it's true...alas or "fuck you, liver"

I am a sick man....  I am a spiteful man.  I am an unattractive man.  I believe my liver is diseased.  However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me.  I don't consult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious).  No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite.  That you probably will not understand.  Well, I understand it, though.  Of course, I can't explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by my spite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot "pay out" the doctors by not consulting them; I know better than anyone that by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else.  But still, if I don't consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad, well--let it get worse!

whoa, proofreading fail

I swear my posts look totally readable when I submit them... but reading back it makes little sense. Sorry.

Talking to Strangers

Preface: This post was supposed to be all about George R. Price, a prominent scientist of the 20th century who was interested in altruism and ended up slitting his throat with a possibly rusty pair of scissors.

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(Price dedicated the later part of his life to helping the homeless, often inviting homeless people to live in his house. Sometimes, when the people in his house became a distraction, he slept in his office at the Galton Laboratory. He also gave up everything to help alcoholics, as he helped them they stole his belongings causing him to fall into depression.

He was eventually thrown out of his rented house due to a construction project in the area, which made him unhappy because he could no longer provide housing for the homeless. He moved to various squats in the North London area, and became depressed over Christmas, 1974. He later committed suicide in the New Year on the 6th January 1975 using a pair of nail scissors to slash his throat. His body was identified by his close colleague Bill Hamilton.^[10] Friends said he committed suicide because of despondency over his inability to continue helping the homeless.)

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It kind of turned out a little different, but Price is still present in the shadow throughout my recollections.

My descent into madness...begin:

Slowly but surely I am growing mad (as in insane, not "angry" or the most common NYC usage "many", e.g., 'there's mad white people in Manhattan' actually means that there's a lot of whites, be they mad or not).

I've read that madness sets in slowly, but damn is it ever subtle. Today I decided it would be fun, educational and productive to speak with strangers. I don't mean to ask for directions, I mean to actually start meaningless conversations (that hopefully turn in to something meaningful - because let's face it, you can't actually start a meaningful conversation with a stranger... unless you're both crazy). I've met 4 complete strangers today, and got the sparksnotes to the autobiography of 3. In addition I met 1 stranger connected to a non-stranger and 3 relative strangers (of various positions on the relativity scale, but I have met all 3 of them before).

Let's focus on the complete strangers.

The first stranger was really asking to be talked to... actually quite literally, as I met her on okcupid. So I don't feel I was overstepping my bounds when we met for coffee and I proceeded to talk to her for almost 2 hours. Although I will probably never see her again (I liked her, but she is way too beautiful for me - also our personalities don't necessarily complement each other), I did get quite a lot of information about her life. I don't know that there's much I can do with it, but it was interesting at the time. In any case, this was one of the acceptable stranger-talks, even though going into I knew that chances were slim.

Now, this is where I am actually harassing random people.

I was stuck on the train and there was a guy listening to music across from me. After a few minutes of trying to fall asleep, and failing, I decided to get his attention. Now, there were already plenty of people complaining about the train. Yet I harassed this young man to ask him what he thought about the situation. Then our conversation escalated to where he was going, how he was lazy and didn't want to walk, and I took it further to ask where he lives, what he is doing in New York and so on. I learned he is from New Jersey, but moved to New York (175th, mind you) in October. He sort of has 2, but sort of 3-4, roommates. He used to work in Hoboken but the commute was killer. Now he ....[train noise].... a couple of ...[more train noise].... Which is cool. Well I am proud of myself for not lying about where I live and getting off at his stop. That seems like it could turn stalker-ish very quicky. But I wasn't into that. I was just trying to connect, you know? And I appreciate that he appreciates how difficult it is for teachers. Good bye, almost-Bieber-hair guy. [OK, NOTE, somehow blogger cut out a good portion of this story... I dare not rewrite it, though]

Second complete stranger I harassed started out with an innocent "which way is 1st ave?"... and I swear I didn't intend to go any further. Then, however, I asked for further directions.. perhaps he knew where this restaurant was. Turns out the bastard was going to the same place! It was fucking fate, dudes. I asked him if he was meeting the same people and he said "no". I guess that would be too much (and he agreed). Yet I proceeded to talk. Words would just come out, with very little meaning attached to them. I even mentioned that I am trying this new things where I talk to strangers. He seemed supportive and said it was a good life decision - it builds better communities or something. I didn't realize how crazy that sounded then.

Third notable stranger harassment was aimed at a middle-aged to almost elderly woman (she was in great shape though... sorry I didn't mean for that to sound sexual, I just meant that she wasn't frail just gray-haired) who was accompanied by a much younger man. Again, my body couldn't quite get into the rhythm of the stop-and-go train motion, so without a nap (and crap I JUST REALIZED I LEFT MY COPY OF THE ECONOMIST AT THAT INDIAN RESTAURANT! that's why I was bored!) I itched for a distraction. I asked a question I pretty much knew the answer to, or at least would know the answer very soon (and knowing it made no different at all). She was polite enough to respond. I then blabbed some things about public transportation and she indulged me in a conversation. It delved deeper into my history and hers (turns out she lived in Portland for 30 years and was actually a middle school teacher ), which was certainly more interesting than silence. She was quite excited to learn that I was from Portland and was a middle school teacher too. We talked about how great John's Landing was back then, and how much Parkrose sucked and continues to suck. She also explained that the younger man (who seemed to be in his 20s?) was actually her nephew and just graduated from high school. Then she told him that I was from Portland and when his reaction was complete disinterest - not even a polite "oh, what great fortune", just a blank stare - I realized I was growing mad (he saw me for the soon-to-be-completely crazy person who talks to strangers whether they respond or not.. like that guy on the L train).

Talking -> mumbling -> yelling -> cats

As far as I can tell, the only difference between me and crazy people is that I don't look crazy so people are more willing to talk to me. I've been trying to be friendlier to strangers, thinking it was going to make things better. I see now that it was just a subtle step into madness. It's not always clear when people enjoy a conversation and when they are just being polite. And now I am tolerated because I can carry a conversation and not sound crazy, but it's really only a few quick and sudden drops before I start mumbling nonsensically, then yelling obscenities and finally throwing cats at strangers.

not again!

I might be nursing a mental illness. Yet some people tell me that the way I feel is normal. So I'm either normal or crazy? If those are my two options... that kind of sucks. I might have to go with the Alice in Wonderland thing here.

I am never satisfied. At least not for long. I can be happy that 5 (or was it 6?) of my students moved up to the next level, but why wasn't it 7 or 8? I might have been happy that I live in NYC, but why do I live in a neighborhood where I really must direct attention to my feet and the ground in order to leave my soles dogshit-less? How do all of these things not drive people crazy?

Am I just lacking in confidence? But why the fuck wouldn't I? Why the fuck don't you have self-esteem issues? You've really got nothing better to do than read my blog? I'm nobody. The guy who writes for the NY Times is probably a nobody also, so it's not like I'm suggesting reading the news or OP-ED is a better use of your time. I mean, really, your time is pretty useless. Perhaps not as useless as mine, but still probably in that range. The most impact an average person can have on others is probably by going batshit crazy and creating another news-worthy crime scene (and no, I don't suggest it, support it or condone it).

But how do you find meaning in life? Is it just by becoming self-centered, with emphasis on instant gratification? I guess that still occasionally works for me. I can still find joy in a scoop of ice cream, a brand new toy, or an entertaining tv episode/movie/"other video". But it feels empty afterwards... like it was just a distraction.

Are people not bothered by the futility because they accept it or deny it? I don't know that I can deny it, it just seems to be evident in everything I do. Nothing I do makes a substantial difference. As for accepting it? How am I supposed to accept that everything I love (and myself) will die... I realize this seems like a very teen, if not pre-teen, realization.. but I am not sure it was ever resolved.

I've been lying in bed for the past fucking 2 hours trying to fall asleep so I can wake up early in the morning and go to work so that I can teach someone some basic reading and math, and then come back home and wait until it's late so I can try to fall asleep so I can wake up early in the morning and go to work so that I can teach someone some basic reading and math. Seem repetitive? Your life is probably less empty, but is it any less repetitive? Besides, I am simplifying. On weekends I occasionally go out, either on dates with strangers (that goes without saying, I suppose, as why would someone who knew me date me?) or to bars/restaurants/"events" with friends. It fills the time, and I find it enjoyable... I almost feel happy. Then, towards the end, I realize the time is running out and soon I will feel incredibly alone and hollow again. I don't know why no one else feels that. You know, I felt less that way when I was stressed and overworked...I had no time to myself.... hmm...

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