Life Osbcure

Enough with words.  Here’s a bit of eye candy to help the day pass.

1. “love comes from the most unexpected places…”
2. Before the world was made… the innerlight of Sarah.K was!!! :)))
3. Kuwait Water Tower
4. `paint the town red.
5. golden eye
6. Black and Blue
7. FLAWED
8. HONEY
9. Blue grass

And one of my own…

Another long one, folks.  Hold on tight…  When I hear the word “nickelodeon” I think of a music player, like the old song.  “Put another nickel in, in the nickelodeon, all I want is loving you and music, music, music…”     [ That one's for you, Lofter; maybe that'll get the crawdad song out of your head.   ]     But over at the blog A Ruach Journey, there’s an interesting post involving nickelodeons of a different sort and the lingering adolescence of America, beginning with a very apt quote from Diana West’s new book The Death of the Grown-up: How America’s Arrested Development Is Bringing Down Western Civilization.  Here it is in a slightly more focused version:

“…The National Academy of Sciences has redefined adolescence as the period extending from the onset of puberty, around twelve, to age 30.  And, leaving CNN aside, here’s another cartoon statistic: One third of the 56 million Americans who sat down in 2002 to watch SpongeBob SquarePants on Nickelodeon each month were between 18 and 49 years old.  (Nickelodeon, incidentally, thought its core demographic group was the six- to eleven-year old set.)  …The point is, aspects of the maturation cycle have stalled, leading to significant changes not only in pop culture, but in ourselves as a people.”

The group that Ms. West speaks about I will heretofore label the Nickelodeon generation, just for easy reference.  And like any good, critical blog, I’ll start the ball rolling with religion.  Or lack thereof.  A fast-growing segment of the population is not currently active in or affiliated with any religion.  And we all know how pathetic the school system is, so two pillars of “how to be a good and responsible grown-up” are gone, or horribly corroded at best.  One cannot be a “grown-up” without facing responsibility, without being held accountable for one’s actions and understanding what repercussions those actions have. 

Religion and education (in more traditional and ideal forms) are actually quite good at that.  So are parents, when they actually bother parenting their children.  But the parents of the Nickelodeon generation seem to have failed, perhaps distracted by that second job, or that second mortgage, or that second marrriage.  At any rate, a frightening percentage of people under 30 have no experience in being “grown-up”at all.  Half of them still live at home, or leech off their parents for support.  (”Oh, yeah, I’ve lived on my own since I was 18.  But, you know, Daddy pays the rent when I miss it, and sometimes makes the car payments.  And my insurance.  And, you know, when I need some cash they give it to me…  But I’ve totally been on own for years…”)  They have never been responsible for anything.  They have never been held accountable for anything.  Most have never had to work a real day in their lives and seem to think they somehow deserve their every desire handed to them. 

There is no religion saying to them ”work hard because you can; help your fellow man; the most worthwhile things in this world have nothing to do with money or materials” (which are basics in pretty much every major religion, not just the typical Judeo-Christian beliefs).  There is no real education reminding them “great things take time, patience, persistence, discipline; some things are worth trying whatever the outcome.”  There are no parents telling them “you’re an adult now, act like it; we’ve shown you the way, now it’s time to pull your own weight.”  In reality, there were no parents showing them the way.  So it is not entirely the Nickelodeon generation’s fault they continue to linger in adolescence long after they should; many of them were raised by TVs and Nintendos, computer monitors and cell phones.  It’s all they know. 

When their parents did acknowledge them, it wasn’t with wisdom of the world but “here, take this and go away; if I buy you that will you be quiet?”  A new game to shut them up, another movie to keep them busy and out of the way.  Which left the children - now the Nickelodeon generation - without a real understanding of value and worth, work and reward, compromise and pay-off, duty and priviledge.  They should be able to get something simply because they want it, and get it easily.  If it can’t be had quickly and easily, something in their world is horribly awry and someone else is going to have to fix it.  They are without drive and commitment, beyond reaching the next level of a video game or scoring more friend requests on MySpace or beating out rivals for the next latest fashion.  Which is great for a consumer-driven, 100% disposable society like the one we’ve built here, but not so great compared to the society we were - and were aiming for - about 50 years ago. 

The Nickelodeon generation also seem to make no tangible connection between a temporary compromise and a long-term goal.  Yeah, who doesn’t want to sleep in late on a Saturday or buy something that catches their eye or otherwise feed their impulsive nature?  But part of being a grown-up is learning that you can’t always do those things, that in fact you often can’t do those things no matter how much you want to.  Part of being a grown-up is learning to settle, to compromise, to accept.  But there are trade-offs.  So maybe you can’t sleep in this Saturday, but maybe you can this Sunday, or next weekend, or for an entire week next season.  And maybe you can’t afford that almost-irresistible store-front treasure right now, but if you save up for a few weeks it can be yours and will mean that much more to you because you had to work for it. 

Working for things gives them their worth.  There is no intrinsic value in pieces of rock in the mud.  We walk on them every day and never even look down.  But let someone dig them out, clean them up, cut them, polish them, and you have a precious stone worth something.  It’s the labor behind the product that gives it value.  But who wants to labor?  Who wants to get down there in the mud and muck about?  That’s not cool.  That’s not glamorous.  And that sounds so much harder than, like, being a movie star.  Only poor people get down in the mud like that, preferrably third-world poor people that we never have to see…right?

I guess I was raised differently.  We worked, even as kids - in the field, in the barn, in the garage, around the house…  There was no allowance, no immediate reward, and in most cases no thanks.  They were simply duties that needed to be done, and as members of our tiny family community they were ours to do.  Father made the living, mother kept the house and worked when she could, we filled in the gaps.  The crops would not hoe themselves but sure tasted good come harvest.  The livestock would not slop, water, worm, milk themselves, or clean out their stalls but were very much appreciated for what they provided.  The reward was an ear of corn so sweet it made your mouth water just to look at it, fresh jowl frying beside your eggs, a warm fire come winter, clean sheets to sleep on…  The reward was a decent life well-earned.

When I hit the outside world’s workforce I wasn’t afraid to start at the bottom and work hard to make my way  - sweeping floors, scraping paint, shoveling manure.  It was like being at home except I was getting money to do it.  My first real employer promoted me after two weeks on the job.  In my last job I’d become a full-site manager in less than three years.  When they closed their doors and laid me off, I switched fields and started at the bottom again, sweeping floors and cleaning shelves and scrubbing the porcelain.  I didn’t mind.  It paid the bills and was never meant to be a permanent position.  I worked two other part-time jobs to make sure ends met and stayed tied.  Was it fun?  No.  Sorry kids, scrubbing the toilet at work is no more fun than scrubbing it at home, and invariably smellier. 

Responsibility is not cool.  Or glamorous.  Or easy.  But it is worthwhile.  It isn’t something you can learn at the end of a game controller, or buy with daddy’s money, or con with the good looks mommy gave you.  I know dozens of young people who can’t balance a checkbook; who constantly miss payments because they’ve overspent or flat-out forgotten the bills were due; who would rather buy it new off the shelf then find a good used one for a fraction of the price; who will go to rip-offs like Rent-A-Center and cheque cashing joints to get it now get it now get it now instead of saving up a few weeks, months to buy it outright.  I see children with total control over their parents; spoiled teenagers completely lost in the world with no urge to find their way; adults who remain oblivious to how things really work; and people who should have given up the trappings of adolescence years ago still clinging to it principally becacause it was a time of some freedom and few responsibilities.

I don’t understand it.  My life has really sucked at some points, and I doubt most would consider it very great even now, but I wouldn’t want to be a teenager again.  I don’t want to forget there is more to life than a screen and a dozen buttons; that the company of family and loved ones is to be enjoyed, savored, not ignored in favor of digital drama; that technology is not the best part of day.  What do most teenagers really dream of?  Being in charge of their own lives.  So why this adolescence?  Why this crippling immaturity and emotional/psychological constipation?  I don’t understand.  Maybe it’s just me.  I know I was raised old-fashioned, that I never was very modern or popular and miles away from cool…  But, oh god, do you really think someone who spent five years of free time trying to beat a video game has a good grasp of who would make the next best leader for this nation?

“You get a line and I’ll get a pole, honey.
You get a line and I’ll get a pole, babe.
You get a line and I’ll get a pole,
and we’ll go fishing at the crawdad hole
oh honey, baby mine…”

 Lines from an old song I was singing yesterday, loud as I pleased, without a speck of shame or care in the world that someone would hear.  See, I am often paralyzed by the fear of social condemnation and disapproval.  I think it stems from being an oddball in a society with no place for oddities and I think it is exacerbated by having worked in the public eye for years in various positions.  Being watched all the time and having your livelihood depend on how you are seen plays tricks with a mind already a bit … uncommon.  So I dress blandly; rarely speak of anything but work to anyone outside direct family members (speak little at all, really); express few personal opinions; refuse to sing, dance, or emote publicly, or even in public places where I might be seen; and generally try to blend in and disappear.  If I am forgotten thirty seconds after I am seen, I feel I have reached the pinnacle of success.

But on my own, I am very different.  I love to sing and laugh out loud, be  emotional and silly and … myself.  See, I actually kind of like me, but only when I’m alone or with those I trust completely (all of whom live half a nation away at the moment).  And this time of year, on this rather small island, it’s difficult to find a place where I can be alone.

But yesterday I went swimming.  A tiny beach in a pond hardly anyone knows about, miles out of the way at the end of a small gravel road (set of tracks through the woods).  It’s been so hot I feel like my blood is set on simmer and my brain is cooking down to the same consistency and level of intelligence of a bowl of mashed potatoes.  So straight from work I race home, throw on some swim gear, and burn rubber to the pond.  As I expected, it’s completely empty.  I am alone.  And the water beckons. 

I wade in, laughing and talking to myself, and dive under when the water is waist deep.  I open my eyes underwater, marveling at the bands of sun-shadow as always, and emerge still laughing into the warm evening air.  I kick and splash, talk to the damsel flies and water reeds, dive and flip and float and listen the sound of water lapping against my ears.  It was fantastic.  Handsdown the best evening I’ve had in the last … seven months. 

When it was finally time to go and I walked back to my car, I heard another vehicle approach.  Too late to ruin my fun, I nod respectfully in their direction and climb in, drive away with my magic intact. 

It soon faded - that enveloping cloud of well-being - but it was so very wonderful while it lasted.  Maybe next week I’ll go back.  These moments seem to be getting farther and farther apart, and as I need them more and more desperately.  Come on, crawdad hole, we got some work to do, now…

Lofter over, at Life At the Foot of the Stairs, posted this meme a while back and I finally got the links together to make it work. (Dial-up is sooooo last century … but in this corner of the country, beggars can’t be choosers.) So, like all memes, the rules are simple, straightforward, and sound a lot easier than they actually are to carry out. [ drumroll, please ]

1. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search.
2. Using only the first page of results, pick one image for each question.
3. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into Big Huge Lab’s Mosaic Maker to create a mosaic of the picture answers.

THE QUESTIONS:
1.  What is your first name?
2.  What is your favorite food? right now?
3.  What high school did you go to?
4.  What is your favorite color?
5.  Who is your celebrity crush?
6.  What is your favorite drink?
7.   What is your dream vacation?
8.  What is your favorite dessert?
9.  What do you want to be when you grow up?
10. What do you love most in life?
11. What is one word that describes you?
12. What is your flickr name?

-   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -

The following list happens to be the links to my mosaic tiles as they appear left to right, top to bottom.

1. Waven, 2. Sweet Potato, 3. Shade nook, 4. Blue ice cave at the Jostedalsbreen glacier, 5. Shia - Spike, 6. Red, black and green tea, 7. En algún lugar de la Patagonia, 8. You are my cheesecake ♪, 9. Happy-Go-Lucky, 10. we are family, 11. Lil’ Sad Clown, 12. No Name Footbridge, Glenwood Canyon, Colorado

My local grocery store offers only “organic” produce.  Nice, right?  Yeah, except that they charge three times more for anything with that little label that says “organic.”  And guess what, an organic label by no means ensures the item is truly organically farmed.  With all the loopholes we expect of traditional tax law and political affairs, “organic” is a loose term indeed. 

First off, the grocery store is not legally bound to investigate whether or not an item they receive for sale is labeled in accordance with federal law.  (No retail establishments are.  Including restaurants.)  I understand it could be an expensive and time-consuming effort but doing nothing seems almost…negligent.  I would think one random test sample each month, or even quarterly, of the major suppliers’ produce would not be too taxing and may even qualify for some kind of government grant. 

But no, the responsibility falls to the supplier.  Of course the supplier and also the store (or eatery) are never supposed to “knowingly” alter labeling or re-label items or otherwise mislead consumers but that’s also a rather gray legal area.  It’s quite easy for a bin of regular bell peppers to “spill over” into the organic bin at the store, or for a crate to be mis-labeled in shipping, or even for an entire shipment to go awry without anyone noticing.  I’ve worked in retail and know how chaotic it can be even when honestly attempting to maintain accuracy; with a plethora of opportunity, a bit of “see no evil, speak no evil” could do wonders for a bottom line.  In addition, small suppliers do not have to conform to federal standards and can presumably label their products as they please since they are not regulated.  Larger suppliers - and the middle men - rely on the claims of the original producer.  (See “Washing of the Hands,” Article 62, Passages 11 - 16, of the Criminally Legal Handbook.)  

So we’re all the way back to the farmer now, and trusting his operation to participate fully and accurately maintain all the federal precedents of organic production.  I’m sure a lot of farmers do their very best to accomplish just that.  And I’m sure many don’t.  Even for those attempting “honest” organics, an entire year crop can be affected by one non-organic treatment to adjacent land, or the impossible-to-prevent cross-pollination with non-certified produce (like those genetically modified).  The results of these interactions would, by law, revoke a producer’s ability to label any crop “organic” … except that the USDA has stated that it will exclude such results from the labeling regulations. 

Huh?  There’s a nice breeze and the field upwind gets cropdusted but my field is still “organic” because I didn’t pay for it?  Their mutant potatoes won’t cross-pollinate with mine because you say they shouldn’t?  Way to go, Washington.  You’re absolutely right; regulatory paperwork in a filing cabinet in an airtight office a thousand miles away is 100% effective at blocking those particles from tainting my crop.  Excellent work. 

Moreover, imported produce (which constitues an interestingly large percentage of what we consume) is expected to be correctly labeled before it crosses the border and does not need to be tested prior to hitting the retail market stateside.  That said, imports from European countries worry me a great deal less than say, Columbia.  Not that I have anything against Columbia, but it occurs to me they might be more interested in our business (and their profit) than whether or not what they produce meets our organic standards.

Also, as consumers, we often associate “organic” with “natural” when, legally, nothing could be further from the truth; it may occur naturally but just as likely may not.  Perfectly acceptable “organic” compounds in direct contact with unharvested produce and/or feedstockanimals include hydrogen peroxide, copper and ferrous sulfates, ammonium, sodium hypochlorite, calcium polysulfide, and - my personal favorite - “liquid fish products.”  (Whatever that means.)  Some of those are totally, completely, 100% synthetic. 

Because, of course, “organic” doesn’t mean “naturally-occuring organic.”  In fact, by their very definition, some of these compounds exist only as products of human experimentation, so wholly unnatural that nothing remotely comparable to them exists outside the laboratory.  Which makes them unique.  So they remain USDA certified 100% organic.  In one of my favorite quirks of the laws and acts laying these regulations out, hops (the kind they put in beer) are entirely exempt regardless of how they are modified, treated, handled, or marketed. 

Why?  Because hops are like grapes:  their tastes differ based on treatment and location.  This attribute makes them too unique to synthesize and vulnerable to a potential change in taste under different treatment (i.e. “organic” treatment).  According to the USDA, that is enough to exmpt them from regulation.  (Grapes, however, are not exempt, though the regulations are somewhat more lenient than for other produce.  Apparently the bouquet of wine is not as delicate as that of beer.  That and…I don’t recall an Anheuser-Busch-sized lobby on behalf of the wine industry.)

So perhaps Columbia could hardly do worse than we do to ourselves already.  After all, a box of any food product can be labeled “organic” - in bold, with neon flashing lights if the producer so desires - if even 70% of the contents conform to USDA standards.  Meaning the other 30% could be … anything.

And my point to all this, oh gentle patient reader, is simply … why bother?  If what the USDA regards as “organic” in no way matches the consumers’ understanding, why even introduce it into the mix?  And with all the fine print involved (which I didn’t even scratch in the writing of this), wouldn’t it be easier to label the non-organically farmed products instead?  And of course, there are no answers, only more questions.  But It seems like just one more confusing tactic to mislead the public.  One more governmental half-truth.  Well here’s a personal opinion, my bloated greedy hopelessly corrupt representatives of Washington…  

Leave my goddamn carrots alone.

When I got online this evening, I had no idea who Matt Harding was or where he had been or why it would ever interest me.  You’re probably thinking something very similar (though the You-tubers among us may already know him).  To be brief, Matt is something of a phenomenon.  To borrow from his site in a most shameless manner…

“Matt is a 31-year-old deadbeat from Connecticut who used to think that all he ever wanted to do in life was make and play videogames.  Matt achieved this goal pretty early and enjoyed it for a while, but eventually realized there might be other stuff he was missing out on.  In February of 2003, he quit his job in Brisbane, Australia and used the money he’d saved to wander around Asia until it ran out.”

And so the real journey began.  While videotaping the sights, a friend suggested Matt “go over there” and be recorded performing his best dance moves.  While Matt is admittedly not the world’s best dancer, the results were quite interesting.  They eventually caught the attenion of a corporate sponsor who provided Matt the opportunity to take two more trips, culminating in the video below.  Watch it the whole way through before you make any judgements.

[ Update:  Unfortunately, this video is no longer available.  However, a related video from 2006 is available from his website.  The newer video from 2008 that was here is offline for a while.  It will return, at some point, and I will endeavor to update this post and/or re-post information on it when that time comes.  In the meantime, visit Matt's website; there are a lot of other goodies to be seen. ]

It may not be revolutionary, or even terribly original, but I found this short movie oddly touching.  I like remembering that joy is the same in every language.  I like being reminded that you can have fun and look like an idiot and people will still love and admire you.  And I love that he can’t dance, that he looks goofy and silly and awkward, that he smiles evenso.  And I love that he willingly shared it with anyone who was willing to watch.  I love that this man had the courage to - first - travel halfway around the globe and live in a foreign country, and - second - walk away from his job and his life there to pursue something that felt right.

How many of us yearn for just that, the courage to pursue our real dreams?  How many of us find ourselves thinking of what could have been, wondering what happened to the fearlessness and absolute confidence that, yes, we would change the world.  Life intervenes - jobs, kids, mortgages - and the majority of us settle for what we have instead of what we could be, we accept the security of the devils we know over the devils we don’t.  So little by little our aspirations fade, our lives contract, our worlds dwindle, until hardly anything exists outside our neighborhood, our commute, our workplace…

I live on an island.  Not a big one.  But one connected to the mainland by highway so not an ordeal to leave by any means … and I can’t remember the last time I was off.  It’s been months.  Except for a very quick work-based trip a few hours down the coast and a non-stop run in April, I don’t think I’ve been off since…February.  And that was for another work-based day-trip.  The last time I went just to go?  I have no idea.  Last year, last fall, maybe as long ago as last September.  I make excuses:  gas is high; I’m tired; it’s hot; it’s cold; I’d just buy something I didn’t need…  And while these excuses are completely true when I make them, I feel like I’m just excusing away my life.  I think it’s time to follow in Matt’s footsteps.

I don’t know where you are now, Matt, but thanks for sharing a bit of yourself, and the world, with the rest of us.

To read more about Matt, how this video came to be, and other videos he’s done, visit his website or his About Matt page.  For his blog, just clickety-clickety.

So I was thinking today…  What could I post that is unusual and interesting, unlikely and surprising?  I wanted to share something beautiful.  So I thought of flowers and landscapes, children and precious works of art…  And slugs.

Don’t cringe.  These little guys might be a nuisance to gardeners and unsettlingly messy to step on but they are indeed beautiful.  Especially the underwater kind.  Oh yes, and now you won’t ever want to set foot on the beach again with the thought of a school of slugs rubbing by you…  But seriously, these guys (who don’t school, and are called nudibranchs in the ocean) can be unbelievably gorgeous.  Don’t believe me?  Check these out…

Are they incredible or what?  Still unconvinced?

That guy almost puts my eyes out.  I can’t help but smile when I look at him.  (Useless fact:  most nudibranchs are both male and female simultaneously, which allows them to mate with any member of the species they happen to meet, ensuring their viability and success.)

This one almost reminds me of a leafy sea dragon.  Very pretty.  Oh, and he’s about 6 inches long…not too shabby for slug lengths.

And this guy just looks like racer to me.  He’s got the flame job, his fringe is streaming back…it looks like he’s ahead by a length and a half and going for broke.  Or maybe he’s just extremely poisonous to predators and trying to warn them before they bite and potentially harm the both of them.  (He’s totally a racer.  His name is Flash.  He’s been on the circuit for years and has never lost a championship.)

And since the print is tiny, these photos are all courtesy of photographer David Doubilet.  They, and many others, are offered as free wallpapers from National Geographic and I highly encourage visiting the site for all kinds of amazement.

This is a long one, folks.  Hang in there, I think it’s worth reading.  Though I never met him, I felt an unusual kinship to the man involved here and felt the need to share more of him and his story than the last few seconds of it.

Pieces of the story have circled the globe, from Schenectady to Sydney and back.  You may have read about it.  Or heard it on the radio.  Or saw it on a news program, a podcast, a text message…  You probably didn’t see him.  Or read his obituary.  Or hear the love and loss in his family’s words.  I speak of Sloan Carafello, of Schenectady, New York, who jumped without a parachute from a plane.  He was given permission to ride along for the sky-diving trip as an observer and to take photos - for a school project, he told the pilot and operator - but after the other jumpers exited, and apparently before the pilot was able to close the door, Carafello also exited the aircraft with only his camera in tow. 

Many comments of the blogs and online articles about his unusual demise are riddled with derision, insults, and scorn.  Perhaps some of these stemmed from the initial reports which stated no reason (or hypothesis) for his exit from the plane.  Lack of preparation and stupidity seemed to be the first conclusion, for scores of the comments have a “what a dumbass” sentiment, presumably (hopefully) due to the lag between the accident and the official statement of apparent suicide.  (I say “hopefully” because I hate to think of all these callous, faceless posters thinking his suicide was just a “dumbass” stunt.)
 
Carafello was not dumb, or ill prepared, or simply pulling a stunt.  The people who knew Sloan Carafello described him in words glowing with warmth and kindness:  “I’ll never forget his infectious laugh, big heart, and free spirit.”  “Sloan was a great friend and a gentle person.”  “What a wonderful boy he was.”  “I always looked up to Sloan.”  “Our family’s love for you will never die.”  “Sloan was one of the most beautiful souls I’ve ever known and best friends I ever had.”

I did not manufacture a letter of those statements.  I did not change an apostrohpe or take a line out of context.  These were people who cared for him, some very deeply, people who would have helped him if he had asked.  (I make the assumption he needed some kind of help since he killed himself.)  Why did he need help and, more importantly, why didn’t he ask for it?  On the outside he seemed quite “normal.”  He had a loving family, three brothers (including a twin), a job, hobbies…  He loved books, music, travel, had been to Europe and the Mediterranean…  There was no mention of a troubled past, no history of mental illness, no real “warning signs” to speak of.  So what happened here?  A young man with dozens, perhaps hundreds, of caring people on the outskirts of his life wanted to die.  And no one stopped him, or indeed even attempted to speak with him about it.  Apparently, no one knew.  How could that be?  And what would drive an otherwise perfectly healthy individual to take his life?

There are no easy answers.  And having never met him, I hesitate to make assumptions and presumtions that I know anything of what he experienced.  But these are my thoughts.  The reports describe him as a friendly if somewhat distant individual who kept mostly to himself.  A former landlord described him as smiling and waving when they crossed paths and that Carafello kept his apartment “immaculate” while he was a tenant.  He worked out and bicycled often.  He interacted with his co-workers but seemingly formed no real friendships.  In years previous he attended a community college where at least some of his classmates considered him a friend and he is fondly remembered.  But sometimes what is not said just as important as what is said, if not moreso.

I said his “former landlord” because at the time of his death, Sloan Carafello was staying in a room at the Schenectady YMCA.  During his roughly nine month stay, the manager stated he never missed a rent payment and never caused any trouble whatsoever.  His job, stocking fish at the local Price Chopper, likely didn’t provide a great deal of public mingling and I’m fairly sure it fell short of his long-term aspirations.  He “bicycled often” because he did not own a car, likely due to the expense.  So he was 29, single, unable to afford an apartment or vehicle, living at the Y, with few or no close contemporary friends, in a limited job at a grocery store.  Not exactly a charmed life.  After trekking across Europe and lounging on the sun-drenched beaches of Crete it must have seemed even less so.

It is so hard to close your eyes and forget the rest of the world.  It’s one thing to read guide books and dream of, say, Tahiti … but walking through the vibrant greenery and smelling the perfumed air in person is quite another.  And once bad luck or hard times begin to drag you down, it can be a Herculean task to break free.  I used to volunteer with the Salvation Army and knew several good men who were simple victims of chance trying to get back on their feet.  Without help, it’s nearly impossible.  Even with help it remains unbelievably difficult.  At 28, 29 years old, after living on your own for years,  it can be a crushing disappointment to find you just can’t “make it.”  (Been there.  Done that.)  Friends and family of Sloan Carafello said he was very independent, which probably made asking for any help that much harder.  No one wants to be a burden.  Or a failure.  At least two of his brothers had married, moved away, and probably seemed a lot more “successful” in their lives.  (Also been there.)  It’s not an easy situation to be stuck in.  When it feels like everyone you know is doing better in every way - careers, spouses, children, homes of their own - and you can’t even make rent, you throw fish every day for hardly better than minimum wage and memories of days of freedom haunt you at every step…  Sometimes it gets hard to breathe.

Not that this was the case for him, but I don’t think it’s an unreasonable approach.  I’ve been there.  I’m barely not there.  And more than once I’ve walked across the tallest bridge in a city and wondered if it were high enough, if the impact would be lethal if I happened (happened) to jump.  I’ve fought the urge to turn the steering wheel into the path of an oncoming tractor trailer.  I’ve wandered miles down the train tracks wondering if maybe I wouldn’t hear one approach or feel the rail thrum under my hand.

I’m not suicidal.  But I’ve been close.  And without the iron ties to my family, I have little doubt I would not be sitting here typing this.  Those who seriously approach the taking of their lives generally do so quietly and specifically.  The majority of failed suicide attempts are nothing more than cliched “cries for help,” perpetrated by people who rarely intend to actually die.  (There is some controversy on the subject, of course, and those who have made attempts often assert they did want to kill themselves … though their preparations and actions often tell a different story.)  For lack of a better term, “genuine” suicide attempts are often planned in detail, some long before the incident occurs, and precisely enacted, thus greatly increasing their likelihood of success.

Sloan must have put some time and effort into his own.  He had to find out who flew sky-diving runs, when they operated, and where; he had to invent a credible back-story for gaining access without being a regular jumper or arousing suspicion; he had to bicycle there, run through their pre-flight routine, ride to jumping altitude without anyone suspecting his intentions; and then he had to wait patiently for the others to go, for opportunity to rear its head in the few seconds between the last jumper and the closing of the door.

It reminds me of a scene from the film Stranger Than Fiction, where Emma Thompson’s character Kay Eiffel speaks of a woman who jumped from a building, how serene her face looked as she lay broken on the sidewalk, how the wind must have felt against her face…

A single-engine Cessna 182 at 10,000 feet, the door open, wind rushing through, early afternoon sunlight angling down, and a young man in a white t-shirt with a camera in his hands.  A couple quick steps, a moment at the threshhold, and then an empty seat, a bare doorway, an expanse of sky where his silhouette had hovered a moment before.

One report said Carafello got on his knees before passing through the doorway.  I wonder … I wonder what thoughts ran through his mind.

News articles feature this story here in the Albany Times Union newspaper, and here in the Schenectady Daily Gazette. Visit here for a succinct overview and tribute from a Harvard blogger.

“A brain that never stops ticking…  Sometimes an on-off switch would sure come in handy.  A mind that’s constantly cutting up, dissecting, looking for answers, committing murders along the way…  Is it the red wire, or the blue wire?  Just pick one and cut, it just doesn’t matter anymore.  Oh, did it ever?  ‘Cause I could never control when the bomb would explode.  Oh god, I love you…  I left my body behind to break the news.  Looks like it’s over…  Please remember all of the things I never got a chance to say…” 
Suicide Medicine  -  Rocky Votolato

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Sloan Robert Carafello, 29, of Farrell Road died suddenly Saturday, June 7, 2008.  He was born on March 23, 1979 in Catskill, N.Y. and was the beloved son of Jerry E. and Orlinda Reid Carafello.  Sloan was a graduate of Lansingburgh High School and had attended Hudson Valley Community College in Troy.  A world traveler, Sloan enjoyed backpacking and discovered Europe this way.  He enjoyed hiking, photography, playing the bongos and painting oil scenes.  Sloan had a great love of music, especially Bob Marley’s selections.  He was an avid reader who enjoyed biographies.  He was a communicant of St. Augustine’s Church Lansingburgh.  In addition to his parents, Sloan is survived by his devoted brothers, Jerry (Lea) Carafello of Nassau, his twin, Ryan (Kimberly) Carafello of S. Mills, N.C. and Chad Carafello of Chesapeake, Va.  He is the uncle of Hannah Carafello of S. Mills, N.C.; also survived by several aunts, uncles and cousins.  Funeral will be held Wednesday morning at 9:30 from St. Augustine’s Church, 115th St. & 4th Ave. in Lansingburgh, where the Mass of Christian Burial will be celebrated.  Calling hours will be from 4-8 p.m.  Tuesday in the Morris-Stebbins-Miner & San-vidge Funeral Home, 312 Hoosick Street in Troy.  Interment will be in St. Joseph’s Cemetery in Waterford.  Memorial contributions may be made to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, Memorial and Honor Program, 501 St. Jude Place, Memphis, TN 38105.  The family has entrusted funeral arrangements to the Morris-Stebbins-Miner & Sanvidge Funeral Home, 312 Hoosick St., Troy, NY 12180.  Phone (518)-272-3930.

I hadn’t been reading too much for a while but the title of this book was too good to pass up  -  Logs of the Dead Pirates Society:  A Schooner Adventure Around Buzzards Bay.  Written by Randall S. Peffer, this book follows a boat captain (the author), his wife, and groups of students on a summer project sailing around the “other” Massachusetts bay area.  (Sure, Cape Cod Bay gets all the attention, but it’s not the only bay out there…)  The title is derived from a club the students may join, if they have the strength of will and inclination.  Peffer explains, “About ten years ago one of the crews aboard… decided they needed something like the teenagers had in the movie The Dead Poets Society to bind them together, a secret society to celebrate their gusto…” 

Peffer mixes great historic facts and bits into the larger stories of the summer cruise and though the trip itself centers on the students, they remain mostly obscured.  His often prosaic descriptions of the bay and its islands make me wish I could be there and it seems I can nearly see them through his eyes.  One of my favorite parts comes early on, when he relates the original legends and peoples that Herman Melville’s classic Moby Dick was based on, a tale involving a giant, his best friend, and a tribe he doted on. 

Peffer writes:

“Fearing that [the giant] Maushop would spoil the [Native American] Aquinnah, the Creator told Maushop he would turn the friendly giant into a white whale.  At Gay Head cliffs, where all the Aquinnah and every creature came to say goodbye, Maushop’s best friend, a giant toad, was so overcome with grief that the Creator turned him into a huge rock.  Later, the Creator turned Maushop into a white whale, called Mocha Dick.  During the mid-nineteenth century, this great white whale was killed by Amos Smalley, a harpooner on a New Bedford whaler and one of the last Aquinnah.”

First, I find that line about the giant toad’s grief oddly touching.  Second, it makes me wonder what mental processes went about in Melville’s brain that changed “Mocha” to “Moby,” or if indeed he never knew the whale’s true first name.  And is it just me or does it seem almost ironic that the “friendly giant” was punished for befriending the Aquinnah and sent from them only to be killed by a member of that same tribe years later.  Perhaps cruelty from gods is not limited to their human subjects after all.

But back to Mr. Peffer…   I love the way his passages lead from fact to myth and back to reality so easily while maintaining their entertainment value.  After a page of quiet melancholy surrounding people and deeds and the bay, Peffer ends with,

“Saudade was a feeling that a person could never quite put into words…like the feeling of missing someone or something you did not even know that you had lost.  According to legend, saudade was a common malady among mariners and explorers like Vasco da Gama and Juan Ponce de Leon…  But so was sun poisoning and indigestion.  Liabilities of the trade.” 

 Which made me laugh out loud over my coffee and scone one morning as I sat reading in the stillness of a deserted parking lot overlooking the marina.  (I’m not sure why, perhaps just the suddenness and surprise of the shift…)  So all in all I give the book a good rating.  Its main detrctors:  it seemed to meander a bit at times (though not without pleasing result on many occasions) and the culmination lacked … oomph.  It started so strongly I really hoped it would carry all the way through, but the very basis of the book seemed to hold it back in the latter half.  As the students’ summer projects ended, so did the foundation of the book.  I suppose the good news is that it left me wanting more, where a poorer book would leave me glad it had finished, no matter the circumstances.  But if you get a free weekend, or want something decent that doesn’t require much effort, this is a really good option.  A good beach book, or even airport/airplane read, and since it involves students, perhaps it would appeal even moreso to them (common experience and all that).   

Just my two cents on it.

Most of us have heard this term, at least in passing, but to refresh…  Schadenfreude is generally taken to mean deriving joy from another’s misfortune, or other’s taking joy in yours.  It’s seen a few headlines since the turn of the new century/millenium and been the basis of a few TV episodes, as well, most notably with James Spader’s character Alan Shore on ABC’s series Boston Legal.

This is generally one of those human attributes which are frowned upon and, when possible, ignored altogether.  I rather enjoy the word, and it’s very human pretext, though I try not to overly indulge in it.  This week, however, I did.  I know it’s only Wednesday evening, but it’s been a lousy week.  I haven’t felt well (sinus troubles), my fitful nights have been even less restful than usual (hard to believe it’s possible, but it is), and work has been … trying. 

To elaborate, on Monday we received hundreds of loose lathes on our delivery truck.  They are rough-sawn, rectangular lengths of wood between three and four-and-a-half feet long.  And being rough-sawn, think of them as giant splinters in wait of a hand.  My hand, as it turns out.  I got the singular privilege of unloading them, sorting them, counting them, and bundling them as needed, mostly by tens and dozens.  It’s taken the better part of two days and my hands are a mess (can’t use gloves, they double the handling time and make bundling impossible).  Then on Tuesday, the truck driver pulls a good one and almost dumps an entire pallet of goods right off the liftgate of the truck.  I grabbed one side and pulled my ass off, barely managing to keep the entire thing from tipping off (while he acted like nothing was wrong … “huh?  what are you doing?”).  But my knee got in the way of the liftgate (black and blue) and my back and shoulder are severly pissed at me.

But back to schadenfreude, today I got to take pleasure in someone else’s bad fortune.  (And, really, they deserved it anyway.)  The downtown area near where I work is fairly old with narrow streets and limited parking.  To visit one of the small shops along main street, you have to park a couple blocks away or right on the street (if you’re quick enough to snag a space).  But main street is also part of the truck route so you have to be careful abut how you park.  Well, as I traversed the street I noticed, with great joy, that a large Cadillac Escalade barely out of my lane had sacrificed a mirror to its owner’s stupidity and/or ineptness.  Either way, I laughed like a madman as I drove by the monstrous vehicle and it’s mirror -  casing broken, glass spiderwebbed with splits, hanging by a few wires … quite a sad affair.  A small thing, to be sure, hardly even a hiccup for the owner (if you can afford an Escalade, what’s a mirror?).  But for me…  Schadenfreude at it’s finest.  It made my week.

Next time, park off the road, dumbass.  Or don’t … I’ll enjoy seeing the aftermath of a tractor trailer sliding down your doors and quarter-panels even more.