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In the past 3 days, I’ve had over 100 mugshots taken of me. Frontal pix, profile shots, photos from every conceivable angle. It seems like this should be more than enough, but I can’t dare to hope that I’m even close to being done.
The worst part is that I’m not even allowed to leave my cell to have my booking portrait taken. I wouldn’t mind so much, being documented like a lab rat, if I was allowed to leave this pit. But no, I’m stuck in solitary confinement, with over 25 years left on my sentence, and now I have to endure constant observation by the harshest of my critics.
Me.
Sometimes I wonder whether real prisoners have it better off. I’ve never been in the clink, but 2nd & 3rd hand accounts impress me with tales of days spent exercising, reading in the library, studying for degrees or licenses via correspondence, watching movies… free room & board. I’m sure that living the life outside has it’s perks too… My place of employment, for example, no doubt has considerably fewer incidents of anal rape. And in addition to this silver lining, I technically have my freedom, with which, assuming I had free time and money, I could go anywhere I want, whenever I want to. But seeing as I’m usually short on both time and money, I generally spend either at work or at home. …Sort of a virtual house arrest.
My coop is a ten foot square area surrounded by walls and file cabinets, where I sit for 8 hours each day at a desk engulfed in equipment. Underneath my desk, there are boxes full of spare parts …speakers for PCs, rollers for printers, lamps for the scanner… My desk drawers are full of extra keyboards and mouses (mice?), and various cables and adapters. Atop my desk sits my computer, complete with dual monitors, a secondary computer which simulates what patrol officers have in their cars, a bar code label printer, a bar code scanner, and now, a webcam.
The idea is to use the webcam for a mugshot annex, for suspects who won’t actually be booked at the jail (where these photos are normally taken). I’d like to state up front that using the webcam in this way is not my idea. I’m not sure the detectives who’ve been managing this project knew what they were buying. …but nonetheless, it’s my job to make it work. So I’ve been toying with it for a few days, getting it interfaced with our database and trying to get the appropriate size and resolution to come up through a third-party software.
I’m doing this by taking a lot of pictures of myself. I’d rather not, but I’m the only test subject available. So I’ve been spending a lot of time looking at myself. Hell, even when I’m not snapping shots, there’s a little window on my monitor that shows me the video feed… I find it more than a little disconcerting.
Until a couple years ago, I’d never really given my appearance much thought, but once aging really started to kick in, I’ve become obsessed. It’s really pissing me off… not only that I care so much about my dilapidating appearance, but also to have to admit that I’m really vain. I’d like to think that I’m above such concerns.
But nonetheless, there I was on my computer… tipping my head down into the camera to see how far back my hairline has receded and analyzing my large nose in profile. To add to these ongoing problems, this project was unfortunately timed promptly after Easter, thus following my consumption of several pounds of candy. This of course, left me with a complexion which is currently none too smooth.
Gradually my standard mugshots took on an eccentric theme. Alongside a series of my profile there are now also shots of the top of my head to see if my hair is thinning, a few shots from below to check out a blotchy shaving burn on Wednesday morning, and then a few shots to see if I really was getting a double chin or if it was just the angle I was holding my head during the razor-rash pics.
As I held the camera behind me and zoomed in on a potential bald spot on the back of my head, the lieutenant came in to see how the testing was going. Still holding the camera, I stretched my arms wide and pretended I was yawning, but I’m not sure I fooled him.
After he left I continued my “work”. I’d found an “extras” pack that came with the webcam which included dozens of animated backgrounds into which I could insert my picture. Tasked with thoroughly analyzing this equipment, I produced mugshots of my hairline in the tropics, my pimple in the jungle, and my freakishly large nose in outer space.
And then, while tweaking the settings, I removed all color from my face and presented my likeness in black & white. The result was astonishingly appropriate. Instantly, all of my angst and all of my self-consciousness evaporated. It’s not that I suddenly felt dashingly handsome …in fact, I rather look like Stan Laurel with a much larger nose… but these shades of gray were just so fitting for me. I don’t belong in Technicolor.
Stan Laurel
Reading my blog, you probably wouldn’t guess that I have huge affection for the silver screen. I love silent movies… Charlie Chaplin, Paulette Goddard (is it wrong to have a crush on a woman who would be almost 100 years old if she was alive today?), Harold Lloyd, and of course, Buster Keaton (surprise, surprise)…
Paulette Goddard
One of my favorite places in Salem is the Historic Elsinore Theater, the local pusher for my monochromatic cinema fix. I love climbing the steps to the balcony, waiting for the lights to dim, and for the movie to start. As if the love of these movies and the wonderful ambiance of the theater isn’t pull enough, the theater cruelly rouses my addiction on the back of their building with a giant mural that I walk by every day on my walk to work. The mural features Theda Bara, Charlie Chaplin, WC Fields, and a tiny Marlene Dietrich.
Salem, Oregon’s tribute to fabulous blogger Moonbeam McQueen
I have to shamefully confess that, in spite of the Elsinore’s fine tribute, I’ve never seen a Theda Bara movie. As I understand it, there isn’t much of her work left in the world. I consider this a terrible shame, as I’m sure I would love each one of her movies. Indeed, I don’t believe I’ve ever watched a silent film that I didn’t like.
Except, unfortunately, that one today, starring myself. Even though my spirit was finally realized in black & white, the environment around me was all wrong. I ought to have worn one of my hats, or perhaps incorporated some acrobatic slapstick… but unfortunately, when working with expensive electronics, somersaults are generally frowned upon.
Perhaps my vocational detention centre isn’t the right backdrop for my personal flicker show. But then, why shouldn’t it be? My heros of old seemed to share a common denominator of never fitting in with their environments, so perhaps I’m in the perfect setting.
It could be the antithesis of that Tobey Maguire/Reese Witherspon movie Pleasantville, wherein they visit a black & white world and turn it into color. Surely our world is in just as dire a need for a new perspective. Maybe it’s time I don my hat, grab my cane, and bathe the world around me in shades of silver.
I’m told, not infrequently, that I have rather depressing taste in music. This is an accusation that always takes me a little by surprise, as I don’t consider my music at all saddening. I find it mellow and soothing. Invariably though, I’ll play a tune to lift my spirits, and immediately see others around me come crashing to the ground. At work, for example, I may turn on a little Concrete Blonde, and just as the melody starts to carry me away…
♫ Hey, hey, goodbye ♫
…a co-worker will walk by and say: “God Adam! This is dismal!”
“Really? You think?”
♫ Tomorrow Wendy’s going to die-i-i-ie ♫
I suppose dozens of friends, family, and co-workers can’t all be mistaken. But even my selections in uplifting songs have come into question. Barenaked Ladies’ Hello City, Lucinda Williams’ Can’t Let Go, Toby Lightman’s Holding Me Down¹, & Eric Clapton’s River of Tears²… It’s beyond reason!
Still though, even my preference in rousing music seems to lean toward bluesy tunes, doesn’t it? And that’s just a small selection of my repertoire. My baseline of musical choices consists of slow, rhythmic melodies like Mark Knopfler’s What It Is, Brandi Carlile’s Have You Ever, & Van Morrison’s Into the Mystic. Songs that I love in the core of my soul, but which have inspired my friends to put the suicide hotline³ on speed dial.
When I turn on a little David Gray or Otis Redding, I can feel each pluck of the guitar string resonate deep inside me, as if it’s tethered to my heart. It’s not a sad feeling I get… it’s harmonic, consoling, transcendental…
I’m a mellow, easy-going person by nature, so it would make sense that my music would reflect that. I do have friends though, who believe that I listen to such somber hymns to lather a state of mournfulness. These friends try to wax melancholic with me, sharing sorrowful tales & offering new disheartening carols. I can’t say that this displeases me, I’ve found quite a few gems this way, but sometimes I have to shake my head with their uneducated choices.
I’ve been told, for example, that Evanescence is unquestionably the ultimate score in depression’s soundtrack. More than one acquaintance has had to discard their album before the music swallowed them into despair. Obviously intrigued, I investigated the matter and found the band completely wanting of such power… It just didn’t work.
Eager to show my friends the error of their ways, I turned on Tracy Chapman’s The Promise. I closed my eyes and let Tracy’s soft crooning to her lost love carry me away and by the time she reached her first chorus…
♫ Remembering… ♫
♫ Your touch… ♫
♫ Your kiss… ♫
♫ Your warm embrace… ♫
…I was on cloud nine. My friends however were rifling through drawers, trying to find razor blades or a bit of rope long enough to tie a noose or pills with which they could suitably overdose.
Amateurs.
¹Her acoustic version, that is… the main release of this song was too “pop” for my taste, whereas the acoustic version is bluesy and lovely.
²OK, I have to admit, River of Tears is not an uplifting tune, and actually it’s not even amongst my beloved ballads …it’s not a bad tune, just not a favorite of mine… I just put it here, because I thought the title sounded pretty funny amongst these so-called “happy” songs. I do however LOVE Clapton’s Fall Like Rain, and I do think it’s quite inspiring, though others find the “tears falling like rain” theme somewhat morose… sigh.
³1-800-SUICIDE… just in case you’re actually clicking these links and listening to my songs. That’s 1-800-784-2433.
1-800-784-2433
It might seem that my mother’s nomadic tendencies would have caused bitterness in her children. That continually uprooting my brother, sister and me would cause frustration and resentment. I can’t speak for my brother & sister, but I was always excited to move. I liked the idea of being able to re-define myself at a new school… to trade in the classmates who knew how shy and pathetic I was in favor of others who didn’t already have an impression of me. I dreamed of moving to a new town and fooling the kids there into believing I was “cool”. It never worked out the way I envisioned it… not once. But I kept dreaming the dream.
It was a natural cycle, really. Happily move to a new school, fail to make good impression on my peers, suffer teasing and further degradation of self-confidence, live a lonely life, happily move to a new school… I never really put down roots, so being transplanted wasn’t that big of a deal. Only in that last move did I ever really leave anyone behind, my good friends Brooke & Tim, but since our new home was to be so much closer to family, the choice was clear. And I believed this time, I would finally succeed in becoming popular. I was in 16 years old, practically a man… there would be no more childish timidity. The dream would become a reality.
The dream died in record time. My new persona didn’t even make onto the school bus.
Perhaps if I’d owned a car or lived close enough to walk to school things would have turned out differently. Or maybe if my bus stop wasn’t shared by two attractive young ladies, I wouldn’t have started stuttering at their polite questions and clammed up. But as it was, this cruelty of fate set itself against my final attempt at redefining my self-image. My dream of glory now dead, I had to come up with a new plan… to lay low until graduation. I had to accept that I didn’t have the charisma to charm my school mates, but it occurred to me that there was an easier alternative to shyness… I could be an asshole.
The greatest offense you can ever lay on the sheepishly unsociable is to call us “shy”. Well… no… the WORST thing you can call us is “bashful”, but shy is a close second, followed by timid, sheepish, mousy… the list goes on. On the other hand …introverted, anti-social, reserved… these are remarkably less cutting. These imply only that someone is of a quiet nature, they do not specify whether he is so because of weakness or whether he simply isn’t interested in you.
I was surprised how closely the two personalities aligned. Neither the shy nor the unfriendly speak much. Both eat lunch alone. Both have few, if any, friends. It was a simple transition really… I merely had to convert the panic and fear I normally portrayed into impatience and disdain.
I quickly learned, however, that although such an image was easy enough to portray while walking through the halls, it became much more challenging when my peers would chance to interact with me. Such occasions required me to exude irritation at their presence, make cutting remarks, and verbally chase them away. Unfortunately, just because I’d mentally committed myself to this self-image, it didn’t magically make me any more capable of speaking on cue. I still stammered, I still panicked and couldn’t think of anything to say… and even when I did have a retort at hand, I discovered that being able to inflict intentional cruelty is simply not in my genetic makeup. I couldn’t even emanate the needed disgust to their presence for fear of hurting feelings. I made a lousy asshole.
In order to maintain my desired “lone wolf” countenance I attempted to avoid people altogether. I sat as far apart from the other kids as possible during classes. For lunch break, I would sneak my food & my novels to a dugout on the baseball field. I finally succeeded in flying under the radar, becoming invisible… almost.
Unfortunately, I had shot myself in the foot. When I initially signed up for “School Newspaper” class before school started, I had still been under the misconception I could be popular, but now it was the only roadblock to my anonymity. This class required me to interact with fellow classmates, to conduct interviews with teachers and students, and to express myself in print. I had a few opportunities to drop the class, but the newspaper was already short on reporters and I worried that my withdrawal would handicap the class. So I stayed, and in the end, in spite of countless awkward interviews and dozens of published stories that I can’t bring myself to read today for their dreadful writing, I’ll never regret it.
Being the only part of my education that I forced myself to fully participate in, the newspaper turned out to be the most important part of my high school experience. It was in this class where I would first become part of a team, where I would commit to my thoughts and opinions on paper, and work hard to publish these ramblings in a tangible product. And it was in this class that I met my future wife.
Brandy and I were a great team… we often paired up on group projects, reviewed each others articles, and assisted each other with computer layouts. I’d like to say we quickly became friends… but truthfully we sat in the same class for 4 months before she asked me one day in the computer lab: “Are you in this class?” But once the talking had commenced, it didn’t take long for friendship to follow. We were an odd pair for friends, I was an introspective loner, and she was widely popular. We only interacted during newspaper class, but our friendship grew deep nonetheless. While typing away at the computers we confided in each other. She had a boyfriend, there was no question of romance, but I held her in high esteem regardless.
I enjoyed her intoxicating company, but never overstepped the bounds or propriety. At least, not intentionally. I must confess my romantic instincts were more than a little dim-witted… at least in regards to situations where I had to analyze things in the first-person… so I may have crossed the line a little. After graduation, our friendship continued via telephone and the occasional outing. We would talk for hours and I would show her constellations in the sky, and tell her the mythology behind them. In retrospect, Brandy’s boyfriend may have been very put out that I was having long intimate conversations and engaging with her in such amorous activities as stargazing. At the time though, I couldn’t comprehend that she might be interested in me, and although I was infatuated with her, I respected her commitment and wasn’t intentionally trying to woo her… These were merely the things that interested me, and therefore, that’s what I talked about. To me our friendship seemed perfectly cordial and innocent.
Late that summer, Brandy broke up with her boyfriend. I spent a lot of time with her afterward, to help support her through the heartache. And after a week or two of obligatory solitude, shes called me and very tactfully and guardedly sent out feelers to gauge my interest. But in spite of her carefulness, I misunderstood what she was saying and it didn’t occur to me that she might not be interested in me… a remarkable, once in a lifetime event, where my romantic senselessness actually worked in my favor.
We made an easy transition from best friends to lovers. A few years later we married and spent more than ten years, creating a family and a life together. She gave me three beautiful children and we had many wonderful years. Our marriage lasted longer than one might suspect for a social butterfly and a hermit.
The scars and the anguish of a broken love belong to both partners of the relationship. I would not presume that those stories are mine alone to tell, so let’s suffice it to say that our marriage didn’t end in spite and broken dinnerware, but rather with weeping and clinging to each other, crying for our love to stay as it had been, but knowing that life could only begin again when we let go. Brandy and I are no longer partners in love, but we’re still close friends and partners in our children’s’ lives.
I can’t pretend that the loss of my marriage wasn’t devastating for me. I had defined myself by this family we had made. I hadn’t placed much stock in my life other than this relationship… I worked in a job that I didn’t particularly enjoy, but never could be bothered by it because I found my fulfillment waiting at home. I had neglected to pursue interests or friendships because I didn’t feel much need for them, such things would only distract me from my wife & children. Now that my family was broken, I found myself hollow with nothing to cling to. Whether reading the wisdom of Budda, the Bible, or the Three Little Pigs, we are taught that the house we build must have a firm foundation. I had built my house on the sand, and it washed away. Yes, I had my children, and they are precious to me, but in order to for me to be part of the framework of their lives, I had to find solid ground for myself to stand upon. This was true even before my marriage ended, and perhaps this contributed greatly to my divorce, but until it was over, I didn’t realize that the marriage itself wasn’t my cornerstone.
Alone once more for these past couple years, I’ve been watching love from far away. I’ve had one crush since my marriage died, but although I would like to claim that I’ve finally grown past this strangeness, that my romantic sensibilities have matured since kindergarten, my few efforts to pursue this infatuation were as awkward as ever. I tripped on my words, I still had moments of extreme nervousness which rendered my incapable of conversation. Déjà vu.
But on the other hand, there were differences too. First and foremost that I DID actually approach and talk to this beautiful woman. I made the effort, I did the pursuing. In addition to that, I actually have some legitimate concerns and reservations about relationships nowadays, not just childish fears. Most importantly, I have to figure out how my children will fit into any romance that I might someday have. Love is a daunting prospect.
I can’t deny though that it is alluring. To have someone to hold, and to love, and to love me… it’s very appealing. But I want to make sure I’m doing it for the right reasons… for me, it’s far to easy to use such a person as a surrogate to the rest of the world. To consolidate all my social needs into one everlasting swoon, but this is not enough to keep a relationship going. The poet Rilke once said in a letter (translated): “Once the realization is accepted, that even between the closest human beings infinite distances exist, then a wonderful side by side living can grow if they can succeed in loving the distance between them that allows each to see the other whole against the sky.”
I want to be seen whole against the sky, and this is how I want to see the woman I will love. We cannot see each other this way if I choose to hide away with her in a space just large enough for the two of us. The only chance for true love is to set out and live life, to search for self-fulfillment. To find a place in this world for myself where I can stand whole on my own and to build my house on solid ground.
I spent 15 hours driving this weekend to go visit my dying grandmother. I came back to town in time to make my dental appointment, where he wrenched that broken rear molar straight out of my face.
My apologies for the quiet treatment. I’ll be spending a couple days in bed, curled up into a little ball.
Psst! Over here! This is Maia.
Dad sometimes let’s me sit on his lap while he’s typing away on the computer, and he doesn’t realize that I’ve been watching him and have discovered the user-name & password to his blog. Guess what it is? His user name has to do with his favorite tobacco, and his password is his favorite gin… Geez this guy is messed up!
Anyway… I think I have a right to defend myself. If any defense is needed, that is… I mean REALLY, what kind of father publicly roasts his daughter? What a jerk! You know how he referred to me as a Visigoth? I know it seems like clever improv thought up while typing, but it’s not at all the witty ad lib he makes it out to be… it’s my NICKNAME! My brother Addison is nicknamed “Blue”, my sister Rose is “Newt”, but me? I’m “The Visigoth”. “Visi” for short.
It’s not the only preferential treatment that goes around. My brother gets fencing lessons… lessons that actually COST MONEY to train him to lunge at people with long pointy swords… but when I, at no financial strain on the family, jab my siblings with a pair of scissors, people go into conniptions. And you should see the Christmas presents they got last year compared to mine! Addison got a hatchet, amongst all his other cool things! Rose had a huge set of “Littlest Pet Shop” figures in her stash. But me? I got toddler toys & “cute” outfits. I can’t wait to grow out of the “age appropriate” toys everyone thinks I need. Fine… I’ll admit the blocks and the lacing cards are strangely captivating, but how long does a girl have to wait before she can get a hold of some power tools?
And let me just say, it’s not my fault that my brother and sister were freakishly easy children! They’re creepy! When Dad tells them to do something, and they actually say “Yes, Dad.” Ugh! I could puke! Do they not know their cooperation reflects so badly on me? They’re so inconsiderate! They drive me crazy! I can’t handle it! A toddler’s emotions are fragile, and so I have to let off steam before I do something regrettable by throwing large and heavy objects at them.
Dad’s about to flip his lid with me peeing everywhere, but he’s only got himself to blame. Last month, when my hobby was spreading the liquid soap all over the bathroom counter, do you think he supported that? No. Soap was clean! An innocent fascination, but he still put the kibosh on it. He’s never happy, whatever I want to do, he’s always harping on me. “Maia, get off the refrigerator! Maia stop putting those wooden blocks under the furnace! Maia don’t eat the broken glass! Nag! Nag! Nag!”
Do you think he even asked me why I pee everywhere? Maybe I’m interested in a future in Waste Treatment, did he think of that? Well, I’m not… but HE DOESN’T KNOW THAT! What if there were a reasonable explanation? You’d think he might want to find out before besmirching my name on the world wide web!
I’m doing it because I love you Dad! You need a little perspective on life! You freak out even when I make the smallest of messes… I need you to understand that things can get worse! Plus, don’t think that I didn’t hear you muttering under your breath this last week when you were cleaning up the toilet paper that I plastered to the ceiling. “This can’t go on,” you whined, “I’m at the end of my rope.”
Well guess what Dad! I can’t handle you having such little confidence in yourself… Your rope is A LOT longer than you think, and I’m going to prove it to you.
Hugs!
-Maia
Maia is almost 3 now. Does anyone know when she will stop being fascinated with the fluids that come out of her body? I’m sick and tired of cleaning up pee & spit, I can’t hold out much longer.
I know B is at wit’s end too… Every time a grown-up is distracted, Maia runs off and urinates on something. I’m not talking “accidents” here… these are intentional delinquent pissings. This weekend claimed a brand new car seat (it was just sitting by the door, hadn’t been installed yet, Maia turned it on it’s side and peed on it), her sister’s pillow, several outfits, and an upside-down frisbee.
This list generously fails to mention her other methods of mayhem. She flushed a pair of her own underwear down the toilet, for example. Later, after she was switched to diapers, she proceeded to try and rinse her diaper down the bathroom sink. The silica gel swelled up and not only clogged the sink but also splattered everywhere when I cleaned up the mess.
You’d think Maia had hours of free, unsupervised time to concoct & carry out these evil schemes. I have to say, though, I believe she is well supervised. …Going to the bathroom, taking a shower, giving one of the other two children in this family even an iota of attention, preparing a meal… To me, these are unavoidable obligations which must be satisfied, to Maia they’re opportunities for mass devastation. This kid is remarkably fast and can quickly spread a industrial sized can of peanut butter over the entire kitchen in the time it takes me to take out the trash.
Maia isn’t bothered much by discipline… Sure, she’s a little put out by the interruption, but will go back to her demolition as quickly as possible after you’ve finished punishing her. Punishments also must be under constant surveillance. Turn your back on a “time out” to …say… go clean up a large peanut butter catastrophe, and Maia calls a “time in” and uses the Dad-free time to distribute further insanity.
My first two children didn’t prepare me for Maia. They were fairly obedient and not nearly so inclined toward destruction. Addison was a gentleman intellectual since the moment of conception, and Rose… an aloof artist. Maia is a Visigoth. She’s the only one of my children who has ever needed stitches (and staples!). She’s the only one among them whose skull I’ve seen (she cut her forehead on the dresser when jumping off the bed… I didn’t beat her!).
I love her …I do. She’s just so hard sometimes. I don’t even think she’s malicious about it, she’s just so busy and curious. Some days, though, I’m ashamed to admit… I live for her bedtime. The chance to have a few Maia-free hours. Sigh.
Our bedtime ritual itself has become a needed tool in maintaining my affection for this daughter. She’s so sweet when I announce that it’s bed time, she asks me right away “Will you read me three books, Daddy?” She snuggles up in the crook of my arm while I read to her on her bed, and demands “three songs” when I’ve finished reading. I sing her “Dream a Little Dream”, “Swinging on a Star”, & “Blue Moon”, when the mood strikes her she will sing along. She gives me a hug and a kiss, and tells me she loves me. I return the affection and leave her snugly tucked in, drifting off to sleep with visions of weapons of mass destruction dancing in her head.
Adam
