30 Minutes a Day: Before and After

History

In spring of 2015, I implemented a tradition of taking a 30-minute walk. I strolled. I meandered. I gave myself a break. I took photographs. You can read more about it here.

The walk morphed a bit in the summer of 2015 and again in the fall. Finally, I fired it.

Before

In December of 2015 I was experiencing holiday stress. I took up my 30-minute walk again. First, I un-fired it. Then I changed it.

The other walks I took earlier that year were slow. I decided that even though I was alternating cardio with yoga and Pilates most days, I needed even more vigorous movement in my day. So I instituted a 15-minute power walk. At the end of the 15 minutes, I'd do a slower walk and take some photographs or just look around.

It turns out that this walk was working out beautifully and the extra pumped up movement paired with slower movement was putting a dent in my anxiety and bad holiday attitude.

I had no reason to stop doing my walks as December 2015 turned into January 2016. Except for one thing. I broke my ankle.

After

I wasn't exercising, power walking or doing anything adventurous when it happened.

I was walking down the street minding my own business. The sidewalk wasn't icy or unusual. It was a run of the mill sidewalk. But my foot got caught in a crack and stayed there when I fell. That's how I ended up with a mild fracture and a bad sprain.

I adjusted to the lack of my usual movement. I took up guided meditation.

After starting PT and healing a lot, I decided to go for a walk outside without my orthopedic boot. I was wearing regular sneakers.

I went around the block twice. I became accustomed to the uneven surfaces, the inclines, the dips and the hit of fresh air.

I stayed inside during a massive snowstorm. The next day I made my way in a careful fashion to Chinatown for my daughter's birthday party.

The next afternoon, I went around and around my block, at a healthy clip for 15 minutes. I confined myself to this area because the sidewalk was clear and dry and safe. I didn't have to negotiate black ice, snow or frozen slush. When I was finished walking fast, I walked slow. I took some photographs.

I did it again today only for 20 quick minutes and 15 slow, creative ones.

I like the predictability as I ease back into cardio. My body is remembering what to do. The novelty happens as I am walking slowly. The scenery changes ever so subtly. The light is different every day. So is the snow. What is covered up one day is revealed the next.

The snow is melting more quickly than I thought it would. Soon, the other sidewalks and the curb cuts will be clear enough for me to go farther afield. At some point in the future my ankle will be fit to sustain a careful run. I'll cut a wide swath through Inwood and beyond. My period of relative confinement will be a memory.

I like to travel sometimes. But I don't need to. Having this injury proved it. When the block is all I have, it's good enough. Better than that, actually.

My slower than usual pace allowed me a moment to notice this scraped wall awaiting plaster - and the nearly bare branches in front of it.

This neatly folded leaf stands in contrast to the crystalline snow.

I'm finding beauty in the withered and ruined.

It wouldn't be post-blizzard if I didn't photograph one car covered in snow.

Nature provided me with pristine perfection to explore.

This tiny piece of foil became the latest addition to my Beautiful Trash Series. The snow melted at a prodigious rate of speed leaving this sooty patch in its wake.

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My Future Crappy Work

Sometimes - often - I will do some writing, a collage or photography and realize quickly that it is crappy.  In many cases, I abandon it entirely. Delete.

Other times, I salvage it. A few tweaks and then it's good. I wrote about that experience here in The Crappy Collage.

On occasion I'll jump ship on the first attempt, then re-do it from start to finish. I do this when the idea is good but there is something wrong with the execution.

If I share some writing, collage or photography that means I like it. That's the simple way of looking at it.

It might be almost perfect. But I allow for some other things to happen. Sometimes I try something new on for size and see what sticks. I might consciously decide to explore a new direction or post something I'm a little on the fence about.

If I insisted on perfection every time, sure every time, well developed every time, I wouldn't share anything and I wouldn't do anything.

For the most part though, if I share it I'm proud of it.

If I'm lucky, I stay proud. There's stuff I've made or written that I love as much as the day I finished it. These are rarified moments in artist-time. I cherish this.

There is an in-between thing that happens frequently. Time passes, and if I had it to share again, there are small things I'd change. A paragraph I'd get rid of. Something that could have been more refined. I could have shifted my vantage point a bit to the left. Cropped something out.

So far, I've acknowledged this, but left the words or the image alone. I'm more interested in moving onto the next thing. It was a moment in time and I'm willing to let that be. This isn't brain surgery. This kind of imperfection never killed anyone.

If I get anything published I'll work with my editor and address it then.

Every once in a while, something else happens. I won't beat around the bush.

There is work that I created and shared at some point in the past. This work is crappy. I did not realize it at the time. I thought it was good six months or three years ago. My intentions were good.

It took some time and distance for me to realize it was crappy.

I took a bunch of crappy photographs and wrote a bunch of crappy words. While doing this, I learned a few things. The work I do now is much less crappy because of it.

I stay pragmatic and I stay positive. However, it sometimes takes my breath away, just how crappy something I did is. It's like the air being let out of a balloon. Or the terrible sound the needle makes scratching against an LP.

I keep it in perspective. How important is it that I shared a crappy photograph of moss in 2012? Or that a collage that accompanied a blog post is the paper and glue version of a train wreck? Bad poetry isn't the worst thing that can happen.

Crappy work is something I try my best to avoid but once it's been out there a while it's like carrying a screaming two-year-old out of the lake whose lips are turning blue. He needs to come out of the water. He doesn't want to come out of the water. He's making a lot of noise and kicking. People are looking.

He's your third child. He's acting crappy. You know he's acting crappy. All of these people at the beach know he's acting crappy. You’re not worried or defensive about what these people are thinking. You and these people are in agreement about the crappy screaming. It's best to contain things and move on. Don't overthink it like you did with the first.

That's exactly how it is with the crappy memoir piece I wrote.

My problem isn’t with what I did. My problem is with what I am about to do.

I write a blog post. I do what I always do these days. I write it.  I get rid of some of it. I make a collage. It had no diagonals because I am sick of diagonals. I use my computer printer in a ways that utilize classic printmaking techniques with an irreverent twist. The entire effect is beautiful.

I have a satisfied feeling that comes from doing a good job. I am proud of my work.

But then it occurs to me that I was proud of all the other work I did before and then at a later date I realized that some of it was crappy. Furthermore, there wasn't much rhyme or reason to which work had staying power and which work would become crappy later.

That's when I realize that I might have just finished some future crappy work!

I sit with the worry for a little while. Then I let it go.

It's easy for me to not publish crappy things in real time. I'm not an idiot. I’m not lazy.

The only way to avoid sharing work that I am sure wouldn't ever be crappy later would be to make work and then sit on it for several years before sharing it. Then after a decade, I could see what was still good.

Or I could keep working and working without sharing until becoming a near perfect writer or artist or photographer. I'd emerge, fully formed seeming like an overnight sensation or hidden genius.

These ideas are romantic and not without appeal.

Here's why I'm not doing it.

When I was younger there were limited ways of sharing your work. There was no social media. You could be in a gallery show, you could be published in a book or magazine, you could get commercial assignments, you could show your portfolio of carefully crafted prints to other people.

I did all of these things. But there could be long, lonely spaces between shows, assignments, and publications. Things remained buried in drawers and clamshell boxes. Sometimes I couldn't get anyone to look at my work.

In the best of all worlds, I'd shoot beautiful still life photographs that almost no one would see for six months because that was the lead-time of the magazine.

I wasn't made to work in isolation. Social media is one of the best things that has happened to me.

There is something democratic with all of this. In a global sense, there are no gatekeepers. Our lives are crowded with crappy work that we now need to delete, filter or ignore. Some people dislike this. There's no one keeping the riffraff out.

I've said it before. The cream will rise to the top. It always does.

I can't worry about what work will remain suspended and preserved in amber, or for how long. I can't worry about what will seem antiquated in a month, what will gain meaning with time or look like amateur hour a year from now.

So if you look and read, you'll see my process. It's not a fairy tale. That would be a lovely work of fiction. You never know. I might just write that fable someday.

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Facebook New Year's Resolutions

I was relatively late to social media. In my case, waiting was a good idea. I got to observe from the sidelines. I avoided learning some things the hard way.

When I finally joined Facebook I was ready. That's important to point out. 

That's why I was surprised and appalled to have had not one, but two, skin crawling, nauseatingly negative experiences on Facebook. One of them was a couple of years ago, but still smarts. The other one was a week ago. 

Both experiences made me feel badly on two levels. One was that my feelings were deeply hurt. Another was that there was something about the way they went down that, in retrospect, might have been prevented had I been a little more savvy or careful.

It is tempting to publicly describe what happened. As difficult as it is in the short run, I think I will be happier in the long run taking the high road. Another way of putting it is that I am keeping it classy. A third interpretation is that I am above such behavior. Putting myself on this social media pedestal is a very satisfying feeling at this juncture.

It was surprising to note that things that happen via social media can feel just as crappy as things that happen in "real life.”

Nasty Facebook events have not happened in a vacuum. I've been given an opportunity to learn from any mistakes I have made in my choice of Facebook company.

I've taken a long, hard look at my Facebook life. As a result, I've come up with some resolutions. I am calling these New Year’s resolutions, but, truthfully, I've put them into effect immediately.

I am hoping that by implementing these safeguards, awareness, and common sense measures, I might avoid feeling emotionally battered in the future. Maybe it will help you, too.

Remind Yourself That You Don't Have Your Entire Toolbox

When we meet a person face-to-face in real time, we are evaluating them on levels that we are not fully cognizant of in the moment. We use eye contact, body language, nuanced conversation, and social signaling. Even the quality of a handshake or a smile can tell us tons of information about a person. Is this person safe or a threat? How is our chemistry together? Am I looking to extend the conversation or politely exit? Are we laughing?

When we meet someone for the first time on social media, we are stripped of abilities that for most of us are so natural, so ingrained that we might not appreciate their full function. It behooves us to remind ourselves that when we make friends on Facebook, we are doing it with one metaphorical hand tied behind our backs.

Continuously Ask Yourself: Do I Like This Person? Do I Still Like This Person?
This may seem obvious. But when I was honest with myself about the living, breathing cautionary tales I call former Facebook friends, I came to a shocking conclusion. I didn't actually like these people in the first place.

Things change. Maybe the funny stoner you liked in high school casts a negative pall on your newsfeed. Maybe you liked someone two years ago, but don't like them anymore.

Or maybe you didn't think being Facebook friends was that big a deal.

If you wouldn't consider being real life friends with someone then consider why it's okay to be Facebook friends.

I took a spin through my current friends list. The vast majority of the people on it are people I like - a lot. A couple of people gave me pause. That brings me to the next pointer.

Quietly Un-Friend People Before It Turns Completely Toxic
Just unfriend. Don't private message people to tell them why. Don't call them out on your status updates. Take the high road. But do it.

If Things Have Already Turned Toxic, Block Them
If the person gives you the heebie jeebies or you just don't want to see their crappy stuff in your newsfeed, block them. Especially do this if they bother you with private messages.

Continuously Ask Yourself: Does This Friend Like Me?
I admit to not having thought of this much previously. But sometimes I like certain people more than they like me in my non-social media life. I tend to move on quickly if I sense the other person doesn't like me. This can and should apply to Facebook.

If I find that I'm the one dishing out encouragement, comments, and likes with nary an acknowledgement, I’m going to start looking at that.

If I find that I am not feeling included in certain discussions, am not fine art enough, bereaved enough, gay enough, snarky enough, gorgeous enough or just not enough, I'm going to start quietly unfriending. If people are cliquey I'm quietly unfriending. I'm 52 years old. I graduated from high school a long time ago.

Consider Unfollowing
This is a late discovery of mine. There are three possible ways I am planning to use this capability.

I am going to put some people on probation. They are showing me some red flags. It will be a stopgap measure between being their friend and not being their friend. I'll check in with their wall once in a while to see what I think. In any case, If I can use a break from their updates.

I will unfollow and then follow again depending on what is happening.

Then there are people whom I like and are positive people. But there are only so many cat, dog, or sports pictures I can see in one day. I plan to check in with their wall, see what their up to and if something changes about the tenor of the posts I'll follow again.

And finally, I may need to temporarily distance myself during September, which is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. Last year, I felt under siege by the sheer numbers of posts. I lived childhood cancer and to some extent I still do. I do not need to be reminded of the ravages or risks to my surviving children all of the time.

Everyone is different. I have an unlimited interest in people's children. I enjoy seeing people's meals. But if you don't like these things, then unfollow.

I found this article helpful on the subject of unfollowing.

Be Careful About The Friend Requests You Accept In The First Place.
In my non-social media life, I am friendly but cautious. I am warm but not particularly initiating. This pattern extended to Facebook - at first. Most friend requests come from others.

But then I got a little sloppy. I accepted friend requests with the sole criteria that the person and I had some mutual Facebook friends. It's time to get a bit more discriminating. I need to vet people more carefully. And once I accept a request, I'll put that person on probation for a bit.

Read Between The Lines Of Your Facebook Friend's Non-Social Media Life
Who seems to have a healthy relationship with family and friends? Group pictures, being tagged, shared family gatherings, party pics, and evidence of breaking bread with others are a clue, however imperfect, to the person being capable of healthy relationships. If they have children, do they seem to take pride in them? There's another clue.

On the other hand, one of my train-wreck former Facebook friends once publicly unfriended her own sibling, and another seemed to be a loner, which seemed romantic and appealing at first, but then not so much.

If Facebook is someone's only form of social interaction it might mean that the person is elderly, fighting chronic illness, living in a rural area or recently relocated. It could also mean something more sinister, and, excuse my language, fucked up is going on.

The capability to maintain social ties in real life says something about a person's ability to be a good friend on social media.

Be Careful About Riding In On The White Horse
One of my best qualities is my ability to step in in a crisis, be a good listener, support people through life stressors, and reach out during times of tragedy.

If your real life friend is undergoing surgery, cancer treatment, a period of unemployment, a divorce or a diagnosis, and posts about their struggles on Facebook, by all means support them there. If they are using social media to seek kinship and encouragement that can be a healthy coping skill.

If your real life friend is going through these things also consider a phone call, visit, a casserole, or hug. But that's a subject for another blog post.

Any empathic person will be moved by a new Facebook friend's struggle with domestic abuse, a child's diagnosis, or a financial setback.

Deep friendships have been formed around struggle particularly if you yourself have experienced something similar.

But be careful about reaching out if you don't know the person well. I've learned the hard way that hardship does not always elevate an individual. I've been a virtual cheerleader, kept vigil through people's follow up scans, encouraged people to seek help, only to find out later that, sick or not, the person was essentially a jerk.

And as unsavory as this is to report, people will sometimes make up stuff and post it on Facebook just for attention. That is a serious mental illness in which you don't need to get mixed up.

Heed These Red Flags
Public unfriending and shaming
Micro-complaining takes up the majority of status updates
Black and white, rigid thinking
Combative questioning and comment style
Lack of healthy boundaries
Excessive attention seeking
Grossly non-reciprocal Facebook relationship
Excessive TMI
Threatens to leave Facebook but never does
Suspected lying or fabricating
Something doesn't "feel right" and you can't put your finger on why.

I Know My Wall Is Weird
I have 21 separate photography series I post on a weekly schedule. I also share this blog. For one entire year I took a photograph of my dinner and posted a description. These are artistic things. These are weird things. I get that.

I post these weird, artistic things in addition to the more usual stuff. Pictures of my family. An occasional selfie. My Christmas tree.

I share some political stuff.

It's a lot.

Here's the thing, though. I'm a generous Facebook friend. I share friends’ art, blogs, crowdfunding requests and petitions. I pray for people. I encourage people. I exclaim over people's kids, home renovations, and accomplishments. People who aren't freaks remember and appreciate this.

But even so, I know I'm sharing a lot of photography of weeds, trash, nearly dead flowers, odd parts of NYC and crumbling Mid-century modern architecture.

I won't apologize for it. But if it's a bit much for you, I invite you to unfollow me. You could even unfriend me. But if you do either of these things, please do it quietly. If I find out later you unfriended me, I will probably block you. Because if we aren't friends anymore, why in God's name would I want to see your posts anyway?

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Modern Narcissus

Today it's you. There's always been you and others like you. Recently, and stretching way back.

I'm smart.  I've avoided some of you. They threw up red flags. Or I was paying better attention then. In other words, I don't fall for it every time.

When I'm savvy, I know which one of you is friend material and who is only good for some fun on social media or at a party. Because people like you are always fun.

I know who to make excuses with, whom not to be one-on-one with, who is charming with an edge. When I know I'm being manipulated, I'm immunized.

Then there are the other times. Maybe I get together with you when our mutual friends aren't around. We exchange email addresses. We take it up a notch.

We share some laughs and a confidence. There's two ways it goes bad.

There's the slow burn. Something doesn't feel right. It's a flower blooming, only ugly. It happens gradually and I never get to see the unfurl. I put the puzzle together as clues come in.

There's the quick scorch. I figure you out in a flash. Instead of the pieces connecting methodically over time, I'm hit over the head with you.

Once I have you figured out, whether it's the fast way or the slow way, the next few hours will feel like crap.

I'm pretty disappointed in myself for not heading it off before.  Here's what softens my critique.

One is that I picked it up when I did. I could just as easily be commenting on your post, meeting you at Shake Shack or giving out unilateral support. Now is infinitely better than never. Or later.

You have no shortage of friends, so it isn't just me.

Social media can make the sifting harder, but I'm getting wise to that. You and your brethren are putting up signposts.

You're good at what you do. It's easy for you. This is your stock and trade, your shining talent, your decathlon. Nature, nurture or a freak accident made you this way, and that's how you'll stay. I speculate then stop. It's useless.

I inventory what happened and say I'll know better next time. And often I do. It's important to mention that.

But there will be a next time. You're all cut from the same cloth but you come in a dizzying array. You're all viruses. You morph.

Still, I found out not long ago that there's a name for what you are. So I slap the label on you. It's not personal. It is what it is. And it helps.

That is when things turn cordial between you and me.

There is no fanfare. No recriminations. There's no conversation or long goodbye either.

I wait. I'm patient for the moment, an easy opportunity, predictable as rain. You become absorbed, rapt either in yourself, or someone else. I steal away, on tiptoe, the trained dancer that I am and the one I've become.

I've turned the tables.  You're the mark now. You'll never even know what happened.

If you could craft the words, you'd say you miss seeing your reflection in me. But if you were capable of that, I wouldn't have such  a problem with you.

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Adrian

1977

I am 14 years old. I watch Rocky on TV because I'm not allowed to see it in the theater. My guess is that it had too many adult themes for my mother's liking. There isn't any explicit pre-marital sex in the movie, but it's implied. Grease is off limits for the same reason.

TV is more loosey-goosey at my house. I watch it there. That's all I remember of the circumstances.

Here's what I do recall, as clear as day.

I'm sucked in immediately. Some of it is over my head. Here's what's not.

I come from an Italian American family. I live in a nice suburb. I recognize the kind of neighborhood Rocky lives in. It's the kind of place my people pulled themselves out of a generation or two ago. And by hell or high water, they aren't going back.

Rocky is good looking, in a smoldering, rough around the edges, yet sensitive way. No one in my family or social circle could possibly be called The Italian Stallion. Fat man. Man of mixed ancestry with beard. Sullen man. But not Italian Stallion.

I remember Adrian, brilliantly played by Talia Shire. Nothing about Adrian is above my head. I identify immediately.

Adrian is nerdy. She works in a pet store. I surmise that she gets along better with animals than people.

Adrian wears cat glasses. No one wears cat glasses anymore except for grandmothers. They are audaciously out of style. I'm pained looking at them.

I know about the glasses trick. I've seen it in countless movies and TV shows. I know what will happen. But that doesn't make it any less interesting.

The glasses thing can only work if the rest of you looks good. And so it is with Adrian.

Rocky likes Adrian even though no other guys are interested. I'm getting the idea that whom you fall in love with is subjective. There are people that anyone would love. Then there are the rest of us. Love can transcend poverty, bad clothes, extreme shyness and almost anything else.

Back to the glasses scenario. One thing leads to another. Rocky is persistent. Adrian is really shy. I've met shy people. I've been a shy person, on and off again. But what I am seeing is off the charts.

One thing leads to another. Rocky is getting ready to kiss Adrian. But first he asks her to take off her glasses and her rather ratty hat. A scene I've seen played out everywhere from the Brady Bunch forward unfolds.

Once Adrian takes off the glasses and hat, she is pretty. Her hair is shiny and, in a lucky twist, loosely resembles Dorothy Hamill's. Her skin is clear. She manages to look both gamine and exotic. Naturally, they make out.

The make out scene is unlike anything I've seen before. This isn't soft focus Rock Hudson and Debbie Reynolds. It's not even Alan Alda. There's realism here. The camera is right up in there with them. I've got a front row seat, which is the closest I'm going to get to any of this action for quite some time.

The more time Adrian spends with Rocky the better looking she gets. She's also less shy as time goes on. She gets some new clothes and bright colors that are still a nod to what she used to wear, but her nightgowns resemble mine.

I take a mental note of what she's wearing. She's skinny and so am I. But I doubt my mother would agree to a red coat with fake fur around the collar and a beret.

The movie gives me a lot of hope.

The underdog doesn't win, but is triumphant anyway.

Love is transformative.

Hard work pays off even when you have no resources.

I'm in 8th grade and I have Study Hall. I go to the library and sit down at one of the listening stations. I insert a cassette in the 8-track player of the theme from Rocky. I already know I like it because it's all over the radio. I put on the giant headphones and listen again and again.

Rocky and Adrian have long-range influence. In the summer between 9th and 10th grade, I take up jogging. At first it's a disaster, but I work my way up. By the time school starts I'm in shape.

It's the first gym class of 10th grade. We are doing relay races. Team captains are selected by the teacher. The captains then select three teammates. An obese, uncoordinated girl and myself are chosen last.

The classmates on my team and off my team get something they aren't expecting that day. Their mouths hang open. They are incredulous. An athletic girl who made fun of me in previous gym classes approaches me in the locker room. You should really try out for track, she said.

* * * * *

2000

It's the weekend. I'm in my 30's and enormously pregnant with my third child. My due date is approaching. I feel some mild contractions. I lie down with a snack and a glass of water. The contractions calm down. Braxton Hicks.

Hannah is either napping or playing with Jeremy. I flip the channels. Rocky is on. I get sucked in.

I've had an arts-intensive college education, followed by full and part time jobs working for established photographers. I've been on my own as a freelance still life photographer for 14 years. I'm leading a highly aesthetic life.

I'm drawn in by the story. But I am equally amazed by the beauty and naturalism of the film. This is around the time when I realized that if I worked in film, I'd rather be the cinematographer than the director. That way people could say that the film sucks, but the cinematography is amazing.

The cinematography in Rocky is amazing.

I laugh a little at the Bicentennial references in Rocky. The 1970s have become funny.

I become distracted by the baby. Baby #3 has predictable patterns. When I am on my feet working, walking around or chasing his sister, he is calm, either resting or sleeping. When I lie down, he wakes up and becomes very active.

My attention draws further inward to the baby. I don't finish the movie.

Later the same week, I have insomnia. It's hard to find a comfortable position. The baby is moving around as much as he possibly can in his tight quarters. I watch Yentl.  Young Mandy Patinkin is dreamy. He's more my type than Sylvester Stallone.

Barbara Streisand as a boy wouldn't fool anyone but I suspend disbelief.

Once the baby is born, I see the same patterns on the outside as I do on the inside. To this day, the child is soothed by movement. You can learn a lot about someone during gestation.

* * * * *

2015

I'm watching Rocky with my husband and teenagers. We watch it in two installments because of people's schedules. The second viewing is done on Noah's laptop because the TVs are temporarily out of commission.

Once again I am sucked in. I am focused on Adrian.

It doesn't take me long to come to a pretty firm conclusion that Adrian is on the autism spectrum.

People with high functioning autism - also called Asperger's syndrome - have always lived among us. It isn't a new phenomenon.

Back in the day people who had autism but were less high functioning than Adrian were often misunderstood and institutionalized. People like Adrian did the best they could.

Watching Adrian feels familiar and relatable.

 I add Adrian to my Asperger’s list.

To make a long story short I am familiar with Asperger's syndrome and autism because of someone close to me. At around the same time, I developed ideas about other people in my life. I felt compelled to make a list of people.  Most of the people on the list are people I know. Some are Facebook friends. Some are famous. A few are fictional.

If I know you, you're on my Asperger’s list.

There are people with no autism whatsoever. I have these people on a definitely do not have autism list.

There are people who have some traits, but I believe do not fit the criteria for even the mildest form of autism. They're on a separate part of the list.

If I am still getting to know you but need more time to decide, then you are on my maybe list.

There are people who have not been evaluated formally but I believe have Asperger's syndrome. I have them on my probably list.

There are people who have been formally evaluated by someone more qualified than me. They self-identify as having autism. That's the list they are on.

There are the people whose autism is so obvious that there is nothing subtle about it. That's another sub-category.

This list is just for me. I've said this before when the going gets tough, the tough get reading. When the going gets tough, the tough also make lists.

If I know you, up you might want I ask me where you fall on my list. I'm not going to tell you. I'm not showing it to anyone. If you're concerned, have an evaluation.

Back to Adrian.

I noticed the traits of autism throughout the beginning of the movie. Researchers are studying the difference between how autism presents in males and females.  Adrian has what I've been unprofessionally calling Girl Asperger’s. Females can look and present differently than males.

The evidence mounts when a bad argument erupts between Adrian and her much older brother-slash-screwed-up-father-figure Paulie. Paulie loses his shit and starts spewing venom about how Adrian couldn't have lived on her own and has been a burden.

Once Adrian's relationship with Rocky starts, things soften. She seems more neurotypical as time goes on.

Some would conclude that entering a loving, sexual relationship with Rocky would not be enough to bring about this change in a person with true autism. But here's what they say. If you've met one person with Asperger's you've met one person with Asperger's. Also, it's a movie.

Adrian does not go into the arena for the big fight. Understandably, she does not want to watch Rocky get beat up. But I also think that the sounds, lights, crowds and chaotic atmosphere would have been too much for her sensory integration issues.

She must really must love Rocky because once he starts screaming Adrian she goes running through the mobs and noise to hug him even though he is all bloody and sweaty.

Back in the 1970s there would have been a lot of confusion about people like Adrian. There was no early intervention. She wouldn't have had an IEP. There were no books or understanding. Even if there were, poverty would have gotten in the way.

The words “dysfunctional family environment” were also not bandied about in 1976.

My third viewing of Rocky is a little more interesting than I anticipated. I keep my observations to myself. I also do a little Googling to see if anyone else is on the same page with the Adrian-autism connection. There are people on the same page. There are people having arguments about it, either yes or no. Some say definitely. Others are like, no, no, she's just really, really shy. Just like life offline.

One of my kids asks what's up with Rocky's eyes. He always looks like he just woke up. That's called bedroom eyes I say.

I wonder privately if my son is going to remark on the glasses.

Adrian allows the removal of the cat glasses. Then for the rest of the movie, she does not wear them. Perhaps she was fitted for contact lenses. Back in 1976, contact lenses were expensive. It doesn't quite fit with the socio-economic picture of this family.

Maybe Adrian was saving her money for a rainy day, and once she landed a boyfriend, decided to splurge on contacts and new clothes.

Or maybe it's one of those continuity glitches in the screenplay. Like I said before it's a movie.

My boy doesn't catch it, so I have nothing more to explain.

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Venn Diagram

There are things I am not good at. There are things I do not enjoy. There are things that are difficult for me to learn.

I won't focus on the things I am not good at. Except for this. It is good to know whom to hire. It is good to know who to collaborate with, consult with, or delegate to.

There are the things I am good at. These things are extremely enjoyable. They are also easy for me. Oftentimes I find myself in a flow state doing these activities. That is how much I like them.

I like them so much that no one pays me to do these things. I do them for free.

I get a lot of compliments on the things I do well. I don't know how you do it! people say.

I know what they mean. I feel the same way about other people's talents. I'm delighted by good dancing. I'm in awe of people who can put together IKEA or don't get lost in new places. I wonder how musicians feel after writing a spectacular song. There's just too much to keep listing this way because it goes on and on like the infinity symbol.

It’s been a while since I’ve worked for a paycheck. But I work hard. I also work smart. I've assessed a lot of skills doing the things I do, reading the things I do and collaborating with other people.

I might want to monetize the skills I've been amassing. Getting paid for the stuff I am good at, the stuff I love to do and the stuff I've been doing for free while in a flow state is something I am interested in.

A couple of weeks ago it hit me. I've been attending a graduate school of sorts. I didn't know I was enrolling in it, but I have been enrolled. I won't have a diploma and graduation ceremony.  It won't have a beginning, middle and end. On the other hand, I have no tuition or student loans.

The people I've worked with and collaborated with have not realized that they've been running an internship. But that is exactly what they have been doing.

The graduate school thought put a fresh spin on things. Here's where my thinking took me. Maybe reading about me will help you too.

Stuff I will not attempt to monetize.

There are certain things that I do very well and enjoy very much. But many people also find it easy or enjoyable to do these things for themselves. It would be difficult to find people who would want to pay someone else to do these enjoyable activities. Even if they did, the market would be flooded with other individuals who are good at the same activities and hoping to make a living at it.

I will just keep on doing activities like this for free.

Stuff I might attempt to monetize with some caveats

There are things that I do very well that not a lot of other people do nearly as well. It is more of a rare talent. I enjoy these types of activities very much.

There are potential problems with getting paid to exercise these particular rare talents.

I can do these activities better than almost anyone. However, most people aren't very discriminating when it comes to these particular things. They might be able to perceive the difference between good and crappy. But having someone else with less rare talent do it cheaply or doing it themselves badly is deemed good enough for most purposes.

Also, there are many, many rarely talented people who are willing to be paid to engage in activities like this.  There are more people willing to be paid than there are people to pay. This is a problem for me when it comes to getting people to pay me to do activities.

That does not mean I rule out monetizing these enjoyable activities. However, I'd need to think of this as not the main gig. It could be a secondary gig.  If it looks like it could take off, then I could always re-evaluate my prospects.

Stuff I will probably attempt to monetize

This is what I am calling the sweet spot.

There are some other rare talents I have. It turns out that the activities surrounding these talents are both enjoyable and important in ways the previously mentioned activities are not. The activities and skills are also more high stakes.

There are not very many people who do these activities well. There are not very many people who really want to do these activities. I sense that people would rather not do these activities but do not feel that they have a choice. Sometimes they engage others to do these activities who are clearly not up to the task.

 With the right approach, I could find people to pay me to do these activities.

I would find the people who can see the value in what I offer. I would find the people who are self aware and interested in delegating these activities. I would find the people who could afford to pay me.

This is important. People who are interested but cannot afford to pay me are not my prospects.  People of means who do not see the value in what I offer are also not my prospects.

Monetizing the Sweet Spot.

#1 Represents activities that I enjoy, learn to do easily, am talented at, and am better at than the majority of people.

#2 Represents those activities that most other people find difficult (from the standpoint of time, skills, or both), confounding, and not enjoyable.

#3 Represents my monetizing sweet spot.

My Potential Customer

#1 People who are interested in what I do well, value what I do well, and are comfortable with collaborating and delegating.

#2 People who can afford to pay me to do these activities for them.

#3 My potential customer

The reasons I left the workforce are the same reasons I am staying out of the workforce for now. But I am thinking about the near and more distant future. I am seeing where I might fit in and what my sweet spot might be.

I love Venn diagrams. I think there could be more of them as I sort out the whole monetizing skills thing. I've been making Venn diagrams for a long time to help me sort stuff out. This is the first time I've shared any of them.

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The Stories I Tell Myself

I tell stories about things that have happened to me. I tell these stories to other people. I have short versions and long versions of my stories.

The stories range from funny to banal to extremely sad. This is the stuff my life is made of.

There are the stories I write. There are the stories I tell. There are the stories I don't write or tell but carry.

All three kinds of stories help me make sense of my life. They give it a narrative. They infuse it with something.

This is true for you too.

I think about the stories. Not the details. Not who survived, who died, who taught me by teaching, who taught me by betrayal, who helped raise me, who might have helped but didn't.

I don't think about the places I've lived, apartments still the same in my mind's eye. I don't think about 1993. I'm not thinking of the words that lifted me up and the words that still smart.

I think about the telling of stories and the story of stories.

These stories belong to me. I take ownership of them. Your stories are yours.

Feeling a deep attachment to the stories we tell ourselves is natural.

But now I think beyond that.

I think about the stories that are in my mind - especially those. There are some old stories.

I step outside of myself. What if the story of what happened is told a different way? What if Joyce Carol Oates told my story instead of me? Annie Dillard, Jane Smiley, Anne Lamott, Mary Karr?

Would they come to different conclusions? Imbue it with different meanings? They could skip over certain parts and turn the focus on others. I'm not saying they'd make stuff up. Their truth would just be different. The truth would be the truth through their lens.

What if Raymond Carver, Frank McCourt or JD Salinger weren't dead? Jodi Picoult would have a field day with some stuff that's happened to me.

Someone else might spend a page and a half describing the art on the walls the day I met Jeremy for the first time. Sure, I noticed the art.  But the way I remember it was that I was wearing a red and white striped double front and back V-neck shirt and this cute tall guy came over to say hi with a really big smile.

I also wonder how non-writers would tell this story or that.

I think about myself in the third person sometimes. Something crappy will happen. But then I'll work with that construct. I'll come up with some other way of looking at it. Social workers call this process re-framing. I'm good at it now.

I help others do that with their stories. Somebody says I screwed up. I say, no you didn't. You did great considering the hurricane, the diagnosis, the divorce. For the love of god. You were 14 years old and no one was minding you.

Sometimes, I'd like to write someone else's story my own way. Let's say you're telling a story. There's pathos. There's tragedy. There's betrayal. There are circumstances that work against you at every turn.

I can't tell you this. But I don't see it the same way.

If he hadn't left, you wouldn't be with this guy. If you weren't fired, shown the door, made to pack your desk in a cardboard box, you would have never started your own business. You can't play basketball anymore but you were accepted to graduate school. You were no Michael Jordan anyway.

The one that got away is the one that got away. This is the house you're supposed to live in. This is the child meant for you. The music business would have eaten you alive.

This isn't the life you planned. I've gone ahead and re-framed it. From where I sit it's looking pretty good.

Maybe you're in the middle of it. Live your way into different treatments of this material that is your life. Know that you don't know precisely where this is going, but try things on for size.

Sometimes things happen to you that are so bad that there's nothing to say except I'm sorry. There's no re-framing. I've got nothing.

There's this other thing that happens.  You tell me a story. The telling is sculptural in that you recount it from different sides. It's complex. It sparkles. Raconteur is the wrong word for what you are. Artist seems right.

You hold me rapt in the perfection of your narrative.  I eat out of the palm of your hand. I wouldn't change a thing. You should write a book, if you haven't already.

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