Something bigger than me

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Let’s say I gathered every moment when I felt fear, uncertainty or doubt and stacked them on top of each other; and then I took each moment when something breath-taking, beautiful, magical, or unexpected happened and carefully stacked each one on top of the previous stack.

And then, say, I took every post-it note, napkin, PG&E bill, bank statement, cereal box, candy wrapper or piece of binder paper that I’ve ever written my thoughts on and stacked them on top of the previous stack.

After that, what if I took every single moment when I felt cared for and loved by all of the amazing people I have in my life and stacked them on top of each other, on top of the previous stack.

And then, what if I took all of the roads I’ve ever been lost on, sunsets I’ve ever seen, sunrises I’ve ever been awake for, ocean waves I’ve ever paddled into, tall trees I’ve ever silently stood beside, and full moons I’ve ever surfed under and stacked them all on top of the previous stack.

Now, suppose I took all of the hopes, dreams, blank canvases, open roads, cups of tea, bowls of veggies, climbable tree branches, late night conversations, epic surf sessions, family gatherings, multi-mile hikes, lost-in-the-middle-of-who-knows-where road trips, ripe mangoes, funny t-shirts, naps, breathless moments and ear-to-ear smiles that I have yet to experience; and stacked them on top of the previous stack.

What would I have?

I’d have something much, much bigger than me. I’d have the sum of many moments and not just the emotion of any single moment. I’d have a collection of magical moments that by shear weight alone smooshed the fear, uncertainty and doubt into a pancake at the bottom. Smoosh smoosh. Smoosh.

If I were to stare at this stack too closely, I might get lost in one piece of it and lose sight of what’s at the top; the stacked moments yet to come. They’re coming and they’re not concerned about the ones below them. **Whatever** they hold, I should look forward to them and not spend too much time dwelling on the moments stacked below. Like rings in a tree, they hold you up, but remain unchanged once they’ve happened.

Something bigger than me. Yeah. Much bigger.

This was all in a dream I had, so it might not make sense.

Alternate job opportunities for RoboCop

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Last night, R & E and I had a conversation about RoboCop. It’s one of my all-time favorite movies. Not because of the futuristic, sci-fi robotic action; but because I laugh really hard anytime anyone repeats this line from the movie.

We got to talking about other possible job opportunities for the police officer who became RoboCop. If I remember the plot right (no, I’m not going to spend even a nanosecond reviewing the plot of RoboCop on Wikipedia), all of officer Murphy’s limbs were damaged beyond repair and replaced with robotic parts when he became RoboCop. But, what if they had given him a choice between making him into RoboCop or just leaving him with (probably) no limbs?

We didn’t actually discuss the context for our reasoning. So I feel the need to say that these options only apply to the severely injured officer Murphy of the Detroit Police Department. I think it is safe to say that the Detroit portrayed in the movie basically had three kinds of people: cops, criminals, and victims. Given that limited set of employment opportunities, we decided the injured officer Murphy’s career choices come down to the following:

  • He decides to let the fancy doctors who cuss a lot make him into RoboCop.
  • He becomes an extra in porn movies (“I’m just here to watch”).

Other, less viable options such as paperweight, children’s toy, and giant drain plug were immediately dismissed or not said aloud during the discussion. As I type this, I think voice-over actor is another possibility. I remember there being a lot of television in RoboCop. So that is a viable option for a guy with the voice of officer Murphy. I bet you could make a pretty cool cartoon character with the catch phrase, “Dead or alive, you’re coming with me.”

So, there you go. Other viable career opportunities for the injured officer Murphy. We discussed this. For awhile. For far longer than anyone should discuss the merits of a limbless Detroit police officer acting as an extra in a porn.

I’m so going to hell for this.

Update: corrected spelling (caps on the C) of “RoboCop”; corrected spelling of “sergeant” and then removed it because I couldn’t find proof officer Murphy was actually a sergeant.

Betterman

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In November of 1994, I was busy with 4 things: going to junior college in the morning, loading boxes into trailers at UPS in the evening, and dating a pseudo-Catholic girl who had anger issues in the later evening. At that age, you could basically sum up my relationship skills as “just happy to (still) be there.” I spent a fair amount of time wondering when and how I was going to get dumped. It’s funny now, to think I woke up every morning and used a few cognitive cycles wondering if that day would bring relationship carnage. But of course back then, life itself was dependent on the outcome of every phone call and pager message.

Oh wait, I said 4 things, didn’t I? Yeah. My buddy Jason and I spent most of the fall of 1994 waiting impatiently for the release of Pearl Jam’s third album, Vitalogy.

I’m 99% sure I would have sold drugs, my body, or my little brother for a pre-release copy of Vitalogy. After all, the band had played “Not for You” on Saturday Night Live seven months earlier, fired their drummer over the summer, and started a fight with Ticketmaster over concert ticket service fees.

This album was going to be epic.

Luckily for those of us with a crack-like addiction to PJ, Vitalogy was released on vinyl a few weeks ahead of the CD version and Jason got his hands on it.

Vinyl is awesome, if totally non-portable. I didn’t have a record player in my 1992 VW Jetta, so I had to make a bootleg cassette tape version of Vitalogy for the car. I remember hacking together an unholy vinyl-to-tape-recorder-thing-a-ma-jiggy and, an hour later, I had my pirated cassette copy of Vitalogy (except Stupidmop, because everyone skips that track anyway :-).

The song I couldn’t wait for was track 11, “Betterman.” It’s a somewhat sad song (hello, 90’s anti-ballad. Would you like a tissue?) about a woman who is stuck in an unhappy place; with only her dreams to comfort her.

She lies and says she still loves him.
Can’t find a better man.
She dreams in color, she dreams in red.
Can’t find a better man.

In the first week I owned my pirated cassette tape, I listened to Betterman at least 50 times. If you are under age 25, you have no idea how difficult that was. You had to rewind the tape. And it didn’t just stop where it was supposed to. You had to guess where to press the play button and hope you stopped it at the right moment. Knowing precisely where to stop the tape is truly a lost art. But I digress.

After a few listens to Betterman, I remember wondering if my angry girlfriend was like the woman in the song. Lying about being in love (whatever “love” is at 19 years old) because she could not muster the strength to leave and find a better man. Was my girlfriend dreaming in color? In red? I could only think about one side of that song; that girl who was dreaming in color. In red.

[Fortunately for me, a few months later, I came to terms with the fact that she was just angry and there was nothing I could do about it. She had a bad relationship with her dad and being angry with me was her therapy. So I moved on. And that was closest I ever got to being Catholic.]

—

Last fall, Pearl Jam played a retooled and slower version of Betterman at Neil Young’s Bridge School benefit concert at Shoreline Amphitheater. Listen while you read on.

After hearing this version of Betterman, I found the song was once again stuck in my head for a spell.

My interpretation of Betterman has become less naive as I’ve gotten older. No one you love should be resigned to only dream in color. I think if you’re living well, you’re in search of that color all the time. I think life is about finding the color you dream about in real life; about finding yourself a spot from which you can see all the color the world has to offer. And finding a way to add your own color to it as well. Creating your own palette and throwing brush strokes at the sky. If your dreams are more colorful than your waking hours, that might be a sign that it’s time to rattle your bones, take a deep breath, and jump.

Most importantly, though, is that you allow those you love to find color in the way that best suits them. Sometimes that means letting them go seek a better place, a better life, or a better…something. Maybe that’s just for awhile. Or maybe it’s forever. The only way to be a Betterman, is to know/understand/respect when it’s time to let go. Let them go. Just let it all go and see what finds its way back to you.

Thought sea

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Shadow of a red birthday balloon on a wooden fence

Underneath the world you think you see
is a sea of what you think.

So drop your glass beneath the surface,
and collect some thoughts to drink.

But don’t grab the simple ones,
the troubled ones,
or the thoughts that make you sad.

Grab the nimble ones,
the dimpled ones,
the daisies in the back.

Reach for the shiny ones,
the blinding ones;
thoughts that shimmer in the dark.

Find the knotted ones,
purple, polka-dotted ones;
they start fires with their sparks.

Take a sip and swallow them.
Hold them tight against your heart.

And when a new sun shines upon tomorrow,
you’ll be ready for its start.

Drink.