On Sensitivity
The Gratitude List #11
On Thursday morning, I tell Daisygreen I’m going to take take Jet’s restorative yoga class. Give myself a little R&R in the midst of a strange week. “Oh,” she says, “did something happen?” This is one of our go-to bits: pretending we’ve forgotten the unforgettable. As a method of undercutting whatever tension we might be feeling – separately or together – it’s foolproof.
The class is called Yin and Meridians. ClassPass promises that it will “clear stagnant energy and reset the body and mind.” I think “that’s so me, my energy is so stagnant” as I reserve my spot with in-app credits that are worth an amount of money that remains indeterminate, no matter how many times I reset my body and mind.
About midway through the class, Jet introduces acupressure to the practice. We’re instructed to take our hand and creep it along the space between our neck and shoulder. "Find a spot that's a little sensitive," she says. "Some would say alive." I find the spot. I massage it. I repeat. After class, I spend much of the rest of the day considering these words in a way I never have before.
sen•si•tive (adjective)
easily damaged, injured, or distressed by slight changes
As an alcoholic, I can’t think of a time when I haven’t been sensitive. I used to be sensitive about being sensitive. I once picked a fight with my mom when I found out that, in middle school, she left a note to my summer camp counselors that I cried when frustrated.1 I take shit personally when it’s not about me, because maybe if I make it about me then I can have some control.
I didn’t follow in the footsteps of alcoholics and addicts who used drugs or alcohol to quash their sensitivity. Strangely, drinking made me not really care about being sensitive. Whether throwing a conniption fit on my dorm floor freshman year while turnt on knockoff Four Loko, or confessing to my creative writing classmates senior year that I had way more fun at their parties than I did at my frat’s parties any more, I wielded an unwieldy sensitivity. I wore my heart on my sleeve so much I got the oxytocin molecule tattooed on my shoulder.
a•live (adjective)
aware of and interested in; responsive to
In sobriety, I began to actually feel alive in a way I hadn’t before. I became alive to myself and my own wants, needs, desires, and opinions in a way I hadn’t before. The sensitivity turned inward, and I began to give myself chances to actually give the way I felt or the things I believed some credence instead of passing them through innumerable filters until they became what seemed like the right thing to say or do in order to be liked.
sen•si•tive (adjective)
quick to detect or respond to slight changes, signals, or influences
One of the best pieces of comedy advice I ever got was from Eric Moneypenny, an incredible sketch writing teacher at The Pack Theater.2 In his view, comedy is a negotiation. Your job is to offer up a joke, the audience’s job is to respond. The ultimate goal: find the overlap in the Venn diagram between what the audience thinks is funny, and what you think is funny.
Stand-ups should be sensitive; hack lies at both ends of the pandering spectrum. I think that’s part of why I like dabbling in clown so much: that style demands sensitivity to the audience. In clown land, presence is everything.
a•live (adjective)
alert and active; animated
But if to be sensitive is to be present, then the trap artists seem more susceptible to fall into now is letting presence give way to vigilance. Depending on how I’m feeling any given day, the switch can flip from being alert to being on alert. Some days I’m surrounded by cacophonous noise and infuriating images, maybe by chance, maybe by choice. A diet of intellectual junk food masks my gut instinct behind a perpetual stomachache. My attention unravels. My sensitivity poofs out of existence. I can’t create if I’m being defensive or trying to protect myself. When I’m coming from that place, I wind up turning down the volume and saturation knobs on the world, afraid to live because living means that I might catch feelings.
If there’s one thing I’m grateful for today, it’s realizing that my sensitivity is not a defect. Because when I lose my sensitivity, I lose my edge. I barrel ahead, just trying to muscle through, instead of trying to approach a situation with curiosity, care, and finesse.
sen•si•tive (adjective)
easily offended or upset
On Friday, I go to a meeting that, for all intents and purposes, is a pretty average meeting. Except for, y’know, that whole lingering post-election anxiety thing. One guy verbalizes that anxiety in his share; right now, he simply can’t imagine behaving like everything is going to be okay, doing the things that he would do if he felt normal. Because things are not normal, and he does not feel normal. Across the room, I empathize as I listen to his voice crack. While he speaks, the room fills with an intense quiet. You can hear everyone trying to listen. In this room, with these people in recovery, it becomes apparent what true sensitivity offers: an opportunity to really understand someone else.
Right now, if you’re an artist, you might not feel normal. It’s okay. Hell, it’s even better if you can admit that you’re not feeling normal, and that you don’t know what’s going to happen, and how fucking terrifying that feels. The good news is that you are feeling. The great news is that you’re alive. And the best news of all: someday, all the vivid colors these feelings conjure up inside you will become what you use to leave your mark on the world.
a•live (adjective)
in a state of action
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some feelings to use.
THINGS I’M GLAD I SAW LAST WEEK
MARC REBILLET AT THE BELASCO (AND THE SUBSEQUENT PHOTOS BY VAN CORONA)
The perfect way to spend Election Day Eve. Long live Loop Daddy, one of the funniest and most inspiring performers working today. Long live Van Corona, the king of capturing mayhem.
MYCAL DEDE’S BIT ABOUT DIVERSITY IN THE WORKPLACE
Dédé is a hilarious comic and lawyer based in Austin. I had no objections to this bit surfacing on my Instagram feed.
PAT BARKER’S STORY ABOUT LENNY DYKSTRA
I wish there were more sports fans like Pat Barker, but if the world only has a handful of absolute stat-nerds who are also hilarious and great at telling stories, then I’m glad that this one is my friend.
NICK CALLAS AS “EVERY CROWD WORK COMEDIAN”
I’m glad that crowd work clips have become such a thing that this amazing bit by Nick doesn’t feel like something that’s too inside baseball. Please watch.
MY OLD ASS
I’ll warn you: this trailer is not super representative of the movie itself. But if you’re showing up for Aubrey Plaza, stick around for an extremely sweet coming-of-age story about family, friends, and using your time wisely.
CARTOON DARKNESS BY AMYL AND THE SNIFFERS
Punk music isn’t my genre at all, but this album from some energetic Aussie punks has captivated my eardrums all week. This album is feisty, full of earworms, and makes a great soundtrack for when you feel like throwing up some middle fingers to the world.
A BRIEF DISPATCH FROM RECOVERYLAND
I have one of those habit trackers on my phone that I use for one recovery-specific thing: to track how many meetings I hit per week. My goal for much of this year has been three. It’s a good bar to at least try clearing, and feels like the right amount for my needs. This week, I cleared the bar again, specifically by pushing myself to mix it up and go to meetings outside of my regular rotation. I’m glad I did.
This week, I try again. I’m on funky night shift hours so I will be even more outside of my norms than usual. What better excuse to get out of the house and give somewhere new a chance?
WHAT ABOUT ME?
This week, you can find me:
on social media (mostly Instagram, a little on TikTok and YouTube)
in LA, San Diego, and Ft. Worth - full show calendar is here
doing WRONG! in San Diego this Friday and in Los Angeles on December 7th
Until next time, friends. Thanks for reading, I’m glad you’re here.
When I found out she did this I was taken aback, but I did cry while trying and failing to hoist a canoe over my head during my first year at this camp, so… point Mom.
Seriously, if this kind of stuff interests you at all, take his class. You will not regret it.