Jute’s Stories

The dismay from the rest of the passengers was palpable. The pilot’s voice droned on telling us that it would be another two hours here on the ground waiting. Apparently Chicago was having some awful weather and that would mean we couldn’t land and instead of having us fly around and around waiting, we sat here on the runway waiting.

I for one appreciated the fact we wouldn’t be circling the airport. See, I hate flying. Not just a little, but so much so that I don’t want to even consider doing it unless forced into a situation where I have no other alternative. I was making this trip for my job and I had no choice.
People often think I’m afraid to fly and that’s why I’m reluctant. I don’t fear flying any more than I fear driving. My problem with flying lies in something else.

It makes me sick. Quite literally.

All my life I’ve been plagued with motion sickness. A simple car ride as a child would be unpleasant and riding the bus to school every day was pure hell. I learned early that while others could read or look around at the scenery, I just concentrated on the road ahead if I could see it and focused on not losing the contents of my stomach.

I’ve tried everything. Bracelets, Dramamine, Ginger, even the special seasickness patches available by prescription only. Nothing works.

So every flight I take is my own personal version of hell. I board the plane, sit with my eyes closed and wait. When the plane’s wheels leave the ground I usually can’t control the nausea and I lose it. When the plane lands it’s a repeat of the takeoff and the whole time in between I am just one turbulance bump away from needing yet another airsickness bag.

I hate it. Not just dislike, but dread with my whole being. I completely understand why they use nausea as aversion therapy. I hear jet engines and I can feel my stomach start to churn.
Not only am I nauseaous, but I’m completely personally mortified. I’m embarassed to be tossing my cookies in a public place where the enforced captivity means some poor schmo has to participate in my weakness. I always feel bad for them. I mean, who wants to sit next to someone who has their head in a bag for a good deal of the flight? I can imagine how I’m the object of great stories they tell of how horrible their flight was sitting next to a barfing woman.

Even though it meant the nausea was delayed, I wasn’t any happier about the waiting than any of my fellow passengers. I wanted it done and over with. I wanted out of the plane with no need to get back on. Home with my boyfriend and our dog.
I thought about what I could do while I waited. I hadn’t been writing much lately due to a combination of things and I really wanted to get back to writing. Perhaps this would be a way to use the time.

I reached down and pulled out my laptop. I knew the battery was at full life and so I would have plenty of time. I booted the system, opened up Microsoft Word and started to type. Then I noticed something interesting.

I have no real trouble pouring out intimate thoughts and feelings when I write as evidenced by my recounting of my problems with flying above. I have shared some of the darkest parts of my mind in some pieces I’ve written, but I felt completely naked and exposed there in the airplane sitting between two people who could look over at what I was writing at any time.

I couldn’t write while someone was watching.

I found that interesting. Perhaps it’s the seemingly annonymousness of the web. Although I know people can find out pretty much anything if they really want to, there is an illusion of annonymity. No one is watching me type my thoughts and feelings. Perhaps it’s this that allows me to write as I do.

I closed the laptop after about five minutes of staring at the empty document. I’d just have to wait for another time.

I ended up chatting with the woman in the window seat. I appologized to her ahead of time for what was going to happen. Luckily, she was fairly unflappable and a good sport about it all.

Eventually, the pilot came on to tell us we would be moving soon and I took my position, seatback upright, table tray stowed, eyes closed and hand clenched firmly around the barf bag.

I’ve willed myself through many things. I was sure I could make it through this. One moment at a time.

I have a friend who is concerned about what I write here.  He’s afraid that recognizes themselves will take it wrong.

His concern is a valid one.

He is correct.  I’ve worried often that some things I write might have the potential to hurt people.  I have some memories that I’ve written down that were very painful experiences.  The people in them, may be hurt by reading the starkness of my point of view.  I know there are things in my life I’ve done that if I were to read accounts of them, finding some of my actions held up to the cold light of the writer’s experience, might be painful.

I’ve written a few pieces that I’ve sent only to close friends.  The reaction to those pieces by those friends was enlightening.  Their upset at the events caused me to re-evaluate ever publishing those publicly.

But on the other hand, something inside me drives me to write things as I experienced them.  To write the truth as I felt it.  To try to make the reader feel as though they too lived it.
So, I’ve tried to walk a balance.  I’ve seen too many times in life where people use ‘truth’ as an excuse for cruelty.  I don’t want to fall into that, but at the same time I hate having to censor things I say.

There is no easy answer, but then few things in life really are…

*bump*

I hear click of his nails on the linoleum and then feel a slight jolt against my chair. My eyes are closed and I’m drifting in and out of a half sleep. It’s early, I was up too late last night and the alarm was not a welcome noise.

*bump*

I know what he’s doing. If I’m not looking at him he will bounce his front paws against the side of my chair and then sit up on his hind legs, front paws politely folded waiting for me to pay attention to him.

For most of Bentley’s life he was confined to the house with free run of a fenced yard. Occasionally he would make a mad dash out a front door that lingered open for a bit too long, to happily trot around the block while someone frantically tried to capture him. He never went too far and he’d always make sure that you were just within frustration range of capturing him. The neighborhood was an amusement park for the small shut-in dog and his delight in escape was always evident.

Since he’s come to live with me here, he no longer has a yard. We have an enclosed patio, but nowhere he can actually do much running around. We have tried to care for his health with a daily walk. It’s not much of a walk, but it serves a dual purpose. Exercise is difficult for me because it’s painful, but walking is something I can do. So, it’s good for him and it’s good for me. I usually take him for a small 12 to 15 minute walk in the morning before I leave for work. It’s cool then and I like the solitude. Sometimes I’m surprised by things that leave me smiling the rest of the day. Like the day I found myself 5 feet from a deer.

But today I’m tired.

The temptation is to just sit here half dozing until I’m forced to rush to dress and hustle out the door.

*bump*

But the small dog is insistent. He likes his walk and he wants us to go.

Reluctantly I move and as I open my eyes and move toward the closet for my shoes he does the circle-dance of joy. Watching him for some reason reminds me of something I read once about how acting a certain way, even if you do not feel like it, eventually makes you feel those emotions. The therapy is used sometimes with couples who are having marital difficulties. They encourage them to ‘act’ like they are in love, even if they don’t feel it. Therapists have found that eventually couples who participate once again find the love for each other they lost.

I’ve thought a lot lately about how this could translate into my life.

I’ve been having trouble being motivated in some ways. I’ve decided that perhaps I can use this technique to help myself. If I act motivated perhaps the feelings will come.

I don’t feel sexy or smart or beautiful. Perhaps if I act like I am, the feelings will come.

I don’t know..but for now, I put on a smile and harness the small red/brown bundle of energy and walk with him out the door. Sure enough, pretty soon the pasted smile melts into a real one as I let the morning sink in.

For a long time now I’ve felt terribly unmotivated at work. Not just mildly unmotivated but soul-numbingly zombified unmotivated.

I have to fix that.

I have to for many reasons. Nothing is going to magically change and make it so I no longer have to toil for a living. No magic fairy is going to give me my fondest wish and remove the need for work. I like eating. I like having a roof over my head. I like having access to the Internet and games to play. I like fabric and making quilts.

None of this is free.

So, since I can’t suddenly become independantly wealthy, I have to fix my attitude.

I know what caused the problem. I got slapped in the face with the reality of working for a corporation. Even though the idealistic part of me likes to believe that people, at one time, meant something to a company. Loyalty was rewarded. I know enough about labor history to know that it’s never really been that way.

Since I can’t change that. I have no choice but to change my attitude. I need to be able to go back to a place within myself where I have pride in what I do for my own sake, not for the external rewards but for my own feeling of gratification.

That’s a bit easier said than done, however.

How do most people make it through the every day grind? Do they just not think about it? Do they do it for their family?

I put up a picture of my boyfriend at work. So it would remind me every time I looked at it just why I come to work every day.

I don’t know yet how I will be able to turn this around. I only know that I have to…

I listened to the message twice just to make sure I hadn’t missed anything.

For weeks my Landlord had been talking to us about how he might sell the place we live in. We have half of a duplex and throughout the years we’ve lived here many people have come and gone in the other half. The last person living there was actually the Landlord himself.

I like the area we live in and for the most part, I like our house. More than any of that, I absolutely hate moving.

Of course the only way to avoid that is to have your own place. Then as long as you make that payment to the bank, you can stay in one place for as long as you like. However, I happen to live in an area where houses cost what often amounts to the National Treasury for many small countries, so for now I have to help someone else make that payment to the bank and not myself.

I’m a fairly good tenant. I pay my rent on time, my checks always have the funds to cover them and I don’t tear up the place. What I ask in return is to be left in peace. I don’t want my privacy disturbed.

Maybe it’s because I’m a creature of habit. I like being able to plan out what I’m going to do for the evening. I have a bit of a routine. I come home, I get the mail, I change my clothes and if my boyfriend is hungry, I cook. One thing I really look forward to is my game playing time.

I like to have everything done before I start playing so my time won’t be interrupted, but sometimes my boyfriend isn’t hungry until later and I may stop to cook at that time. I have a stressful job and this is my time to relax.

When I got home I just heard the last part of the message. I’d missed the call from my Landlord by just a minute.

My Landlord had done some odd things in the time we had rented from him and this was the second occasion I’d gotten an odd message like this one.

He said he needed me to give him another check. He said he’d ‘torn up’ the one we’d sent him and he needed a new one. And on top of that, he needed us to sign some paper because of the possible sale.

Okay, now I don’t normally tear up money. Maybe people who have a lot more than I do spend time doing that or maybe it was some bizarre accident. I just found the whole thing a bit odd.

It got odder.

When my boyfriend made it home, I explained the situation to him. He was a bit unhappy and explained that he didn’t know if we could actually write another check immediately.

See we pay our bills through electronic banking. It’s easy and convenient. But what happens is the money gets taken away from our account as soon as we say we want to pay it. That meant that unless I could convince the bank to put the money back into my account, the Landlord would have to wait.

I called our Landlord back and per usual, he didn’t answer the phone, so I left a message explaining that I’d try to stop payment on the original check so we could issue a new one, but I didn’t know if I could.

My boyfriend took time tracking down the check number and all the information I’d need to call the bank. A small digression here…

I’m always the one that calls. I hate doing it, but somehow in the delegation of duties it’s one of the ones in my area. He got the finances, taking out the garbage and washing the cars.

Anyway…I called and after a few false starts was able to cancel the check. I then called my Landlord back and left him a message saying we would be able to issue a new check. As I hung up from leaving the message, the phone rang.

It was the Landlord. I told him I’d manage to cash the check and he, somewhat sheepishly, said he’d deposited it. The bank had taped up the check and let him run it through.

I found that slightly disturbing on a number of levels.

First, I didn’t know banks would cash torn up checks. If they will, I will have to be a lot more careful in the future. Second, what the hell was up with this anyway?

Although I was sorely tempted to say what I was thinking, I do like having a roof over my head so I didn’t. I told him I’d try to call the bank back and let him know what I’d found out.

I called the bank and they let me remove the stop payment. I called the Landlord back and told him we’d fixed it and asked again when he was coming over.

By this time I was well into my normal playtime for the evening. I hadn’t cooked yet and I wasn’t sure what was going to happen. I was getting a bit grumpy.

I just found the whole incident a bit strange. Did he really tear up the check? If he did, why? Or was I making way too much out of something that had no importance whatsoever?

Sometimes I tell myself I wish I had more time in a day, but I think maybe in reality all I’d do is end up finding out that it’s not enough.  That no matter how much time I had, it would never be enough.

I gorged myself playing Lineage II this weekend.  It was a really nice weekend, warm and without rain for the first time in a long time.  I would have liked to have done a few other things, but instead I stayed in and played.  Now I can tell myself that if I had more time, I would have done some other things, but the truth is… I would have played more.

I can find more ways to waste time in game than pretty much anyone I know.  I have so many plans for things I want to do I know there is no way I can complete them all, but by god I’m going to try.

Mostly it was a really fun weekend, but at one point something happened which has put me into sort of a moral dilemma.

There is a group of people I play with very occasionally.  I adore these people and love playing with them.  There is one person in particular who has made an effort on multiple occasions to make me feel welcome.  I really like him.  He was on and we ended up grouping for a bit.  While we grouped we all chatted and at the end of the evening an odd incident sparked a conversation.

During the course of the conversation, third party botting programs came up.  We talked a bit about their extra capabilities and the kind of information advantage that it gives those who use it.   While talking about this he said something that leads me to believe he has a great familiarity with the program.

He didn’t say more and I was glad he didn’t.

I don’t want to know if he’s using L2 Walker and I feel very conflicted about being a coward this way.  I don’t know if I can properly explain exactly what I was thinking.  In many ways it’s jumbled.  I mostly felt awkward and uncomfortable.  But there are a whole lot of other feelings in there too.
I like my friend.  I enjoy playing with him.  I don’t use third party programs and I have no desire to do so.  I know the way I play bothers some people.  I use two computers and run two accounts (two-boxing as it’s popularly called).  Many people have a problem with this and I’ve tried to understand it.  I’ve never felt there was anything wrong with what I do.  I’m not hurting anyone or anything.  Just playing how I like.  What I do is within the EULA of the game and I don’t cheat.

If my friend is using L2 Walker, he isn’t within the EULA and he runs the risk of having his account banned.  I don’t know his reasons for doing it if he is, and I can’t really ask him without putting myself into a position I’m not sure I’m willing to be in.  And although I don’t agree with his decision, if he is botting, I wish I knew why.  But I can’t ask, without learning more than I want to know.
So I’m left with a lot of odd feelings and no easy answers.

I wish life had a few more easy answers sometimes.