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?