Resolution

I have been struggling with this project as of late, and I have come to a resolution.  I have found that this is not what I was after.  I am having wonderful experiences hearing people's stories, but the bottom line is that this is beginning to feel forced.

I am cutting the story part out.  I feel like giving out balls that I make is great, but I do not think that asking for a story in return is working.

The best part of this has been leaving the balls in different places in Portland and now, in Reno, so I will continue to do that, but I will no longer ask for a story in return.

I am not sure I will have anything to blog about in the future, but if I do, I will do it here.

Thanks, and leave any comments here.

Going Up North

This entry came to me in the most covert of ways...in fact, I cannot even hint at how I know this person, as it would hurt too many innocent people.  I know it sounds like I live an exciting life, but unfortunately, it is only the reverberations of excitement, the hollow echo of a life I can only dream of.

It was so very good to see her, though she seemed quite exhausted, she was her ever-cheerful self, giggling at her story and the direction her life has taken.  I also cannot divulge what she does for a living; she truly serves humanity and gets very little thanks in return.  While describing her job to me, I of course sat in a puddle of shame, knowing I did not have the where-with-all to serve my fellow man as she does, day in and day out.  I live the life of a self-absorbed artist; an extravagance of which I am intensely aware.

The piece of paper she handed to me was a choice I had made; I could have listened to her specific story, or settled for a general story with the promise of more stories to come, from other people.  There are some things in life which come easily.  This decision was one of them; when a person offers you a story, a story which they think defines them, you accept.

"I like that she is collecting stories.  I guess that I see my first job in life as a collector of stories (ever since I was a child) and I empathize.  She wants them and I don't want them, ironic.  We both like ironic.

I guess this topic of fear and desire has given me an excuse for reflection.  Living in a house with one co-dependent and one self-absorbed parent gave me good and bad examples of both traits taken to the extreme. My main ideas of what these emotions are still resonate with their personalities.  I see desire as narcissistic, arrogant, analytical and goal driven.  My dad is a master of achieving his desires with very little fears allowed, looked at or talked about.  This has tempered over time as his marriages continued to blow up and he has realized that fame, riches, brilliance, and good looks do not stop one from facing their demons in the mirror at times.  Fear is exemplified by my mom now: people pleasing, stifling herself and being unfulfilled by promising too  much to too many and being ineffectual.  Fear has continued to grow in her mainly because she has re-married an anxious man and his pattern is in both of them now.

I used to live totally enmeshed with others and in fear when I was a young child.  I was so shy it paralyzed me.  After a few bad things happened I started to act out with hidden yet extreme deviance.  As a teenager, I hooked up with a young alcoholic who added more craziness, co-dependence and lots more fear.  As I decided this relationship was worth keeping, I had to face these fears, deal with them as true possibilities and started to learn how to let them go.  (Thanks, Al-anon)

The next stage (beginning when I was in my mid-twenties), started with baby steps of stopping my nihilism and focusing on my goals and desires as our relationship became solid.  I was trying to stay present and not go to extremes of my fears and desires but I also stopped taking care of my health with my career taking off.  After stopping cooking for a living, I threw myself into social service work and not taking breaks, eating, peeing or going home.  I just realized that I have been working with these conditions for almost 20 years and as a salaried employee for over 15.  This has been my stage of focusing on desire: too many pots in the fire, tunnel vision, goal driven, an endless workload and not enough self care.

When I hit my wall of disgust over obesity, I started back into mixing them together.  In the old days my pattern was to just eat or use other distractions to self-soothe the fears.  Then the adoption process went on and on and I would bounce back and forth in fear and desire.  I tried hard not to use my old coping skills, (which were not very good ideas).  Then I had the 3 bad years consisting of having surgery, moving teams and waiting for Myles.  I do not know when exactly after the adoption I realized that one day I did not feel anxious anymore.  It has snuck up so slowly I did not know that it had become my life.

Me and an even keel is not going to happen ever.  I am either up or down in my cycle.  Good is sleeping normal hours and having balance in my life.  Desire is goal driven and motivated on a fixed ending while being analytical, and methodical while ignoring my health and emotions.  Fear is monkey mind, getting defensive, ineffectual, generalized anxiety or hyper-focusing on one area in my life.  Now I am trying to notice the symptoms of too much either way; that is when I amp up the self-care and re-framing my thoughts.  It is really hard to do when there is so much to distract me now; working full time and having a young child.

I found the hard part is trying to keep the good parts of both fears and desires but to let go of the unhealthy patterns that sap my soul, body and psyche.  If I was single this would not be such a bad thing but now that I am a mom, I feel that I want to be a good example in healthy choices in all areas.  Dammit.

This leads into my next reflection: patterns of black and white thinking.  Is today nihilistic or is it goal-driven, try-too-hard-to-do-it-well?  It depends on the rest of the week and my mood....so much for healthy choices.  The pendulum just keeps swinging.

What We Got

This is from a woman who somewhat recently gave up her job as a stock trader, (I believe) to study Yoga and become a teacher.  I have not known her very well, but the glimpses I have gotten of her life, through my brother and now Facebook, have been fascinating.  I have known only a few women like her; a woman I would categorize as "fierce". In a certain way she kind of passed through my life very briefly, and for the time I spent getting to know her, she has had quite an impact on me.  She is one of those people who has grown into a more authentic version of herself.  Of course as one grows, it is impossible to bring loved ones with, and so there is the pain of separation and the sadness of the widening distance between.  She speaks of her wanting her loved ones to change, of her fear for them.  When she was young, she feared hell for them, and as she grew older, maybe a hell of a different sort.

"Hi Sara,

I've been thinking about fear lately and trying to come up with a story for you. The more I think about it though the more that I realize that fear has always been my main motivator. My earliest memories are of being afraid. Afraid that the kids in pre-school didn't like me, fear of not fitting in, fear that everyone that I cared for were going to hell except for myself and my great-grandmother.... I don't know where it came from but it is something that has always been inside me.

About 5 years ago I made the decision to quit a terrible job and career that I absolutely hated to pursue a dream. People were shocked that I would do something so risky and I kept hearing how brave I was. I never really saw it that way though. I was more afraid of waking up one day and still be sitting at my cubicle, doing something that I hated, working for greedy, morally bankrupt people who didn't really give a shit about me or the clients they were "helping". I was so afraid of waking up one day and realizing that I didn't do anything for myself, anything that I ever dreamed of that I HAD to do something. I believe that people (including myself) are sometimes more comfortable staying in an uncomfortable and/or horrible situation because it's familiar. And ultimately the familiar is more comfortable than taking a risk and trying something new. New is scary!!

These days I believe that I have conquered a lot of the fear that used to paralyze me. I don't worry about what other people think, if I fit in and I certainly don't worry about people going to Hell! I am very afraid of being old and alone though. I know that there are no guarantees, but I feel that if I had kids, that it would cut my chances for that. At least they would be obligated to spend a holiday a year with me. More than fear for myself though, I am afraid that my family will never be happy. I'm afraid that they will always struggle to be content and to find their self-worth. It breaks my heart to see the sadness and insecurities in the people that I love the most. I am also afraid that people are so desensitized and cruel that I won't know what to tell my nieces if they ever ask about the gross injustices that take place every single day. I don't see the world getting any better any time soon. Everything is driven by greed and selfishness and we are destroying the world because of this. I am afraid that there won't be much left for future generations and it's going to happen mostly because of others apathy and unwillingness to make a change (fear?).Oh, I could go on and on about this.....

This is probably not what you had in mind for a story, but, well this is what I got!!!"

Unconditional

It is strange how often I am surprised by people's stories.  I am not sure I should be at this point, I mean, I have heard many, but still, I find that my assumptions about people are often completely wrong.

I know a woman who is, well, strikingly beautiful I guess would be the best way to put it, incredibly confident, smart, and pretty funny.  When I first met her, I assumed she had it all together, and of course, there was my jealousy that came along with the observation of all of the characteristics she is imbued with.  Not too long ago, she told me she had been reading my blog and that she had a story for me.  I had not considered asking her, and when she offered, I was surprised.  I quite mistakenly saw her as someone who might not have a story to tell.

When she walked into the room, I could tell that she was carrying it with her, and as she went about picking her ball, I started to wonder if I was going to be able to handle it.  There are times when some of these stories knock me for a loop emotionally, and I have to work through the thoughts and feelings they bring up in me in order to write about them with some kind of clarity.  This was one of those.

She sat down and told me that when she was born, her mother was only seventeen and her father was twenty.  It had been an unplanned pregnancy, but as her mother was Catholic, she got married and had her child, hoping for the best.  While she was still very young, her parents divorced, and she already did not have a comfortable relationship with her father.  She vividly remembers being ignored while no one was around, but being the object of pride when people visited.  When her parents split, and her mother would arrange for her to see her father, she would beg her mother not to leave her alone with him.  She felt, quite acutely, that he had no use for her.

When she was about six, her father moved to Australia, married again, and had children with the woman he married.  She did not hear from him for a very long time.  When she was sixteen, he invited her to visit, and she went, though she had significant reservations about seeing him.  She thought it might give her an opportunity to let him know how his behavior had effected her life.  She was to go for a month.  During the time that she was there, she got to know his kids and his wife rather well, but unfortunately, spoke about three words to him during her stay, and in the end, got his wife to buy her an earlier flight out a week before her planned departure date.  That was the last time she saw him.

Due to the treatment she had endured from her father, she lives her life always doubting the affections of her friends, family, even her husband.  She wakes every day with the fear that she is not worthy of unconditional love.  She handles each relationship that she has tentatively, afraid that if she does or says the wrong thing, that person will abandon her.  She has gone through years of therapy attempting to overcome this fear.

Her desire to feel as if she is worthy of unconditional love, and to trust it when she has it, still seems to her a distant and rapidly shifting horizon.  As she spoke to me about her experience, I was impressed at her ability to remain fairly calm and focused.  She had obviously spoken about this topic many times before; she deftly articulated her pain and fear in a way that reflected her familiarity with the topography.  It was tough, however, for her to get over the idea that one of the people who should have been able to love her unconditionally, could not.

While I am still surprised at the stories I get, I am not ever surprised to meet people who aren't aware of the manner in which they consistently repeat early heartbreak throughout their lives and wonder why.  While this woman still struggles with this pain on a daily basis, the point is that she struggles; she is aware of how this fear has changed her behavior.  While I sat there listening, heartbroken for her and frankly, for me, I was also incredibly impressed.  And where jealousy had been, admiration now resided, and where differences had set, connection now claimed.  Her determination was riveting, and I absolutely saw in her a person that could be unconditionally loved.

Images of Fear

I received this story from a woman I know through my brother.  She is an exceptional artist and an articulate and outspoken individual.  There is a lot about her story I can relate to; early exposure to horrific images engendered long-standing fears in me which I still sometimes have nightmares about.  As with her, the exposure came through the good intentions of parents who might not have realized the long-term damage they might be doing to their children.


"I don’t consider myself a fearful person overall. But I realize that I was raised to fear…fear my parent’s punishment, fear God’s wrath, fear spiders, snakes, fear taking risks.

Fear Men. Fear unchecked power. (They go together.)

I vividly remember going to the drive-in with my parents and younger sister; we did this often and saw all kinds of movies. But one time in particular, the film was in black and white, a format that, as a young child, I wasn’t fond of; it meant boring in my book! But I became caught up in the story of Barbara Graham, one of only 4 women executed in the state of California, in the film, I Want To Live!-1958

As a ten year old, it was my opinion that it was her boyfriend who had perpetrated the crime and then set her up. I remember thinking to myself, “I’m NEVER going to have a boyfriend, because I don’t want to die! They can’t be trusted!”

What a lesson for a Catholic elementary school girl to take in. (I wonder if this was on the Catholic Chronicle’s OK to view list? Probably, I don’t believe there was any explicit sex in it…just killing and state sanctioned murder.) I still remember the futility of all of Susan Hayward’s (she played Barbara) pleading that she was innocent. I had so much anxiety, although I didn’t know what to name it then. I saw the pellets lowered into whatever it was that made the poison gas. I watched her die on screen, but the emotions were real. I never mentioned any of this to my parents. What could I say? “You idiots!, why did you think it was a good idea to take a kid to this kind of movie!!!!!

(Later,as an adult, I had a friend that was arrested and convicted wrongly for murder. If there hadn't been a moritorium on the death penalty he would have been executed. His attorney, my boyfriend at the time, found the real killer and was instrumental in having our friend released from prison. )

I am still dubious of some men’s behavior and the judicial system to this day.

The other film that still haunts me is Path’s of Glory, 1957. It was about the French military executing innocent men to frighten others into fighting. Once again the people executed were innocent and chosen at random as a punishment for the faux pas of the whole group--- they were to be an example.

How arbitrary this selection was; that life and death were/are random and not under our control, or worse, under someone else’s control, frightens me. It frightens me that those in power have the ability to destroy an individual without having to offer any justification. The brute force and chaos of unchecked power----I didn’t have those words then but I was extremely upset as I watched the innocent soldiers die before a firing squad.

The only one outraged in the film, the only one with a conscious and shred of humanity was Kirk Douglas’ character. I identified with his outrage and developed a lifelong crush on him and believe the seeds of my anti-war stance started to take root, at least I always think about this film during the conflicts that our country has become involved in throughout the years. It makes me sad and fearful to know that some people in positions of authority will abuse this power for no other reason than that they can."


This experience speaks to a greater and probably more widely-held fear: That of the randomness of occurrences in one's environment.  This basic fear in many respects is what keeps Homo sapiens progressing; we continue to create devices and processes which assist in the control of our environment.  In both movies, the victims are being used as "examples" in order to keep others from imitating the behavior.  This treatment of the population might prove successful, but the unintended consequences and lessons this behavior teaches cannot be delineated.  Such is the case with this woman's parents taking her to the movie; I highly doubt their intentions of bringing her were for her to swear off boyfriends forever.  


The question becomes, how far will any individual go in order to control their environment, and how will this behavior effect those around them?  The benefit of history is that it teaches; several figures have chosen peaceful means to gain some control in their own environments, Gandhi, Aung San Suu Kyi, and Dr. Martin Luther King, just off the top of my head.  There are also those who have chosen lesser means, to the great destruction and heartache of us all.  There are a million decisions we make every day, consciously or unconsciously, which bring us closer to or further away from control.  


My experience, being forced to watch Holocaust films at a very young age, impressed upon me the importance of never blindly hating any group of people for any reason.  While I believe this is a valuable perspective to hold, I know this differed greatly from my mother's, which was, "never trust a German".  My friend's anti-war stance could also be seen, from certain perspectives, to be beneficial.  I would never dream of being in a position to give answers on this topic, I am only asking the question: How far are we willing to go in order to obtain control? 

Entirely Different

My desperation in needing stories also led me to sending balls out through the mail to people I have known only through once-removed circumstance; people I respect and admire, but who I have known only through a relationship with a close friend or relative.  I received this story first, and was moved by its revelation.  The story was sent to me by a woman I have gotten to know through an old high school friend.  We have not been in close contact since I initially met and got to know her, but she has always seemed to me to be a very strong and confident woman, a woman who really seems to know herself.  Of course, after reading this story, her strength of character seems logical.  



"Fear for me is defined by my observation of it growing up with a mother who was phobic – afraid of a lot of things. For periods of time she couldn’t leave the house without my father. Agoraphobia is defined as an anxiety disorder today, but in my childhood it was thought to be the fear of open spaces. That meant malls, freeways, any public gatherings, grocery stores, etc. were mine fields for my mother. My definition: my mother was scared of everything  - much of it we couldn’t see.  She was weak.

As a teen, I started getting angry at her; our relationship was fraught with typical mother/daughter teen issues compounded by the fact that the things that can bond a twosome – shopping, lunches, outings with just the two of us- were impossible. I did do those things with my father and thinking back now the “daddy days” may really have been their way to give us time to explore and my mother safety. There were many constructs of my childhood and even today that I believe are set up to protect and support my mother. None of it was explained or rationalized so I was left with the idea that she was unwilling to engage and weak. This perception of her being weak made me specifically fearless. Well, I had fears, but I was not going to let them get me down. My decision and approach led me on some interesting adventures and I became specifically skilled at steeling myself up and jumping in. I made sure to always accept a challenge even if I was uncertain of success. I blustered right in and did it. This fearlessness or at least the squelching of fear led me to attempt things that were a little bit insane. I have been lucky, but my fearlessness has also given me a chance to take risks personally that led me in interesting directions and provided experiences that I never would have entered into if I had let fear of failure prevail.

As an adult I attributed my mother’s fears as a manifestation of the dependence that comes from marriage. My father is fantastic, I am certainly now and always have been a Daddy’s girl, but from the stories I heard from my mother about her younger carefree years, I just couldn’t put the pieces together any other way. Her breakdown was related to dependence on my father brought on by marriage. This misaligned understanding made my relationships with others particularly complicated. I took what I wanted and exited when things got too intense or I started to feel dependent. One day I was having lunch with an uncle and we were talking about my relationships and family and I finally said something to the effect of but look what it did to Mom. He started laughing and said, marriage and the relationship with your father is not what did this to her, she was always afraid and never the independent teen and young woman she describes. A weight dropped off my shoulders because I had been struggling for years with how to put things into perspective and rationalize the picture my mother described and the reality I saw.  Now, I don't go as deep as to think it was denial, but more wishful thinking that made my mother describe her past.

Fear can do funny things – it can make one unable to act or it can force action. The phobias that my mother lives with dramatically impacted her family, but not necessarily all in negative ways."




What in us chooses the path we take?  I believe that my friend could just as easily have chosen to be as fearful as her mother had been, but she chose differently.  She has her mother's blood running through her veins, but what else inside of her prompted this response?  It is interesting to note that she is married, happily, with two young boys.  While informed by it, she did move past her mother's behavior, and stories; and has become something entirely different.

A Father's Shoulders

A very good friend of mine told me this story; this happy, wonderful story.  The telling of it engendered a glow in her; one so palpable, that I felt her joy and have carried it with me to this very moment.

When my friend was very young, she lived on the coast of California with her family, and every morning that her father was able, he would take her and her siblings down to the beach to swim.  My friend believed her father to be such a man that the sun rose and set upon his shoulders every dawn and dusk, and it thrilled her to no end to spend time with him.  Unfortunately for her, she was not completely confident in the water.

Her father was an immense man, an incredibly strong swimmer, and very patient with his young daughter each morning when she told him that she was too afraid to go out into the deep water with him to catch a wave back in to shore.  She would watch him  from the shallow ocean water, playing with her brother and sisters, wanting very much to be riding on top of his shoulders every time he caught the waves.

One morning, she overcame her fear and swam out with her father.  They swam very far out, and her father told her that as soon as a wave came, she was to swim hard toward the shore, and when he said the word, grab on to his shoulders and body surf in with him.  Soon enough a wave came and they both started swimming.  He said the word, she grabbed on, and held as tight as she could.  For a few breathtaking seconds, exhilarated and gripping his shoulders, she was riding with him towards the beach and her waiting brother and sisters.  But the wave got ahead of them, crashed over him, and broke her grip. The next thing she knew, she was under water, and felt her father's giant hand grab her and pull her up and into his arms.  The smile on her father's face communicated the pride he felt, and from that day on, she did not let her fear keep her from swimming out with him.

I feel like this is such a universal experience...at one point or another we all overcome our fears, (of rejection, or awkwardness, etc.), and reach out to one or the other of our parents, hoping that they will reach back and take hold; we are the lucky ones who have experienced the catch.

Not Such a Stranger

In the depths of my desperation, I began placing balls around Northwest Portland, hoping that maybe people might not be so intimidated and feel the inclination to participate in this experiment.  Several days passed, and I had still not received a story- until yesterday.  The woman who ended up giving me this story had written that she had walked around the block, finding and exchanging different balls until she settled on the one she kept.  She sent me the story below, and though quite short, the canon it describes reverberates in me, as I am the daughter of a deceased woman, and often catch myself using her milestones as ways to measure my progress.

"I feel like my entire adulthood has been seasoned by fear and desire.  I desire recognition, success, the turning point.  I fear I won't be around long enough to reach these things.  My mother passed away at 49.  I turn 42 in a few days.  My whole life has revolved around performance of some sort or another- dance, modeling, clothing design, now music.  Through all endeavors, I reached small goals, but switched fields before anything concrete could come of it...Music stuck.  Music has somewhat released me from having an immature philosophy of success.  In a business-sense, everything is changing in the music industry, and I don't have the ability or desire to chase pop-stardom, so the thing I desire is the freedom to pursue.  I started late.  My first tour is this spring, and my heart and soul hold no jaded sentiments, so I suppose the fear lies in ageing, losing my voice, losing hope.  I'm currently working a part-time job and on foodstamps.  I also have a 14-year old daughter, who hopefully will take from me this desire to pursue what you believe- she knows the risks and the benefits.  Desire wins out over fear, almost every time."


I guess there is not much to add, though I must mention that I am in awe of anyone who continues to stretch herself in this manner in order to grow.  A fine example for anyone's daughter to follow. 

Good Advice

Every few weeks, we have a sleep over.  My friend, who I have known for what seems like such a short amount of time, is someone I have come to depend on.  She has, in the few seconds that I have known her, helped me remember the skin I so long ago grew into, and encouraged me to feel comfortable in it again.  Just being in her home, eating the wonderful dinners she cooks and speaking with her and her husband brings me comfort I have not known for many years.  I hold these friends very close to my heart.

The other night, I was speaking to them about my project, wondering what glimpse of insight I might glean from the two of them regarding my failure to get strangers to speak to me.  I summarized what my note said, and detailed a few of my experiences with rejection.  Right away, they both had answers, though of course, they were very different answers.  For the record, they are not one of those couples who speaks at you at the same time, not stopping to wonder who it is you are listening to.  They take turns, and, I have noticed, they are both quite good at letting the other speak first.

Her husband offered that my first blog project, 20 Dates in 20 Weekends, was an easier thing to entice participants into, as there was the possibility of a blow job.  "This experiment", he observed, very deadpan, "offers no blowjob."  Fair enough.  

She had a slightly different take.  I had started to speak of the spark of energy in everyone, the innate ability every one holds deep within them to be exceptional, when she cut me off to enlighten me to the fact that my belief, while touching, was naive.  "Some people have no story, or, if they do, they are not aware that they have one to tell."  She added, cynically, "some people are just boring."

I am sure you can see now why I love these people. 

While their observations were a bit divergent, their suggestions were strikingly similar.  They both came up with going to a local old folks home where she used to teach cooking classes to get stories, which, I had to admit, was brilliant, or standing outside the public library and offering passersby the opportunity to trade a story for a ball, so that there was no "hang time" between ball reception and story delivery.  Both of these I deemed most worthy of my energies, and as my friend reminded me, "the people who go to libraries are going there because they like stories."  Her husband then added, referring to the homeless population which frequent the elegant old building, "well, either that, or showers."  

Old People Disappoint Me

I am wondering if anyone besides me has noticed; not a lot of activity on the old blog as of late.  "Why?" you may ask, well, I will tell you...it goes a little something like this:

I leave my studio apartment in NW Portland and start to walk.  It is a brisk but beautiful winter day, the rain is sparse, the sky is grey, and people are out on the streets, looking in windows, talking on their cells, and listening to their iPods.  I am carrying a very well crafted shoulder bag full of ceramic balls and invitations for participation in my experiment.  As I walk, the balls knock together, making a muted but pleasing sound which keeps me company on my journey.  I start to size up the people on the street, wondering to myself, "who might be open to taking a ceramic ball I have made, who might not be afraid of a stranger walking up to them on the street in order to initiate a conversation?"  Historically speaking, I choose wrong.  I am not sure what it is about me that frightens people so; I am a small, blonde, bookish looking woman with a big blue bag around my shoulder.  I generally smile as I approach.  But it is funny, because though the people I approach are initially smiling back at me, this smile fades rapidly with each step I take towards them.  Now I admit, I, too, am the owner of one hell of a leave-me-alone-and-stay-out-of-my-space-bubble walk when I do not want to be bothered.  But the responses I get from most of the people I approach are pretty baffling.

 Just today, I walked up to a slight, pale, and somewhat grungy looking gentleman who was literally inching along the sidewalk, coffee cup in hand, and as he flatly rejected my ball, he gave the excuse that he was trying to catch up to six people ahead of him.  Hopefully they were on crutches and in wheel chairs, as that is the only way this albino turtle would ever overtake them.  Then there was the pretty, middle aged, red hat-wearing lady on the bridge, who shouted at me as she walked away, "I'm going to a funeral!"  Of course she was; I always wear red hats to all the funerals I attend, because it is so respectful.  Ah, yes, karma.  How many times have I used the old, "my parents died" excuse to get out of some social event or obligation I felt I had no other way of getting out of?  Evidently too many not to have that thrown back in my face at the least opportune time.  I have tried to choose people who look like they might have a story to tell, like they have lived a bit of a life from which to mine some valuable tidbit or information I might find enlightening, or at the very least, interesting.  Evidently, these people have learned, through their experiences, not to speak to small blonde women bearing gifts.

Walking up to younger people is an entirely different matter.  Usually, they seem quite pleased that they are receiving something, and genuinely enthusiastic at the prospect of taking part in the project.  Of course, I have, as of today, handed out 40 balls, and yet, zilch, nada, nothing.  So something happens between the time I hand them this ball and the invitation with my contact information on it and the time they decide to throw that piece of paper right into the recycle bin, (hopefully).   Each day, I come home from work, open my iGoogle mail box to find nothing but the ordinary run of the mill stuff; no messages about stories of daring and sorrow and glory and pain.  No excited messages about longing, suffering, or triumph.  Nothing but advertisements for J. Crew and messages from Obama asking once again for help with whatever nation building exercise he and his politician friends are partaking in this week.

So, it is with shame that I must admit to you what I have begun to do...out of sheer desperation, mind you, but nonetheless, I have begun to....leave balls at bus stops, on newspaper machines, and small sidewalk ledges with my invitation underneath, in order to hopefully garner some type of different response.  I know what you are thinking, because I am thinking it too...I am a coward, I am lazy, I am avoiding a big part of what this experiment is trying to address...interaction.  But as I said, I am becoming desperate.  Now my biggest concern is that someone from the Portland Police will contact me and fine me for littering.  While unfortunate, it might be a great opportunity for me to get some interesting stories.

The other issue staring me in the face is that I, much like those older people I approach, am avoiding interaction.  I too, have started to close down, play it safe, button up, and go the easy route.  The reality is, even if I get a "no" from the people I approach, this is still some form of interaction and in the end teaches me something about myself and others.  But I have opted to avoid it, for now.  I still have held out hope for first and last Thursdays, but honestly, I am not expecting much.

The irony that this project is about Fear and Desire does not elude me.  I am very obviously letting my fear of rejection get in the way of my desire to do this project.  I have come to the horrible realization that while I can point the finger at old people for not being open to this type of activity, the person I am most disappointed in is myself.

Fear of Desire

Very recently, a friend of mine at work told me a moving story of fear and desire.   

My friend traveled alone through Europe when she was 22 or 23.  She had decided to do the bohemian thing and travel around via train with a backpack, going where her adventures and the wind might blow her.  Fortuitously, she was kicked off the train she was traveling on in a small seaside town just south of Barcelona because she had decided not to buy a supplemental pass to what she considered to be an already expensive Eurail pass.  She would have to buy her supplemental ticket and wait for the next train to come, which would be five hours later that evening.  As she sat on the small beauty of a beach with all of her worldly possessions next to her in her backpack, figuring out what to do for the next five hours, she noticed out of the corner of her eye, a small vibrant blue tent.  There were many other people on the beach that day, all partially clothed, blissfully enjoying the smoldering Spanish sun.  As she sat there, she noticed a very tall slender man come out from this blue tent, sit halfway between herself and the tent, and begin to give himself, from her limited perspective, an incredibly vigorous upper thigh massage. 

As she sat watching him, wondering what he was doing, a wave came in and washed her backpack and all of her worldly possessions out to sea.  She jumped up and ran out into the surf, furiously collecting all that she could as quickly as she could.  She managed to get everything stuffed back into her pack to drag back up to shore, and as she turned to walk back towards the rocks she had been sitting on, noticed that the man was just finishing his leg massage in a very satisfying manner.

Two days later, while sitting in a cafe in another small Spanish town with a German woman she had met on the train, a Vespa drove by.  Several minutes later, the same Vespa buzzed by again.  Less than a minute later, it went by again, only to slow down, turn around, come back and park across the street.  Its driver, a tall but obviously fit and youthful male dismounted, pulled down his pants and began to masturbate.  He finished in short order, got back on his Vespa, and drove away.

These experiences, which occurred within two days of each other, left her to wondering about the cultural differences between those of us in the states and those of us in the European Union. The irony of the situation was that the men who had masturbated publicly might have gotten more out of it if they had undertaken the endeavor in a place, like the states, where it is considered taboo.

The obvious question is, does the fear of desire make it intrinsically more gratifying?  Are there those of us who face our fears because of the greater benefit with the attainment?  Are there those of us who, by default, do not desire goals more easily achieved, because there is no taboo or strange obstacle keeping us from getting what we want?  What mechanism do we use to put a value on what we desire, and what invisible line is either serving to entice or deter us from attaining our goal?