As I've noted, I've been reading Tolstoi recently, and I just finished a story called "The Death of Ivan Ilyitch," which is basically about a Russian lawyer/judge named Ivan Ilyitch, who, approaching death more closely day by day, and enduring an agonizing suffering, finally gets his life into perspective. All the material goods he had spent years acquiring the ability to acquire, all the people he had known, most of whom only sought him out in the course of trying to get that which they sought to acquire, in the end, they didn't mean very much. He agonized for years about doing what was "right," in the eyes of the world and essentially ended up being miserable as a result. His wife was essentially chosen primarily on the strength of an intellect that would not embarrass him, social skills which would not betray his position among his friends and peers (which is to say, presumably, lack of a "tramp stamp" tattoo,) and domesticity which would see things getting done no matter what. What did love have to do with it? In the end, even the doctors lied to him, to quell his anxiety. "Sure, you're going to get better," they would all say. The one person who was totally honest with him, and diligent to him, one of his manservants, was the one who ended up being the greatest comfort to him. The closer he came, day by day to dying, the more he found it helped the pain to have his feet elevated. This manservant would rest his master's feet on his shoulders all night, while Ivan Ilyitch attempted to get some solace from his constant suffering. And as he lay dying, day after day, life swirled on around him. Having had my own near-death experience, it does indeed do much to put things into perspective. Perhaps to the point where you can become an absolute prig to everyone around you. And all you can utter is "so be it," because in the grand scheme of things, no car, no house, no spouse of whatever amazing beauty, fame or talent, means a da*n thing if you can't truly experience it.
To which everyone now is going, "okay, I'll bite, what now?!" I went outside this morning to discover that my driver's window in my poor, forlorn Oldsmobile, had been shattered; again. The first time it happened was when I was in Ohio, working for Roush, and it happened to alot of the guys who had come down the first night, ostensibly because some criminal types had seen us coming, and tried to take advantage of a bunch of guys with very expensive tool chests, most of which, as they found, had already made their way to safety before any of us got to the hotel. This was more random; the doors were all still locked, my suede jacket, my books, and even my portable CD player, which had somehow made its way under the seat, were all present and accounted for. My first thought after that was that somehow or other, through my forays into "social networking," someone, somewhere, despite my honesty about being married and everything else, had been slighted by some action of mine. My mind jumped to that scene in "Fatal Attraction," where Glenn Close pours acid on the hood of Micheal Douglas' car. (I hope I have the right movie. And of course, everyone remembers the "rabbit scene.") After a few forays into the "social networking" culture, it's small wonder the unemployment rate is so high; if you're gonna let your inner skank run loose, the way some people do, you'd be better advised to do it in some seedy little club, or darkened hotel room, and not all over the internet, in front of God and every-cyber-body. Maybe I'm totally wrong about what happened with my window, but in the wake of one of the worst summers I've experienced recently, "social networking" seems like one of the worse ideas I've ever had; it just ain't me, and frankly, cosmically, it may have been counterproductive. So I tore down what I had created, just to put an end to this drama, this whole ugly, inconvenient, unproductive summer of drama. If I have anything to say, and, of course, inevitably I usually do, I'll say it here, somehow.
In other news, in my latest meeting with my therapist, he audibly marveled at my ability, basically, to be as ADD as I am, with my wretchedly poor natural ability to focus, and get things accomplished. All that without resorting to violence, addiction or any of the other "coping" responses which are apparently very common in ADD adults. I marveled at this a bit myself, being no stranger to open anxiety and ugly responses of other ilk, and both Martha and Cheryl confirmed the thought. "A bit too able to (self-manage and self control,)" was a response that stuck out in my mind. I just don't see myself that way, I guess. Don't get me wrong, I also put a huge amount of energy into being able to self-manage, and retain my self-control. And some people have been more mightily chagrined by this than they first let on. I wish somebody would have said something. Part of it, of course, is that as a substitute teacher, particularly, you know you don't have the option of being able to respond the way your brain tells you you'd first like to. You have to take a deep breath and deal, and keep a tight grip on your responses. My coping response at the end of the day? Probably video games. I would say my die-cast collection, but I haven't really done much with that lately, I haven't seen any I'm absolutely dying to have. I admit to having been a shopping freak for a long time, and that was probably a coping response, but as I say, almost dying changes your perspective on that.