a blunt pencil, grudgingly poised to write notes about the encounter.

The angry man opened his phone. He did not dial a number so my inner sociologist wrote, “Avoids eye contact.” While staring at his phone, Angry Man said, “We’ve had a rash of vandalism and have to know who’s on our property.”

I said, “Well, I’ll keep my eyes open for any suspicious characters.” My inner sociologist rolled his eyes and called me a manipulator, taking a note about my less-than-subtle status game.

Still staring at his phone, Angry Man repeated emphatically, “These are our sidewalks,” and turned his back and quickly walked away, disappearing around a corner.

My inner sociologist snapped closed his notepad and sighed with disgust, “You woke me up for this? Another angry person finding things to fear is not worthy of my study! You interrupted my nap for a game of guard-the-sidewalk!”

“It justifies his anger.” I said. “Guarding the sidewalk gives him a sense of power and purpose. Plus, didn’t you see how he used his phone as a place to disappear?” I asked. Isn’t that interesting to you?”

“Old News!” shouted my inner sociologist! “Blame and disappear, blame and disappear! Claiming territory that does not matter – it’s an old song and it bores me. Besides, who’s not hiding inside their technology these days?” he seethed, crawling back onto his couch, adjusting his pillow. “I find it depressing,” he sighed, closing his eyes.

“Well, I thought it was interesting precisely because it is so normal.” I said. “Isn’t his need to mark territory and defend it against his neighbor, me, a possible ally, a potential friend, isn’t that worth studying? Isn’t it worth talking about?” He was already snoring – or making snoring noises so I’d leave him alone. “Well, I think it’s interesting.” I said, slightly wounded, suddenly more aware of the sidewalk than I had been before meeting the Angry Man.

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