by Dorien Grey
* * *
TO CATCH A RAINDROP
I have always been a misfit. What seems to be so elementary to everyone else is totally beyond my comprehension. What everyone else does…how they interact with one another and seem automatically to understand what is expected of them…is to me the deepest of mysteries and a source of very real anguish.
It’s as though I have been sent out into a rainstorm for the specific purpose of catching a raindrop. Just one raindrop. But not just any raindrop, mind you: a specific raindrop. I have its detailed description: it is roughly globular in shape, and it is wet. This is, it has been made clear to me, all the information I should require or will be given. It is to be retrieved intact, and not to be contaminated by being diluted by or blended with any other raindrop. My failure to do so will be and is taken as absolute, irrefutable proof of my total incompetence and inadequacy as a human being.
I have been a raindrop catcher all my life, and at the end of each day, back from the failed hunt, inside where it is warm and dry, I picture everyone else proudly displaying their own perfect, pristine, and prismatic raindrops. I imagine they keep them in display cases, neatly cataloged, and referenced with an infuriating casualness. (“Oh, this one I got December 22, 1990. It was a snowflake when I first saw it, but I recognized it at once, and when it turned into a raindrop, I had it.”) To me, and to my great shame, raindrops are raindrops and they all look alike.
I tell myself that all of this is nonsense, and that I am really no more incompetent than anyone else. Unfortunately, I don’t believe me. This sense of alienation, of being alone and neither understanding nor understood is, once again, why I write, because despite all my pontifical blather, I know I am not alone in being alone.
The realization that I expect far too much of myself does not stop me from expecting it. I never cease to measure myself against others, and I never fail to come up short.
The problem lies in the fact that I do, truly, want to be so very much more than I have ever been, or than I can ever realistically hope to be. I want to be a good person, and I really do try. I want to be liked by everyone (an indication of the illogic of my expectations). I do sincerely try to live the Golden Rule and I am ashamed of myself when I find myself being petty or insensitive to others. I largely succeed in not disliking anyone as an individual, though there are large groups of people for whom I have nothing but utter contempt—primarily those who presume to speak for God, and those (often the same groups) who are convinced they have the right to dictate and pass judgement on how other people live their lives.
I cannot comprehend or tolerate bigotry or hypocrisy—which, for some unknown reason my computer’s “dictionary” insists is spelled “hypocreaceae”—or gratuitous cruelty or even lack of common civility. We can all be so much better…I can be so much better…why are we not? Why am I not?
While there is a great deal of pain in frustration in holding myself up to standards nearly impossible to meet, I keep telling myself that because I cannot meet them does not mean I should not try.
Everything begins somewhere. And for me (since I cannot and will not presume to speak for you) I think I’ll be on the right track as soon as I can catch that one perfect raindrop. Wish me luck.
* * *
ENDLESS
People never cease to amaze me. Never. The bounds of their stupidity are limitless.
I watched a news program after hurricane Ike passed through Galveston…the city in which more than 8,000 people had died in a similar hurricane in 1900. They were interviewing a couple who had just been rescued the day after the storm. They had refused the mandatory evacuation order, since it obviously hadn’t been intended for, and therefore equally obviously didn’t apply to, them. As the waters surged into their home, they had called 911 for help and were instructed to tie identification around their ankles so that their bodies could be identified if found after the storm. They were completely outraged that the police, whose salaries, they made clear, were paid with their tax dollars, had refused to come drag their sorry asses out of harm’s way. And similar stories emerge from every hurricane.
I feel I have the right to speak contemptuously of the stupidity of others because I have worked long and hard in the field of Advanced Stupidity, and continue to hone my skills in it nearly every day. Though I cannot claim the same level of stupidity as the guy who reaches into the tiger cage to pet the big kitty, or decides to save time by blow-drying his hair while still in the bathtub, or robbing a bank and writing the stick-up note on the back of one of his own checks, I do what I can.
I never pass up an opportunity to speak before thinking, or to lose my keys or my cell phone or glasses while seated in my chair, or to write a series of up to four e-mails, each one apologizing for some dumb mistake made in the previous one. I get a note from Bethann and reply to Bertram, which necessitates an embarrassed note I invariably begin: “I’m so sorry, Beth Anne…,” and from there things just naturally seem to go downhill.
I am with a good friend when another friend, who has never met the friend I’m with, approaches. I have known each of them well for a number of years, and I start to introduce them. Suddenly, I cannot remember their names. The worst example of this was when I lived in Los Angeles and, with a friend, ran into a guy with whom I had…uh…a pleasant encounter…the night before and hoped to see again. I totally forgot his name. Needless to say, I did not see him again.
I never reread e-mails before hitting “send,” even though the instant my finger lifts off the “send” button, I see that I have typed several words or even a full line with my fingers on the wrong keys. Or I hit “send” when I intended to hit the space bar.
You do the same thing, you say? Well, that’s okay. You are, after all, human, and therefore allowed to make mistakes. Unfortunately, this magnanimity does not extend to myself. Every glitch, every error, every slip, every faux-pas is inexcusable simply because I damn well should have known better before I did it, but I went ahead and did it anyway.
I love stories of the legendary feud between Clare Boothe Luce, wife of Time Magazine founder Henry Luce, and poet Dorothy Parker. Speaking of Mrs. Boothe, a friend said to Ms. Parker: “You know, Clare is her own worst enemy.” To which Dorothy replied: “Not as long as I’m alive, she’s not.”
Alas, I am Clare Boothe Luce with no Dorothy Parker to take the heat off.
* * *
FALLING SHORT
A few years ago, now, I received a totally unexpected package from a fellow writer named Sue Hartigan, whom I’d met through a couple of the many online lists to which I belong. Sue’s posts were unerringly charming, caring, and cheerful. Yet I knew she had been battling cancer for some time. We corresponded a few times as kindred spirits.
When I opened the package, I found a delightful little ceramic statuette of two cats snuggling atop a book. I can’t describe how touched by and appreciative of this small act of gratuitous kindness I was. I have the statuette directly to one side of my computer monitor and it serves as a daily reminder of how very much even a small act of kindness can mean. It has even more poignancy for me now, since Sue lost her battle about a year ago.
It also reminds me, should I ever forget it, that I’m not a very nice person, sometimes. I am far too self-absorbed (which you may have noticed from these blog entries), often thoughtless, too quick to judge, too quick to speak and too slow to listen, too often petty. I do not express my appreciation for things or people nearly as often or as strongly as I should, have not one scintilla of patience, and do not suffer those I consider fools gladly. I often disappoint, embarrass, and shame myself by falling so short of being the person I—and others—expect me to be. My temper frequently has a very short fuse. I have rock-bound opinions and attitudes which I would never tolerate in others, and I’m sure drive those around me to distraction.
And yet for all this, I have never knowingly, deliberately set out to hurt anyone. To cheat or rob or take unfai
r advantage of another human being is truly incomprehensible to me. That there are so many people who seem to go out of their way to inconvenience or harm others, who are incapable of common courtesy, let alone respect, care, concern, or compassion for anyone but themselves astonishes and deeply saddens me. I would, had I the chance, gladly pass judgement on these people, and it would be harsh indeed—which, it could be argued, would make me no better than them.
People who take obvious pleasure in duping and swindling others without one single thought or qualm about the effect of their actions deserve a special place in Hell. (Granted, I also cannot comprehend how so many people can be so gullible as to fall for these schemes.)
It could be argued that predators and prey are part of the balance of nature, and that since man is biologically an animal, we are subject to that same balance. The Nigerian barrister offering complete strangers millions of dollars is no different than a lion in wait by a waterhole for a passing gazelle. The hucksters, shills, and con artists who flood every email “in” box are merely piranha waiting for something living to fall into the water.
Among humans, those without common sense are natural prey for those without morals, conscience, or scruples. But it is axiomatic that without an ample supply of prey, the predators would have nothing to feed on, and both groups, sadly, seem to be increasing exponentially.
Man is the only animal with a concept of the future and the ability to shape it. I can be better than I am: we can be better than we are. The question is, are we willing to put forth the effort? I find it infinitely disheartening to realize that, from even a cursory look at the world around us, the answer seems to be “no.”
Well, I’m not the rest of the world. I’m me. And I can try to be better. Hey, it’s a start.
* * *
CONSPIRACY
I firmly believe in the old adage “Just because you’re not schizophrenic doesn’t mean everyone isn’t out to get you.” I don’t think this is true, for me, with people. But it definitely is true of inanimate objects, especially any that require any sort of interaction with me. I am sincerely, truly, deeply convinced that there is an inanimate object conspiracy to drive me to apoplexy, and I can see the parking lot from here.
I use my cell phone so seldom that I avoid monthly phone fees by buying my minutes in blocks (500 minutes for $50). It takes me from three to five months to go through 500 minutes. But eight times out of ten, when my phone does ring, I am unable to answer it. I fish it out of my pocket, push the “talk” button, say “Hello?” and instantly cut the caller off. Some sort of message flashes on my screen which, in my fury, I cannot remember from one incident to the next. Usually, the caller is foolish enough to try again at once, figuring something may have happened to cause them to be cut off. It did. I had tried to answer the call. By the time I finish madly pushing buttons trying with increasing frustration and fury to actually talk to whomever it was who called, it is far too late. And to add insult to injury, a message will then appear on the screen saying smugly “You have 2”—or more—“missed calls.” I know I missed them, you stupid twit! I missed them trying to answer them!
In an effort to keep my computer files safe, I found a site called MediaMax which offers to store files free. I transferred all my manuscripts and writings to it. Found another free storage site the other day called Mozy and figured better safe than sorry, also backed up my files to it. All well and good. All safe and secure. Right? Wrong. Today I wanted to add a few more files. Went to Mozy, reached their page with no problem. It informed me of how much space I have used, which was very thoughtful of it. However, there was absolutely no information on how I could add new files, add to files already there, or even check to see which files were there. I went to MediaMax and was told there was no such site. Went to Google, which had a bunch of references to MediaMax, not one of which worked.
It seems that if there is one thing internet sites do NOT want you to do, it is to try to contact them directly. Finding a way to actually get in touch with them is a Herculean endeavor. They are fond, in their sincere effort to be of service to you, of offering an FAQ (it took me months to find out that FAQ stood for “Frequently Asked Questions”) page which offers detailed information on everything except what you want to know. I guess they think if it isn’t on the FAQ sheet, it isn’t worth asking. Some sites, after I have spent hours looking for a way to reach them, will actually give me a place to send my inquiry. Shortly after sending it, I invariably get a form message from them thanking me profusely for submitting my question and assuring me they will respond within a very short time. Of the 50 or so messages I have sent over the past three years, I am still waiting for a response from 48 of them. But most infuriating of all is to receive a reply saying: “Thank you for your inquiry. Please check our FAQ sheet.”
I belonged, briefly, to a site which encourages member participation by posting new topics or messages. Yet they do not bother to tell me how to go about posting something new. I can reply to someone else’s post easily enough, but to put up a new one? Forget it. And so, after innumerable attempts and failures, I decided just to unsubscribe from the group, and (you see where I’m going here?)…
It is to weep.
* * *
PARANOIA RIDES AGAIN
I always liked the bumper sticker that says: “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean somebody isn’t out to get you.” I can relate.
All evidence to the contrary, I really do not like making an ass of myself. Most of the time, I readily admit, I am the instigator. But every now and then…today I wrote a note to one of the groups to which I belong, including a link to one of my sites. When the message was posted, I saw it came across with a space between the “gr” and the “ey” in “doriengrey.” With my sterling track record for screwing up, I knew the error was mine. (Like, who else’s could it be? Ya’ know what I’m sayin’?). So I hastily sent a note of embarrassed apology for the error, including the correct link, without the space between “gr” and “ey.”
I checked the site a few minutes later, and there it was...the space where I had not put in a space, where no space should be, and where no space was intended. So, glutton for punishment that I am, I sent yet another note, typing, when I came to the link, each note with one finger and deliberate slowness: “d...o...r...i...e...n...g...r...e...y.” I looked at it for a good ten seconds on the chance that a space might creep in while I watched. It did not. I posted the note again. And when I went to check…yep; the space was back.
This particular site to which I refer is run by Yahoo which, I have noticed, seems to have an absolutely wonderful time at the expense of its customers. We have one member whose every post comes across with a question mark wherever a period is supposed to be. I know he didn’t do it, unless he is so terribly insecure he must seek approval for every sentence. He is not.
Another member of the same list posts frequently. She has been a member for a couple of years, now. Yet every single post she sends is automatically pitched into Yahoo’s Spam bin. I have no idea what she might have done to deserve it, but I’m sure the Yahoo gods are doubled over with laughter each time the poor woman tries to get directly through to the group. (Oh, and tossing her every post into the Spam bin means that I have to go into the Spam bin about ten times more frequently than would normally be necessary, just to retrieve her posts.)
And there are two other members with whom Yahoo takes delight in playing some sort of cyber ping-pong. At least fifty percent of the time, their posts will also be tossed into the Spam folder. Exactly the same address each time. Absolutely no reason for it, but, hey…
I received a call on my cell phone yesterday. I answered it (punch the “open” button to talk). I did it exactly as I have done it with every call I have ever received. But instead of being able to talk, or being able to hear, I got a random page from the phone’s “Menu.” I hung up, hoping whomever called would call again. They did. I punched the “open” button. I go
t a random page from the “Menu”. This went on three times until I literally had to hold the hand with the phone tightly with my other hand to keep me from tossing it through the window.
But, hey, it’s all in jolly good fun, isn’t it? ……I said, isn’t it? Why am I seeing a menu page from my cell phone?
* * *
THE COMPUTER CONSPIRACY
Well, I must say there is nothing like getting a new computer to wash every other thought, idea, intent, enthusiasm, or initiative right out of one’s head. My friend Gary has been encouraging me for several years now to buy a Mac laptop with the proselytizing zeal of a Southern Baptist preacher at a tent revival meeting.
I’ve had a desktop Dell for a couple of years and been very happy with it. But it is getting a bit old, now, and with all old things (present company excepted), its time will run out. It has a nice, big screen, but is a little too cumbersome to try to haul back and forth to my part-time-weekend work. So last Friday I thought I would do my civic duty to get the economy moving again by splurging money I can ill afford on a Mac laptop. I have spent 23 hours a day since pondering the first words Samuel B. Morse tapped out on his new invention, the telegraph: “What hath God wrought?”
To say that machines hate me may appear more than a little paranoid, but the preponderance of my experience over the years with anything containing moving parts or requiring an external power source to operate provides ample proof of my belief. Computers, having some elemental…and perverse…form of intelligence, seem to go out of their way to bedevil me. I had watched Gary demonstrate with blissful “ho-hum” ease and confidence, how the Mac can write a symphony, do video presentations, slide shows, compile lists and graphs and charts of dazzling complexity. Put it in a pair of tap shoes and it could undoubtedly do a mean buck-and-wing. It all had a Harry-Potter-at-Hogwarts wonder and deceptive simplicity.
