Saturday, August 26, 2017

On Hugs

I’m on record as saying that I don’t like hugs, but things are never so simple as that.   These things are confusing.  So confusing that two friends of mine once got into an argument over whether or not I liked to be hugged.  The argument was so bitter that they didn’t talk for weeks afterward.  (It’s just barely possible there were other, unspoken, reasons for the argument.)  

Of course it’s almost always misleading to say that one does or doesn’t like something simpliciter--at least I think so.  A friend once asked me what my favorite food was.  I couldn’t think of one, so she clarified that a favorite food was a food you could eat all the time and never get tired of it.  That seemed like too high a standard, there’s just nothing that I always want to eat (If I remember right, her favorite food was lasagna).  It’s the same with hugs.  Sometimes they’re good; sometimes they’re bad.  But usually they’re bad.  

The problem with hugs is this: too often they are forced.  More often than not, when I’m asked for a hug it’s not a request or a kind gesture--it’s a demand.  Love me now, it says.  It puts me on edge.  It makes me not want to comply.  Maybe I’m just not capable of love on demand.  Another friend used to occasionally surprise me with, “I need you to tell me something nice about me right now.”  I couldn’t.  It stripped me of agency and made me feel used.  

No one asks if I’d like to give them a hug.  Instead they put out their arms and demand it.  Like a zombie coming towards me, arms outstretched.  Or worse, your least favorite aunt with lips puckered for a kiss.  (Not that I have a least favorite aunt.  They’re all my favorite because each of them is better than all of the others.)  I could refuse, but then I’d be the jerk for not being loving.  Then again, if I don’t refuse I’m the jerk again for giving an insincere hug.  

But I do like hugs when they’re both wanted and freely given.  When they really are a sign of care and attention.  It’s just rare to find them.  

Some of the things I’ve been reading lately say that one has a right to be loved--even a right to demand love and attention from individual others.  But it’s hard for me to break out of a certain mindset.  In that mindset, while one might deserve something, even have a right to it, no one has an obligation to provide it.  The stock example is marriage: everyone has a right to marry, but no one has an obligation to marry some individual person (or any person).  Now, I’m no libertarian, so I don’t see that we have no (unearned) obligations toward other people, but the marriage example seems good.  We may have some obligations to provide for the poor, etc.  I may have some obligation to pay taxes.  But it’s not clear that the same can be said for something like a hug.  Labor, such as that which provides money, can be given (or taken) without destroying its value.  If one is forced to work, it doesn’t obviously destroy the work.  If one is forced to love though, forced to hug, it does seem to destroy the value.  

Perhaps I’m overthinking this.  I’ve been told that I’m very smart--very logical--but that I don’t understand people.  I’ve also been told that I’m deeply immature when it comes to interpersonal relations and it’s a miracle I manage to function in society.  

There is, as always, a simple solution that avoids the problem.  Just always want to be hugged.  Always accede happily to that demand.  That’s the simple solution, just like all my aunts being my favorite.  

Saturday, January 21, 2017

The Good, the Bad, and the Perfect

A week or so ago I posted this status on Facebook:

The perfect is the enemy of the good.  

In the context of Facebook most folks assumed that the target was myself, my writing, and my insecurities.  They were partly right.  The target was myself and my insecurities, but not my writing.  The post was meant to relate to politics and criticism.  

I don’t talk much about politics, not because I don’t care, but because I care too much--or too much about the wrong things.  I care too much about being right and not enough about doing right.  In cases of conflicting opinion I take the safe route and stay mute.  If I don’t think I can convince someone else of my position I don’t articulate it.  Why, after all, would I speak when I believe that my words aren’t worth my breath?  

The biggest danger for me is criticism.  An example: I want to celebrate the 100th anniversary of women’s suffrage in the US in 2020.  But there’s a problem.  Women’s suffrage was made possible through the actions of some people who were racists and used explicitly racist arguments to make their case.  Should these people--their achievement--really be celebrated?  

Or another: Argument in politics is irrelevant.  There is some reason to think that, when it comes to politics, no one is listening.  Positions are simply a reflection of basic values, impervious to argument.  Worse, arguing might be counterproductive, missing its target and causing folks to dig in their heels.

I can see the easy path laid out before me:  Say nothing; do nothing.  

But how seriously should I take such statements?  What should I do in the face of them?  There’s simply no way to deal with any complicated issue--and all issues are complicated in politics--without running into truly legitimate criticism.  So here I return to the slogan I started with:

The perfect is the enemy of the good.  

Perhaps there is a single right answer and someday, far in the future, I’ll achieve it.  But for now, something has to be done.  With that in mind I’m headed to the Women’s March here in Vancouver. I don't know about its efficacy or legitimacy, it’s surely not perfect, but it’s an effort to do some good.  

Thursday, November 10, 2016

Americans: don’t move to Canada.

I live in Canada.  It’s a nice place with friendly people and a pretty decent government.  But you know what? I’m coming back home.  I’m coming back to America in May.  I didn’t come to Canada because I hated the US or thought it was hopeless.  I came here because I wanted to see what someplace else looked like.  I wanted to learn.  And I did.  

Vancouver, where I live, is one of the most diverse places in the world.  It’s true.  Around half of the population here is are recent immigrants.  I’ve met people from parts of the world I otherwise never would have.  I’ve made friends with a few and I’ve learned a few things too.  

Here’s one thing I’ve learned: Things can improve, but they can also get worse.  The arc of history does not unerringly bend towards justice.  We--or perhaps more accurately I--believed that because we lived in a prosperous nation with good folks things would always get better.  But that’s no guarantee.  Some people I have met have lived through revolutions and wars.  Some have lived in countries that were once prosperous and are now destitute or, in some cases, gone.  

I’ve asked some of these folks, “What can I, as an American, do?”  So many things look hopeless.  Nothing we do seems to make a difference for the better.  There’s no simple solution--maybe there isn’t a solution.  It’s not unanimous, but here’s what I’ve heard: Make the US an example to the world.  Show the world how things can be.  That there is a place that values everyone.  Show us that there is hope.

Tuesday night we did not do this.  We sent the opposite message.  That not everyone is valued.  That the US is willing to hand over the reigns to someone who has promised to be and anti-democratic and not work for the interests of us all.  

So here’s the deal.  The US needs you.  I believe that it needs me.  I believe this more strongly than I’ve believed anything in a long while.  

I don’t believe that rational argument sways people, at least not about the things that matter.  That probably sounds weird coming from a philosophy student, but there it is.  I don’t mean that it has no place, but when one’s mind is set--as so many of ours are--no amount of argument or list of facts will matter.  I happen to think that it may, in fact, be irrational to be swayed by argument in these cases, but that’s a story for another time.  

So what does change minds?  How can we make things better?

Here’s what I know: The one mind I have changed--and maybe I shouldn’t take credit for it--was changed through understanding.  We had an interest in each other as humans, as friends.  Neither of us wanted to change the other’s mind--really--we just wanted to understand each other.  Not by pushing or prodding.  Not by antagonism.  Just by being interested.  There is a paradox here.  In order to really change someone you must not desire to change them.  

So actually, now that I think on it, do move to Canada, if you can.  Move to Japan.  Move to Australia or Spain.  Maybe try out California or Texas too, for that matter.   Live there.   Listen.  Try to understand.  And then move home.  America needs you.  

Sunday, July 24, 2016

One Down

About two months ago now I stopped using Facebook. Maybe you noticed. Maybe you didn't. I had a lot of reasons—lack of productivity, a hatred of everything and everyone, depression about the state of the world, a fear of telling you what I really think. Others have listed other reasons in other places—an inability to keep up with the Jonses, addiction, decreased attention span. I don't know if those things have affected me. Maybe.  Probably.

Two months in I have no plans of going back. I don't miss it. I am less connected. I am less in touch. Perhaps I've even got my head stuck in the sand. Probably so. Especially now. But as someone once said, I don't care anymore.  

PS.  I still get personal messages.  You can contact me.

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Iron Knee 25k: a race report

Years ago, on the way home from the Arrowhead, I stopped by a ski shop in Minneapolis to try on ski boots. I knew I needed a new pair, a pair that fit, and since the shop had a good selection, I took advantage of it. Since I had no intention of buying—I knew I could get them at cost elsewhere, but was just using the shopI bought a ski mountaineering magazine as a sort of “thank you.” Now I've never done ski mountaineering, I can't truly claim to have done downhill skiing or mountaineering, but the magazine had some amazing photos. The writing on the other hand—every trip report was exactly the same:

It was a long trip in the (car, boat, helicopter) to (exotic location). We were really excited to be in (exotic location). We got one last good night's rest then (skinned, snowshoed, dogsledded) as far as we could before setting up camp. We were nervous about (avalanches, crevasses, overhanging seracs, rock face), but tried to sleep anyway. We got up before dawn and skinned up as far as we could go. Then we had to face the (avalanches, crevasses, overhanging seracs, rock face), but we made it. It was beautiful from the top. We could see all the way to (other exotic location). Then we shredded the pow on the way down. The end.

I was bored. The genre was dull.

Now I admit that not every trip goes according to plan. If something went wrong then you've got an interesting story, but that's not good writing, that's a lucky break for your narrative (unlucky for the folks involved). I've written my share of “something went wrong” stories. They're fun to write. They get a lot of hits. They can be the most useful to read too. But, all happy trip reports are alike; each unhappy trip report is unhappy in its own way.

What can I say about the Iron Knee 25k? The race was beautifully managed by the Mountain Madness folks. There weren't too many people. The aid stations were well stocked. There was even a long climb called “The Powerline” that, yes, ran along a powerline right-of-way. There were rocks and roots. There were smooth, fast sections. There were views of mountains and water.  I had a good run, but I was out of shape. I was more sore afterwards than I wanted to be. It was too short. It was a happy race.

But maybe that's not all there is.

This was my first glimpse into a community of runners here in Vancouver. It was my first time seeing people who I felt like I knew. Who I connected with. I struck up conversations with folks at the start line. They seemed to understood how hard it is to get out and do something in this fenced in city. They understood that it isn't the outdoor paradise that is promised. That long trip to the start wasn't by boat or car or dogsled, it was two hours by foot and train and bus and it started at 5:30 in the morning. That long powerline climb featured signs with each runners name and a message for each of us. Mine read, “If it got any easier, it wouldn't be a challenge.” Did I get any names; did I make any friends? No. But for a little while I felt like I was home.   

Sunday, March 13, 2016

Shoe Shopping

Yesterday, I needed a new pair of shoes.  'New' is the wrong word here, of course.  I can't really afford new shoes, but I did need something dressier.  All I had were old running shoes, and with two conferences coming up, I decided I needed to look a little more professional than neon-green and orange.

I've never been stylish or trendy.  I don't want to be.  For years I refused to wear jeans because they were too cool, and I didn't want to be that.  Take that as you will.  But here in the land of conspicuous consumption, I stick out.

Which brings me to my main point: If you want a pair of really nice leather dress shoes for a great price, Value Village in Coquitlam is the place to go.  There is an entire rack of men's dress shoes in all sizes.  The least expensive I saw were $9.99, the most expensive, $24.99.

Now you should probably take this with a grain of salt.  I wouldn't know a nice dress shoe from a cheap one if it kicked me in the face.  All I know is that the men I see wearing these ridiculous pointed toe shoes—elf shoes, almost—seem to be the sort of well-dressed people you're supposed to want to be, and that they had scads of these shoes at Value Village.

Of course, no one would want to say that they bought them at Value Village.  That kind of ruins the effect.  The point of these shoes seems to be that they are expensive.  But as I've said, that isn't me.

I thought about it for a minute, but decided that if I got a pair of these shoes I'd have to get a decent suit and all to go with them.  I'm not going to do that, not even at a thrift store (though the last suit I did buy I bought at Goodwill—for a LARP costume).

So I went over to the opposite side of the rack and looked through their sport and work shoes.  After some thought, I picked out a pair of slightly scuffed Adidas Sambas for $6.99.  Very professional.

Monday, January 25, 2016


It's a good thing I like school. When I started talking to my professors about going to grad school, one thing they all said was, you have to be willing to sacrifice everythingfamily, friends, hobbies, homesto philosophy. I didn't listen. So it's a good thing I like school, because I sacrificed all that other stuff.

The past six months have been the hardest since about a decade ago. I don't know if I'm worse off or better than that time. I don't think that's relevant. But if you do some digging you'll notice something about that decade ago mark. That's the time I started this blog. It's also the time when I started racing ultras. Those were my ways of coping with my problems and they worked pretty well.

Unfortunately, I've sacrificed those things and now I'm paying the price. Luckily, I've learned a few things in the intervening time. The big one is, keep busy. I'm okay when I have something going on. Two days of my week I'm so busy I forget to feel terrible. Those are my favourite days. Then there are weekends. Weekends are bad.  Weekends I don't have anything going on and I haven't found anything yet to take the place of the kind of mind-numbing bike ride that made training for ultras so satisfying.

So I've had to find things to fill the time. To that end I've started going to the gym. I hate gyms and I've railed against them in this blog before, but they're saving me now. I can thrash myself on a rowing machine, go through my lifting routine, and then take a few minutes to relax in the sauna (not as good as a Finnish sauna, but it'll do). Biking is out, I tried one final time and—just no. Skiing is out too—too expensive and far to travel.  Running still has potential, but I need to get back on that wagon. We'll see if I can find some races to work toward.

I've also started writing. I got a good taste of it in my last two semesters at ISU and I've gotten too much encouragement to let it drop. I like it in much the same way that I like ultras, but really it's more like working on bikes. To write a story you have to take something apart—whatever that core idea is, the thing that must be told—see how it works and then put it back together. And if it's put back together in the right way you'll find that it works better than before. I won't claim that I'm any good at it. Others will have to make that judgment. But I've found a writing group, a place to workshop. They seem to like my stuff so far—even if it isn't their usual romance and thriller fare.

As the semester progresses and I become busier I'll probably become happier. Sometimes I think this is what it's all about, jumping from one distraction to another. If you're lucky those distractions are positive and lead to better and more fulfilling distractions. If you're not they compound and grow in on themselves in a sneaky hate spiral.