No man is an island, Entire of itself. Each is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manor of thine own Or of thine friend’s were. Each man’s death diminishes me, For I am involved in mankind. Therefore, send not to know For whom the bell tolls, It tolls for thee.
John Donne
sonder [ son-der ] noun the feeling one has on realizing that every other individual one sees has a life as full and real as one’s own, in which they are the central character and others, including oneself, have secondary or insignificant roles: In a state of sonder, each of us is at once a hero, a supporting cast member, and an extra in overlapping stories.
Dictionary.com
It’s none of my business why someone is wearing headphones when they are walking around town, what they are or are not listening to, or why they chose to wear gigantic ones that look like a vintage glam version of a Korean War radio setup.
Especially when I take the bus or go to the supermarket, it’s hard not to notice mostly people my age and younger wearing large, studio-style over-the-ear headphones. I imagine they are a lot harder to lose track of than earbuds, might be more comfortable on the inner ear, and avoid the waxy grossness that in-ear headphones face. They might also be more cost-effective compared to earbuds for the time being.
More than anything though, I bet they help with overstimulation in noisy areas and visually broadcast to others “leave me alone.” I can definitely feel the need for that.
I tend to carry a small pair of off-brand earbuds around with me, but I don’t use them nearly as much as you’d think. In fact, except when I’m specifically trying to focus or I’m listening to an audiobook, I like hearing and connecting with what’s around me. Not for any grouchy, holier-than-thou, “put down your phone and touch grass” reasons either. Those opinions and the people who have them irritate me.
It’s because I’m a writer and a storyteller, and to tell good stories you have to learn to listen and find them first.
“The devil whispered in my ear ‘You can’t withstand the storm.’ I whispered back, ‘Big talk from someone who lost their golden fiddle to some rando in Georgia.'”
A brief but loud storm blew through Portland this afternoon. It put the kibosh on my plans to head out and enjoy some beers and sandwiches this afternoon, but if I’m honest that’s alright. I’ve been pretty good with my spending lately, and I don’t want to mess it up over beer and sandwiches that I already know where to get separately. Besides, I’ve been treating myself well lately. A new weight vest for running, trying out a whiskey bar tucked away in a basement in Southeast, showing some of the guys in my run group a food pod they knew about but never visited, and fucking them up for life over a plate of chicken and fried potatoes. Next week, they say, will have to be the french fry truck. My body is ready. Indoctrinating new foodies and being a weird sort of “food concierge” for Portland is one of my favorite parts of going out, meeting people, and talking to strangers.
Tonight, though, I’m ready to take it easy, be still and quiet for a bit, and dive into my writing. I’m finally back to working on the book on training and mentorship that I’d shelved after getting a job that A. Required me to test everything I thought I knew about the topic and B. Eventually drained every speck of creative energy from my body like a copper heat sink. “I’m still learning!” I told myself, “I can’t finish the book yet!” My wife, ever the voice of reason, then pointed out that if it was true I couldn’t write a book until I had full, complete, and absolute knowledge on a subject, there would be no such thing as autobiographies.
As I sat down to write, I looked to my left and saw a little brass incense burner with a tiny cone of sage incense inside. Em and I had received it years ago as part of one of an “itty bitty boxes” of whatever that are sold in bookstores and gift shops. This one was a sage space cleansing kit- a cone of incense, a burner, a fake leather cord to bind some actual sage if you got it, and a book about how to smudge. I didn’t want to appropriate Native American practice, and Judaism has plenty of notions of cleansing, sanctification, and the use of incense. I realized that with this nice new desk, a storm outside, a quiet mood, and a little whiskey on hand, this was the perfect time to “cleanse” the desk and workspace and dedicate it to the craft of writing.
The incense didn’t last terribly long and smelled cheap, but I lit it, said a prayer in Hebrew I half-made up, and here I am writing a blog post. The smell of incense, ozone, whiskey, and my wife making cashew chicken wafts through the room, and everything feels calm and right.
I spent a good chunk of today looking for a candle.
It wasn’t just for a candle though. I went shopping for some clothes today, and I intended to pick up a scented candle for my new desk because I have apparently become a guy who likes having a nice candle burning near me when I write. I don’t really know or care if its aromatherapy, meditative, or vibes- it feels Nice and Good and Right for the Desk, so when my little lavender-scented candle burned out, I said “Time to get another.”
I grabbed the clothes from Target (if you catch me in a fancy brand of clothes, assume I got lucky at a thrift shop) and realized I wasn’t going to find the candle I wanted. All the candles that smelled good at all were way too big or pungent than I needed. I wanted it to be low-profile and not to distract me while I was working. Since Emily had come with me and was doing her own shopping, I resolved to just wander around and look for a little something extra for myself. New pins for my collection and little bags of gummy candy are my usual weaknesses and “treats” when I’m out shopping.
After walking through store after store in Clackamas Mall, I came out empty-handed and okay with it, which was an interesting moment in and of itself. Somehow, I’ve gotten to the point where I like looking at “Stuff” and thinking about it, but not getting it.
The things I want, need, and that stick with me I will get, and I will happily eat the cost. After losing my white summer hat, I had very few qualms about dropping $112 for a new, authentic Panama hat. I don’t mind shelling out for a bottle of whiskey that calls to me or that I think I’ll enjoy. Good things cost money.
Somehow, though, the kid who used to collect stuffed animals, Transformers toys, mint containers, tea, and eventually teapots has gotten past the need to have things just to have them.
I’m writing this post while sitting at a beautiful new desk in the corner of my bedroom. It’s a 1940s Chippendale reproduction secretary desk- the kind that opens outward and contains cubbies, drawers, nooks, and secret compartments inside. It’s seen better days, but except for a little hardware and some polishing, the desk is in excellent condition.
It’s the kind of desk that fits my “dark academia hobbit” vibe perfectly. Sitting down at it just makes me want to write, and even better- I got it for free off of someone’s curb. It belonged to the original owner’s grandmother and it’s just “had its time with them.” They were glad it was being adopted by a writer though instead of winding up in a landfill.
I bring it up because, in the last week or so, various aspects of my life have turned for the better. I’m finally starting to lose weight again, my money management has improved so that I’m actually able to save again, and I’ve successfully pitched two new desserts at work in addition to getting a cost-of-living pay increase.
My dad would say “Don’t question it, just say thanks and carry on.” It’s a typically Jewish superstitious mindset- “When good things happen, don’t question it and don’t express too much happiness or it’ll all go away.” I catch myself in that all the time. I rarely say “everything’s great”- it’s always “I’m doing alright.” “Things could always be better” as a Jewish mental/emotional/spiritual/supernatural insurance against things getting worse.
I am starting to question and wonder about this, though, simply because this isn’t the first time it’s happened. A feeling of something “clicking” into place and unlocking a cosmic level-up. The best that I can tell, it’s because success cascades, and “winning” once can inspire you to succeed in other areas, consciously or not.
A better computer that can fit nicely inside with the front closed will be next, but you have to admit this is classy and cozy as hell.
Someone told me long ago There’s a calm before the storm I know, it’s been comin’ for some time When it’s over, so they say It’ll rain a sunny day I know, shinin’ down like water I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain? I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain? Comin’ down on a sunny day
– Creedence Clearwater Revival, “Have You Ever Seen The Rain”
The back deck of Belmont Station on Stark is almost uncomfortably warm. They have the heaters on, and it’s nearly empty except for a young man flipping through his phone, an older man talking to the Lord, and me. I’d probably be more comfortable without my sweater on, but I don’t want to look after something else or give my neuroses one more thing to check the seat for when I eventually leave.
It’s the light, on-and-off rain that Portland knows so well tapping on the windows and skylights, and I wonder if their sealing heat was part of the calculus that called for the (not cheap to run) electric heaters. Any notion of “spring” out here is only confirmed or denied by plant life and we all know that they just go on instinct. A sweater and a denim cloak in May? That’s about right. “Putting away heavy clothes” is something other places do.
The beers are dark and good, short 4-ounce pours so I can try a few without breaking the bank. Belmont always has an interesting selection, and it’s rare I do the same beer over and over again in a sitting.
Let it pour. The beer, the rain, the words, the times- let it all pour.
The Black Hat Baker 