Get Confident, Stupid!
CONTINUED (PAGE 2 OF 4)
The conduit to our dreams of a powerful life—our Landmark Forum leader—is 56-year-old Richard Condon. Small, dapper, and strident, with a sparse goatee and an oxford shirt, Condon is a combination arrogant professor, soulful father-confessor, hysterical drill instructor, and Boys in the Band bitch. (Not the gay part, just the occasional downright withering nastiness.)
He takes the stage late in the morning on day one, like a headlining rock star, after his mild-mannered cohort, Barry, has warmed us up with various warnings of how emotionally and mentally rigorous this long weekend will be.
Apparently, some participants have concerns that Landmark might be a cult. When these concerns come from the group the first morning, Condon swats them away like gnats on a summer night. Yes, back in the '90s, Werner Erhard sold his business to a group of employees, but this is not est. No, we are not a cult; we are not a religion. We are not asking you to follow us, and if you do we'll call the cops. When someone asks who Werner Erhard is, Condon is dismissive. Don't worry about Werner Erhard.
Worry about yourselves.
"You are living lives of sham and illusion," Condon assures us from his director's chair. "Everything you do in life is meant to make you look good or to avoid looking bad. Everything. You are inauthentic. You have no integrity. Your word is worthless."
I suspect that his pessimistic appraisals are a shock to many in the group accustomed to being validated in their expensive self-help seminars. But this is me to a tee, and early on I find myself both agreeing with him and wishing he would tell me something I didn't already know. At some point, when we turn to our neighbors and share, I'm ready.
My discussion partner is an earthy local well into his forties. I like him immediately for his openness and his untrimmed beard stained with tobacco and some other things I'd rather not mention. He goes first and says he's been afraid to tell his wife about how angry he is that she doesn't share his views on politics and UFOs. I'm dying to find out what he knows about the aliens, but we have only two minutes, so I go. I tell him I've been inauthentic with some of my friends for fear they will learn that just because I've published occasional magazine articles, it doesn't mean I'm successful. I tell him that I go to bed at night because I am afraid to stay up too late, that I get up in the morning because I am afraid to sleep in. I clean house because I am afraid people will know I'm a slob; I keep most of my opinions to myself for fear of being wrong or hurting someone; I fear hurting people because God might exist. I pray for fear S/He does. (And yes, I add an S to He for fear God's a woman.) I'm prepared to go on, but our time is up, and we thank each other for sharing. He looks relieved.
My fear that the Landmark Forum will mine some deep-seated catastrophic truth or weakness in me leaves my nerves on edge. I am afraid to speak before the group, but many participants frequent the microphones placed around the room. One woman, a petite, earnest, wiry brunet, comes to the microphone to profess her integrity. She is so prideful, so cheery, so thin and self-confident that I wonder why she is here at all. She declares to the room that through her work she is changing the world.
Condon is unimpressed and smacks her delusions back into her upheld chin, splat, like a ripe tomato. "Listen," he says, "I don't know what your bag is, but you've never changed anything." I couldn't agree more.
But Condon's not finished. You harbor persistent complaints and resentments in life, in relationships, he tells her, tells all of us. These complaints, along with fear, rule how you behave, how you interact, even with people you say you love. They make you inauthentic; they make your life a lie. And then he uses a brilliant Landmarkian term: These are your "rackets," he says, and henceforth rackets will refer not to some dubious business practices but to our stubborn need to be right, to gain the upper hand in every relationship. You think this gives you power, Condon implies, but it drains power—and every time you argue with me, every time you insist on being right, you're running a racket.
If you want power back, Condon says, then during the upcoming break I want you to call someone you've been running a racket on, and tell them you are "inventing a new possibility for yourself and your life and ask them to join you in that possibility." Join you? Are we already recruiting?
This is an emblematic Landmark moment, when we fire up our cell phones and call those sisters and brothers and mothers and fathers and friends we've been running rackets on and tell them that we're going to stop blaming them for our pathetic lives.
It's a nice sentiment, but it seems to me that this is a pretty loaded announcement to make to someone who might only just be learning of your debilitating grievances. And so while the group enthusiastically takes its cell phones to the hallways and stairwells to dive in, I hesitate. I try to look inconspicuous, try not to trip over the tearful callers strewn about, until finally I can't take it; I don't want to be seen not calling.
So I dial up one of my sister. Until about five years ago, she was the person I would always turn to for advice. When her husband's drinking spun out of control, her life fell apart and she became needy and completely absorbed in her own survival. Despite deep wells of sympathy for her situation, I've been harboring resentments for the bad decisions she's made, for her unrelenting inertia, and for how this has affected our relationship. But I was afraid to tell her this, and long ago I pulled back, lessening the frequency and depth—and honesty—of our communications. Still, she is the most supportive person I know. I'm sure I can call her and find a way to dump the Forum dump on her and we'll still come out okay. So I pull out my phone, spread my little Landmarkian wings, and try to fly.
TAGS Self-improvement, Men's Lives, landmark forum, self-help
Page 1 2 3 4
He takes the stage late in the morning on day one, like a headlining rock star, after his mild-mannered cohort, Barry, has warmed us up with various warnings of how emotionally and mentally rigorous this long weekend will be.
Apparently, some participants have concerns that Landmark might be a cult. When these concerns come from the group the first morning, Condon swats them away like gnats on a summer night. Yes, back in the '90s, Werner Erhard sold his business to a group of employees, but this is not est. No, we are not a cult; we are not a religion. We are not asking you to follow us, and if you do we'll call the cops. When someone asks who Werner Erhard is, Condon is dismissive. Don't worry about Werner Erhard.
Worry about yourselves.
"You are living lives of sham and illusion," Condon assures us from his director's chair. "Everything you do in life is meant to make you look good or to avoid looking bad. Everything. You are inauthentic. You have no integrity. Your word is worthless."
I suspect that his pessimistic appraisals are a shock to many in the group accustomed to being validated in their expensive self-help seminars. But this is me to a tee, and early on I find myself both agreeing with him and wishing he would tell me something I didn't already know. At some point, when we turn to our neighbors and share, I'm ready.
My discussion partner is an earthy local well into his forties. I like him immediately for his openness and his untrimmed beard stained with tobacco and some other things I'd rather not mention. He goes first and says he's been afraid to tell his wife about how angry he is that she doesn't share his views on politics and UFOs. I'm dying to find out what he knows about the aliens, but we have only two minutes, so I go. I tell him I've been inauthentic with some of my friends for fear they will learn that just because I've published occasional magazine articles, it doesn't mean I'm successful. I tell him that I go to bed at night because I am afraid to stay up too late, that I get up in the morning because I am afraid to sleep in. I clean house because I am afraid people will know I'm a slob; I keep most of my opinions to myself for fear of being wrong or hurting someone; I fear hurting people because God might exist. I pray for fear S/He does. (And yes, I add an S to He for fear God's a woman.) I'm prepared to go on, but our time is up, and we thank each other for sharing. He looks relieved.
My fear that the Landmark Forum will mine some deep-seated catastrophic truth or weakness in me leaves my nerves on edge. I am afraid to speak before the group, but many participants frequent the microphones placed around the room. One woman, a petite, earnest, wiry brunet, comes to the microphone to profess her integrity. She is so prideful, so cheery, so thin and self-confident that I wonder why she is here at all. She declares to the room that through her work she is changing the world.
Condon is unimpressed and smacks her delusions back into her upheld chin, splat, like a ripe tomato. "Listen," he says, "I don't know what your bag is, but you've never changed anything." I couldn't agree more.
But Condon's not finished. You harbor persistent complaints and resentments in life, in relationships, he tells her, tells all of us. These complaints, along with fear, rule how you behave, how you interact, even with people you say you love. They make you inauthentic; they make your life a lie. And then he uses a brilliant Landmarkian term: These are your "rackets," he says, and henceforth rackets will refer not to some dubious business practices but to our stubborn need to be right, to gain the upper hand in every relationship. You think this gives you power, Condon implies, but it drains power—and every time you argue with me, every time you insist on being right, you're running a racket.
If you want power back, Condon says, then during the upcoming break I want you to call someone you've been running a racket on, and tell them you are "inventing a new possibility for yourself and your life and ask them to join you in that possibility." Join you? Are we already recruiting?
This is an emblematic Landmark moment, when we fire up our cell phones and call those sisters and brothers and mothers and fathers and friends we've been running rackets on and tell them that we're going to stop blaming them for our pathetic lives.
It's a nice sentiment, but it seems to me that this is a pretty loaded announcement to make to someone who might only just be learning of your debilitating grievances. And so while the group enthusiastically takes its cell phones to the hallways and stairwells to dive in, I hesitate. I try to look inconspicuous, try not to trip over the tearful callers strewn about, until finally I can't take it; I don't want to be seen not calling.
So I dial up one of my sister. Until about five years ago, she was the person I would always turn to for advice. When her husband's drinking spun out of control, her life fell apart and she became needy and completely absorbed in her own survival. Despite deep wells of sympathy for her situation, I've been harboring resentments for the bad decisions she's made, for her unrelenting inertia, and for how this has affected our relationship. But I was afraid to tell her this, and long ago I pulled back, lessening the frequency and depth—and honesty—of our communications. Still, she is the most supportive person I know. I'm sure I can call her and find a way to dump the Forum dump on her and we'll still come out okay. So I pull out my phone, spread my little Landmarkian wings, and try to fly.
TAGS Self-improvement, Men's Lives, landmark forum, self-help
Page 1 2 3 4