Conversations with Girls #2: Schizophrenia is the Worst

I'm just going to go ahead and lay it all out there. In specific circumstances, I hear voices. I know, I know, it sounds psychotic, but I assure you, although I wouldn't classify it as "normal," it's definitely not to be categorized as symptoms of any kind of severe mental disorder. Let me clarify.

I have what is referred to as auditory sensory perceptions during the state of Hypnogogia. Hypnogogia is the transitional state between wakefulness and sleep, otherwise referred to as drifting off, the borderland or onset of sleep. It's those few lucid moments as you nod off into never neverland, but are still somewhat conscious of what's happening around you. Aristotle, Iamblichus, and Edgar Allen Poe all referenced this state, the latter writing of the "fancies" he experienced "only when I am on the brink of sleep, with the consciousness that I am so."

Some people, including Beethoven, Salvador Dali, Thomas Edison and Isaac Newton have credited the hypnagogic state as fueling their creativity, through the experience of different sensory perceptions. Some are visual, such as tetris effects, random speckles, lines or tunnels of light. Others are audible, olfactory and thermal sensations, all of which are normal experiences within this state.

I am particularly sensitive to the audible perceptions, in that at times, I feel as if I'm in the midst of a crowded room with the constant buzz of low conversation around me. Suddenly, a random statement will pop out of the crowd, usually in an unrecognizable voice, not gender-specific, and will say something like, "It doesn't go there." Or, "I thought the same thing!" As soon as I recognize this statement, I switch immediately back into wakeful a state. I have a few theories about this, but it's all speculation and truth be told, I find it all fascinating. With that as the set up, I give you the following conversation:

It was our third date and things were going quite well, for once. Our first two dates consisted of a few drinks with a lot of conversation, and we laughed a lot. She was funny, and I really liked her for it. So while laying on her couch during a movie, we were quietly drifting off to sleep. I know I was struggling to stay awake for a good part of the film and I'm not sure if I ever actually fully drifted off, but I was suddenly aware of of that crowded room sensation and then my dad's voice, ringing in my head clear as a bell. I can't remember exactly what he said, but it jolted me and I sat directly up. I know I startled her a bit, so...well, here's how it went.

Her: Are you okay?

Me: ...yeah...I just, yeah...

Her: What's wrong?

Me: Nothing. I just, ...it's okay. Sorry, I'm just really disorientated right now.

Her: Did you have a bad dream?

Me: No, not really. I just...hey, do you mind if I step outside and make a quick phone call?

Her: It's 2am.

Me: I know. I can't really explain it. Hold on, it'll just take a few seconds.

Her: Who are you going to call?

Me: My dad.

Her: ....

Me: It's early morning for them. Honestly, he could be up. Just give me a second.

Her: Why are you calling your dad? Did you have a nightmare about him?

Me: No, it's not...it's just a strange feeling. You know what? Nevermind, I'll just call him later on.

Her: What's all this about?

Me: It's nothing. I know, it's sounding all dramatic. I don't mean for it to be.

Her: You know, I saw you.

Me: Huh? What do you mean?

Her: Well, one second you were there with me, watching the movie. The next, you were just...gone.

Me: Yeah...

Her: Like, completely gone. Your eyes. It freaked me out.

Me: Sorry.

Her: You have to tell me what's up.

Me: Um...it's kind of hard to explain.

Her: But it wasn't a nightmare?

Me: Nope...it's different.

Her: I'm a nurse. I can take it.

Me: Okay...okay. So, have you ever heard of hypnogogia, ...I think that's what it's called. Basically, it's the transition between wakefulness and sleep. Do you know what I'm talking about? That weird, transitional state?

Her: I think so.

Me: Okay, well some people...not all...but some, including myself, experience a sensory perception during that state.

Her: ....okay?

Me: I, for instance, hear a crowd of voices. I feel like I'm in the middle of a crowded room. Then all of a sudden, one distinct voice will stand out among the rest.

Her: ...

Me: Yeah, I know what it sounds like. "He hears voices...looney." But it's a real thing, and not a crazy, mental-disorder thing. They actually classify it as a sleep disorder. And I talked to my aunt about it once, who's a psychiatrist, and she said that it's completely common in people who are more right-brained orientated like myself.

Her: Hmm.

Me: I've had it all my life, and I'm kind of used to it by now, but I just heard my dad's voice in the crowd, and I've never heard my dad's voice in that state before. Usually it's a random voice, like someone I don't know.

Her: You hear voices.

Me: Only in that state. I know, it sounds weird....

Her: Yeah, it's really weird.

Me: Well, c'mon, I mean it's kind of like dreaming..

Her: No, it's really weird.

Me: Okay...

Her: I'm pretty sure you should leave.

Me: ...Seriously?

Her: Yeah, here are your movies. You should go.

Me: You're a nurse. You said you can take it.

Her: I can take most things. Not, "I hear voices." That's some Beautiful Mind horseshit.

Me: Whoah, settle down.

Her: No, you're freaking me out. You've got to go.

Me: Wow, thanks for being so sensitive about it.

Her: Seriously, go. Now, Crazy.

Me: I'm not...fine. Wow, thanks for the hospitality. See you later.

Her: Probably not.

And with that, I left. And I never heard another word from her. Not one. I'm pretty sure that in her mind, I'll always be the schizo that she almost started dating. I mean, that's a pretty ignorant judgment, especially after I tried to explain it the way I did, but whatever. I wouldn't want to be with someone who's that close-minded about things anyway.

Oh, and for the record, these "voices" have never told me to do anything. Half the time, I barely remember what was said. There's an entire investigative methodology dedicated to the study of this phenomenon. Look it up, as it gets incredibly interesting. Maybe she should read up on it one of these days. Although, I doubt it.

A Lot Happens in a Year

I have some catching up to do. It's been over twelve months since I've last written and there's a lot to cover. I'll spare the details though...the details are unimportant. It's what I've learned from the details that matters. Much has changed because as I've mentioned before, a little over two years ago, I made a firm decision that included the following:

1. Sell my house.
2. Head west.
3. Explore.
4. Reflect.
5. Rediscover the creative mind that has been slipping away from me since allowing myself to slowly slip into the midst of mediocrity.

I can honestly say that I've accomplished 75% of what's on that list. So, concerning #1: Selling my house. I didn't do that. I tried. It sat on the market for two years because frankly, the housing market is crap and I was a naive buyer who purchased a home in a neighborhood within Cleveland that will only rise in market value if John Wayne comes back from the dead and strikes gold underneath the layers of silt and coal deposits that make up the landscape of Old Brooklyn. If I could market it on the quality of my old neighbors alone, I'd be able to move it in an instant. Unfortunately, that's not the case. So, I did the next best thing. I rented it out to my good friend and his family, who are now happily enjoying the freedom of home-living. So #1, half check. ...at least I moved.

Now, on to #2: Heading west. I did that. I successfully moved to Portland. I rented an apartment in the Nob Hill area, packed up my entire house, sold some stuff, put a bit of it in storage, then shipped the rest out here on a moving van. Have you ever tried to fit the contents of a three bedroom house into a 380 sq. ft. flat? It's a challenge. But I'm here, accompanied by my faithful companion, Kino. It's been three months and so far, so good. I may still be searching for permanent employment, but at least I got a cool little gig in a coffee shop to tide me over while I look. I'm still poor. I ride a 50 year-old yellow bike. I drink a lot of tea. I am truly living the Portland lifestyle.

#3: Exploring. I drove across the country. By myself. Through eight states that I've never visited in my life and I loved every second of it. I stopped in Chicago and drove north through cheese head-country. I saw an 80-ft. statue of the Jolly Green Giant. I visited Mt. Rushmore and drove through the Black Hills. I drove along the outskirts of Yellowstone, only to be driven back up north due to high winds and zero visibility on the roads heading in. I saw a random parade in Missoula, MT where everyone in the town danced down the street while dressed up as safari animals. I saw the sun set over the Rockies. I saw the sun rise over the Great Plains. I learned that Kino and mountain goats are not friends...not even a little bit. I became fascinated by the Columbia River Gorge and the many mysteries that it has to offer. I've seen the fog roll in from the Pacific and overwhelm the coastline. I've hiked the north western rainforests and discovered waterfalls that would make your heart skip, just as it did mine. I've fallen asleep to the sound of the surf hitting the Pacific shore. I drove 2800 miles in 3.5 days. I've done all this in less than three months. And I've only just begun to explore.

Along with this urge to expand my horizons comes #4: Reflecting. With so much time to myself, it's been fairly easy to reflect back on the past few years of my life and figure out what's gotten me here, what mistakes I've made (and there are many) how to remedy them, how to let go of them, and how to concentrate on looking forward to the future while learning from the past, not just dwelling on it. That's something I tend to struggle with on a daily basis...letting what's already come to pass weigh down my steps on the journey into what's yet to come. I think, however, I finally starting to be able to do so. It's a long process that will require a bit of a character change for me. Employing techniques that I've always used (meditation, illustration, daily exercise) in a more disciplined manner, I'm starting to see a bit of that change begin to occur. It's a process though, and will take time. Through patience, I know I'll one day figure out who exactly I am and what my life means. Until then, I continue on.

And finally, #5: Rediscovering my Creative Mind. Have I done this thoroughly? No. But that's why I'm here in Portland. This is an American hub of creative youth and culture. There's a saying here that's posted all over the city stating, "Keep Portland Weird." And you know what? It's weird. Every last bit of it. When I walk downtown, there are moments where, between the absurd amount of leiderhosen and over-population of handlebar mustaches walking about, I honestly feel as if I'm passing through a Carnival. My ex-girlfriend spoke Carny. If I started eeezy-weezy'ing around these guys, I'm positive most of them might plotz themselves on the spot. Am I walking through a Carnival? No. I'm walking through Downtown Portland. Aside from that culture, however, there is an amazing amount of small design boutiques, ad agencies and corporate marketing firms that hire graphic designers such as myself. I haven't found a permanent job just yet, but that's because it's extremely competitive. And since I've been here, I've applied to nearly everything I can find. But in the meantime, I've started writing again. I've started painting again. I've started filming again. I've given myself the opportunity to get back to the state of mind that I employed ten years ago while I was finishing up school. I'm starting to recognize myself. And that's nothing but a good thing.

Change is good. Change is inevitable. Change is our only constant. Now that I'm here and I've given my life the shake up and challenges that it needs, I feel as if I'm finally able to embrace it.

On the other hand, there's always those jaws of defeat lurking underneath the water, waiting to pull me down at any instant...but at least then I'll have the peace of mind that I actually gave it a shot.

Week of the Geek

Yes, it's that time of year again: Comic-Con. Every summer during the end of July, San Diego hosts the biggest Comic convention in the world. Nerds, Geeks and Celebrities alike show up to promote the latest in paperback, film and television alike. Some even elaborately dress the part, parading as characters ranging from Doctor Strange to Ramona Flowers to Jay and Silent Bob's own Cockknocker. In order to acknowledge the event, I ask you to enjoy the following pic of this guy...The Fat Flash.

This guy couldn't outrun my mom. He even looks bewildered, like the photographer just snuck up on him. My favorite part though is the cop's uniform hanging behind him. God, I hope this schmuck is an officer of the law.

Conversations with Girls, #1: The Beer Bottle

I've been on a lot of dates. I can't say whether that's a good thing or not, but regardless, I've built a library of stories from these experiences. This column is dedicated to the more kooky women I've had the pleasure of sharing a few drinks with. ...God bless you, I'm really glad it didn't work out between us.

When: 2003

Where: A Hair Salon in Downtown Cleveland

All I remember of this girl was that the whole night was the result of a set-up by some friends that were trying to prove to me that they're really not my friends at all. She was a hairdresser and they thought it'd be clever for me to make an appointment with her at the end of her shift, then head to the lounge next door for a drink when she was done. Like the sucker that I am, I did. The conversation in the chair went something like this:

Crazy Woman with Scissors: Any big plans for the weekend?

Me: Yeah, I have some work to do on my house then just hanging out with friends. It should be pretty low-key, but that's cool. How about you?

CWwS: Oh, low key is good. I wouldn't mind having a low-key weekend this time around. As long as it's not like last weekend, I'll be happy.

Me: Why, what happened last weekend?

CWwS: Oh, not much. ...Well, I think I really hurt someone. ...No, I'm sure he's okay, but it was freaky.

Me: What do you mean you really hurt someone? Like, broke up with a guy or something?

CWwS: No, nothing like that. (snip snip) No, I mean I think I may have put someone in the hospital. I'm pretty sure he got really fucked up.

Me: ....

CWwS: Okay, but it totally wasn't my fault. I mean, okay, here's what happened. It soooo shouldn't be a big deal, but whatever. So my friends and I are out dancing and whatever. (snip snip) And there's this guy. Well, he tried this line on me, something stupid. I don't even know what it was. Like I had pretty eyes or something. It was just...stupid. So I just hit him over the head with a beer bottle.

Me: Wait...you what?

CWwS: I know, right? Have you ever seen anyone get hit over the head with a beer bottle? It's not like it is on TV where they just fall down. Nope, not at all. There's blood. Like, gushing blood. And the glass, it just, well it just sticks in there, like little daggers.

Me: (staring at her scissors with growing paranoia) Uhh....I don't--

CWwS: Okay, but in my defense, I really didn't know it was going to be like that. You know? Like I said, every time I see it happen on TV or in the movies, the guy who gets hit doesn't bleed. He just falls down, or doesn't do anything at all. Like 'John What's-his-name' in that college movie...Animal something-or-other

Me: Animal House

CWwS: Yeah! He just stood there and he even hit himself! This guy...no way, man. He just fell backwards, put his hands over his face and just started screaming. Like this; AHHHhhh! Aghhhhhhh! (she actually mimicked him screaming in pain). It was awful.

Me: Uh huh.

CWwS: And you know the worst part?

Me: God, no. What?

CWwS: I actually felt the glass cut his skin, you know? Like the edges of the bottle just dug in there and totally ripped open his scalp. I felt it. So weird... (At this point, she kind of trailed off, stopped cutting my hair and stared off into space for a few seconds.)

Me: Umm? Hi?

CWwS: What? Oh yeah. So anyway, we just grabbed out stuff and bolted. That's messed up, right?

Me: (nervously) Totally, yeah.

CWwS: So that was my weekend. Nuts, huh? Hopefully I won't be doing any more of that any time soon. Haha.

Me: (even more nervously) Heh heh, ...Let's hope so.

CWwS: (frighteningly sarcastic and wielding her scissors toward the mirror) So you better be nice to me... Haha...

Me: ...oh, don't you worry.

The rest of the time I was in that God-forsaken chair, I sat in awkward silence, not knowing quite what to say for fear that she'd take it wrong and plunge those scissors into my jugular. She, on the other hand, seemingly took no notice as she finished my whack job of a hair cut, whistling to herself the entire time. Needless to say, I skipped out on drinks afterwards, mumbling some excuse about having to finish up some office work for a deadline. I also walked away from her sporting the worst hair cut I've ever gotten in my life.

I went back to a friend that worked in the same salon a week or so later, specifically on a day that she wasn't working, only to find out that I just missed her being fired. They fixed my hair the best they could, at no extra charge. I've never gone back.

Pizza

Recently, I've been getting somewhat experimental in the kitchen. I like it. Sometimes it's fun. Other times, I create a disaster. Regardless, most of the time I'm the only one judging the end product so the failures seem a bit more few and far between. ...As far as everyone knows.

A few nights ago, I had a girl over for dinner. I asked her if she liked pizza, she said yes, and from that point forward until she arrived, I believe I set her expectations at level "laziest guy ever." Not so, as she was led to believe. My dad bakes a lot of homemade pizzas, and he's actually gotten pretty good at it, to the point where his friends have suggested on multiple occasions for him to open up his own shop, so if I learned from anyone, I learned from him. Using that experience, I decided to get experimental that night and set out to make a Brazilian pizza. I have no idea what this would entail, but it sounded cool and different. So I did some research on Brazilian gourmet and came up with the following toppings. To quote the intended, "This is [expletive] amazing."

Before I did anything, I cut a thinly sliced Top Sirloin steak into thin strips and marinated them in coconut milk, coriander, and cumin for about an hour. Gross, right? You'll think I'm lying, but not so much. Like I said, experimental. I then made the dough from scratch, rolled it flat into a thin, square shape, pinched the edges and laid it into a greased pan. After that, I spread over the crust a tomato-based ranchero sauce that I got from the Central American recipe isle of the grocery store. I can't remember who makes it, but I've used it as a base for Spanish rice and enchilada sauces. It's got a sweet flavor to it...pretty amazing stuff. After pan frying the strips of steak, I added them first, followed by black beans, a fully diced tomatillo, garlic, mild green chilies, slices of red onion, thinly-sliced tomatoes and all topped with crumbled goat cheese. I threw it in the oven for about 20 minutes at 400 degrees and it was set to go.

Needless to say, if it ended up being a disaster, I wouldn't be bragging about it here. Give it a shot sometime. It was fairly amazing. I hear all the Brazilians are doing it.

I Apparently Have Emotional Scars

The memory of this conversation always makes me laugh. Then again, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised being a fairly bohemian individual, employed by a highly conservative firm. I know some of these guys don't always know what to think of me with my paisley shirts, ever-changing facial hair and cowboy boots, but that's okay. I don't mind. I do my job and they're pleased with what I produce, so it's come to be accepted. Great.

A few weeks ago, fully bearded (think Zach Galifinakis or Robinson Crusoe) and shaggy haired (it's about at my shoulders now), I poked my head into one of our sales director's offices to discuss a charitable project I was helping him with. Let's call him Ned. My boss was in there with him. Let's call him Boss. The conversation went something like this.

Me: I need to go over these designs with you. Give me a call when you guys are done.

Ned: Wait a minute.

Me: What?

Ned: Get in here. (I do.) Stand right there and look at me. (I did.)

(This is followed by about 10 seconds of awkward silence. ... I don't like it.)

Me: This is weird.

Ned: What the hell is wrong with you?

Me: Huh?

Ned: What are you hiding?

Me: I don't understand what you're...

Ned: You're hiding something. I want to know what.

Me: I'm not hiding anything. What the hell? Boss, I--

Boss: Nope. Leave me out of it.

Ned: Do you know what my dad did for a living?

Me: No idea.

Ned: He was the police commissioner for the city of Cleveland.

Me: Okay.

Ned: He taught me how to read people. After decades of service on the Force, he had this theory about men who grow out their beards.

Me: Yeah?

Ned: He told me, "A man with a beard is hiding either a physical scar, or an emotional scar."

Me: I don't have any scars, Ned.

Ned: Well, not any physical scars, obviously. You're a very good-looking young man when you don't look like Ted Bundy.

Me: Thanks. I don't have any emotional scars either.

Ned: And yet, you have a mass of hair covering your face.

Me: I just felt like growing it out. I like it.

Ned: Men don't just 'like' beards. It's like a big, dead animal. A big, dead animal right on your face.

Me: I do. And no, it's not.

Ned: Nope, you're emotionally scarred. I can sense it. So let's get to the bottom of this issue. Right now.

Me: I'm not emotionally scarred.

Ned: Is it because of a girl?

Me: No, there's no girl. I'm not emotionally scarred.

Ned: Do you have Daddy issues? Mommy issues?

Me: What? No.

This dialog, question/yes & no answer format, went on for another ten or so rounds. My boss, standing silent to the side of us, shifted his neck back and forth, as if he were at Wimbledon. Finally, I cut Ed's little questionnaire clean off.

Me: Okay, do you want to know why I like growing out my beard?

Ned: I already know, but go ahead. Enlighten me.

Me: Sure. When I was little, like five, I saw my grandpa shaving. I thought it was the coolest thing. So I say to him, "Grandpa, I can't wait till I get to shave too."

He looks at me with the most grave, dire expression on his face and tells me, "Kid," because he always referred to me as Kid...never Brian...not once, "Kid, don't ever say such a thing again. Do you hear me?" he warned. "Never."

At this point he puts down his razor and kneels down in front of me, clasping his hands over my shoulders to desperately accentuate his point in a most dramatic fashion. An uncharacteristic gesture for him, I might add.

"Shaving is the bane of my existence," he continued. "I hate it. I despise it. If society and your Grandma would let me, I would never shave again. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Grandpa," I replied.

"Kid, promise me you'll never again look forward to the day you start start shaving," he desperately concludes to me. "Because once that day comes, you'll be at it nearly every single day for the rest of your life. Enjoy your pre-pubescent freedom while you have it."

(Ned is looking at me, confidently unconvinced.)

Me: And with that, I decided that I didn't like shaving. To this day, I've grown to hate it. Even when I shave, I don't really shave; I clip. It's just me. He was right. In addition, I don't have a wife and I don't really care what 'society' finds acceptable in the realm of facial hair, so I let it go. And I have fun with it. I can trim it into fu-man-choos and Wolverine chops. I can grow it long, or I can buzz it to scruff. Hell, I could cut my sideburns into a profile of Alfred Hitchcock if I wanted to. I. Don't. Care.

Ned: So you have Grand-daddy issues. Got it. Now go shave your beard.

I tell him I can't, that his wife told me she loved it last night. He laughs and flicks me off. I turn around and walk back to my desk. He still tells me to shave nearly every time he sees me. We're still friends. I still have a beard.

Good to know you, Ned. Because of you, I apparently have emotional scars.

Facelift

What was once the Conti Contemplative (a name I still regret creating to this day) is now the Journatorium. Is it better? Maybe. As a title, to me it reflects a collection of random thoughts and obscure observations that I make on a daily basis, all gathered together under one roof. However, it's also about the journey one takes in the midst of that collection. The, "Where am I now," and "where will I be then?" So, I've basically come up with a more complicated way of saying 'blog.' ...yeah, that sounds about right.

Gone is the awful silhouetted image by the lake, replaced by a collage of meaningful aspects of my life...my house, my dog, my introspect, my vision, my love of the water and the impressions my travels have left upon me. Gone are the oppressive twilight blues and grays, exchanged with the light sandy off-whites and tans to present a more meditative atmosphere. It's easier to read and as I said before, that layout just never set well with me. Maybe that's why I abandoned the blog so quickly and started Jack Traveler...I just didn't know what to do with it.

I have however, kept the previous articles, solely for archival purposes, the last being my re-discovery of the Hidden Bridge in Mill Creek Park. I suppose that one event led me to re-purpose my life, as pointed out by a good friend when I first shared that story with her just after it happened. I feel it's appropriate to serve as both a transitional account and a memory of where things started...well, started over. From here forward, it's all about the journey to discover where things will lead.