A dream is a wish your heart makes...but hearts were made to be broken.

If you read Psychology Today online religiously (as I do) and have a self-help collection that contains more than three titles (as I do), then you have come across the concept of intrinsic and extrinsic motivation. If you're not nuts or are nuts but haven't had any realizations yet about that fact, let me fill you in on what this is. Intrinsic motivation is motivation that comes from within a person. "I paint because I just love painting!" Extrinsic motivation comes from without. "I go to my shit job everyday because they give me the money I need to live." Pretty simple concept, right?

Well, just moments ago, I was sitting in the bathroom at work contemplating possible tweets I could post on my Twitter page when I came up with, "shaved my legs last night and didn't even get laid." That's when it hit me--most modern psychobabble is horseshit! I'd been duped AGAIN! I've got to stop reading Psychology Today religiously, but I get so bored at work and besides, sometimes I find good instructive articles for my boyfriend in the relationship section.

What does one have to do with the other? Well, I only shave my legs because I believe it will get me something I want--sex. I suppose one could argue that this is a mixture of motivations. It's somewhat intrinsic because I'm motivated by something I want (again, sex) to do something I otherwise would not care so much about doing (shave my legs). Honestly, I can still get the sex without shaving my legs, but I figure it provides a more pleasurable sensation for my partner during the act, so I try to keep up with it. But I find myself trying to calculate when I shave my legs around when I'm most likely to be having of the sex. "We had sex two days ago, which means tonight is probably a sex night, except he's not going to get home until late, and..." But this is pretty much the textbook definition of extrinsic motivation. It's certainly not like I shave my legs because I just love shaving my legs. Hell, I don't even do it for the wearing of the skirts. I will shamelessly go unshaven in a skirt if I haven't remembered to shave in a couple of days and that's what's clean.

Essentially what you've just learned is that I only care about people's good opinion of me when it leads to me getting laid.

Anyway, after thinking this about my leg shaving, I started thinking about how much of what we do is extrinsically motivated. Again, this means we do not do it for sheer love of the activity but because we have to do it in order to get something we want or need. But I've read so many freaking articles and books that hinged partially on the idea that we should be doing what we love! Ever heard the question, "Ask yourself what you would be doing if money were no object, then DO THAT!" Yeah. Whoever came up with that question is a) a marketing genius who has not only sold a lot of whatever he or she was selling but also helped a lot of other people who ripped off that sentiment sell a whole lot of something as well, and b) the ruiner of life. People read that in an article on a website, and the next thing you know they're trying to think up ways to move to the middle of nowhere and write the next great American novel (for instance--it's a hypothetical fantasy scenario). Problem is, imagine how realistic it must be that we can all write novels (or become painters, dancers, musicians, nuclear physicists) or do whatever else it is we love to do just for the sheer love of it while still getting paid a living wage for said thing.

If the minute you start to imagine that you panic, it's because it's IMPOSSIBLE--or, if it happened, it would lead to chaos of such proportions nobody would be doing any of those awesomeamazingwonderful things after about three weeks because we would be living in a Mad Max movie.

This philosophy--this "anybody can be anything and should only do that which makes them happy" thinking--is so hopelessly flawed, I don't even know where to begin to address it. First, it's classist. You know who came up with that thinking? Some rich 50-something white lady whose husband did a fancy job that allowed her the cash to go teach yoga in her very own ashram. Second, it's in full flight from reality. Hello, person who came up with this thinking--I'd like to introduce you to the American economy. I'd also like to introduce you to the social constructs that determine how much money people get paid for certain kinds of work and all the people who have been in bands their entire adult lives but never made a cent off their music. I'd like to introduce you to the concept that there are only so many positions available in any certain field. No, we do NOT need that many more internet content writers on the block. There's enough useless crap on the internet already.

Moving on...

Really, though, this philosophy sounds so wonderful! And it comes in even more subtle forms, like when we see Rachel suddenly go from coffeshop waitress to Ralph Lauren la-di-da on Friends. Hope that reference made sense; I never really watched that show. This idea that almost every action we take SHOULD be intrinsically motivated if we're GOOD people and we play our cards right is everywhere we turn...and it's harmful. I'm not a dream squisher. People ultimately do what they want. It's just that for most of us, eating and having a place to sleep are more important than quitting our jobs we hate in order to follow our dreams of not ever having to do anything that isn't fun EVER AGAIN. The reason that this thinking is harmful is that it sets people up for feeling like failures--perfectly successful people who've managed to make great art (even if they've never sold any), have fulfilling relationships (which, contrary to popular belief, are really important to a person's overall happiness and satisfaction with life), maybe write a screenplay that sits in a drawer but is nonetheless amazing, or raised a couple of kids whom they love. People who are good at their jobs, as much as they hate them some days. People who have managed to live through seriously tough stuff--and so much of life is tough stuff. I'm actually still amazed sometimes at the fact that I've been a grown-up without supervision for over 10 years and haven't been arrested or died yet. Everyone who knows me is nodding in agreement.

Ultimately, this philosophy is also tied up in the idea that money equals measurement of success. It isn't explicit, but what they're saying is that this is how you choose what to do for a living. So if you can't MAKE A LIVING out of your dreams, you've failed in some way. Because, you know, we should all be doing what we love FOR A LIVING. And I'm not discounting the fact that this does happen. We just have to be prepared in the event it does not happen for us. We might find perfectly awesome lives in the meantime, but only if we're willing to be okay with the fact that some very specific dreams didn't come true or, at the very least, that we never made OUR LIVING that way.

So follow your dreams. Just don't quit your day job yet.

Buzzwords

Yesterday, a friend who works in advertising said, "I don't want to work in advertising anymore." She then sent me to this ad agency's website. I read the "About Us", and I immediately felt disgusted. I know that's a strong word for such seemingly innocuous copy, but I hate buzzwords. I find myself reading stuff like that and thinking, "I'm not even really sure what that means anymore!" even though I know good and well what it means. Each of those words should mean a lot, but within the context of advertising copy, they become jibberish.

According to their "About Us", this company "delivers the smart business strategies and creative ideas that clients need to increase market share." This sentence makes my skin crawl. At this point, every marketing company "delivers" the "smart" "strategies" and "creative ideas" clients "need." These are words and phrases used in all marketing copy everywhere. These words are used because of their power. In fact, if you've worked in this industry, you've been asked to use "power words" when working on a project. When everyone is repeating these supposedly powerful phrases over and over to describe pretty much everything, though, they lose all their power. How powerful can it be to describe an advertising agency as "creative" when every advertising agency is supposedly "creative"? Ever repeated the same word to yourself over and over until it starts to sound really weird and you're not even sure if it's a word anymore?

That's how I feel about buzzwords.

I got in a fight with someone recently over the meaning of a word. We agreed on the approximate meaning, but I feel like there are subtle differences in the meanings of words that mean approximately the same thing. Even though two words might be synonyms, I don't consider them to neccessarily be interchangable. It became clear to me at some point that the person with whom I was having this argument thought I was being a real jerk. And, really, I'll concur. All that to say that I find myself overly preoccupied with the meanings of words at times. I'm not just talking about the dictionary definitions. Those are fairly static and not really up for debate. I'm talking about the connotations of words. I've had arguments with people where it became clear that we didn't really disagree about the fundamental points within the topic we were discussing--we were essentially arguing about the connotations of the pivotal words used in those arguments and we didn't even know it. My father and I do this all the time. Language is fascinating like that. Marketing copy is all about the meaning of words. Or, at least, it should be. What I don't understand is how people can read a sentence--let alone write one--like the one referenced above and not want to throw themselves off of a 70-story building.

We live in a world where we're surrounded by marketing copy all the time. It's so pervasive that it makes up a large chunk of our reality. It simply is a fact of our lives, not separate from our lives. What happens when such a large chunk of our environment is so devoid of any meaning? I completely admit to the limitations of words; it's one of the characteristics that makes them so interesting and so very fun to play with. But I will also say that words are one of the tools we use to explain ourselves. They are one of the ways in which we seek connection with each other. They fail us, but it is at their very point of failure that they also spur us to desire even greater understanding. If they're rendered meaningless while still playing such a fundamental role in how we perceive our reality, how will we share our experiences in a meaningful way?

I will admit that I've come to the conclusion that the most meaningful things that happen in life often cannot be explained in words. I had a dream last night that I was at the mall with a bunch of my brother's friends. I was trying to explain to them my newest theory on spirituality, and it sounded rather trite. It didn't feel trite. It felt very important. It felt important in my body. That felt like truth. But when the words were coming out of my mouth, the looks I was getting were the same kind of looks one gets when one is five and trying to tell an adult something very important. I remember feeling very frustrated because it even sounded stupid to me in the dream, but I couldn't think of any other way to explain it. I can admit to the fact that the meanings of words can fail on many levels in many situations. I can even admit to the fact that the things we might be trying to describe with those words are themselves ultimately meaningless. I don't know that I can believe that one hundred percent, but it's a proposition I cannot rule out.

So perhaps I simply love words too much. Perhaps it is merely that marketing copy is abusive to language. It doesn't play with it. It beats it up to the point where it is no longer even recognizable. Maybe marketing copy and it's place in the framework of our reality isn't a threat to our survival as a species or our ability to figure out the meaning of life. But it's possible that by kicking meaning in the dirt and dragging it through the mud like that as a matter of course, we're missing out on something really special.

Something like...meaning.

The Little Boy and the Rattlesnake

The little boy was walking down a path and he came across a rattlesnake. The rattlesnake was getting old. He asked, "Please little boy, can you take me to the top of the mountain? I hope to see the sunset one last time before I die." The little boy answered "No Mr. Rattlesnake. If I pick you up, you'll bite me and I'll die." The rattlesnake said, "No, I promise. I won't bite you. Just please take me up to the mountain." The little boy thought about it and finally picked up that rattlesnake and took it close to his chest and carried it up to the top of the mountain.

They sat there and watched the sunset together. It was so beautiful. Then after sunset the rattlesnake turned to the little boy and asked, "Can I go home now? I am tired, and I am old." The little boy picked up the rattlesnake and again took it to his chest and held it tightly and safely. He came all the way down the mountain holding the snake carefully and took it to his home to give him some food and a place to sleep. The next day the rattlesnake turned to the boy and asked, "Please little boy, will you take me back to my home now? It is time for me to leave this world, and I would like to be at my home now." The little boy felt he had been safe all this time and the snake had kept his word, so he would take it home as asked.

He carefully picked up the snake, took it close to his chest, and carried him back to the woods, to his home to die. Just before he laid the rattlesnake down, the rattlesnake turned and bit him in the chest. The little boy cried out and threw the snake upon the ground. "Mr. Snake, why did you do that? Now I will surely die!" The rattlesnake looked up at him and grinned, "You knew what I was when you picked me up."
-Old Native American Fable

A Few Forgotten Things

Disappearances

Where have you gone?
I believe I saw your back
disappearing over the black
hill, but I cannot be certain
it was you. Maybe it was myself
I saw, or a ghost of myself,
so murky and muddled I
could not make out the particular
features that made it unique.
All that I know is that you
are not here now, and I want
to believe you are gone,
not left, for it is so much
better for the both of us.

Letter to the Editor

I know what you're doing, you harlot--
you think I don't know, but I know it.
You think I am dumb in my silence;
you think you're escaping my notice.
You've never seen me:
I climb down in between things.
I've always had a talent for sneaking
unseen through even the most well-lit
rooms. I can hide in plain sight,
and at night I need not even cover
my head with the blankets. No one
knows me here. No one knows me anywhere.
I am only a faint feeling. People recognize
I have a face, they just aren't sure
whose it is. And the invisible, the ignored
see everything, the same way you can't
bullshit a bullshitter.

I know what you're doing, you overgrown
ingenue. You think you're still slick, but I
know that sickness. I had it once, a fever
in the middle of a summer morning,
bright and sharp as a burning red stamp.
My dear, you don't scare me. You are me--
I was you. I feel so tricky remembering your
tricks as I watch you perform them. You pull
a rabbit out of a hat, but I can see the hole in
the bottom and the man under the table.
So leave me be or don't, it doesn't matter.

The end is the same either way.

The History of Humiliation

It works like this: you get humiliated first. Someone decides that you're not it. Somebody leaves. Somebody purposefully says something awful to you, about you, because they were there first. They were humiliated first. Because they are you, but they don't want to be you. They don't want to be humiliated, so you get humiliated first. Then you find someone to humiliate. First you think you find someone who won't humiliate you, but you don't realize that even in thinking they can't humiliate you, you humiliate them. Then you decide they're not it. You leave. You purposefully say something awful to them, about them, because you were there first. You were humiliated first. You are them, but you don't want to be them. You don't want to be humiliated, so you humiliate them first...

I have a memory of something I never saw:
you, broken, laying on your bed in the middle
of a sleepless night. You can't go outside--
they might see the shame on your skinless
frame, your muscles aching with it, glowing
with it. I see it like I'm the ceiling, the walls,
the floor. I can feel the steam collecting
on me from where you are burning--your fevered
pitching about in response to memorized voices
that all left you behind. You are pressed into
place by the weight of all that you have been
seen as, the idea of yourself. You believe
that you are being pressed upon by the air,
something real, something all around inescapable.
You turn out the lights so that you are invisible,
physicality a reminder that you are. That you are
is a punishment. She told you so. You don't know
that for her to be is a punishment. She wakes
with an ache that pushes against her skin so forcefully
that every movement causes her insides to shriek.
For relief, she pressed herself against you like
an iron rod, bruising you to make it true.

This is the history of humiliation.

It's a Sickness

I see you looking at me with your odd-shaped eye.
I hear your black voice fall on the back stairs,
faint but particular,
weak but distinct.
The clatter of falling bricks
rises from the pavement--
I'm anxious, I've dropped everything I carry.

Your face doesn't change in the sudden chaos.
Your eye, still odd-shaped,
is deeply blank, a stone.
My skin trembles;
I know what it is to shake,
like a snake in a field,
shadowed by hawks.

I am like the man from Morel,
unseen, in love with the presence
of you. Invisible to your odd-shaped
eye. Invisible or feeling your
indifference. Suspended
in the iris of your still,
stark eye.

Bound

Put me in a tight dress, pull the strings
to make it tighter. Bind me in boning,
constricting fishnet hose. Feeling
my skin pressing against the fabric, it
works like a concrete casing, holding me
in and intensifying the sense I'm about
to explode. I can feel my pulse more clearly--
My feet begin to hurt on these heels.
The sensation of existing is sharp.
My stomach flutters when I breathe because
breathing has become more difficult,
suffocated. My skin becomes kinetic
with the restriction of my movement.
An anxiety attack is a panic at needing
to flee and being unable. An anxiety
attack is an excitement, no different
from falling in love--it is exhilarating,
and I am grateful when I am bound.