Reality is relative

And so the terrible lurch downward appears from certain vantage points to have lurched downward again, this time in your universe. And from on high it is easy, I suppose, to look down to the place where I’ve chosen to stand. I would think it might be hard to make a judgment about that choice considering you have most likely never stood here yourself. If you’re thinking (and I’m pretty sure you are), “that’s your choice,” this time you’d be correct. Everything everyone ever does, consciously for sure, but unconsciously even more so, is done by choice. Every situation, every action, every failure to act, every consequence, is an amalgamated product of the infinite set of choices made incrementally from one nanosecond to the next in the history of time that was, and that will ever be.

If it’s too much for you, I understand. Often it feels like too much for me. But there are moments when too much feels like it could never possibly be enough. Please don’t use the threat of my alleged influence as an excuse. There are many examples of bad choices being made, hidden, and not so much that occurred, are occurring, and will most likely continue to occur. It’s pretty clear to me how easily mine might serve as a deflection from these. But, in fact, beliefs to the contrary, until the levee broke, the raging waters of my predilections were hidden from those to whom they should have been. And even then the Earth didn’t flood.

My reputation, though inaccurate, was occasionally deserved, and enough of the myth was true to make for a cohesive narrative. I should have been more attuned to the power of perception, especially considering I have dedicated my professional and creative life to altering perceptions. I was careless. But the contrarian in me, as it so often does, bristled at interpretations of my actions as weakness, or in need of outside control. The contrary becomes self-righteous sometimes. And self-righteousness easily morphs into recklessness, which often continues down the path to self-destruction. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I give you exhibits A through Z. But, as is often true in trial, things are never really as they seem. Almost nothing is black or white, not even black and white.

It is too often incorrectly repeated that there are two sides to every story. I would suggest that there are actually an infinite number of sides, depending on what is looking. I know the answer to the age-old philosophical quandary as to whether truth is relative. Of course, it is. Reality is relative.

Fetal, feral

Tonight, we return to being feral and sleeping fetal. I don’t need the world to explain what I did wrong. I feel the absence caused by my failures every second.

A little death

It serves me right to suffer some, I suppose. That doesn’t mean I have to Like • Comment • Share that fact with everyone. Still, I do. But as the hours turn into days, and the days will soon be a week, I’ve stopped feeling hopeful when a text message chirps, or my customized ring buzzes with a call. The phone is easier to ignore, because it’s never the ring I’ve assigned to her. I’ve stopped grabbing the iPhone to immediately scroll through my new messages because deep down I know none of them will be from her. Sometimes I won’t even check for 10 minutes after getting one. I can’t even follow what’s happening with her life on Facebook because she’s either blocked me, or deactivated the account. The optimist in me truly hopes it’s the latter.

A total Facebook block of a single individual is probably the most effective way to tell someone online that, “You are no longer welcome in my inner circle, and probably not in my life at all.” I find the fact that this inner circle doesn’t include me but does include more than 100,000 of her Friends of Friends particularly depressing.

I used to know her password. The level of trust that represents is superhuman. The spare key to your apartment and all of your pin numbers put together would still not come even close. A password is a key to the intimacies of hundreds of Facebook friends, but more importantly it allows access to the birthing canal of your online identity. In a Google world where everything is stored forever, your reputation online is more important than it is in your circle of real life friends. Like herpes, anything that happens online never goes away once the search engines find it, and unlike Vegas it doesn’t stay anywhere but often propagates at the exponential speed of viral communication.

I’m getting off message. The point is it was one hell of a fall from shared passwords to virtual blockade. And for someone like me who lives online, it’s not hyperbole to liken it to a little death.

“Oh god, K, you’re so dramatic. I had to cut you off. You kept posting weird shit on my wall. My family reads that you know?”
“I was going to tell you that it’s probably not a good idea to friend your kids. You’re 16-year old doesn’t need to know what you look like dancing on the bar at Coyote Ugly.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better I deactivated my account completely.”
“It actually does. Singling out one person out of 500,000,000 users is quite a statement don’t you think? At least now I blend in with the rest of the planet.”
“I wanted my privacy back. And I felt like I had to respond to everyone that contacted me. I don’t need that. I actually feel free.”
“Hippie.”

A fall from grace

And for all that, it’s not even the worst part of everything. Individual sadness eventually subsides. But the irreparable damage to the collective belief in what is possible will probably never be made whole again. It’s difficult to believe that it even exists. IT! The unnamed catalyst without which there can be no love or true faith. Need is not quite belief.

The fall of a person at every level, from an individual man to Man as we see ourselves when we are at our accomplished best, doesn’t usually happen in one calamitous plunge from the heights of glory. But rather, it is the little things we choose to do, by ourselves, when we think there’s no one watching, or when this one time doesn’t matter. It’s how the path of least resistance becomes the only way in or out, and the only way we know to go. We make small compromises, but in the most important places and the result is the slow-motion free-fall of our self-actualization. Eventually, we end up lower than where we started. We look around, incredulous, as if being sprawled out on the floor required a fall from grace to get there.

Commas are dumb

The difficulty in learning a language. A new way of saying things involve a new way of thinking. A new way of seeing. For me, perhaps, remembering. There are duolingos to guide you. Cuanto cuesta? How much do you want for that? They donʻt mean the same thing word for word. This is why it is so important to remember. There is a phrase in English that comes to mind as I feel sometimes, when I listen to manaleo. “I donʻt have a word for this.” Is it my lack of capacity for the moment or are there no words? I often feel that way translating my thoughts into Hawaiian. There must exist those words. I can not be the first Hawaiian feeling this way. And, so, I look for more words.

There is a word

This guy. He found a way to Hawaiians with baseball. He found me. We still talk. I still call him Coach and I was never on one of his teams (his brotherʻs once). This is how it comes. I donʻt want Argentinian horses. I want boys from ʻEwa Beach to know that pōpō, kini pōpō. Pōhili. There is a word for baseball.

Sports

Pal Eldredge (@baseballspal) / Posts / X

I wake up every morning at 4:30 and the first thing I check is a newsletter, then the recap of the games of my favorite teams. I love baseball, and Iʻve loved it since before Field of Dreams. I took a class in baseball called Play Ball! when I was in Little League, coached by the high school coach/tv color man for University of Hawaii baseball (Pal Eldredge). I also took a class, upstairs in Bishop Hall, in creative writing. I was young. Those classes are as much resposible for who I am today as any middling choice I seemed to make about what to major in. I can send you pictures of me draped in Cowboys parapenelia from 52 years ago. My love for sports is legit. I knew I could write about sports when I watched a Phillies game in 1992 and didnʻt care about either team. I appreciated the pitcherʻs nuances. The shortstopʻs glide.

Kahoa

Brah, kahoa (ke hoa in songs) in Hawaiian. When I was that age, I knew EVERYTHING. No one could tell me shit. I read every book already. I knew you had the quote wrong. I snorted every line already. I took every shot already. I put my dick into every place they would take it. The realization comes more slowly. What feels good in the moment doesnʻt always feel good on Tuesday. Today is Tuesday. And although that wasnʻt on purpose, it makes a good point. Tuesday is always less than seven days away. You are an asshole. And you fucked up your only real job, evolutionarily speaking. Your kids should love you. It’s weird how patterns become patterns. I donʻt like my father. It feels like a burden to go beyond small talk. I look at posts here speaking about a father, what it means to be a man. My son does not like me. Shampoo. Rinse. Repeat,

Irony

How can you understand me if I don’t understand me? You and I are strange animals. I like the way you look naked. I like the way look at me when you’re not wearing clothes. I like your breath and the way your hair smells. I like that I didn’t have to tell you to love Black Sabbath. I like less and less. But I like you. I forget how to use the word love without being ironic.

Nothing less

The thing about faith is that it requires so much more. On a good day, I trust what I’m told by most. On a bad day, I don’t believe myself. Good days are often bad and vice versa. Your eyes give you away, more than your I’s, which say even more. I close my eyes and trace the walk down from the apartment to the corner gas station, sweating in the near-summer heat of the Mississippi and holding the bleeding condensation of Busch in their plastic hearse as I wade back upstream to the patio where I’d wait for you. The first sips take away the heat of the late afternoon while you work, while your child naps, swims or bathes. The sweat congeals against my skin under one too many layers of clothing. The sips become slugs. The days pass. And I wonder if I have traded nothing less for nothing more.