On the Media

I wrote this for a school assignment but was thinking of making a blog about it anyway. Pam is my instructor who came up with the prompt. The prompt was to describe a way in which the media has changed your life. Enjoy!

I wonder sometimes if Pam and I don’t share the same brainwaves, because I was driving in my car the other day thinking about this very subject. Not only has the media changed my life, I think that media is changing the way our brains evolve.

Think about it. What’s the new watchword for parenting, besides autism? ADHD. Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. When I was growing up, I never would have said that I have ADHD. Now that I am an adult, I’m pretty certain I’ve developed it. I have a hard time finding focus, especially in my creative endeavors. I am the proverbial plate spinner. I work on one thing for a while, then move on to another. Not only in writing, but in different mediums. I get tired of writing and make a collage. I get tired of collaging and decide I’m going to learn to sew. Things like that.

At work, also. I’ll start one cleaning project, get tired of it halfway through, and start something new. Something New. I would say my entire work ethic revolves around finding Something New.

Istn’t that the very definition of ADHD? Someone who can not focus on one task for long periods of time? Let me do a Google check. Yep. Also included in the definition are a tendency to procrastinate, to not listen when spoken to directly, and excessive daydreaming. I definitely have ADHD. I would say, however, that I am just a writer. Most of us have ADHD, it would seem.

My theory, however (and for what it’s worth), is not that ADHD is a cognitive disorder, it’s cultural evolution. Who can pay attention in this day and age? With the onset of 24-hour cable networks, smartphones, and digital communication, there is always something to occupy, nay, entertain the mind. There is no reason not to be entertained these days. Unless, of course, you have a job. Or schoolwork. And who wants to do those things when you could be surfing the web learning things they don’t teach you in school or texting your friends about what they’re doing right now?

I think that the prevalence of the diagnosis of ADHD is proof of how ill-equipped our society is to accept cultural change. Teaching styles must be adjusted to accommodate this new rise of ever-prevalent media. Teachers must entertain now instead of merely instruct. I believe that this is happening, but not fast enough.

No, it’s so much easier to give kids diluted meth in an attempt to medicate the problem away. But the problem isn’t a problem. It’s just change. It’s evolution. I do not wish to quantify this change into the realms of “good” or “bad,” either. It is neither. It is simply happening.

We’re in a time of transition as a culture, and someday psychologists will laugh at us for thinking that we could “solve” the problem of ADHD. Or that we considered it a problem. I consider it an evolutionary key that will turn the gears of change. Our institutions must change to accommodate a new world, a new attention span, a new way of thinking, even. Not the other way around: developing dangerous chemicals to infuse our children with so that institutions may stay the same.

In the immortal and always relevant words of Bob Dylan: the times they are a’changin’. And we are changing with them. Myself firmly included.

I Broke Up a Line Today...

I pulled into my local recycling center today, or rather tried to. My initial attempt was blocked by a line of about eight vehicles, just sitting patiently, waiting to pull forward. I peered around and noticed that there was a truck with a camper on it stopped in front of the trash compactors for household garbage. Beyond that, however, was the recepticles for mingled recyclables and mixed paper. There is a space between the industrial sized bins for commingled recyclables and mixed paper large enough for a car to nestle in between. But there wasn't a car there. Everyone in line appeared to be waiting to use the trash compactors for household garbage.

So I pulled around and parked in between the bins for commingled recyclables and mixed paper. And suddenly, as if a spell had been broken, the vehicles waiting in line scattered forward, pulling around the stopped camper, and actually walking a few feet to throw their garbage away instead of waiting idly to pull up flush with the trash compactor before unloading.

I brought a new perspective to the situation. I wonder if it even occurred to anyone else to pull around, to walk before I got there. I'm not saying I'm any smarter than those people, but a line has a certain kind of authority in our society. It's very bad manners to break in line. But in this case, breaking in line didn't mean that I procured a good and/or service before anyone else. It simply meant I had to walk farther to get rid of my trash. And, there was plenty of places to go in front of the line. It's just that the line, once formed, held sway.

That's what it's all about, really. Perspective building. Perspective breaking. So get out there. Read a book. Read a blog. Read a tweet. Have a conversation. Send an e-mail. Talk to somebody new.  Join the human conversation. Learn some new perspectives and maybe break up a line every once in a while.

That is all.

A Revision

Dear Reader,

This is how it works. You stand in front of the mashed potatoes for minutes upon minutes and try to remember something you forgot years ago.

You consider it. You consider all aspects of it. You consider the sharp edge of your loneliness and how deeply it cuts. You contrast it with your happiness and use the two together to devise a sum that measures worth.

This is how it works. You get up at 2:30 in the morning to write this poem, disturbing the cat who is the only body warming your bed these days. This makes you feel guilty, but it speaks through you at the most inconvenient times, that little spark of God inside, and you wish He’d keep a better schedule.

This is how it works. You drag the notebook back over and fumble for the light. The cat is getting very annoyed now and soon he will leave you, too. Not for China. Probably just for the floor, but it might as well be China for how far from you it is.

You thank God again for The Gift. But not for the walls it gives you. Not for the way you can never just say what you need to say, but instead must disguise it; must hide it between these pretty veils. You think this is the way it will always be: a notebook and an empty mattress and a warm body far away who has never quite gotten what he needs from you.

You close your eyes. All else slides away and it is just you and the cat and the whole universe inside you aching to get out.

Sincerely,

T------

These Ladies Are My new Heroes

Handjob, Bland Job, I Don't Understand Job - watch more funny videos

Handjob, Bland Job, I Don't Understand Job - watch more funny videos

Just thought you should know.

A Response

Anonymous said...

Just the same; eventually you would left him for someone else just like you've been doing since you first started dating.
September 11, 2010 6:10 AM

An Open Letter to Anyone Whose Heart I May Have Broken:

I’m sorry. No really, I am. You can’t hear my voice shake or see my desperate eyes as I try to convey the full emotionality of the sentiment, but it’s there. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what else to say. Reasons? I don’t have them. I think I’m just now starting to figure out that I have spent my girlhood in love with the idea of being in love, of falling in love, the act of love; but have not necessarily loved any of you. But see, I didn’t know that at the time. A couple of you I loved, foolishly, because you needed me to, but you weren’t good for me. I’m thinking mostly of my high school days right now. Still, to all the boys who have loved me, there’s something you should know, although I think most of you have suspected or have flat-out known this: The whole time I thought I was loving you, I really had my eye on some ideal or another. A rock star. An actor. A fictional character. The guy in my Algebra class. A professor. A philosopher. A musician. My best friend. I have lived my entire love life with a tragic sense of misdirection. Instead of going for the thing I wanted, no matter how far away or absurd it might seem, I have offered pieces of my heart to, well, whomever happened to be looking at the time. But a lot of you are truly wonderful men and will make great husbands some day. And all of you deserved better. I'm sorry that I was too young and ill-equipped to give it.  I hope you end up very happy and forget all about me.

A couple of you are still exactly where I left you, and will stay there, in stasis, for the rest of your life. Not because of me, mind you. You were like this before me and have stayed so after me. I don’t know what your problem is. But I wish you’d wake up and do something with yourselves. At least one of you will hate me forever. And again, I say. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I wasn’t right for you either, and you know it.


I know what it’s like to love a shadow. To give and give and give and have it taken and taken and taken but never really appreciated. I tried very hard to give my whole heart to the first person I ever loved, no matter how silly or childish that relationship seems to me now. But he wasn’t ready to take it, and so I’ve never really given it away again. (I don’t blame him by the way. Anymore.) I could say the exact same thing about my dad, probably.

Whatever the conditions you loved me under, I wasn’t good enough for you. I’m not good enough for me, at present date, and until I stop operating under the same cliché, Daddy-issue driven assumption, I think I’m just going to stay the hell away from all of you and your kind.

Nothing personal. It’s me, not you. It’s always been me. And I’m not just saying that.

Sincerely,

Tiff.

P.S.: The above is also an excerpt from the book I'm going to write about my Road Trip. I figured out a lot of things about myself out on the road, and my continual habit of, for lack of a better term, fucking over guy after guy emotionally, was one of the things I finally worked through. And I would like to offer yet another apology to anyone who counts themselves amongst the fucked over. I'm human, and this is my human journey. Mistakes have been made, and I am working very hard to correct them and prevent future similar mistakes. I have been hurt, too, and am also working to forgive those who have hurt me. I hope anyone reading this that I may have hurt will try doing the same, whether you feel I deserve it or not. Forgiveness really isn't about the other; it's about yourself. It's about doing what you need to do to reach emotional equilibrium. And letting go of anger and resentment is one of most freeing experiences I have ever had. You should try it. Seriously. Just try it.

P.S.2: Dear "Anonymous" (Don't think I don't know who you are. I know who you are.) You are welcome to reply to this as well. I will read it. And I will consider it. But I will also delete it. This blog is my story. Exclusively mine. If you would like to tell your story, I encourage you to. But please find a separate space in which to do it. Thank you.

1 Week Without

Dear Regina,

This is how it works. You stand in front of the mashed potatoes for minutes upon minutes and try to remember something you forgot years ago.

You consider it. You consider it in all its aspects. You consider the sharp edge of your loneliness and how deeply it cuts. You contrast it with your happiness and use the two together to devise a sum that measures worth.

This is how it works. You get up at 2:30 in the morning to write this poem, disturbing the cat who is the only body warming your bed these days. This makes you feel guilty.

It speaks through you at the most inconvenient times, that little spark of God inside, and you wish He’d keep a better schedule.

This is how it works. You drag the notebook back over and fumble for the light. The cat is getting very annoyed now and soon he will leave you, too. Not for China. Probably just for the floor, but it might as well be China for how far from you it is.

You put the notebook on the empty mattress next to you and thank God again for The Gift.

But not for the walls it gives you. Not for the way you can never just say what you need to say, but instead must disguise it; must hide it between these pretty veils.

You close your eyes. You sleep. You miss him.

This is how it works.

The Grand Canyon

Go see it. Seriously.

No, there's nothing I can say. Just go see it. Stay for sunset. It's like God's IMAX out there. Or Nature's IMAX, if you are not religiously inclined.

-Tiff

P.S.: The picture. I sat on that cliff for about two hours and never got tired of the view. Or less terrified.