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juushikaThe good news is that I survived my jury summons; the bad news is that it knocked me the fuck out for a few days, but that's hardly surprising.
Word to the wise and similarly anxious called in to do their civic duties (and for the curious as well): poke around you courthouse's website to see if they're hiding a jury information handbook somewhere. Benton County's is particularly well hidden; read it here (pdf). This is a summary of the information they deign to share with you if you show up, and it does a lot to answer questions and perhaps relieve fears—such as the scheduling and length of jury duty. In Benton County most trials only last one or two days, which for the juror includes the entire process: from summons to jury selection to deliberation. That's news which, predictably, I found very comforting—because once I was there I wanted to be finished and done as soon as possible.
I didn't get picked for the jury, of course. In fact they didn't even get to me in voir dire, because they called upwards of 160 potential jurors and were able to pull a jury out of the first 18. (Apparently the last few times they've had too few jurors show up; this time they called in an epic amount, and all but about four showed.) Considering the circumstances of the case in question they wouldn't have wanted me anyway, and not just because they ask if there's any reason you strongly don't want to be there (why yes thank you!).
So I was in at 8a and out by about half 10a. Not unreasonable. Still not easy: towards the end of that first round of voir dire I fell apart a bit. For the paperwork and various waiting I could at least read, but while the DA questioned each of the first 18 individually and the rest of us waiting our turn, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't have been appropriate to pull out a novel; without the distraction and sitting on perhaps the cruelest benches known to man, it was a long, miserable wait. Luckily it was only uphill from there, even with Devon's work phone being on the fritz when I tried to call for a ride home.
I was a zombie from then until I woke up this morning, and have had wretched nightmares and killer backpain in about equal measure these last few days. Sadly though that's nothing all that new. But those courthouse benches, man, let me tell you. Slick lacquered wood and a special spine-destroying shape—they inexorably pull you back, back, back no matter how straight you try to sit, then tilt you hips that way and push you lumbar this way and in just an hour try their damnedest to undo all the good you do by constant good posture and stretches and body babysitting. It's as fucking miserable as it is impressive.
At least the jury box is filled with plush office chairs, for those lucky enough to be picked to spend all day or two there.
What I really gained from the experience (other than PAIN, of course) was a glimpse into just how poorly I function in the "real world" these days. I don't drive, I can't approximate transportation costs or distances, I don't carry a cell phone (and as a result the one I do have somewhere was MIA when I wanted it), I'm not employed, hell I currently can't even remember if I'm currently registered to vote (somewhere in my dozen changed addresses of the last few years, I've lost track of if and where they're sending my absentee ballots—and yeah, I know I ought to go in and correct that). Some of this is intentional—e.g. I'm terrified of driving, so haven't driven in years; I hate time-sensitive, real-time, non-voluntary communication, so I hate cell phones—but a lot of it is just that I'm so sheltered, right now. Which is intentional, which brings me joy, but which may not make me all that well-adjusted, to be honest.
Devon doesn't much mind that I'm dependent on him, but I think we're still going to change things up a bit. A tiny bit. A little bit. Spring is coming here—I know it seems fickle or slow to come to some of you Northern hemisphere-livers who are awaiting it, but here we're having sunny days, cold snaps, and buckets of rain; the lawn is plush, rich green, and that means spring. Devon and I went walking in the blustery Central Park the other day, stopped by the library and then wandered through the art center; yesterday in the rain and dark we went for coffee, also downtown, and then walked across the corner to the local new/used bookstore and came away with two more volumes for my collection. In short it is lovely out, temperamental or no, and I've wanted to get out lately. In careful, short hours spent around books, coffee, trees, it's more enjoyable than stressful. So we're thinking more library visits, more time around the park and Starbucks, maybe even on my own!
When I was living in Portland, during my first and blissful leave of absence from Reed, I used to get out about once a week. I'd take the bus to Portland State (where I was taking a psych course I could have done in my sleep), walk a few blocks up to the main building of the public library, take my finds down the street to Starbucks, and/or come back down to the park near PSU. I consumed books swift as fire, studied up on Celtic mythology, had conversations with strangers, drank mochas, sat in the dappled shade of deciduous trees, and honestly it was one of the better, healthier times of my life (more ironic then that it was followed by my return to school and my swift slide towards ruin). I miss it a lot, and the little things that made it possible: public transportation within easy walking distance and, perhaps above all, a city big enough that it didn't trigger my anxieties. I know that sounds contradictory, but it was always easy for me to get to downtown Portland than it was for me to get to Reed's campus, because a lot of the social aspects of my anxieties are that people are building a little checklist about me, cataloging all my behaviors and faults and using it to view me a little worse the next time they see me—in short, that people remember me. Meanwhile, you can spend a month in downtown Portland and (especially if you're as bad at recognizing faces as I am) never see the same person twice.
I don't think I can spend near-full days in downtown Corvallis for just that reason, but a few hours at a time wandering between the places I find comfortable and beautiful? That I think I can probably do. And it would be good for me: to get me out and moving, more engaged and active with the tangible and sun-brightened world that I don't often see from the safety of my bedroom. And then I can come on home.
Word to the wise and similarly anxious called in to do their civic duties (and for the curious as well): poke around you courthouse's website to see if they're hiding a jury information handbook somewhere. Benton County's is particularly well hidden; read it here (pdf). This is a summary of the information they deign to share with you if you show up, and it does a lot to answer questions and perhaps relieve fears—such as the scheduling and length of jury duty. In Benton County most trials only last one or two days, which for the juror includes the entire process: from summons to jury selection to deliberation. That's news which, predictably, I found very comforting—because once I was there I wanted to be finished and done as soon as possible.
I didn't get picked for the jury, of course. In fact they didn't even get to me in voir dire, because they called upwards of 160 potential jurors and were able to pull a jury out of the first 18. (Apparently the last few times they've had too few jurors show up; this time they called in an epic amount, and all but about four showed.) Considering the circumstances of the case in question they wouldn't have wanted me anyway, and not just because they ask if there's any reason you strongly don't want to be there (why yes thank you!).
So I was in at 8a and out by about half 10a. Not unreasonable. Still not easy: towards the end of that first round of voir dire I fell apart a bit. For the paperwork and various waiting I could at least read, but while the DA questioned each of the first 18 individually and the rest of us waiting our turn, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't have been appropriate to pull out a novel; without the distraction and sitting on perhaps the cruelest benches known to man, it was a long, miserable wait. Luckily it was only uphill from there, even with Devon's work phone being on the fritz when I tried to call for a ride home.
I was a zombie from then until I woke up this morning, and have had wretched nightmares and killer backpain in about equal measure these last few days. Sadly though that's nothing all that new. But those courthouse benches, man, let me tell you. Slick lacquered wood and a special spine-destroying shape—they inexorably pull you back, back, back no matter how straight you try to sit, then tilt you hips that way and push you lumbar this way and in just an hour try their damnedest to undo all the good you do by constant good posture and stretches and body babysitting. It's as fucking miserable as it is impressive.
At least the jury box is filled with plush office chairs, for those lucky enough to be picked to spend all day or two there.
What I really gained from the experience (other than PAIN, of course) was a glimpse into just how poorly I function in the "real world" these days. I don't drive, I can't approximate transportation costs or distances, I don't carry a cell phone (and as a result the one I do have somewhere was MIA when I wanted it), I'm not employed, hell I currently can't even remember if I'm currently registered to vote (somewhere in my dozen changed addresses of the last few years, I've lost track of if and where they're sending my absentee ballots—and yeah, I know I ought to go in and correct that). Some of this is intentional—e.g. I'm terrified of driving, so haven't driven in years; I hate time-sensitive, real-time, non-voluntary communication, so I hate cell phones—but a lot of it is just that I'm so sheltered, right now. Which is intentional, which brings me joy, but which may not make me all that well-adjusted, to be honest.
Devon doesn't much mind that I'm dependent on him, but I think we're still going to change things up a bit. A tiny bit. A little bit. Spring is coming here—I know it seems fickle or slow to come to some of you Northern hemisphere-livers who are awaiting it, but here we're having sunny days, cold snaps, and buckets of rain; the lawn is plush, rich green, and that means spring. Devon and I went walking in the blustery Central Park the other day, stopped by the library and then wandered through the art center; yesterday in the rain and dark we went for coffee, also downtown, and then walked across the corner to the local new/used bookstore and came away with two more volumes for my collection. In short it is lovely out, temperamental or no, and I've wanted to get out lately. In careful, short hours spent around books, coffee, trees, it's more enjoyable than stressful. So we're thinking more library visits, more time around the park and Starbucks, maybe even on my own!
When I was living in Portland, during my first and blissful leave of absence from Reed, I used to get out about once a week. I'd take the bus to Portland State (where I was taking a psych course I could have done in my sleep), walk a few blocks up to the main building of the public library, take my finds down the street to Starbucks, and/or come back down to the park near PSU. I consumed books swift as fire, studied up on Celtic mythology, had conversations with strangers, drank mochas, sat in the dappled shade of deciduous trees, and honestly it was one of the better, healthier times of my life (more ironic then that it was followed by my return to school and my swift slide towards ruin). I miss it a lot, and the little things that made it possible: public transportation within easy walking distance and, perhaps above all, a city big enough that it didn't trigger my anxieties. I know that sounds contradictory, but it was always easy for me to get to downtown Portland than it was for me to get to Reed's campus, because a lot of the social aspects of my anxieties are that people are building a little checklist about me, cataloging all my behaviors and faults and using it to view me a little worse the next time they see me—in short, that people remember me. Meanwhile, you can spend a month in downtown Portland and (especially if you're as bad at recognizing faces as I am) never see the same person twice.
I don't think I can spend near-full days in downtown Corvallis for just that reason, but a few hours at a time wandering between the places I find comfortable and beautiful? That I think I can probably do. And it would be good for me: to get me out and moving, more engaged and active with the tangible and sun-brightened world that I don't often see from the safety of my bedroom. And then I can come on home.
