I’m trying to learn something new every day because I’ve been feeling especially stupid. My animal brain, which is my kid brain, has started this journey by googling animal facts right before I go to sleep. This week, I learned after an octopus lays a clutch of eggs, she quits eating and wastes away; by the time the eggs hatch, she is dead. Some females in captivity speed up this process intentionally, mutilating themselves and twisting their arms into a mess. WOW, RIGHT? I’ve been spouting this fact off in my vast social circles. I’ve told my parents, one coworker, and Dave*.
*Dave is a guy who consistently stands next to me in a workout class I’ve started taking. A lot of people in the class like to stand next to their friends. Understandable. Dave and I don’t care who we stand next to but we do favor the west-facing treadmills. Sometimes after we work really hard, we give each other a high five. I should’ve added to the essay about working out that a great reason to take a workout class is you get to high five strangers for a real reason and the feeling afterward is inexplicable. Dave isn’t a stranger but he isn’t a friend. I sense we’re all pretty excited to see where this goes and I’ll have an update next post. Dave is 70.
WHAT HITS
Look, I know everyone’s ablaze about it but who am I if not everyone else. DUNE II rocks. I am so proud of everyone who worked on that screaming, freaky thing. The world-building is unreal. They took big swings with the story and, wow, did it work. I can’t shut up about it. I’m going next week in IMAX. Maybe I’ll invite Dave.
A DRIP on my job
The character of a person can be observed, almost in entirety, based on how they listen to you give a five-minute speech before a free-roaming virtual reality experience. In hoards, they storm the line where I press them down to groups of ten. Armed in a polyester royal blue shirt and an android tablet I teach them how to walk, how to touch the false orbs of light, how to not be afraid before rushing them into the launchpad. Much like a tent outdoors, the launchpad is a small room crafted in a much larger one. The roof is obvious if you’re accustomed to looking up. One woman looked at me in terror when the automatic doors opened, “Does it actually go up? Like, into the sky?” Another said, “You. You could do anything in the world with your life.” Another said, “I’m about to think about death a lot.” I have never stayed to watch the doors close.
After launch, we show them how to put on the headset. All of us, children, when we try something new. Wound up and terrified. A speech in a pure white room, a launch in a hall of mirrors, and now they’re learning how to wear a piece of technology surrounded by black velvet. To my spiel, I have added, “Is this anyone’s first time wearing a VR headset?” And tell the raised hands that once they walk around the corner, they will forget everything I taught them so just put it on slowly. They roar. This deserves a smile, maybe. But they laugh like they’re at a funeral, surprised at first but so desperate for a reason to feel anything other than fear they lean in too hard. These types of laughs, something too loud for something too small, are rare. When you win them, let them sail. Now you’re leaning over shaking. Now the uncles are in tears.
Around the corner they plod, holding their headset high and tight like lunch trays. Overwhelmed by the darkness and simplicity of the portal that leads to the great big room, many begin to tremble. Really, people start to shake. We troubleshoot problems and are met with three reactions when we ask, “Can I take a look at your headset? I need to fix something.”
1. “Shouldn’t you just get a new one?”
A phrase that implies I am a fool and immediately tells me they believe their first attempt at a solution is better than anyone who’s worked at it longer than an hour. My reply is an effort towards efficiency and never what I want (the first and last rule of customer service). “No,” I smile.
2. “It’s me, isn’t it,” or, “Everything I touch breaks.”
For these treasured many, I’d like to drive them in my brand new, used 2014 Subaru Outback to a spring just up the mountain. Once we’re crouched beside it I would say, “you must acknowledge your pain.” They would say, “What?” And I would say, “I know it’s tough to trust a 30 year old wearing 100% polyester who kidnapped and drove you, poorly, through rush hour traffic, to this place. But, trust me, you have to acknowledge your pain.” We would sit for 15 minutes and then I would drive them back but we would stop at Taco Bell. They would take a bite of their crunchwrap, look at me and say, “I am sad about (INSERT REASON). And instead of acknowledging it I’m taking it out on (INSERT PERSON, OFTEN SELF),” I’d say, “I’m sorry. Tell me everything.” After they relieved it, they would say, “You should’ve just brought me to Taco Bell and not the spring.” I’d say, “Everyone says that, every time. I don’t listen because I think, surely, nature will-” They’d cut me off and say, “It’s the honesty of Taco Bell, Taco Bell is real life.” I’d nod and say, “I know, I know. You’re right. You just get to a point where you think-” They’d interrupt again, “Nature will fix me.” I’d gasp, “Yeah, that’s it exactly.” They’d set their crunchwrap down and push their Baja Blast across the table to me, “You have to acknowledge your pain. We mistake that it can only occur in nature but telling yourself the truth can happen anywhere. If we let it.” I’d nod, make a comment about the dust in the air, and take a sip of a soda whose color can only be described as somewhere between toothpaste and opportunity. We’d lock eyes and whisper in stuttered harmony, “Live Mas.”
3. “Yes.”
This person is almost fully realized, no exceptions. Struggling like anyone else but ahead of the game in terms of emotional survival.
The explorers carry onward. Imagine, will you, 50 people walking around a large room wearing VR headsets, moving like mummies without courage, gaping and squealing through 360 degree views of space and its first hotel. People go mad. Lovers get handsy. A select few have run, full force, directly into walls despite the red lines that warn them 10 feet before the boundary. One person doggy paddled the air for the first ten minutes. I walked up to her, “You don’t have to do anything with your arms. You can just walk around.” She said, “But how else will I stay afloat.” I replied, “You’re not floating.” Instantly, her arms dropped and I felt all screwed up.
Their final destination, a chair. Once seated, they witness a spacewalk. Attached to the station with what appears to be a single carabiner and fishing line, the astronauts wave at the camera. My goggled children wave back. This is how I know they’re nearing the end.
I substituted in a Sophomore English class a week ago, and the students were tasked with writing argumentative papers using an ethical principle. All but four students had chosen “common good,” a principle that falls under Communitarianism. It’s a departure from the norm, choosing a principle focused more on public interest than autonomy. Communitarianism’s overriding philosophy being that a person’s social identity is largely molded by community relationships, with a smaller degree of development being placed on individualism.
A friend sent me a subreddit that discussed the idea that kids are meaner than they’ve ever been, they talk to each other like the comment section of an Instagram post. This may be true, but only because they’re mimicking adults. I’d argue that kids are hurting more than I’ve ever witnessed, and when tasked with choosing where they stand the majority ache for something they can’t see.
The final shot is Earth rolling for two straight minutes. Nothing matters but taking care of each other. That’s all the astronauts say throughout the entire experience. We’re messing each other up, they repeat in different ways. As profound as these statements are, they fail to say anything constructive. I wonder if showing people space really is breathtaking, or if we’re simply showing them an expanse of place where pain is absent. A place where we haven’t hurt each other yet. When people take their headsets off they are dumbstruck, pleading. Saying things like, “It can’t be over yet,” or “I didn’t want to leave,” or “Please, let me stay.” I follow the cardinal rule of customer service and guide them to the exit.
WHAT’S UP, ALYSSA?
Before you join a sorority, you have to participate in something called rush week. You go to campus a week before everyone else, get split up into stupid little groups, and travel around to all of the sorority houses begging to be loved. Slowly, the sororities decide to bring you in or let you go. It’s hell. Alyssa and I were in the same group during rush week. In this way, we are bonded for life. At any given moment, I can look across the room at Alyssa and know that we are thinking the exact same thing. I can’t tell you what it is, but it is the same thing. And in this way, this dude I met in hell, has made me feel not so alone time and time again.
1. What is something strange, cool, or funny that happened to you recently?
2. What advice would you give yourself one year ago?
Hey, many of you have turned into paid subscribers or shared this with people or sent me little texts and I would like to say a hearty - thank you. It is hard to know what to do in this life and it is so nice to be affirmed in the way you’re choosing to try to do it. This is not an ask for you to turn into a paid subscriber or share HITMAN. This is just a big thank you. We don’t grasp.
the VR shepherding experience is wiiiiild. seems almost religious. loved reading about it!