Barista Am I

We had a work meeting Monday night and we were asked the question: “Do you truly believe in River Rock Coffee and in our goals?  Why?”

I am fairly certain that I am the only employee that answered: no. 

I wrote: I feel like we sometimes lack humility, like we are not humble.  Perhaps we take ourselves too seriously?  There is a reason that we cannot obtain perfection; it’s boring.  When our single aim is to be perfect at all times, we miss out on the experiences that get us closer to being excellent.

There is a moment every Monday and Wednesday morning when I realize how incredibly fortunate I am to have the job that I do, to have a job that rewards me for being…well, me.  This morning was no different.

Admittedly, the moment came long after the three times I hit my snooze button, eventually deciding that 6:52 a.m. was a more reasonable time to throw some clothes on—bandana too necessary—and brush my teeth than the forty minutes previous.  The eight minute window I allotted myself turned out to be a poor decision when I discovered that MN had been blanketed in snow and ice for yet another time this March.  Mother Nature: you’re a silly bitch sometimes.  I had walked home in a torrent of rain the night before and met my morning with a window scraper and a pair of gloves. 

So I was late.  I don’t think that’s shocking or even unheard of as far as the History of Josh is concerned.  Chronically late—rarely fashionably so—and unenthused to be at a mandatory event like work: nothing new.  Luckily, being surrounded by caffeine has plenty of benefits. 

As my co-workers can attest, I have a pretty typical routine when I arrive at River Rock Coffee, and it goes a little something like this:  (p.s. did anyone else want to follow that last statement up with the opening of “Aaron’s Party”?  No?  Just me?)

Throw open the back door while whistling loudly and, more importantly, obnoxiously.  Stomp over to the coat rack in the back and disrobe—well, not entirely, just the coat and a shoe change if necessary.  The shoe change becomes more frequent when flip-flop weather is permanent and not completely destroyed by freak icestorms that happen in the MIDDLE OF MARCH.  Walk to the staff lounge and step inside. (Spoiler Alert!: The staff lounge is actually just a glorified closet where we keep cleaning supplies, staff boxes, and the shreds of dignity we discard when we play dress-up at work.) Grab my marker and grab my nametag, the one that looks like it was designed and developed by a four-year-old, and thrown on a red apron while stuffing my left pocket with an espresso rag. Outfitted for a day behind the counter, walk to the punch machine and clock in.  After washing my hands, there are few possibilities, depending on the co-worker:  Loudly comment on something Dani is wearing; smile at Ber and say how pretty she is; tell Ash how badly I want to feel her up; yell at Annie like she’s from Jersey; pleasantly greet Katie because she’s adorable; comment on Jess’s height and make her feel stellar; ask Montana how she’s doing; say hey to Alli in an awkward voice; shout Whitney’s name at her; or tell B-Town I haven’t seen her in far too long.  I could always run into Tamika first, too, in which case I actually have a conversation with her.  Weird how interacting with your boss warps your social skills, yea?

Following the routine greeting of my friends and co-workers, I just start being a barista.  It’s odd, trying to describe what it feels like to be doing my job at River Rock Coffee.  It’s impossible to explain, I think, because I don’t really know how to put what I do into words.  Most of the time I’m on autopilot.  I don’t want to imply that I’m responseless, some automaton that just pours drinks all day long and robotically greets customers with all the feigned delight of a phone-sex-operator, but there’s just something so innate, so automatic about what I do at River Rock.  It’s difficult to explain the way you do something when you feel like it’s been planted inside of you, growing for years, and manifesting itself in your actions, words, and habits day in and day out.

I’m far from being a perfect barista, but I do like to think I have something special, something like an x-factor.  You know how musicians or models or artists just have that something special that separates them from everyone in their respective field—or at least the tried and failed?  I feel like I have a little of that when it comes to being a barista.  I sort of just get it. 

Oh, hey ego.  Didn’t see you there!

Anyway: today one of my regular customers came in and started talking to me about the photography that’s currently hanging on our walls. 

He said to me: “This girl, she’s got something in her, she’s got that special eye for light and people and commentary.”

 I said: “Yes, she’s quite good when it comes to people, she captures emotion well, especially with parent and child.” 

He said: “Parent and child?  How could you know what it means to be have that relationship, to comment on what it means to be a father?”

 I said: “Well, I am only a child so far, but I imagine I will show some of that happiness when I am a dad.” 

He said: “Oh, you’re going to raise children?  With who?” 

I said: “My partner, or by myself, I guess.  I hope with someone else, but if not, I suppose that’s fine.

And then he leaned over the counter, and, for a moment, I remembered how old he was.  He was crooked, wrinkled, and frowning.  I thought maybe I had said something out of line.

He said: “You’re going to be so good at that.”

I said: “Ha, I don’t know.”

He said: “I do.  And you know how?”

I said: “How.”

He said: “Because you take care of me two mornings a week.  And you do it very well.” 

And he smiled and sat down and sipped at his coffee, looking out at the snow and ice whirling through the air.

Today was far worse than the day before.

But this morning? 

This morning I felt humbled.

SEX IS IMPORTANT

So I went to this workshop tonight called "I Heart Female Orgasm;" it was exactly what it sounds like.  It reminded me of this paper I wrote and I thought I would post it... Yep, pretty boring!  Still, I wanted to put it up because it represents something I used to be pretty interested in.  Also, there are some important things to learn here!  Most importantly: sex and orgasms have very functional, very beneficial roles in our lives.  So take some time to enjoy yourself tonight, today, or whenever you read this. 

You won't regret it!

(Yes, that was me encouraging you to masturbate.)

Making Neurons Sexy: A Review of Sexual Activity and the Brain

Living in the United States, we are constantly bombarded by the hyper-sexualized media of the current generation.  From radio to television to film, we are consistently reminded of just how salient sexual activity is in our lives.  Radio hosts have become progressively open, no longer hesitant to utilize sexual innuendo as a form of humor and television shows have presented increasingly sexual content.  Try as you might, it’s nearly impossible to escape the sexual content we are subjected to on a daily basis.  Perhaps this overexposure begs the most basic question: why?  Why is sex so fascinating that we have been able to capitalize on its existence in all outlets of mass-media?

The answer to this question could appear in many forms.  One such assertion maintains that sex is healthy.  Take migraines, for example.  Research by James Couch in women experiencing migraine symptoms (ie. fatigue, moodiness, neck pain) found that sex at the onset of the migraine led to a reduction in symptoms (Harzog 2007).  A separate position suggests that sex is beneficial for stem cell research.  Prolactin, a hormone released following sexual intercourse, has been used in laboratory settings to stimulate the production of neurons in the olfactory bulb (Wood 2003).  Furthermore, prolactin has been used to generate new brain tissue following stoke damage (2003).  However we interpret our fascination with sexual conduct, it still remains that sex is an integral part of human life.  The ideas that sex is healthy and scientifically beneficial are perhaps adequate.  Yet, looking across the many layers of sexual function, there seems to be an underlying, biological reason for our obsession.  It may be that a survey of neurobiological research is necessary to understand the many facets that compose this important aspect of our lives.  

The following will examine how sex looks in the brain as function of the major implicated pathways, what deviates from normal sexual function in sexual addiction, and how various treatment methods work in standardizing sexual compulsivity on the neural level.  Risks and benefits of sexual activity will also be observed.   By exploring such aspects, loopholes or shortcomings may be identified for further research in the field of sexual activity.

 To grasp the subsequent material, it is important to understand the most imperative areas of the brain that are implicated during sexual arousal and intercourse.  Normal sexual functioning, though vastly different across all individuals based on social and environmental experience, requires the functional processing of both central erotic arousal- taking place in the human brain- and the arousal of the genito-pelvic region (Levin & Wagner 1986).  When aroused in unison, these two areas of the body work in a mutual positive feedback loop which eventually leads to orgasmic discharge in the genito-pelvic region (1986).  These areas are mediated through interpersonal experience and subjectivity, as well as the limbic brain; by integrating these regions, sex can be described as both a peripheral function and a brain response (Hiller 2004).

The most relevant of these imperative areas may be the interaction between the prefrontal cortices and the hypothalamus.  The prefrontal cortices, the portions of the brain that are related to every motor response and chemical response in the body (Hiller 2004), are responsible for compartmentalizing every unique experience in the life span, one of which is sex.  The hypothalamus then is responsible for the integration of hormone release during sexual behavior and arousal.  Particularly, the hypothalamus is responsible for the synthesis of the peptide hormones vasopressin and oxytocin (Hiller 2004), both of which have been extensively researched in the neurophysiology of sexual bonding- especially the latter.  Oxytocin has been shown to regulate noradrenaline, dopamine, and prolactin, in the brain (Hiller 2004; Insel 1997; Panskepp 1998); all three have been associated with brain reward.

Oxytocin appears to have quite an influence throughout the primary areas of the brain involved in sexual functioning.  Though originally thought to be present only in the pituitary gland, oxytocin has also been shown as present along neurons in the spinal cord and the brain stem (Herbert 1994).  This peptide hormone, most pertinent to the current survey, has also been shown to play a critical role in orgasmic stimulation.  Across all male subjects in Murphy et al. (1990), oxytocin levels raised an average of 30% at the point of ejaculatory emission.  Similarly, Carmichael et al. (1987) found an increase of nearly 60% (2.5pg/ml to 4.4pg/ml) in oxytocin levels in female participants at the point of orgasm (Hiller 2004).

Research that focuses on positive symptoms of sexual behavior, such as increased levels of oxytocin and other peptide hormones, is not the only methodology relevant to the survey of sexual functioning.  It is just as beneficial to this examination of research to look at the functional differences in subjects with abnormalities in the primary areas of neural sexual functioning. 

Sexual function can vary greatly after serious brain trauma or damage to the cells relevant to normal sexual functioning; a great deal of literature has looked at the differences in sexual functioning in subjects with traumatic levels of brain injury (Kreuter et al. 1998; Levin and Wagner 1986; Ponsford 2003).  Most succinctly stated, “human sexuality encompasses biological, physical, cultural, and psychosocial dimensions of personality and [behavior]. [Traumatic Brain Injury] TBI may disturb any or all of these dimensions (Ponsford 2003).”  Results have been consistent with Ponsford’s speculation that TBI affects multiple dimensions of the individual.  In her 2003 research, over 50% of participants having experienced TBI reported significant sexual changes in the 5 years following the traumatic incident; sexual performance, sexual satisfaction, and sexual desire all saw significant decreases across subjects (2003).        

Similar results were presented in Kreuter et al. (1998) with regard to satisfaction.  Half of the participants reported being dissatisfied with their current sexual activity after the traumatic brain injury.  Research suggests that this may be a function of a lesion on the prefrontal cortices or the hippocampus; both suggestions fall well in-line with the research highlighted above.  Furthermore, nearly a quarter of all those having experienced traumatic brain injury reported a decreased sexual desire, erectile function, orgasmic activity, ejaculation, and intercourse frequency (1998).  It should be noted that the participants who experienced brain trauma could have lesions on the prefrontal cortices, hypothalamus, or slight lesions on the brainstem; two of these areas are relevant to the synthesis or production of oxytocin, the peptide hormone that appears to be linked in many of the critical regions for sexual function.

Another crucial area of the brain that is necessary for normal sexual functioning is the medial amygdala.  Heaton and Adams (2003) posit that the amygdala works as an organizer of sorts to help the individual determine a suitable, sexual mate.  The amygdala also plays an important part in releasing neuropeptides, such as oxytocin and vasopressin, during sexual activity (Heaton and Adams 2003). 

The medial preoptic area (MPOA) is also an implicated region of the brain used in sexual functioning (Heaton and Adams 2003).  Research implies that the MPOA is the area of the brain that is responsible for the regulation of sexual activity in both males and females (2003).  The MPOA is linked to the nucleus paragigantocellularis (nPGi) through periaqueductal gray and, in recent research, has been linked to the neural pathway responsible for sex hormone regulation. 

Specific neurotransmitters concentrated in the MPOA also play a big role in sexual functioning.  Cells in the MPOA have very high concentrations of dopamine receptors that are likely facilitated by “the activation of alpha2 and alpha1 adrenoreceptors (Heaton and Adams 2003).  The activation of these receptors has been shown to act parallel with the stimulation of the penis and erectile function.  Moreover, dopamine has been attributed as an award for sexual activity by being released in the brain following male ejaculation (2003).  

Oxytocin and the implicated pathways in the brain may be responsible for the neural functioning of sexual behavior; but, there are other factors that play a role in such actions.  Of the concepts used to understand sexual functioning and why we strive to engage in such behavior, the idea that motivation may influence our desire for sexual activity is perhaps the most intuitive.  

On the neural level, serotonin and dopamine work in an inhibitory – excitatory loop to produce motivation for sexual behavior.  Dopamine works to excite motivation toward sexual activity while serotonin works as an inhibitory response (Heaton and Adams 2003).   

It is pertinent then to understand where sexual motivation comes from on a symbolic level and we how we understand it to function.  Barry Singer and Frederick Toates (1987) posit that sexual motivation follows common incentive models of behavior.  These models, as described by the authors, typically follow several generalizations.  First, “incentives trigger motivated behavior (1987).”  In sex, this could pertain to something as such as an orgasm.  The incentive is the orgasm itself, while the stimulation of the clitoris or penis is the motivated behavior.  Second, “incentives inflame motivation by producing affect, an interaction with an internal depravation-satiation state (1987),” and such incentives will be guided through motivation by available cognitive maps.  To exemplify, the incentive of achieving an orgasm would be guided by both satisfaction of desire and cognitive processes.  Singer and Frederick further explore this model by comparing it to hunger, or drive and appetite, and use these terms as metaphorical language to explain sexual motivation.  One primary allusion they make is to abstinence.  Men and women both note increased sex drive with abstinent behaviors (1987), much like the increased desire for nourishment when experiencing hunger.  While the model presented by Singer and Toates certainly reflects the motivations behind satiating our desired states, it does so without regard to the positive or negative aspects of motivation.

Though no term currently defines impulsive, addictive, hyper, or any other negative sexual activity, research has been conducted to look at the motivation of such behavior (Kalichman & Rompa 1995; McBride, Reese, & Sanders 2008).  Compulsivity can be regarded as a negative motivation behind most deviant sexual activity.  Sexual compulsivity refers to an individual’s lack of control over their own sexual behavior.  In most cases, the behavior of compulsive persons impairs functioning by promoting sexual acts that surpass the judgment of the individual.  Scales like the Sexual Compulsivity Scale have been used demonstrate that hypersexualized behavior and sexual preoccupation positively correlate with negative outcomes of sexual activity (Mcbride, Reese, & Sanders 2008).  Also, high scores of sexual compulsivity correlated positively with negative cognitive outcomes (2008).  These outcomes, deriving from sexually compulsive behavior, can range from pessimistic thoughts to self loathing.  In one particular case study, Wagner (2009) discovered that her sexually deviant patient reported high levels of maladaptivity across a few categories.  Abandonment/instability, defectiveness/shame, and emotional inhibition had the highest ratings across the dimension of dysfunctional symptoms.  The defectiveness/shame category seems especially relative in comparison to the withdrawn, unavailable nature that accompanies many of the other symptoms of sexual addiction (2009).

Like sexual compulsivity, sexual addiction is a negatively maintained behavior that an individual has little to no control over.  According to Patrick Carnes, the executive director of Pine Grove Behavioral Health and Addictive Services in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, sexual addiction is perfectly comparable any other addiction (Untreated Sexual Addiction 2008); addiction to drugs and alcohol are especially similar.  In his words, “addictions don’t just co-exist, they interact with each other (2008).”

Barbieri (2008), asserts that addiction utilizes three different brain pathways to function.  The first is the arousal neuropathway that concerns stimulation and intensity; the second is the numbing neuropathway that concerns calming, sedative processes; the third is referred to as the fantasy neuropathway which allows addicts to “escape reality through a trance like state (2008).” 

Carnes (2008) highlights that many researchers may attribute addiction to certain dispositional characteristics, commonly cited as ‘addictive personalities;’ there is evidence, though, that there is much more to the issue than personality type.  In his defense of this assertion, Carnes states, “It’s a matter of what happens in the brain when you access the pleasure centers.”  In his citation, he notes that the same areas of the brain that see increased activity under MRI scanning also light up in other addicts; the same area for a cocaine or gambling addict when they are high or engaging in risky activity will see similar increased activity when a sex addict is seeking to act on their compulsive behavior (2008).  Though the subjects of Carnes’ research are drawn from the same program he directs, there are other ways in which sexual addiction is observed outside of treatment facilities.  The Internet is also providing researchers with a new topic to explore.

The World Wide Web has certainly changed the way we communicate over the past decade, and Mark Griffiths (2001) suggests that this may be truer for sexual communication than any other form of social communication.  He posits that “Internet sex is a new medium of expression where factors such as perceived anonymity and disinhibition may increase participation (2001);” the availability of sexual content on the Internet does not discount this assertion either.  Internet sexual addiction has even become a commonplace term, often alluding to individuals who have committed Internet sex crimes such as harassment and cyberstalking (2001). 

While some Internet sex addiction can come in more serious forms, such as those previously listed, others are rather harmless such as masturbatory addiction or orgasmic addiction.  Many of these addictions have been listed beneath three defined Internet Addiction typologies (Griffiths 2001).  First, the recreational user, is the individual who is not typically seen as at risk for Internet Addiction, but rather as a person who accesses online sexual material for entertainment purposes or curiosity.  Second, the at-risk user, is the individual who may not have developed a sexual addiction without the introduction of the Internet. And third, the sexually compulsive user, is the individual that uses the Internet “as a forum for the sexual activities (Griffiths 2001).”

As these typologies increase from recreation to compulsivity, the self-image and sexual dysfunction of the individual are negatively affected (Griffiths 2001).  These feelings of increased sexual dysfunction, decreased self-image, and lowered self-esteem are also characteristic of traumatic brain injury patients as listed above.  This is of curious mention as there may be an opening here for research to expand the literature on any correlations between sexual addiction and individuals suffering traumatic brain injury.

For as many ways a person can experience sexual addiction, there appears to be an equal amount of ways for an individual to seek help or assistance with recovery.  Ranging from drug treatment to therapeutic practices, there does not seem to be any shortage of programs or methods to be used in the normalization of sexual functioning.

One method described by Barbieri (2008) involves what she refers to as the URGES approach, or Urge Reduction by Growing Ego Strength.  The URGES approach attempts to create a dissociated identity state of the ego by fragmenting the addict’s ego state into a stored experience and a dissociated experience (2008).  By treating the ego as two separate entities, the therapist can then treat the addict’s fragmented ego as individuals that are looking for a fixed connection.  In an addict’s case, the connection appears to be severed because of their severe compulsive behavior (2008).

Another external treatment is discussed at length in Tays et al. (1999) research on the sexual addiction model in the treatment of sex offenders.  This treatment essentially falls back on one goal: the prevention of relapse at all cost.  Furthermore, the treatment builds off the idea that recovery from sexual addiction can only begin when the addict acknowledges their own powerlessness (1999), a premise that is characteristic of many addiction programs across the world. 

As the current review comes to a close, it’s of great importance to reiterate the information presented.  Hopefully, the examination of how sex looks in the brain as a function of the major regions involved, the deviations made from normal sexual functioning in sexual addiction, and the various treatment methods available will provide some light for why sex has become such an integral part of our culture.  Perhaps even further investigation will benefit from the aspects of the field of sexual activity identified here today.

Letters To You

I was thinking back on this weekend and had this moment of realization: I haven’t narrated my life through a blog in a very long time.  I don’t think I’ve done it once since I’ve been back!  Sure, my blog is incredibly autobiographical—borderline too revealing—but I don’t think I’ve really used it as this summarizing diary or journal since my return to the United States.  When I was in the UK, I spent so much time reflecting on the day to day and just writing down what happened from point A to point B.  I guess I feel like life in Minnesota is just a little too mundane to write in the same way?  So what is that a reflection of then?  Is it my own unhappiness or boredom or busyness or laziness?  Maybe it’s none of these things(?)

Maybe the lack of narrative stems from the inability to write about my life.  I like to think I’m, at the very least, an interesting, rounded person that has a whole load of experiences to share and converse about.  I open dialogues and create moments, but, on the whole, I think that Josh Plattner’s life—in this present moment—is just a little storyless.  I think my existence is lacking character, lacking plot, lacking intrigue and passion and flow.

It never feels like that in the moment though…

It always feels like something grander is happening, like the world is just so lucid and unimaginably present.  I sometimes feel like I’m walking through frosting, like the air is made up of a tasty film of experience.  But when I sit down to think about what’s happened, what’s made everything so incredibly awesome over the last three months, last three weeks, last three days: I am at a loss.  I am bummed out; I am overworked and undermotivated.

Still, I have this idea.  I have this crazy, strange notion that if I experience everything like it is in the present, I will somehow recount how important every fiber of my life has been lately.  So I’d like to do this exercise that I’ve created.  Bare with me people, it’s a bit of a stretch.  I am going to write letters to friends, to professors, to acquaintances as if what’s being discussed in the letter is happening in the present.  The following letters are all about events that have recently taken place, but by writing about them as if it’s a present conversation, maybe I can find some of that life that so eludes me in personal reflection.

I might use names.  For that, I am sorry.  I don’t think it’s really fair to write public letters to people, and I will try my hardest to avoid over personalizing out of respect for anyone who does not wish to be mentioned in this most beautiful space.  Still, no promises, shit happens.

Sometimes: shit happens to you.  *Big Grin*

Dear Ladyfingers-

Please stop talking about my receding hairline.  I’m sensitive and I worry, now that my beautiful curly locks are all chopped and gone, I am going to realize just how much I relied on my hair for any amount of confidence.  Seriously, stop talking about it.  I am going shit my pants in fear.  There’s this mole I have on the left side of my forehead that is barely—and I mean barely—hidden by my fauxhawk curls.  Every once and a while, it peeks out and all I can think is: tell your parents you think it’s potentially cancerous and get that thing removed.  But then I realize that I would lose the hair in that area to get rid of it.  I think I would rather keep it hidden than face the idea of losing all of my buffer zone.  Oh, there’s another mole that is actually on the plane of my forehead, but I am slowly realizing that it’s not as ugly as I tend to think.  Still, stop.  When I ask you: DO I REALLY HAVE A RECEDING HAIRLINE?!, answer “no.”  Lie to me.  Tell me the falsehood.  Treat me with the respect of a white lie.  Just do it for my sanity.  You’ve already called me a mess four times tonight (ignoring your own drunkenness…) and I certainly don’t need to compound my lack of mental stability.

Also: child-of-mercy, you have brought me to tears four times tonight and I am done with the crying game.  You’ve awakened my spirit and spilt its guts onto this pillowcase.  And, shit(!), the pillow isn’t even mine.  I will ask you to remind me it needs to be washed—teardrops stain, right?—but you will shoot that idea down because you’ve been wearing the same underwear for four days and the notion of doing one’s laundry is about as foreign as it gets when you’re on spring break

The tears have been worth every pitiful moment though.  What I’ve realized tonight is this: I fell out of love because there was nothing left to fix.  And that was a moment of Aristotelian discovery, the best of all possible revelations.  It’s funny that you opened my eyes up without actually trying.  You said: at the end of the day, we’re here for you.  We’re here for you to do you and to show you that you are worth it.  And you are.  You are worth every goddamn cent.

So, dear friend, I will stop fixing what’s not broken, because that is no way to find what one is looking for.  I will stop patching the perfectly mended.  I will do me, because, at the end of the day, I’m only guaranteed this moment, this perfect second.

With all the love I can possibly offer,

Josh “Three-Dollar-Bill” Plattner

I think this is actually working!  I feel like the moment is happening all over again, like the day is frozen over in this spectacular moment of “I am alive.”

Dear 12-Year-Old,

I bought these P-Ball tickets an hour and a half before I got the text saying—more or less—“you’re too late.”  They sat in my lap for an hour until my legs fell asleep and my feet fell off beneath my desk.  I am not afraid to admit that I was angry and sad and cried like a small child because sometimes you feel utterly helpless in situations that you feel like you really screwed up.  But I want you to know that I don’t think that I screwed up by buying the tickets.  Really, I screwed up by not telling you right then and there that you were making the wrong decision, that you would be let down because there is no way that he could have ever been as fun as I am, or would have been.  Even now, when you’re showing off those dance moves in my room—if you can call them that—I cannot help but think, why didn’t I speak up?  But that’s neither here nor there because I took the path of least resistance; I sat back and let my tickets burn a hole in the denim of my back pocket. 

You should know that I bought those tickets because I thought (think) that there’s always room for possibility, for a smile, for Magic.  I would have toasted the night to new friendships and relationships, to a chance at getting rid of the fear of happiness.

I would have shown up.

I wish I knew the difference between St Paul and Minneapolis.

You were delightful tonight.  You were happy and full of energy.  You were the person I see all the time when I see you strutting around campus like you own the place—which you don’t, by the way!  But you were so smiley and it was nice to see because I sometimes forget that I am quite enjoyable to be around.  So thank you for awakening that it me this evening, for convincing me that I can be the person I am, even when he’s somewhat stifled by uncertainty.

You may not have had a great weekend, but Sunday’s been pretty great, yea?

Here’s to 3-0ing next time too,

Josh

Freedom is my favorite thing about writing.  You can type whatever you want, to whoever you want, whenever you want.  It’s just so non-demanding!

Dear Little Girl,

I don’t like it when you cry because you still look pretty and that, to me, is infuriating.  If only there were some part of you that lacked the charm and charisma that oozes from you all the time, maybe there’d be some redemption to those big, sad eyes that still shine so bright.  Alas, there is not.  You just don’t ever look poorly!

And fuck him, baby.  He’s a damn drunk fool and everything is going to work out for the best because it always has.  I know it doesn’t seem like it now, and that you can barely see straight enough to put the vacuum away in the right spot, but you’ll move on and get the hell out of here and find so much success.  It’s inevitable.  It’s a promise from this world to a deserving citizen.

I love you like a crazy person loves their hallucinations,

Rachel Dratch

 And for one last time, in a very quick, very personal letter:

Dear Batshit-Bonkers-Crazy,

My sentiments exactly.

Thank you for the utterly beautiful freedom I feel beneath these wings of mine.

Cheers.

Joshua Leo Plattner

For those of you who read along for the ride, but received nothing in the mail:

I Love You.

Sometimes, it’s just that simple.

What Do You Fear?

I read a sign today in SSC that I found rather amusing, tickled my fancy.

“Prose Before Hoes”

It was followed by a clip-art image of William Shakespeare and the words: “Submit to Firethorne by March 8^th.”  For anyone unaware, Firethorne is the Gustavus Literary Publication that is student made, developed, and produced.  Basically, it contains short fiction, non-fiction, poetry, photography, sculpture, and mixed media written and developed by students.  It’s a neat publication that I have rather enjoyed reading over the course of my four years on campus.  It may surprise some of you, though it certainly won’t shock others, that I have never once submitted a piece of writing to Firethorne.  A little odd, right?  I mean, I share pretty much everything I feel with the world wide web and exercise little restraint in expressing what the world feels like at any given moment on any given day during any given situation.  I’m pretty open to letting the world know how Josh Plattner is feeling, doing, and functioning.

I’m not so keen to do so when there’s the possibility of rejection, of discard, of “not-quite-enough.”  I don't like to put myself in vulnerable positions.  It probably comes from my fear of failure.

I have this very distinct memory of going to church school when I was 8^th Grade.

Church school, for those not privy to the practice, was a program at WHA Middle School that allowed students to leave campus once a week—Wednesdays, of course; had to line up with Youth Group night!—and attend their church institution for an hour of lessons, worship, and prayer.  Yes, yes, yes I’m from the strangest, smallest, most oppressive town in Northern Minnesota.  Can your city compete with a pastor who takes attendance, alerts your parents of any absence, and then berates you for your lack of connection to your spirituality? 

I was 13.  I was pubescent.  I was confused as hell—more or less—at every single moment of my life.  I was confused about my friends, my relationships, my family, my sexuality, my faith, and my body.  I was a wreck.  When I think about all of those conflicting feelings of fear and pride and loathing and worthlessness and joy and desire I only remember that one day of the week that I saturated myself with religious indoctrination: Church school day.

I can hear John, our youth pastor and facilitator, asking “What do you fear?”  We go around in a circle, everyone sharing the animals, feelings, abstractions, scenarios, and experiences that threatened the sense of safety we each held.  It’s my turn and I am sitting next to Sarah Johnson, one of my oldest and dearest friends.  I hear John ask, “Josh, what do you fear?”

I don’t respond.  I cannot find the words.

“What do you fear?”

I fear my own mind, John.

“What makes you afraid?”

I am afraid of the trapped feelings in my heart and my head that cannot be released.  I am afraid of my daily thoughts and urges that would set me on fire in this temple of purity, inside this sanctuary of grace.  John 3:16 says that ‘God so loved the world he gave his...’

“What makes you scared?”

You.  You make me scared.  You and all of these eyes that drill in my arms and legs and chest.  All of these eyes that connect to minds that know much more about me than I want you too.  These minds that know so much without my own words.  Isaiah 53:6 ‘All we, like sheep, have gone astray…’

“What keeps you up at night?”

The knowledge that no one in this room could look at me in the same way if I really answered your question. If I just told you the truth and forced you all to deal with the same religious dissonance I experience every fucking day of my life.  1 Corinthians 6:9 ‘The unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of…’

“What do you fear?”

“Moths,” I say. “They have death on their wings and make strange noises when they flutter around.  I don’t like them.  They’re frightening.”

And that’s it.  We move on to Sarah.

“Sarah, what do you fear?”

She stands up to speak and she says, “I am afraid of failure.”  She sits back in her chair and looks over at me with a frown.

There is no speaking after Sarah is back in her seat.  Even the unruly kids, the ones who are here to get out of school for an hour a week, are silent.  John’s mouth is gaping and someone finally cracks the painful noiselessness.

“Wow, that’s a good one, Sarah.”

It’s me.  I can’t bare the quiet.  I can’t sit in that green, metal bound chair and suffocate my brain with every thought that volleys between my ears.  I will not allow it.  I cannot for my own sanity ache in that moment any longer.  I will not suffer the blanket heavy breathing while entwining thoughts of hatred and anxiety weave in and out of my mind, wrapping my fear in some reinforced cage of insidious, putrid ivy.

“It’s really thoughtful.”

“Thanks,” she says, “it’s true.”  She shrugs and looks down at her fidgeting hands in her lap.

“I fear failure too.”

Sarah nods.  “It’s much more rational than moths.”

The rest of that moment is lost and I like to think it’s just better that way.  The important part is still fresh, still alive, still movinglivingbreathing inside of me.  The quick movement of her lips, the falling hair in her eyes, the black sleek to her coat and the way it whisked as it moved: it’s all there.  14-year-old Sarah is right beside me, telling me to be braver, to challenge myself in ways I only could in those moments I imagined taking a stance and speaking up for myself. 

In many ways, those moments of courage still only exist in the quiet minutes that I imagine myself as brave.  Yet, I have learned over the years that being brave and losing your fear of failure are not the same principle.  They are separate ideas; they are notions on their own and function independently.  One can be brave and still fear failure, and one can certainly look failure in the eye without feeling a swell of courage.

When I reflect on this now, I surrender to the fact that failure, in most cases, is subjective.  Sure, you can objectively fail a task, a test, or an exam, but, in most cases, you realize that failure is only defined by your own interpretation of success.  Thing is: I set notoriously high standards.  I expect a lot out of myself.  And, often, climbing that perceived pillar of success is no more possible than failing at nothing.

Though easier said than done, perhaps it’s time to relax, to sway, to shrug the weight of the world off my all too self-burdened shoulders.  Perhaps the idiom to err is human, to forgive divine warrants a little illumination.  So, for tonight, I am exorcising the phobic presence of failure in favor of forgiving my shortcomings.  I am rinsing the stink of self-doubt and deprecation and bathing in the knowledge that I am an engaging, charming, brilliant, and imperfect human being. 

I encourage you to do the same.  

Guess it’s time to start writing.

Rhapsody in Lavender

I grew up hating the scent of lavender. 

Mother told me that it was good for headaches, and she frequently suffered from what the doctors called migraines: painful, nearly devastating bouts of light and sound sensitivity with just a hint nausea and discomfort. She would apply little drops of it behind her ears and on her temples and then leave the bottle open so that the aroma could waft through the room.  I used to think that the aroma therapy notion was nothing but a hoax.  Something about a smell being able to heal: it’s odd and doesn’t feel like it’s all that researchable.  Certainly, it’s testable, but it feels more like pseudoscience than true therapy.  I guess you could say I’m skeptical?

There was a woman in my hometown that wrote this book called Natural Beauty that explored the properties of natural ingredients and their healing powers for the human body.  Even now, I can see the green and purple cover, and the very alluring photo of the author—beautiful, by the way.  But when I think about the information inside the well presented cover, behind the smiling blonde, I just immediately start to think about lavender.  The soft, floral scent; the gentle, cooling oil; the subtle, delicate color: hardly anything wrong with it on paper.  Still: I could not bear to be around the flower.  Not one bit.  I would sit in the bathroom and hide the scented candles in drawers and put chapstick on my nostrils to filter away the minty, natural nastiness that comes with the territory.

I used to think that my mom would just leave out lavender products to annoy me.  She knew I hated it (and I don’t even use that word), but would constantly leave it around the home because it calmed her, helped her, healed her.  All I felt was ill.  Funny, no?  That one little flower can help a person so much, but hinder another to the point of discomfort and, on more than one occasion, disgust.  Something about that purple plant: it’s just not for me.

And then River Rock brought it on board.  Lavender coldpress, lavender simple syrup, lavender lemonade, lavender latte, lavender…I think you get the picture.  It’s already an overwhelming product to be around: and now it’s permeating my workplace?  Look at our current special board.  Midnight Garden.

“What’s in a midnight garden?” –Clueless Customer

“Well, our midnight garden is the result of one of our bakers’ favorite creations, the midnight garden scone.  It’s made like a mocha, that’s our chocolate from Ghiradelli, with milk, and two shots of espresso.  Then we add our own simple syrup that comes from locally sourced and extracted lavender.  It’s quite the delicate drink!  If you’d like, you can try it iced or hot, or even with white chocolate…”  -Jolly Josh

People eat it up.  They hear the word lavender and they perk right up.  What is it about that little flower that makes everyone so delighted?  It’s the color, right?  It’s a nice, light purple so I can understand the appeal.  But everything else about it is just so repulsive.  It’s pungent, overriding, and—to be a little anthropomorphic—cocky.  It’s an arrogant little plant; it’s pretentious and condescending. 

“Look at me!  I’m lavender.  I’m delightful!”

Yeah, yeah.  You’re nice.  You’re soft, you’re friendly.  You’re a lot of things to a lot of people.

To me: you’re just that little flower that triggers memories of all those times spent in the bathroom trying to avoid my family.  Memories of sitting in my room, plugging my nose, and finding ways to ignore the upper half of the house. 

If anything: lavender reminds me of being lonely. 

Tonight I tried an Iced Lavender Latte.  And just as the acronym suggests: all I felt was ILL.

But worse than ill in the sick sense, I felt sad.  I felt like that little boy in his room with his blankets and his books and no one around to say: hey, why don’t you step out of this box of boredom and enjoy some time with another person?  Take your nose out of pages and your eyes off of words and talk to your friends, to your family, to anyone other than the lonely kid in the mirror.

I was surrounded, enveloped by movement and people and energy.  Yet, standing there behind the counter, trying to wash the taste away with water and whole wheat cranberry bread, I was eleven. 

I was eleven and alone.

I was eleven and alone and dwarfed by a plant that any child could pluck from the earth.

And all I could think?

What did I do with my chapstick?

Tin Foil Advice

“Sometimes bad things happen to good people.  And sometimes, bad thing happen…to you.” –Karen Walker

Well, Thursdays actually used to be my favorite day of the week when I was in middle school.  I am pretty sure this was a result of a desire to stand out, to be odd, to be weird.  To be anomalous.  To manipulate attention and intrigue.  To bring the spotlight down and focus it in on e in one tight, burning blast of light.  I realize that’s an odd way to stand out, but I think you would be surprised just how much impact a tiny little detail like that will have on a person.  See, as soon as you wonder why a person would pick such an odd day like Thursday, or why they would posit any other unique fact about them, you’re consciously thinking about them; you’re giving them attention, even if it’s unseen.  It’s the same principle behind me saying my favorite holiday is St Patrick’s Day.  On paper: sure. I am Irish, love the color green, have a small build like a leprechaun—though little Stevie Briles may be more capable of representing such a body type—and have been known to enjoy a drink or two (or more!) here and there.  But, really, who likes St Patrick’s Day more than Christmas (or the religious equivalent) or Independence Day or, oh I dunno, May 14^th day?  I just don’t think that the 17^th of March is any better than any other holiday season.

That being said, if someone tells you that Thursday or St Patrick’s is their favorite of all other possibilities: they’re lying and they want you to remember them.  Take it from a former middle school attention whore: Me!

Thursdays blow, my dear attractive readers.  They really do!  I think today is perhaps a little special—see third presentation of the week, sweaty back, spilled coffee, geology lab, six hours of straight class, dumbass prick and stupid girl (maybe I shouldn’t say stupid as she might actually have a minimal IQ), and my dying phone—but goodness, folks! 

Thursdays can S my D.

Still even when jackass extraordinaire attempts to make me look like an idiot in class—for READING A BOOK nonetheless—I immediately snap into the sarcastic (well, more sarcastic), caustic, bitter, and ruthless version of Josh that, in response, makes a smartass comment that results in laughter at said asshole’s expense.  Meh.  Don’t care too much that he has laughed at and shut up by my response, but I instantly fell guilty  whenever the angry and poisonous mode slips through the cracks and says three cheers to making myself look fantastic.  It’s not really worth it at the expense of others. 

Side note:  How fitting is it that as I write this, reflecting on this Thursday, Jeff Haun brings up psychological defense mechanisms?  I think it’s my favorite portion of psychology and blogging is one of my favorite activities!  Coincidence?  Definitely.  Just a freak happening, but kinda weird right?  (cue that one song that’s like do-do-do-do, do-do-do-do.  Ah.  Yes.  The Twilight Zone Theme Song)

AND: Proof that last blog I hit a note-

“Would you like to watch clip?  We don’t have to watch it if you’ve all seen it…Should we watch it? –Haun

*Class nods*

“Okay, cool.  I think you’ll like it” –Haun

*Class nods*

See!  I wanted to watch the movie in class; I knew that I didn’t have anything against the weird substitute and lack of conversation!  In fact: I realized I would RATHER watch a clip in class than continue talking about conditioning!  Yawnsauce.

Tangent!  Back to mean Uncle Josh.

So: it’s a guard.  It’s instantaneous, rather unforeseen, and so defensive.  Funny, certainly, but I am funny anyway!  I don’t need to be verbally humiliating toward someone to get a laugh.  I mean, I walk into a room and people feel butterflies and smile—Wouldn’t you?!  I wouldn’t blame ya.  I’m pretty fantastic.  *Gross wink face and a shoulder smile here*

Yet, I wonder if it’s not just healthy to snap sometimes.  To say, hey, fuckface, you’re being a tool.  Grow up and figure your shit out.  I imagine it’s probably okay to do every once and a while.  In a way, it’s just as vulnerable to take a moment of stance and say: “alright, really, that’s enough.”  It puts you in a place of discomfort, of anxiety, of ohshitwhatamIdoingthisisgoingmakemelooklikesuchanidiot.”  But, vulnerability and understanding of one’s own moments of fragility reinforces character and improves self esteem and awareness.  Cool, right? 

Right.

For now: I think I will take the advice of a Dove Chocolate.

“Do what feels right.”