June 10, 2004

The Blind Woman

I think it's weird how people (like me, for example) get all bound up in, and freaked out by the petty details of living -- the minutia -- the great Jesse Dayton calls them.

It's a strange kind of mysticism, I think, where somehow we teach ourselves to believe that if we work hard enough, and work smart enough (?), that if we make good decisions, pay our bills on time, and treat people well, if we return our calls, and e-mails, promptly -- if we do these things, then all will be right.

We believe it, even when we know it's not true. We dedicate our days, our weeks, maybe even our whole lives to trying, striving without so much as a hint that what we're doing works. Everything will not be all right. And there's nothing we can do about it. All of our struggle, our labor, and our longing amounts to not that much in the long run.

It doesn't matter how many goddamned details we handle. It doesn't fucking matter. And it doesn't help. And does it make us feel any better, really? Nah. It's just a lot of extra work. It's just a distraction, and some new excuses.

Now I'm not saying you shouldn't go out and dig a well, or build someone a house. I think you should, and while we're at it why not take a break and go vote, and shop at the farmer's market? We could talk to the man behind us in line at the post office. You might want to loan him your phone, show him how to use it, and then explain to his wife the difference between priority and express mail, so she can explain it to him.

But all your work, all your struggle, don't mistake it for some kind of currency. Nobody gives a good goddamn about you and your bullshit list of 'things to do'. And when you talk about it it only makes them wish you'd just shut up and go away.

One of the nice things about traveling is that you get a break in your routine.

Here's a new story.

The Blind Woman

The flight attendant led the blind woman to the back of the plane. There, in front of the lavatory, she quickly explained how to use the folding door, where the latch was, and how to work it. She told her, "It's tricky. If you have a problem, just knock and someone will help you." And then, rather matter-of-factly, "When you're done, just wait here. I'll be back to get you." Expertly, she turned and started back up the aisle while the blind woman backed carefully into the tiny, weird-smelling compartment to do her business.

A few minutes passed, and I heard something happening in there. I noticed the door rattling around too. The flight attendant was on her way, but she was slow, grinning and nodding and collecting the garbage. I listened a while, as closely as I could, and I definitely did not hear anyone knocking.

I started to feel a little sick about it, though. I wondered, without being too condescending, what it would be like to be trapped in there without your sight. I imagined she might be worried about what we all thought, sitting out here buckled in our seats not five feet away, listening to her carrying on like she was. And then all of a sudden the door opened and the blind woman came out, just as naturally as could be. And she stood there, right next to me, waiting.

"Good timing," proclaimed the flight attendant, who arrived about 30 seconds later. "Now listen, put your hand here right now and I'll take you back up front. Let's go!" The blind woman smiled broadly, put her hand in the middle of the flight attendant's back, and they headed off together up the narrow aisle, back to her seat.