Thank god for anyone under 12 years of age
[After that,]
everyone goes to pieces.
- Ursula Nordstrom, book publisher
Tips for Finding Happiness in Your Daily Life
10 years ago
Sunday, December 29, 2019
Saturday, December 07, 2019
The Descendant
Today I met with Martine to bid her farewell. It was a dreary day: rainy, windy, gloomy.
She was 10 minutes late and a part of me wanted to leave. I was starving and the server had failed to bring bread at my request. I don't do hunger well.
But she did show up. She had gotten lost, arrived at a wrong lot and had to go all the way out to almost the freeway before she was able to turn back.
As I mentioned in my last post, we'd had only 3 workshops together. This was our 4th meeting. And pretty sure our last one.
She was asking me a lot of questions as if we were meeting for the first time. She had completely forgotten all these background inquiries had already been covered previously.
On the topic of friends, I made the casual (and true) statement "I don't have friends". And Martine's reaction couldn't have been more traumatized. Not having friends is that unimaginable to her.
Then I had to explain (again) how moving around means fewer friends, and friends move away. And coworkers don't stay friends. I've been on Meetup; I've tried. Nothing sticks. Etc., etc., etc.
She's in her twenties. She goes to church. She'll always have friends. I forgive her for not being able to fathom the older you get, the harder it is to make friends. In my experience, in this part of the world, it is true.
She was genuinely touched that I insisted in buying her lunch as her going away present since I had nothing else to offer.
"You are so nice!" She exclaimed. "Why don't you have friends?!" She sounded wholeheartedly incredulous.
In my mind I said to her, "Ask yourself. Why aren't I your friend?"
Such irony.
I would also like to know. Am I too old? Because I am not Christian? Wrong vibe?
Some things you cannot quantity to analyze. You will only drive yourself crazy.
No acrimony though. She's not my friend. I can accept that.
As we were parting ways in the parking lot, Martine mumbled that she'd be back in this area as they hadn't sold their house yet, and she had cousins here...
"I'll bring you pastry from Le Ciel* when I come to visit," she said as she walked away.
She did not even ask to take a selfie with me.
And I knew that this would be the last time I ever saw her.
*Not its real name
She was 10 minutes late and a part of me wanted to leave. I was starving and the server had failed to bring bread at my request. I don't do hunger well.
But she did show up. She had gotten lost, arrived at a wrong lot and had to go all the way out to almost the freeway before she was able to turn back.
As I mentioned in my last post, we'd had only 3 workshops together. This was our 4th meeting. And pretty sure our last one.
She was asking me a lot of questions as if we were meeting for the first time. She had completely forgotten all these background inquiries had already been covered previously.
On the topic of friends, I made the casual (and true) statement "I don't have friends". And Martine's reaction couldn't have been more traumatized. Not having friends is that unimaginable to her.
Then I had to explain (again) how moving around means fewer friends, and friends move away. And coworkers don't stay friends. I've been on Meetup; I've tried. Nothing sticks. Etc., etc., etc.
She's in her twenties. She goes to church. She'll always have friends. I forgive her for not being able to fathom the older you get, the harder it is to make friends. In my experience, in this part of the world, it is true.
She was genuinely touched that I insisted in buying her lunch as her going away present since I had nothing else to offer.
"You are so nice!" She exclaimed. "Why don't you have friends?!" She sounded wholeheartedly incredulous.
In my mind I said to her, "Ask yourself. Why aren't I your friend?"
Such irony.
I would also like to know. Am I too old? Because I am not Christian? Wrong vibe?
Some things you cannot quantity to analyze. You will only drive yourself crazy.
No acrimony though. She's not my friend. I can accept that.
As we were parting ways in the parking lot, Martine mumbled that she'd be back in this area as they hadn't sold their house yet, and she had cousins here...
"I'll bring you pastry from Le Ciel* when I come to visit," she said as she walked away.
She did not even ask to take a selfie with me.
And I knew that this would be the last time I ever saw her.
*Not its real name
Reeling
RJ watches a lot more TV than I. Often he has it in the background while surfing on the net. He's an intellect and needs intellectual stimuli. He's selective.
There are days when I feel if I never watch TV again I'll be okay.
RJ is constantly coming up with recommendations of what I could watch. I exclaim, "A lifetime is not long enough to watch all these shows!"
It takes me a long time to give a new show a shot, and when I do, it takes a while for me to warm up to it. Sometimes RJ is all excited about a show, and I'm just meh.
RJ has been described as stoic by his ex-wife Amelia. While that's a bit harsh, it is true that RJ does not exactly burst out laughing, for instance. I have asked him where his joie de vivre is. (This does not by any means he is not affectionate with me, however.)
I have mentioned that it is rare I capture his (very endearing) smile on camera. Heck, it is rare to get him to crack a smile out of amusement. It's a real accomplishment in my mind.
The other night, at RJ's suggestion, I was ready to, as he likes to put it, "audition" a British series called The Coroner. I love crime and mystery as a genre, and RJ has watched his fair share of such shows. We delight in hollering "Muurrdah!" the way we deem the Brits pronounce "murder".
S1 E1 was instantly gripping. The writing was good. The acting was good, in that subtle, believable, relatable way that American shows often lack. I applaud the U.K. for letting women star in a show, and having more than one important female character per series, and portraying women in a real, messy, gutsy, human way. They're people, interesting people. And they just happen to be women.
I once read an article in the NY Times which theorized, in essence, the better the actresses' hair is, the less noteworthy the story will be. Conversely, the worse the actresses' hair, the better the show.
I have tested this theory in real life and it does seem foolproof. Try it out yourself! You'd be amazed. It's quite eye-opening.
But I digress.
At the end of E1 of The Coroner, I announced to RJ, enthused, waving my right arm in the air, "This is a winner! Good choice!"
With a slight chuckle, RJ replied, "That means more to me than my smile means to you."
I didn't hear him right at first. When I realized what he had said, I was astonished. I had no idea my "approval" would carry any weight. Definitely not this kind of weight.
That my opinion matters is such a breath of fresh air, in stark contrast to my experience growing up, I am not sure I'll ever get used to it.
If my delight means RJ's satisfaction, hey, win-win.
There are days when I feel if I never watch TV again I'll be okay.
RJ is constantly coming up with recommendations of what I could watch. I exclaim, "A lifetime is not long enough to watch all these shows!"
It takes me a long time to give a new show a shot, and when I do, it takes a while for me to warm up to it. Sometimes RJ is all excited about a show, and I'm just meh.
RJ has been described as stoic by his ex-wife Amelia. While that's a bit harsh, it is true that RJ does not exactly burst out laughing, for instance. I have asked him where his joie de vivre is. (This does not by any means he is not affectionate with me, however.)
I have mentioned that it is rare I capture his (very endearing) smile on camera. Heck, it is rare to get him to crack a smile out of amusement. It's a real accomplishment in my mind.
The other night, at RJ's suggestion, I was ready to, as he likes to put it, "audition" a British series called The Coroner. I love crime and mystery as a genre, and RJ has watched his fair share of such shows. We delight in hollering "Muurrdah!" the way we deem the Brits pronounce "murder".
S1 E1 was instantly gripping. The writing was good. The acting was good, in that subtle, believable, relatable way that American shows often lack. I applaud the U.K. for letting women star in a show, and having more than one important female character per series, and portraying women in a real, messy, gutsy, human way. They're people, interesting people. And they just happen to be women.
I once read an article in the NY Times which theorized, in essence, the better the actresses' hair is, the less noteworthy the story will be. Conversely, the worse the actresses' hair, the better the show.
I have tested this theory in real life and it does seem foolproof. Try it out yourself! You'd be amazed. It's quite eye-opening.
But I digress.
At the end of E1 of The Coroner, I announced to RJ, enthused, waving my right arm in the air, "This is a winner! Good choice!"
With a slight chuckle, RJ replied, "That means more to me than my smile means to you."
I didn't hear him right at first. When I realized what he had said, I was astonished. I had no idea my "approval" would carry any weight. Definitely not this kind of weight.
That my opinion matters is such a breath of fresh air, in stark contrast to my experience growing up, I am not sure I'll ever get used to it.
If my delight means RJ's satisfaction, hey, win-win.
Elusive
Friday morning I woke up to some bunched up tissues on the nightstand, as if I'd been crying. I had no recollection.
I asked RJ if I may have overindulged the night before. He said I'd been a bit chatty.
That was the worst hangover in a long time. I don't usually get the classic symptoms. But on this day, my fact hurt. My brain was dragging. I longed for quiet.
By afternoon, some memory returned. I remember ranting about a business associate who had made assumptions based on my ethnic background when she had no idea how I'd grown up or who I was.
When I was ready for my evening routine at my desk at home, I found a handwritten note. I was taken aback for a second, but then I remember hastily sitting down to scribble it before the thought fleeted. I had laid it there to be found by future me.
It read:
I didn't feel right
Until I took a swizzle and then I realized:
That's where
all the tears hid.
I grabbed the missive and waved it at RJ. "Here's a clue to my mental state last night," I declared, and read it to him.
Didn't know I still had poetry in me.
Again this is why writers and musicians and otherwise creative types need to be under the influence one way or another to unleash the beast.
I want to say I didn't know I still had such profound sadness in me. But who am I kidding? It's always gonna be there. Just sometimes I forget.
I asked RJ if I may have overindulged the night before. He said I'd been a bit chatty.
That was the worst hangover in a long time. I don't usually get the classic symptoms. But on this day, my fact hurt. My brain was dragging. I longed for quiet.
By afternoon, some memory returned. I remember ranting about a business associate who had made assumptions based on my ethnic background when she had no idea how I'd grown up or who I was.
When I was ready for my evening routine at my desk at home, I found a handwritten note. I was taken aback for a second, but then I remember hastily sitting down to scribble it before the thought fleeted. I had laid it there to be found by future me.
It read:
I didn't feel right
Until I took a swizzle and then I realized:
That's where
all the tears hid.
I grabbed the missive and waved it at RJ. "Here's a clue to my mental state last night," I declared, and read it to him.
Didn't know I still had poetry in me.
Again this is why writers and musicians and otherwise creative types need to be under the influence one way or another to unleash the beast.
I want to say I didn't know I still had such profound sadness in me. But who am I kidding? It's always gonna be there. Just sometimes I forget.
Wednesday, December 04, 2019
Monday, December 02, 2019
Losing Footing
Last year between spring and summer, I joined three groups RJ and I jokingly call cults.
You'd think I would have made a ton of friends by now. No.
Over Thanksgiving weekend, we were invited to Amelia's shindig to "inaugurate" her new wine room. I'd been psyched looking forward to it.
Instead of the intimate family reunion I'd dreamt it to be, there were friends and friends of friends. About 11 years ago, with a little social lubricant, I could get by such a night more than fine. On this night, though, I certainly did not thrive.
If ever there was any doubt I really was an introvert, I was true blue proven yet again. Classic introvert for ya.
There is just something with the dynamic in larger groups that just makes me wanna hide.
"And I wonder why I don't have friends," I thought.
Fast forward to this morning, when I learned through social media that my "sponsor" in one of my cults, Martine*, was moving away. I felt many emotions well up: shock, sadness, disappointment, betrayal. Yes, betrayal. She didn't even tell me she was leaving.
Given, we weren't exactly "friends". We'd had a couple of workshops. OK, three. She's two decades my junior. Even though we share the same first language, and, yes, we are in the same cult. That's hardly a valid BFF basis.
Then I realized my abandonment knee-jerk reaction was still there. After all these years. Will it ever be gone?
The news was such a blow, I was surprised. I was actually tearing up. Over someone I'd only met three times. In a group.
Not like she's been on my mind otherwise, either. But it matters little. How dare she leave me behind?
Those little thinking patterns are awful, how, like grooves in a record, they don't change. But you can change the record, they say.
I am now tired just having mulled over this whole self diagnosis.
*Not her real name
You'd think I would have made a ton of friends by now. No.
Over Thanksgiving weekend, we were invited to Amelia's shindig to "inaugurate" her new wine room. I'd been psyched looking forward to it.
Instead of the intimate family reunion I'd dreamt it to be, there were friends and friends of friends. About 11 years ago, with a little social lubricant, I could get by such a night more than fine. On this night, though, I certainly did not thrive.
If ever there was any doubt I really was an introvert, I was true blue proven yet again. Classic introvert for ya.
There is just something with the dynamic in larger groups that just makes me wanna hide.
"And I wonder why I don't have friends," I thought.
Fast forward to this morning, when I learned through social media that my "sponsor" in one of my cults, Martine*, was moving away. I felt many emotions well up: shock, sadness, disappointment, betrayal. Yes, betrayal. She didn't even tell me she was leaving.
Given, we weren't exactly "friends". We'd had a couple of workshops. OK, three. She's two decades my junior. Even though we share the same first language, and, yes, we are in the same cult. That's hardly a valid BFF basis.
Then I realized my abandonment knee-jerk reaction was still there. After all these years. Will it ever be gone?
The news was such a blow, I was surprised. I was actually tearing up. Over someone I'd only met three times. In a group.
Not like she's been on my mind otherwise, either. But it matters little. How dare she leave me behind?
Those little thinking patterns are awful, how, like grooves in a record, they don't change. But you can change the record, they say.
I am now tired just having mulled over this whole self diagnosis.
*Not her real name
Quote 274
I drove by your house
but you don't live there anymore.
- "I Really Wish I Hated You", Blink-182
but you don't live there anymore.
- "I Really Wish I Hated You", Blink-182
Friday, November 29, 2019
Vermeil 2
About three weeks ago I was at the TJ's near work again, and Kelsey happened to ring me up. As I approached his cash register, I saw that he looked up and seemed to recognize me. He even smiled. Not a fake smile, the kind you flash to be polite, but like he was happy to see a familiar face.
The kindergartener in me took over. Remember kindergarten? If you liked someone and you wanted them to be your friend (heck, in your mind you may already be friends), you just talked to them. There was no embarrassment or self-consciousness, or fear of "coming on too strong", or being misread as coming on to them. You felt, you did.
And the following discourse was a pure exchange as such. We almost simultaneously brought up Oxtails, the local produce market now defunct. I got to say the phrase I'd been rehearsing in my head, "Hey... there's life after Oxtails!" I expressed regret that the market was no longer. Kelsey was in accord.
That was the best scenario, however brief. Better than I could have imagined. No awkwardness. No lingering too long. Just two strangers having a common thread, no ulterior motives, no wants or needs from the other but an adulterated moment of innocent connection, goodwill, and a semblance of kinship.
These moments are few and far between.
And that was the last time I saw Kelsey. I've been back a couple of times since, and no sight of Kelsey. He may not work there anymore. Who knows?
Wherever he is, I hope he is well.
The kindergartener in me took over. Remember kindergarten? If you liked someone and you wanted them to be your friend (heck, in your mind you may already be friends), you just talked to them. There was no embarrassment or self-consciousness, or fear of "coming on too strong", or being misread as coming on to them. You felt, you did.
And the following discourse was a pure exchange as such. We almost simultaneously brought up Oxtails, the local produce market now defunct. I got to say the phrase I'd been rehearsing in my head, "Hey... there's life after Oxtails!" I expressed regret that the market was no longer. Kelsey was in accord.
That was the best scenario, however brief. Better than I could have imagined. No awkwardness. No lingering too long. Just two strangers having a common thread, no ulterior motives, no wants or needs from the other but an adulterated moment of innocent connection, goodwill, and a semblance of kinship.
These moments are few and far between.
And that was the last time I saw Kelsey. I've been back a couple of times since, and no sight of Kelsey. He may not work there anymore. Who knows?
Wherever he is, I hope he is well.
Sunday, November 03, 2019
Sunday, October 27, 2019
Vignette 30
Last night RJ and I walked by a restaurant that called itself a "Mexican bistro".
RJ pointed at the sign and I knew exactly what he was conveying. I replied:
That's like saying there is such a thing as a French cantina.
To which RJ chuckled.
It is not easy to make RJ chuckle. To me it's like winning a prize.
RJ pointed at the sign and I knew exactly what he was conveying. I replied:
That's like saying there is such a thing as a French cantina.
To which RJ chuckled.
It is not easy to make RJ chuckle. To me it's like winning a prize.
Sunday, October 20, 2019
Quote 272
They tried to bury us.
They didn't know we were seeds.
- Mexican proverb (originally by Greek poet Dinos Christianopoulos)
They didn't know we were seeds.
- Mexican proverb (originally by Greek poet Dinos Christianopoulos)
Sunday, September 22, 2019
Sway
Finally watched Her, the 2013 film which examines a relationship between a human and an OS ("not just an Operating System, a Consciousness!")
I liked that it didn't question whether or not A.I. could have feelings. That has been long debated, since the dawn of the genre sci-fi. I liked that it shed light on what constitutes love, the physical vs. the intellectual and emotional. When is love real?
I liked the rawness of loneliness, all-encompassing, unapologetic. A way of life.
I liked that labels didn't seem important, that characters weren't boxed in. The profundity of our ever-inquisitive minds and how we find comfort in connecting, how nothing is in simple terms: love, happiness, our very existence.
I stepped away feeling lonelier and sadder than ever. And I loved it.
I'd spent days battling bronchitis with a side of sinus infection. I'd been heavily medicated just to be able to sleep through (most of) the night. Been feeling zombie-esque in every way, flat-lining and rotten inside. Depression had been hitting hard: the usual feeling of pointlessness. The weekend came and went and I felt I had done absolutely nothing. I didn't even take any remedies for the depression. I just let it seethe.
Having seen this film validated the absurdity of life for me. All these notions that life has to be certain way. Bullshit. I know nothing about nothing.
When one feels shitty somehow sex will surface as a life-affirming tool. And it worked very well this evening.
I realized that I didn't even feel confident in sex anymore. I had lost the art of seduction. I felt clumsy, out of practice, uncertain about every move. Am I hurting him? Does this even feel comfortable, let alone erotic?
But it was hot and all out, nothing held back. And it was the most freeing in a long time.
It is good to accept I know nothing about nothing. Thinking I had some aspects of life figured out was but an illusion.
To think that we take something as natural as breathing for granted... it has been humbling.
Beautiful music in Her, too. The kind that is ethereal and transporting. Transforming, even.
Not much has happened. Yet so much has happened. Life has changed.
I'd say the paradigm has shifted but... What paradigm?
Five stars.
I liked that it didn't question whether or not A.I. could have feelings. That has been long debated, since the dawn of the genre sci-fi. I liked that it shed light on what constitutes love, the physical vs. the intellectual and emotional. When is love real?
I liked the rawness of loneliness, all-encompassing, unapologetic. A way of life.
I liked that labels didn't seem important, that characters weren't boxed in. The profundity of our ever-inquisitive minds and how we find comfort in connecting, how nothing is in simple terms: love, happiness, our very existence.
I stepped away feeling lonelier and sadder than ever. And I loved it.
I'd spent days battling bronchitis with a side of sinus infection. I'd been heavily medicated just to be able to sleep through (most of) the night. Been feeling zombie-esque in every way, flat-lining and rotten inside. Depression had been hitting hard: the usual feeling of pointlessness. The weekend came and went and I felt I had done absolutely nothing. I didn't even take any remedies for the depression. I just let it seethe.
Having seen this film validated the absurdity of life for me. All these notions that life has to be certain way. Bullshit. I know nothing about nothing.
When one feels shitty somehow sex will surface as a life-affirming tool. And it worked very well this evening.
I realized that I didn't even feel confident in sex anymore. I had lost the art of seduction. I felt clumsy, out of practice, uncertain about every move. Am I hurting him? Does this even feel comfortable, let alone erotic?
But it was hot and all out, nothing held back. And it was the most freeing in a long time.
It is good to accept I know nothing about nothing. Thinking I had some aspects of life figured out was but an illusion.
To think that we take something as natural as breathing for granted... it has been humbling.
Beautiful music in Her, too. The kind that is ethereal and transporting. Transforming, even.
Not much has happened. Yet so much has happened. Life has changed.
I'd say the paradigm has shifted but... What paradigm?
Five stars.
Monday, September 02, 2019
Glimmer
RJ subscribes to the New York Times Sunday paper. He has been for years. I don't read the paper. The only section I ask him to save for me is Styles.
I enjoy reading the occasional interview (if it's someone I care about), opinions on women's issues (a 60-yo author finds power in allowing herself to ditch the coloring bottle and go gray; why Victoria's Secret's pinup supermodel approach is no longer relevant with today's shifting cultural norms...), the advice column (the humor and candor), Modern Love (often clever and insightful), and, last but not least, wedding announcements. They are not just announcements, but love stories with anecdotes.
I love weddings. Even in my darkest of jaded days, when I deemed myself unlucky in romance, seeing two people in love and on a journey together moved me to tears. And I was never too bitter to be celebratory.
Even since I have been gainfully employed at my current job, I've let my reading slide. Today, on Labor Day, the first Monday in September, I am just catching up on last October and November. Simply ridiculous.
Earlier today, as I sat down to read in an attempt to make a small headway in that exponentially ever-growing pile, I questioned, "Do I need to read these old wedding announcements? Or should I just recycle?"
But I did read them. And every detail delighted me (the grooms wore Christian Louboutin! She learned to say her vows in Polish so her to-be-in-laws could understand...) rimmed my eyes with tears as well as made me chuckle. Sometimes simultaneously. (Yes, I did chuckle out loud with the Louboutin bit when it was reported that they had changed shoes, again, for that evening.)
I did not regret reading the segment. It was not a silly, sappy waste of time. On the contrary, unbeknownst to me, my soul needed it.
I enjoy reading the occasional interview (if it's someone I care about), opinions on women's issues (a 60-yo author finds power in allowing herself to ditch the coloring bottle and go gray; why Victoria's Secret's pinup supermodel approach is no longer relevant with today's shifting cultural norms...), the advice column (the humor and candor), Modern Love (often clever and insightful), and, last but not least, wedding announcements. They are not just announcements, but love stories with anecdotes.
I love weddings. Even in my darkest of jaded days, when I deemed myself unlucky in romance, seeing two people in love and on a journey together moved me to tears. And I was never too bitter to be celebratory.
Even since I have been gainfully employed at my current job, I've let my reading slide. Today, on Labor Day, the first Monday in September, I am just catching up on last October and November. Simply ridiculous.
Earlier today, as I sat down to read in an attempt to make a small headway in that exponentially ever-growing pile, I questioned, "Do I need to read these old wedding announcements? Or should I just recycle?"
But I did read them. And every detail delighted me (the grooms wore Christian Louboutin! She learned to say her vows in Polish so her to-be-in-laws could understand...) rimmed my eyes with tears as well as made me chuckle. Sometimes simultaneously. (Yes, I did chuckle out loud with the Louboutin bit when it was reported that they had changed shoes, again, for that evening.)
I did not regret reading the segment. It was not a silly, sappy waste of time. On the contrary, unbeknownst to me, my soul needed it.
Saturday, August 31, 2019
Twilight
One day I was rinsing my sinus at the kitchen sink, as I do every morning, when I noticed a darting speck on the shiny surface. Why, it's an ant.
The ant is surrounded by droplets of various sizes, desperately feeling its way out of the danger zone. It is a mission nearly impossible.
I felt sorry for the creature then. Then it hit me: I have empathy... for an ant?! How Buddhist of me! Except, of course, I am not Buddhist. As a child I would have flushed it down the drain, without a second thought, with pleasure. But at this moment I pictured myself as the ant. What terror it must be to be in this precarious terrain with seemingly no way out, and what unspeakable suffering it would be to drown in this massive darkness. What a horrible way it would be to die!
Watching the ant struggle to crawl to safety moved me. It had so much drive, determination, and energy. I tried my darndest to avoid having water flow near it. But a little splash was inevitable. Even without me, though, there was enough wetness around to drown a hundred ants effortlessly.
I took my mind off it a bit. If it was going to fall to its death, I was certainly not going to enjoy witnessing it. (I pondered extending a finger as a rescue attempt, but I'd probably kill it in the process. That would be worse.)
Before I knew it, the ant was on the vertical rise. I couldn't believe it, it was moving so swiftly. Imagine this wall that was equivalent to five hundred times it's length... Could a human climb a 200-floor building with such ease? Certainly not!
The ant escaped. Poof. It was like the whole thing had never happened.
I was incredulous and relieved. I marveled at the will power of the tiny life form to survive. Instincts are just programmed in us. The fittest get to live. If anyone doubted Darwin, here you go.
If there was more empathy and kindness in the world, imagine...
The ant is surrounded by droplets of various sizes, desperately feeling its way out of the danger zone. It is a mission nearly impossible.
I felt sorry for the creature then. Then it hit me: I have empathy... for an ant?! How Buddhist of me! Except, of course, I am not Buddhist. As a child I would have flushed it down the drain, without a second thought, with pleasure. But at this moment I pictured myself as the ant. What terror it must be to be in this precarious terrain with seemingly no way out, and what unspeakable suffering it would be to drown in this massive darkness. What a horrible way it would be to die!
Watching the ant struggle to crawl to safety moved me. It had so much drive, determination, and energy. I tried my darndest to avoid having water flow near it. But a little splash was inevitable. Even without me, though, there was enough wetness around to drown a hundred ants effortlessly.
I took my mind off it a bit. If it was going to fall to its death, I was certainly not going to enjoy witnessing it. (I pondered extending a finger as a rescue attempt, but I'd probably kill it in the process. That would be worse.)
Before I knew it, the ant was on the vertical rise. I couldn't believe it, it was moving so swiftly. Imagine this wall that was equivalent to five hundred times it's length... Could a human climb a 200-floor building with such ease? Certainly not!
The ant escaped. Poof. It was like the whole thing had never happened.
I was incredulous and relieved. I marveled at the will power of the tiny life form to survive. Instincts are just programmed in us. The fittest get to live. If anyone doubted Darwin, here you go.
If there was more empathy and kindness in the world, imagine...
Sunday, August 25, 2019
Quote 271
Almost everything in the room will survive you.
To the room, you are already a ghost.
- Don Paterson
To the room, you are already a ghost.
- Don Paterson
Thursday, August 22, 2019
Monday, August 19, 2019
Vermeil
Since my return from visiting the rents, I have been suffering from depression. You'd think I'd quickly identify the condition by now, but it took a while. Last Saturday I moped around, had zero motivation to leave the house, which was highly atypical of me on a Saturday. On Sunday I left the house to walk the dog, and get St. John's wort. For my depression.
I was expecting post-vacation blues all along, but this depression goes a little beyond. I am wallowing in the whole "What is the purpose of life" debacle again. With Elsie, I called it "general malaise", to be vague. I've brought it up with Denisse. And mentioned to friends who would relate to being apart from family. But never do I refer to it as depression. The word is overused and misused anyhow.
Today, while out making copies for the most tedious project at work, I decided to swing by my local Trader Joe's to get a sense of escape. (Pathetic, admittedly.) There was a "European style" farmers' market near work (let's call it Oxtails) which, after having served the community for 45 years, just closed in late June. It had quality produce, so fresh, it would last for weeks in the fridge. None of that chain supermarket nonsense of withering within days. It also offered unique European goodies you couldn't find anywhere else. When Oxtails closed, it was the end of an era. Many, myself included, started mourning its loss well before the end of June. It was hard to say goodbye.
There was this employee at Oxtails, Kelsey*, who was quite a character. He was quite lean, and had the 80's rock star hair and skinny jeans to complete the look. I chatted him up once, on one of my "good" days, and learned that he took the bus to work everyday. It takes a certain kind not to drive in California. I did not press.
Even though Kelsey had this tough exterior, he was very courteous. I could sense his vulnerability. I imagine he was picked on in high school. He was "weird", an outcast. I liked him (but not that way.) It was always good to spot him at the store and I was sad to think that now that the store had closed, I would never see him again. Not like I ever chatted with him again after that one time. He probably didn't even remember me.
Then, today, at Trader Joe's, I spotted that spiky hair from afar. Could it be...? After all, how many people sport that hairstyle? These are not the 80's anymore.
I craned my neck and looked some more but could only see the back of this guy's head. There were people in line, blocking my view. Just then, the dude turned ever so slightly. It was Kelsey! He now worked one of the cash registers at TJ's! He was still wearing skinny jeans, now paired with a bright peacock green TJ's T-shirt.
I was elated. I was beside myself. I pictured myself walking up to him, high-fiving him, congratulating him on life after Oxtails.
Had I done that, he would have stared at me blankly, like I was a complete weirdo. And justifiably so. He would be like, "Who are you?"
The thought of him still riding the bus daily to this neighborhood warmed my heart. TJ's is practically in the same parking lot as where Oxtails had been, on opposite ends. Kelsey hasn't had to change his routine much at all.
And just like that, as I finished my errand and headed out, the sun seemed brighter, and the world was less sad.
You just never know who you have a friend in. Sometimes they are not going to tell you. They never will tell you. But there is good out there. There is positive energy out there, directed toward you. We all need a reminder sometimes.
*Not his real name
I was expecting post-vacation blues all along, but this depression goes a little beyond. I am wallowing in the whole "What is the purpose of life" debacle again. With Elsie, I called it "general malaise", to be vague. I've brought it up with Denisse. And mentioned to friends who would relate to being apart from family. But never do I refer to it as depression. The word is overused and misused anyhow.
Today, while out making copies for the most tedious project at work, I decided to swing by my local Trader Joe's to get a sense of escape. (Pathetic, admittedly.) There was a "European style" farmers' market near work (let's call it Oxtails) which, after having served the community for 45 years, just closed in late June. It had quality produce, so fresh, it would last for weeks in the fridge. None of that chain supermarket nonsense of withering within days. It also offered unique European goodies you couldn't find anywhere else. When Oxtails closed, it was the end of an era. Many, myself included, started mourning its loss well before the end of June. It was hard to say goodbye.
There was this employee at Oxtails, Kelsey*, who was quite a character. He was quite lean, and had the 80's rock star hair and skinny jeans to complete the look. I chatted him up once, on one of my "good" days, and learned that he took the bus to work everyday. It takes a certain kind not to drive in California. I did not press.
Even though Kelsey had this tough exterior, he was very courteous. I could sense his vulnerability. I imagine he was picked on in high school. He was "weird", an outcast. I liked him (but not that way.) It was always good to spot him at the store and I was sad to think that now that the store had closed, I would never see him again. Not like I ever chatted with him again after that one time. He probably didn't even remember me.
Then, today, at Trader Joe's, I spotted that spiky hair from afar. Could it be...? After all, how many people sport that hairstyle? These are not the 80's anymore.
I craned my neck and looked some more but could only see the back of this guy's head. There were people in line, blocking my view. Just then, the dude turned ever so slightly. It was Kelsey! He now worked one of the cash registers at TJ's! He was still wearing skinny jeans, now paired with a bright peacock green TJ's T-shirt.
I was elated. I was beside myself. I pictured myself walking up to him, high-fiving him, congratulating him on life after Oxtails.
Had I done that, he would have stared at me blankly, like I was a complete weirdo. And justifiably so. He would be like, "Who are you?"
The thought of him still riding the bus daily to this neighborhood warmed my heart. TJ's is practically in the same parking lot as where Oxtails had been, on opposite ends. Kelsey hasn't had to change his routine much at all.
And just like that, as I finished my errand and headed out, the sun seemed brighter, and the world was less sad.
You just never know who you have a friend in. Sometimes they are not going to tell you. They never will tell you. But there is good out there. There is positive energy out there, directed toward you. We all need a reminder sometimes.
*Not his real name
Sunday, August 18, 2019
Break. Through.
Today I finished reading a book, Little Shoes, by Pamela Everett. I haven't read a book in years, let alone finish one in one day. For years I have been paralyzed, unable to commit.
I was reminded of many a Sunday afternoon when I was a tween and then a teenager, starting a book in the morning and finishing it before dusk. My favorite reading spot was on the stairs in our two-story home, the steps lined with red carpet - an odd choice in retrospect, the red carpet, that is. The stairs overlooked a nearby Catholic cemetery, its walls pastel green, rimmed and accented with pristine white. I could watch the sunset from there. It was a tranquil, magical spot. I enjoyed admiring the dead from afar, reassured by that certain end for all of us, finding peace in the universal finality.
Oh, how I miss that home. I ache.
Or perhaps it is my youth that I mourn?
Last night, in an emotional state, with the memories of a childhood home lost forever, I broke down and cried into my hands silently while seated next to RJ on the sofa. RJ's mind grows sharp as the night is long, and he is usually nocturnally engaged one way or another, often in more ways than one, simultaneously. And thus he never noticed how I was practically sobbing. Except there was no sound. Boy, that was a good cry. What I needed.
I ponder why I am drawn to reading about crime. A part of it is, in understanding the horrors and the criminal minds behind them, the acts are less unspeakable. After all, a human mind conjures up these things. And aren't we all human?
Another part is probably externalizing pain. Others have suffered too. We are all in it together. I am not so alone. My pain is NOT ridiculous and overblown.
During my recent visit with the rents, I forget which one of them said, musing over Sundays being family days where we would have our outings, to the effect of "We thought those days would never end. And one day, you are grown. And we are old."
Surely many generations - every generation - has had the same thought. As I look upon my nephews and realize, one recent day, they are now both taller than I. How did that happen? When did that happen?
I used to roll my eyes at adults who would make such stupid statements. Like, duh.
One of my worst fears is I will have wasted my life. When someone is assigned to write my obituary, there won't be much to work with. I mean, have you read obituaries? They seem riddled with medals, philanthropy and humanitarianism. What have I got to show?
RJ has said that his greatest accomplishments are his three sons. My brother W likes to refer to my nephews as "the offsprings". That still cracks me up.
I don't even have any spawns.
I can't be the only one who's felt that the gift of life can be a burden? Expectations. Who have you got to answer to?
Death can be liberating. And it will come. Free for all.
It has been said that (and I paraphrase):
Small minds talk about people.
Mediocre minds talk about events.
Great minds talk about ideas.
When I blog, I feel that I am not small-minded. At least.
But you can't put that in an obituary, ay?
I was reminded of many a Sunday afternoon when I was a tween and then a teenager, starting a book in the morning and finishing it before dusk. My favorite reading spot was on the stairs in our two-story home, the steps lined with red carpet - an odd choice in retrospect, the red carpet, that is. The stairs overlooked a nearby Catholic cemetery, its walls pastel green, rimmed and accented with pristine white. I could watch the sunset from there. It was a tranquil, magical spot. I enjoyed admiring the dead from afar, reassured by that certain end for all of us, finding peace in the universal finality.
Oh, how I miss that home. I ache.
Or perhaps it is my youth that I mourn?
Last night, in an emotional state, with the memories of a childhood home lost forever, I broke down and cried into my hands silently while seated next to RJ on the sofa. RJ's mind grows sharp as the night is long, and he is usually nocturnally engaged one way or another, often in more ways than one, simultaneously. And thus he never noticed how I was practically sobbing. Except there was no sound. Boy, that was a good cry. What I needed.
I ponder why I am drawn to reading about crime. A part of it is, in understanding the horrors and the criminal minds behind them, the acts are less unspeakable. After all, a human mind conjures up these things. And aren't we all human?
Another part is probably externalizing pain. Others have suffered too. We are all in it together. I am not so alone. My pain is NOT ridiculous and overblown.
During my recent visit with the rents, I forget which one of them said, musing over Sundays being family days where we would have our outings, to the effect of "We thought those days would never end. And one day, you are grown. And we are old."
Surely many generations - every generation - has had the same thought. As I look upon my nephews and realize, one recent day, they are now both taller than I. How did that happen? When did that happen?
I used to roll my eyes at adults who would make such stupid statements. Like, duh.
One of my worst fears is I will have wasted my life. When someone is assigned to write my obituary, there won't be much to work with. I mean, have you read obituaries? They seem riddled with medals, philanthropy and humanitarianism. What have I got to show?
RJ has said that his greatest accomplishments are his three sons. My brother W likes to refer to my nephews as "the offsprings". That still cracks me up.
I don't even have any spawns.
I can't be the only one who's felt that the gift of life can be a burden? Expectations. Who have you got to answer to?
Death can be liberating. And it will come. Free for all.
It has been said that (and I paraphrase):
Small minds talk about people.
Mediocre minds talk about events.
Great minds talk about ideas.
When I blog, I feel that I am not small-minded. At least.
But you can't put that in an obituary, ay?
Thursday, August 08, 2019
Innumerable
Long distance relationships don't work.
Not that I've ever had one. Therefore, not by first hand knowledge. Until now - counting the three weeks away from RJ, that is.
I know it sounds laughable, but hear me out.
When I was eighteen, I had a summer fling with a lounge singer who was a bit older and whose voice and life experiences mesmerized me. I knew I was leaving for the States after summer was over, but I didn't tell him at first. Once he learned, he shunned me. Unrequited love is the best, no?
It felt romantic then, 6,000 miles away, oceans apart, as Richard Marx would croon, pining over the notion of a lover by the creek at my college, because the creek ran to the ocean, and the ocean would join the sea where he would hang out with his friends, drinking beer, mourning the loss of his wife and daughter.
Little did I knew I knew nothing about love.
A consultant that used to travel, leaving his family weekly, RJ knows with all weariness that being away from loved ones is hard. It can really do a number on a relationship. His last one didn't survive. Had it survived, I wouldn't be married to him right now.
When JD moved to FL, he was my best friend, the best friend I'd known, the one person who knew me the most. I knew the different time zones would mean communication wouldn't be the same. But, boy, did I underestimate what little three hours could do.
When I needed him, he wouldn't be there. And soon enough, he didn't need me.
I've gone to visit family in Asia without RJ before but for some reason, this year, it was REALLY hard. For the record, it is a 15-hour difference. So you add 3 hours to American time, and reverse day and night.
When I moved to the U.S. at age 16, I wrote to my parents weekly. I'd pour my heart out, record everything I'd witness and muse on. Those letters were my journal as a fresh immigrant in America, full of hope and dreams, giddy with all the new experiences and a rosy outlook on life in general.
Having just watched the movie Lady Hawk which had left in indelible mark on my young heart, I lamented that my parents and I, being in different time zones, were just like the protagonists in said film. One would come alive in daytime; the other, night. Your awake moments may overlap just so, but never long enough.
This year this long forgotten analogy is resurrected, applying to RJ and me. At least in my mind.
When you are not sharing the same space, the same time, the same space in time, the same time-space continuum, when you are not experiencing life in similar context, it is hard, it is damned hard, to relate, and to feel that the other person is relating to you. Try as you may, the connection is bound to be lost somehow.
For the first time ever, I understand why long distance relationships don't work. At least for me.
I met with my psychologist friend Kay (I forget what I called her before, so I'll stick with Kay for now) during my trip. A nomad all her life, never afraid to up and go to live in a new territory, she has recently bought a property (instead of constantly renting). Almost gasping, I congratulated her on "finally settling down". Later I would question why "settling down" is such a good idea. Just because convention says so?
I'd shared with her then that only about two years ago, after having lived where RJ and I have since 8 years ago, I had just started to feel this space felt like home. I can't tell you what and why, but I remember this distinct moment when I was finally at peace, and no longer fighting. I actually hadn't been sure I'd ever get there with this place.
And with all the sense of displacement brought on by travels, awakening SO much identity issues, boy, did I feel apprehensive about coming home.
I had been humming Somewhere in My Broken Heart by Billy Dean on the long way home. Sometimes my mind does that. Just picks out a song out of nowhere, dusts it off, and plays it on loop. I'm sure it's trying to tell me something.
The moment I was in RJ's arms again. No if's or but's about it. I was home.
I hadn't been able to remember RJ's face in the past two weeks or so. In my teens, when I would have a crush on someone, I wouldn't be able to recall his face. So that was a good thing. Some sort of cognitive disorder, I'm sure. Sensory overload, so my brain was somehow attempting to save me. Sure.
But my brain would afford me the memory of RJ's face as a younger person, that smile, that unique smile that some tend to interpret as a smirk (which he detests) ... and those cheeks that smile along with those eyes. That knowing smile that also passes as innocent. Who could resist?
I took a good look once again at RJ's rosy cheeks tonight. His glow, the glean in his keen shorn hair. I'm in a good place.
Not that I've ever had one. Therefore, not by first hand knowledge. Until now - counting the three weeks away from RJ, that is.
I know it sounds laughable, but hear me out.
When I was eighteen, I had a summer fling with a lounge singer who was a bit older and whose voice and life experiences mesmerized me. I knew I was leaving for the States after summer was over, but I didn't tell him at first. Once he learned, he shunned me. Unrequited love is the best, no?
It felt romantic then, 6,000 miles away, oceans apart, as Richard Marx would croon, pining over the notion of a lover by the creek at my college, because the creek ran to the ocean, and the ocean would join the sea where he would hang out with his friends, drinking beer, mourning the loss of his wife and daughter.
Little did I knew I knew nothing about love.
A consultant that used to travel, leaving his family weekly, RJ knows with all weariness that being away from loved ones is hard. It can really do a number on a relationship. His last one didn't survive. Had it survived, I wouldn't be married to him right now.
When JD moved to FL, he was my best friend, the best friend I'd known, the one person who knew me the most. I knew the different time zones would mean communication wouldn't be the same. But, boy, did I underestimate what little three hours could do.
When I needed him, he wouldn't be there. And soon enough, he didn't need me.
I've gone to visit family in Asia without RJ before but for some reason, this year, it was REALLY hard. For the record, it is a 15-hour difference. So you add 3 hours to American time, and reverse day and night.
When I moved to the U.S. at age 16, I wrote to my parents weekly. I'd pour my heart out, record everything I'd witness and muse on. Those letters were my journal as a fresh immigrant in America, full of hope and dreams, giddy with all the new experiences and a rosy outlook on life in general.
Having just watched the movie Lady Hawk which had left in indelible mark on my young heart, I lamented that my parents and I, being in different time zones, were just like the protagonists in said film. One would come alive in daytime; the other, night. Your awake moments may overlap just so, but never long enough.
This year this long forgotten analogy is resurrected, applying to RJ and me. At least in my mind.
When you are not sharing the same space, the same time, the same space in time, the same time-space continuum, when you are not experiencing life in similar context, it is hard, it is damned hard, to relate, and to feel that the other person is relating to you. Try as you may, the connection is bound to be lost somehow.
For the first time ever, I understand why long distance relationships don't work. At least for me.
I met with my psychologist friend Kay (I forget what I called her before, so I'll stick with Kay for now) during my trip. A nomad all her life, never afraid to up and go to live in a new territory, she has recently bought a property (instead of constantly renting). Almost gasping, I congratulated her on "finally settling down". Later I would question why "settling down" is such a good idea. Just because convention says so?
I'd shared with her then that only about two years ago, after having lived where RJ and I have since 8 years ago, I had just started to feel this space felt like home. I can't tell you what and why, but I remember this distinct moment when I was finally at peace, and no longer fighting. I actually hadn't been sure I'd ever get there with this place.
And with all the sense of displacement brought on by travels, awakening SO much identity issues, boy, did I feel apprehensive about coming home.
I had been humming Somewhere in My Broken Heart by Billy Dean on the long way home. Sometimes my mind does that. Just picks out a song out of nowhere, dusts it off, and plays it on loop. I'm sure it's trying to tell me something.
The moment I was in RJ's arms again. No if's or but's about it. I was home.
I hadn't been able to remember RJ's face in the past two weeks or so. In my teens, when I would have a crush on someone, I wouldn't be able to recall his face. So that was a good thing. Some sort of cognitive disorder, I'm sure. Sensory overload, so my brain was somehow attempting to save me. Sure.
But my brain would afford me the memory of RJ's face as a younger person, that smile, that unique smile that some tend to interpret as a smirk (which he detests) ... and those cheeks that smile along with those eyes. That knowing smile that also passes as innocent. Who could resist?
I took a good look once again at RJ's rosy cheeks tonight. His glow, the glean in his keen shorn hair. I'm in a good place.
Tuesday, July 30, 2019
Quote 269
Whether or not a text really is a universe unto itself,
... it can only ever be as rich as its most sensitive interpreter.
- Thomas Chatterton Williams, "The Foreigner"
... it can only ever be as rich as its most sensitive interpreter.
- Thomas Chatterton Williams, "The Foreigner"
Grasp
I'm going to be rambling.
Vacations are always too short. Even pseudo vacations when you are just visiting your aging parents and not going somewhere exotic.
When I had just arrived, we all thought, Oooh, three weeks! We have all the time in the world!
Before I know it, the cousins have come and gone. My brother has come and is leaving tomorrow. I am already sad. The big reunion is over. And we didn't take a family portrait.
Four years ago, the last time my parents came to visit us in the States, we failed to take a family photo, the three generations of us. The next spring, my mother was diagnosed with lymphoma. She's been treated and has survived. But I have never lived down the fact that, that summer, while she was cancer-free and relatively vibrant, we did NOT take a family photo, just the seven of us.
And here we've done it again. Or, NOT done it again.
Life is full of regrets if you let it.
Visiting my childhood town always leaves me ambivalent. How my life would have differed had I never left (not that it was my choice back then). It has only been twelve days, and I fear that my mind has already slowly been morphing into another vinyl record: tracks have changed in the name of adapting to a different society, a different world. I fear that I am "forgetting" RJ. I don't remember how it feels to be in love.
It is alarming. It is disturbing.
This morning, I shared with RJ that I have been having bad dreams, to the extent that I dread going to sleep. The other night (or morning) I dreamt that I was in love with Jane Lynch and she plotted to murder me. Had an accomplice who I reckoned was my rival in the romance. Even after awakening, the sting of betrayal felt so real. I could taste the torment.
In my dreams I often still cannot distinguish between husband and foul, love and acrimony, devotion and acquiescence. One person will turn into another in the same story. I mean their face can literally change in front of my eyes. I yearn for a lover. There is implied incest. Even in my dreams, I am still dying to please. I must please in order to deserve to be loved. In the process, I hurt others, and they hurt me.
So convoluted and perturbing, I wake up asking myself, "What is wrong with you?!"
This morning, RJ said, "Embrace the weirdness." (I hadn't shared details of my mind's "movies".) How could I?!
Half-jokingly I had said, "Perhaps not drinking is not the answer." When I drink, I still have bad dreams. I just don't remember them.
When I visit my parents I teetotal. Cold turkey. It is not as difficult as one might think. But when I go wandering in a store I do wind up in the wine and liquor section. I don't stay long. I kind of glance and don't buy anything. I guess it's comforting to know that I could, but I don't need to.
During my brother's short stay, one afternoon we went walking around town, trekking old streets where we used to frequent, just the two of us. Can't tell you how long it'd been since we'd gone strolling just the two of us. It was therapeutic. For years I could not bear to intentionally return to our childhood home. So many memories, so many lost mementos. Just too painful. This time though, we just came upon it. And because my brother was with me, it was just like coming home in the old days. It was NOT painful. It was nice to look up to the floor where our flat was. Could not see inside, obviously, but it helped. Somehow a part of me was healed.
It was not my home anymore. But that place, that space - will always be mine. I will zip it up and take it with me, that window in time, that square inch of the blue sky with a wisp of vapor, a peek of green on the lattice.
Too many wounds. Having holes means one never feels complete.
This morning RJ suggested that I see a counselor to maybe get to the bottom of my recurring awful dreams. "I'm not sure I wanna go there," I said.
When I was young I was fascinated by The Interpretation of Dreams. I thought Freud was the shits. I did a term paper on the subject and, you know, flying colors. Never thought that someday I would not want to face what was hiding behind, buried in my subconscious.
It could be that I don't have faith in most men and most things now.
Even now, I can't believe someone could truly love me if they knew everything that's going on in my head.
Most of my dreams don't have happy endings probably because in life there is no happy ending.
And there is no sensical ending to this post. ("Sensical" is not a word. But it should be.)
Vacations are always too short. Even pseudo vacations when you are just visiting your aging parents and not going somewhere exotic.
When I had just arrived, we all thought, Oooh, three weeks! We have all the time in the world!
Before I know it, the cousins have come and gone. My brother has come and is leaving tomorrow. I am already sad. The big reunion is over. And we didn't take a family portrait.
Four years ago, the last time my parents came to visit us in the States, we failed to take a family photo, the three generations of us. The next spring, my mother was diagnosed with lymphoma. She's been treated and has survived. But I have never lived down the fact that, that summer, while she was cancer-free and relatively vibrant, we did NOT take a family photo, just the seven of us.
And here we've done it again. Or, NOT done it again.
Life is full of regrets if you let it.
Visiting my childhood town always leaves me ambivalent. How my life would have differed had I never left (not that it was my choice back then). It has only been twelve days, and I fear that my mind has already slowly been morphing into another vinyl record: tracks have changed in the name of adapting to a different society, a different world. I fear that I am "forgetting" RJ. I don't remember how it feels to be in love.
It is alarming. It is disturbing.
This morning, I shared with RJ that I have been having bad dreams, to the extent that I dread going to sleep. The other night (or morning) I dreamt that I was in love with Jane Lynch and she plotted to murder me. Had an accomplice who I reckoned was my rival in the romance. Even after awakening, the sting of betrayal felt so real. I could taste the torment.
In my dreams I often still cannot distinguish between husband and foul, love and acrimony, devotion and acquiescence. One person will turn into another in the same story. I mean their face can literally change in front of my eyes. I yearn for a lover. There is implied incest. Even in my dreams, I am still dying to please. I must please in order to deserve to be loved. In the process, I hurt others, and they hurt me.
So convoluted and perturbing, I wake up asking myself, "What is wrong with you?!"
This morning, RJ said, "Embrace the weirdness." (I hadn't shared details of my mind's "movies".) How could I?!
Half-jokingly I had said, "Perhaps not drinking is not the answer." When I drink, I still have bad dreams. I just don't remember them.
When I visit my parents I teetotal. Cold turkey. It is not as difficult as one might think. But when I go wandering in a store I do wind up in the wine and liquor section. I don't stay long. I kind of glance and don't buy anything. I guess it's comforting to know that I could, but I don't need to.
During my brother's short stay, one afternoon we went walking around town, trekking old streets where we used to frequent, just the two of us. Can't tell you how long it'd been since we'd gone strolling just the two of us. It was therapeutic. For years I could not bear to intentionally return to our childhood home. So many memories, so many lost mementos. Just too painful. This time though, we just came upon it. And because my brother was with me, it was just like coming home in the old days. It was NOT painful. It was nice to look up to the floor where our flat was. Could not see inside, obviously, but it helped. Somehow a part of me was healed.
It was not my home anymore. But that place, that space - will always be mine. I will zip it up and take it with me, that window in time, that square inch of the blue sky with a wisp of vapor, a peek of green on the lattice.
Too many wounds. Having holes means one never feels complete.
This morning RJ suggested that I see a counselor to maybe get to the bottom of my recurring awful dreams. "I'm not sure I wanna go there," I said.
When I was young I was fascinated by The Interpretation of Dreams. I thought Freud was the shits. I did a term paper on the subject and, you know, flying colors. Never thought that someday I would not want to face what was hiding behind, buried in my subconscious.
It could be that I don't have faith in most men and most things now.
Even now, I can't believe someone could truly love me if they knew everything that's going on in my head.
Most of my dreams don't have happy endings probably because in life there is no happy ending.
And there is no sensical ending to this post. ("Sensical" is not a word. But it should be.)
Sunday, May 26, 2019
Rapture
Yesterday was a beautiful day in terms of weather. I was a bit anxious not knowing what to do to take advantage of it (and it was a long weekend to boot). Whenever I don't know where to go, I go to the farmers market. Seeing flowers and fresh produce and happy people out and about makes me happy.
I was walking back to the car after the outing when this man sitting on the edge of a cement planter looked my way. Within seconds I realized he wasn't eyeing me, as soon as I heard a shriek of delight from behind me, the sweet voice of a little girl calling, "Daddy!" It was utter joy you could hear, dripping with honey.
The man was looking semi serious until that moment, when warmth washed over his face and his features softened.
I passed the man and looked back to see his little girl, probably four years of age, run up to him in earnest, her chestnut wavy hair bouncing with each step. The sun hit it in such a way she might as well have been wearing a halo. As she neared him she extended her hand, and he offered his hand to her.
I was so moved I had a lump in my throat and had to look away. The love of a child for a parent. There is nothing like it. So pure and unadulterated.
There is a reason there's "adult" in "unadulterated". We are never going to love like that again once we leave childhood.
I was walking back to the car after the outing when this man sitting on the edge of a cement planter looked my way. Within seconds I realized he wasn't eyeing me, as soon as I heard a shriek of delight from behind me, the sweet voice of a little girl calling, "Daddy!" It was utter joy you could hear, dripping with honey.
The man was looking semi serious until that moment, when warmth washed over his face and his features softened.
I passed the man and looked back to see his little girl, probably four years of age, run up to him in earnest, her chestnut wavy hair bouncing with each step. The sun hit it in such a way she might as well have been wearing a halo. As she neared him she extended her hand, and he offered his hand to her.
I was so moved I had a lump in my throat and had to look away. The love of a child for a parent. There is nothing like it. So pure and unadulterated.
There is a reason there's "adult" in "unadulterated". We are never going to love like that again once we leave childhood.
Château Cru
Last night RJ and I spent another wonderful evening at Amelia's.
If you look up Amelia on this blog you'll see that she's RJ's ex.
It sounds totally weird but the three of us hang out from time to time and we always have a marvelous time. Amelia is a wonderful cook and together we share delicious food, wine, whiskey, anecdotes, secrets, learning about each other as we go. RJ and Amelia were together for nearly two decades. There is a lot of love there. They're family. Nothing can change that, nor should it.
And I just happen to like Amelia. I have a lot of admiration and respect for her. She loves people's reaction when she announces she's having her ex and his current wife over for dinner.
So usually at the end of the evening we will have had a lot of social lubricant and we become a bit uninhibited. Last night, in the process of saying goodbyes, RJ kissed Amelia on the lips. I was beside myself in delight, I found the affection so cute.
"Ooh I want a photo!" I said.
Amelia laughed and protested she didn't need that on Facebook.
I promised I wouldn't post it. "Just for us," I assured her.
And so RJ and Amelia willingly reenacted, and I snapped away.
After we got home, RJ had to walk Alley. We did a quicky kissy in the foyer.
"Since you kissed Amelia earlier and now we've kissed," I gleefully and mischievously proffered. "It is like I have kissed Amelia!"
You know, 5th grade logic.
"Well, that one wasn't wet," said RJ.
"Next time do it right!" I quipped.
"If you want to kiss Amelia, you're gonna have to do it yourself!" RJ stated, which made me giggle.
I just love how easy it is with RJ. And fun.
If you look up Amelia on this blog you'll see that she's RJ's ex.
It sounds totally weird but the three of us hang out from time to time and we always have a marvelous time. Amelia is a wonderful cook and together we share delicious food, wine, whiskey, anecdotes, secrets, learning about each other as we go. RJ and Amelia were together for nearly two decades. There is a lot of love there. They're family. Nothing can change that, nor should it.
And I just happen to like Amelia. I have a lot of admiration and respect for her. She loves people's reaction when she announces she's having her ex and his current wife over for dinner.
So usually at the end of the evening we will have had a lot of social lubricant and we become a bit uninhibited. Last night, in the process of saying goodbyes, RJ kissed Amelia on the lips. I was beside myself in delight, I found the affection so cute.
"Ooh I want a photo!" I said.
Amelia laughed and protested she didn't need that on Facebook.
I promised I wouldn't post it. "Just for us," I assured her.
And so RJ and Amelia willingly reenacted, and I snapped away.
After we got home, RJ had to walk Alley. We did a quicky kissy in the foyer.
"Since you kissed Amelia earlier and now we've kissed," I gleefully and mischievously proffered. "It is like I have kissed Amelia!"
You know, 5th grade logic.
"Well, that one wasn't wet," said RJ.
"Next time do it right!" I quipped.
"If you want to kiss Amelia, you're gonna have to do it yourself!" RJ stated, which made me giggle.
I just love how easy it is with RJ. And fun.
Whammy
I was mugged today.
OK. I was gonna say technically I wasn't mugged because he didn't succeed in robbery. But then I looked up "mug" and the assault itself qualifies.
I was on a quiet street in plain daylight just going from the subway station to my destination only a block away. Had done it on more than one occasion. Even though there are plenty of neighborhoods in the city that should not be considered safe, I had never had abject fear walking down the street alone in broad daylight. Been going out alone since I was in my teens.
I used to say "famously", "If I have to wait for someone to do something with before I do it, I'll never do anything." I was always proud to be self-reliant and of the fact that I enjoyed my own company. (Well, as an introvert, that trait should not count as impressive I guess.)
You've heard these mugging stories so many times, you are numb. They come running, from seemingly nowhere. You never saw them coming. They grab your purse. They may do worse, hurt you, on purpose. They target older women, perhaps older Asian women in particular, because a lot of us are petite, deemed to be old and feeble. Each an easy mark.
It's happened to women I know, women I care about. My heart has broken for them. For a full grown man to prey on a defenseless woman likely smaller and lighter than he. Just... how could he?
When you're young and feel strong and (inaccurately) invincible and safe, these incidents happen to someone else. Not you.
Well today I was that older woman perceived to be weak, and I was selected.
The young man came from behind, grabbed hold of the straps on my purse and made a run for it. What he didn't realize was that as someone who has lived in Asia, I am well trained. I am not slinging that thing, brother. I have a firm grip on it. Sometimes, in Asia, I have such a firm grip on my purse ALL the time, I have neck and shoulder pain at the end of the day.
With the momentum of his dashing forward, I fell and landed on my knees. I am not sure exactly what happened in the next few seconds. I know I hit the back of my head. I was on the ground, being dragged. I am not sure for how long. I wasn't reacting as much as acting instinctively. I hung on to my purse for dear life. It wasn't like I had a thought process going on. It was like, It's my purse. I'm holding on to it. Pure logic. I wasn't even feeling defiant or anything.
In a flash it did occur to me I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold on.
And it was probably a quick second (RJ hates that expression). As quickly as the attack had started, it ended. Next thing I knew, there was no more tension on me. I was... still. Still retaining a firm grip on my purse, I semi got up and witnessed the guy run away. The pitter-patter of my perpetrator's escape was a deafening echo in my head.
My next thought was, "What the fuck? What the fuck just happened?"
And honestly it was like a moment later then it sunk in I had been the victim of an attempted robbery. It was so surreal.
The criminal was black. "How did he have to be black?" I lamented in my head. "Why did you have to perpetuate the stereotype?!" I was so disappointed in him for that.
In a lot of pain, I limped the rest of the way to my destination. It was only half a block away now. I could see it. It hurt so much especially at my left hip and knee that I had to stop and take a break. A few sites on my body were throbbing like you see in a Warner Bros cartoon when someone accidentally hits their thumb with a hammer and it inflates and deflates rapidly like a red balloon.
I wanted to tell someone right away, "I've been mugged." I pictured myself telling the first soul I run into, the need to share was so urgent.
I sat down at the restaurant I had picked out earlier, and winced with every movement. I was a bit shaky and still in shock. I felt weepy when I imagined accounting for my experience with RJ when I got home. I had some anger but it quickly dissipated.
I am not sure why I didn't stay angry longer. Pretty sure, though, had the man succeeded in taking my purse, I would be plenty furious. That would have been terrible. It wasn't just money. Take the money. The hassle of accounting for every card and having to replace them, house keys, car keys... I had precious photos on my camera and phone I hadn't even gotten a chance to load on my PC yet. I would have been beyond pissed.
He didn't win! Try as he did.
So I walked away feeling strong (even though it is an illusion), and brave (even though how I handled the situation was not a conscious choice at the time), a survivor. Circumstances could have been far worse. He could have kicked me in the gut, bashed me in the head. So many things.
Later Elsie noticed my limping and asked. We concluded the guy must have been an amateur opportunist, a small timer.
Of course now I am even more paranoid when out and about in scouting my surroundings, looking behind in addition to around. I will say that the next dozen of Americans of African decent I encountered, I felt irrational fear leap to my throat from my stomach. I HATE that the one person who did me wrong has turned me into a racial profiler. It is not right. Because I know this was an isolated incident and we should never lump a group together and generalize based on skin color, ethnicity, heritage, etc.
Today I was that feeble old lady who was targeted. I will grow older, feebler, and likely be targeted again. It is not a happy thought. Maybe it is time to take that self defense class that I have always talked about and put off.
OK. I was gonna say technically I wasn't mugged because he didn't succeed in robbery. But then I looked up "mug" and the assault itself qualifies.
I was on a quiet street in plain daylight just going from the subway station to my destination only a block away. Had done it on more than one occasion. Even though there are plenty of neighborhoods in the city that should not be considered safe, I had never had abject fear walking down the street alone in broad daylight. Been going out alone since I was in my teens.
I used to say "famously", "If I have to wait for someone to do something with before I do it, I'll never do anything." I was always proud to be self-reliant and of the fact that I enjoyed my own company. (Well, as an introvert, that trait should not count as impressive I guess.)
You've heard these mugging stories so many times, you are numb. They come running, from seemingly nowhere. You never saw them coming. They grab your purse. They may do worse, hurt you, on purpose. They target older women, perhaps older Asian women in particular, because a lot of us are petite, deemed to be old and feeble. Each an easy mark.
It's happened to women I know, women I care about. My heart has broken for them. For a full grown man to prey on a defenseless woman likely smaller and lighter than he. Just... how could he?
When you're young and feel strong and (inaccurately) invincible and safe, these incidents happen to someone else. Not you.
Well today I was that older woman perceived to be weak, and I was selected.
The young man came from behind, grabbed hold of the straps on my purse and made a run for it. What he didn't realize was that as someone who has lived in Asia, I am well trained. I am not slinging that thing, brother. I have a firm grip on it. Sometimes, in Asia, I have such a firm grip on my purse ALL the time, I have neck and shoulder pain at the end of the day.
With the momentum of his dashing forward, I fell and landed on my knees. I am not sure exactly what happened in the next few seconds. I know I hit the back of my head. I was on the ground, being dragged. I am not sure for how long. I wasn't reacting as much as acting instinctively. I hung on to my purse for dear life. It wasn't like I had a thought process going on. It was like, It's my purse. I'm holding on to it. Pure logic. I wasn't even feeling defiant or anything.
In a flash it did occur to me I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold on.
And it was probably a quick second (RJ hates that expression). As quickly as the attack had started, it ended. Next thing I knew, there was no more tension on me. I was... still. Still retaining a firm grip on my purse, I semi got up and witnessed the guy run away. The pitter-patter of my perpetrator's escape was a deafening echo in my head.
My next thought was, "What the fuck? What the fuck just happened?"
And honestly it was like a moment later then it sunk in I had been the victim of an attempted robbery. It was so surreal.
The criminal was black. "How did he have to be black?" I lamented in my head. "Why did you have to perpetuate the stereotype?!" I was so disappointed in him for that.
In a lot of pain, I limped the rest of the way to my destination. It was only half a block away now. I could see it. It hurt so much especially at my left hip and knee that I had to stop and take a break. A few sites on my body were throbbing like you see in a Warner Bros cartoon when someone accidentally hits their thumb with a hammer and it inflates and deflates rapidly like a red balloon.
I wanted to tell someone right away, "I've been mugged." I pictured myself telling the first soul I run into, the need to share was so urgent.
I sat down at the restaurant I had picked out earlier, and winced with every movement. I was a bit shaky and still in shock. I felt weepy when I imagined accounting for my experience with RJ when I got home. I had some anger but it quickly dissipated.
I am not sure why I didn't stay angry longer. Pretty sure, though, had the man succeeded in taking my purse, I would be plenty furious. That would have been terrible. It wasn't just money. Take the money. The hassle of accounting for every card and having to replace them, house keys, car keys... I had precious photos on my camera and phone I hadn't even gotten a chance to load on my PC yet. I would have been beyond pissed.
He didn't win! Try as he did.
So I walked away feeling strong (even though it is an illusion), and brave (even though how I handled the situation was not a conscious choice at the time), a survivor. Circumstances could have been far worse. He could have kicked me in the gut, bashed me in the head. So many things.
Later Elsie noticed my limping and asked. We concluded the guy must have been an amateur opportunist, a small timer.
Of course now I am even more paranoid when out and about in scouting my surroundings, looking behind in addition to around. I will say that the next dozen of Americans of African decent I encountered, I felt irrational fear leap to my throat from my stomach. I HATE that the one person who did me wrong has turned me into a racial profiler. It is not right. Because I know this was an isolated incident and we should never lump a group together and generalize based on skin color, ethnicity, heritage, etc.
Today I was that feeble old lady who was targeted. I will grow older, feebler, and likely be targeted again. It is not a happy thought. Maybe it is time to take that self defense class that I have always talked about and put off.
Monday, March 25, 2019
Le Péché Originel
I had a long and elaborate dream this morning in which I was infatuated with House.
Yes, House, the cavalier character played by Hugh Laurie. Not the actor. The fictional character.
I knew that I was drawn to the character the year I watched nothing on TV but the weather portion of the morning news on Channel 2, and House.
I am not drawn to bad boys per se. But someone who's deeply troubled, someone who's been hurt and fucked up... Sign me up!
I had this notion that my love could heal these troubled souls.
During my dream this morning, as I tried time and again to win House's love, to no avail, I realized it was not about House. It was about...
What's his name? It would take me from dawn till dusk to remember: Matt*.
Once I realized it was about Matt, Matt took over in my dream. I can see the parallel: both House and Matt are lean and have eyes that peer into your soul. Both are brilliant, unattainable, and can be obnoxious.
I woke up profoundly reliving sadness and hurt.
I was shocked. Are you kidding me? We barely dated. We didn't even sleep together.
Well, we literally did sleep together. But we didn't fuck.
I used to refer to him as "Older Guy" when I talked to Denisse about him. The man I was crushing on at Merrie Lore where I worked.
How much older? 13 years? 14? I could have told you exactly back then. I could have told you the birth dates of his three kids. I was always a bit obsessed with numbers. OCD, Autistic and INFJ - the best of all worlds.
I was in my mid thirties and everybody age 50 and over was, well. old.
My then friend Rob warned me about Matt. Matt was shallow, Rob said. Matt had a type: bombshell blonde with large boobs. And I clearly did not fit the profile.
But Matt had that mystique, a wicked sense of humor (even if it could be cruel at times) with mischief in his piercing blue eyes, and just the right touch of vulnerability (or so I thought I saw when we were alone just the two of us), a killer combo that I found irresistible.
Never mind that it was against company policy to date interdepartmentally. I found every excuse to get closer, sought opportunities outside of work, gave him every "in" to ask me out. And... nothing. Except his heartfelt appreciation for the work I was doing. He sang my praises with my boss ALL the time. It was embarrassing.
Until one day, months later, out of nowhere, he suggested an outing, in the weekend, just us.
He told me everything about his life over the course of an evening at his house over a game of billiard, including that he'd been diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder. His ex-wife used to tease at times, "Will the good Matt come out and play?"
There was pain in his eyes. I couldn't be more intrigued, and moved.
I later half-joked with Denisse that the gigantic crucifix in the hallway leading from the foyer to the living space of his house should have sent me running for the hills.
I left my earrings on his nightstand as I got some shut eye for a couple of hours before taking off. That was my M.O. then. I never stayed the night.
I wondered which Matt had kissed me on the lips before mumbling "We don't have to have sex" and dozing off that night.
And I never got a third date. It would take me 6 months to get my earrings back.
One day at work, after I had long transferred out of Matt's branch, out of the blue, I spotted him in the parking lot with his arm around some blonde chick's waist. She fit the bill: long golden locks, well dressed, voluptuous.
It was like time had slowed down and I watched the two of them in slo-mo as they approached his car. He was grinning from ear to ear. He looked so happy.
I thought I'd forgotten about him but I felt my heart broke then. It broke so loud, I could hear it. All muffled up in my chest.
That night I had a good crying session over Brian McKnight on repeat. (Sounds comical now.)
That was nearly 12 years ago. Are you shitting me I am not over that?
The takeaway may be... I have not learned to heal from all the incidents of hurt in my life. It's almost like my brain likes to hold on to the pain even though the episode and the person involved should no longer mean a thing today. I have moved on. Why hasn't my brain? Does this even make sense...
It could be that my brains mistakes pain for romance, the two have been so intertwined in my past. After all, is it even a good story if a few tears have not been shed?
I once imagined that my love had the power to heal any broken soul. It hasn't healed my own.
Toward the last scene in Call Me by Your Name, the father of Chalamet's character gave one of the best pep talks in cinematic history (I can only paraphrase): about how it's okay to allow yourself to feel even if it means to feel pain fully because...
What is the alternative? Not feeling. That's just no way to live.
*Not his real name
Yes, House, the cavalier character played by Hugh Laurie. Not the actor. The fictional character.
I knew that I was drawn to the character the year I watched nothing on TV but the weather portion of the morning news on Channel 2, and House.
I am not drawn to bad boys per se. But someone who's deeply troubled, someone who's been hurt and fucked up... Sign me up!
I had this notion that my love could heal these troubled souls.
During my dream this morning, as I tried time and again to win House's love, to no avail, I realized it was not about House. It was about...
What's his name? It would take me from dawn till dusk to remember: Matt*.
Once I realized it was about Matt, Matt took over in my dream. I can see the parallel: both House and Matt are lean and have eyes that peer into your soul. Both are brilliant, unattainable, and can be obnoxious.
I woke up profoundly reliving sadness and hurt.
I was shocked. Are you kidding me? We barely dated. We didn't even sleep together.
Well, we literally did sleep together. But we didn't fuck.
I used to refer to him as "Older Guy" when I talked to Denisse about him. The man I was crushing on at Merrie Lore where I worked.
How much older? 13 years? 14? I could have told you exactly back then. I could have told you the birth dates of his three kids. I was always a bit obsessed with numbers. OCD, Autistic and INFJ - the best of all worlds.
I was in my mid thirties and everybody age 50 and over was, well. old.
My then friend Rob warned me about Matt. Matt was shallow, Rob said. Matt had a type: bombshell blonde with large boobs. And I clearly did not fit the profile.
But Matt had that mystique, a wicked sense of humor (even if it could be cruel at times) with mischief in his piercing blue eyes, and just the right touch of vulnerability (or so I thought I saw when we were alone just the two of us), a killer combo that I found irresistible.
Never mind that it was against company policy to date interdepartmentally. I found every excuse to get closer, sought opportunities outside of work, gave him every "in" to ask me out. And... nothing. Except his heartfelt appreciation for the work I was doing. He sang my praises with my boss ALL the time. It was embarrassing.
Until one day, months later, out of nowhere, he suggested an outing, in the weekend, just us.
He told me everything about his life over the course of an evening at his house over a game of billiard, including that he'd been diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder. His ex-wife used to tease at times, "Will the good Matt come out and play?"
There was pain in his eyes. I couldn't be more intrigued, and moved.
I later half-joked with Denisse that the gigantic crucifix in the hallway leading from the foyer to the living space of his house should have sent me running for the hills.
I left my earrings on his nightstand as I got some shut eye for a couple of hours before taking off. That was my M.O. then. I never stayed the night.
I wondered which Matt had kissed me on the lips before mumbling "We don't have to have sex" and dozing off that night.
And I never got a third date. It would take me 6 months to get my earrings back.
One day at work, after I had long transferred out of Matt's branch, out of the blue, I spotted him in the parking lot with his arm around some blonde chick's waist. She fit the bill: long golden locks, well dressed, voluptuous.
It was like time had slowed down and I watched the two of them in slo-mo as they approached his car. He was grinning from ear to ear. He looked so happy.
I thought I'd forgotten about him but I felt my heart broke then. It broke so loud, I could hear it. All muffled up in my chest.
That night I had a good crying session over Brian McKnight on repeat. (Sounds comical now.)
That was nearly 12 years ago. Are you shitting me I am not over that?
The takeaway may be... I have not learned to heal from all the incidents of hurt in my life. It's almost like my brain likes to hold on to the pain even though the episode and the person involved should no longer mean a thing today. I have moved on. Why hasn't my brain? Does this even make sense...
It could be that my brains mistakes pain for romance, the two have been so intertwined in my past. After all, is it even a good story if a few tears have not been shed?
I once imagined that my love had the power to heal any broken soul. It hasn't healed my own.
Toward the last scene in Call Me by Your Name, the father of Chalamet's character gave one of the best pep talks in cinematic history (I can only paraphrase): about how it's okay to allow yourself to feel even if it means to feel pain fully because...
What is the alternative? Not feeling. That's just no way to live.
*Not his real name
Saturday, February 02, 2019
The GF Dept.
Sometimes I recall a friend from my past and wonder how they are doing today. Has life been kind? Are they happy? Sometimes I obsess. I must know.
In mid December, I searched for Ava*, my lab partner in Human Anatomy 101 in college. She aspired to be a nurse. I had to fulfill the biology sector of General Ed, and wanted something not boring. Huge mistake. I was in over my head.
Even though I had grown up in Asia, where studying for exams meant memorization and more memorization, those Latin terms in Anatomy 101 I found nearly impossible to remember. In lab, where we were supposed to pick delicate muscles apart and identify them, I tore them and hoped that no one would notice.
Great. I guess I am not qualified to be medical personnel. That's one field ruled out.
It didn't help that class started at 8 a.m. Monday, Wednesday and Friday and I was still mostly a night owl then. As the day grew shorter in the fall, I started to skip class quite regularly. In the lecture hall setting, the professor didn't take roll and couldn't care less about attendance. I studied the textbook on my own.
"You should come to class!" Cooed Ava. "It's fun!" And she insisted that there was a lot to be learned in class that wasn't in the book.
I managed to pass and, not long after, moved away from the college town. Years later I realized I never forgot Ava, her positive outlook and enthusiasm. I didn't have many friends then. And she actually wanted to talk to me. The wild excitement in her eyes talking about where her passion lay, the kindness.
Through the years I've had more than a handful of loving, meaningful, platonic relationships with women. Sometimes so intense I have an urge to kiss them, but not in a sexual way. No wonder, since it is the mind I fall in love with. Connection is connection. Doesn't need to lead to romance.
17 days after I messaged on FB an Ava with the same last name as my college mate, she wrote back to confirm that indeed she was that Ava.
"You have a good memory!" She wrote.
"I remember only good people," I replied. And earned a virtual chuckle.
She had switched from nursing to social work and psychology, she informed me. I always knew she'd do great things, I told her. She asked me where I lived. It was a short conversation. There was no "Let's meet up sometime!" or "If you ever find yourself in [this area], hit me up!" Not even feigned elation that I had found her.
I wonder if there was a creepy factor in looking for her.
I have to conclude I don't have much luck in the girlfriend department. (Luck has not much to do with it, I am sure.) Years later, I still don't have many friends. (That's a joke. Do I have any friends? Not nearby, anyhow.)
Last year, I was on Bumble solely for their unique BFF feature - designed for women looking for platonic friends. It was like white girls central. Specifically, white girls looking for like minds. And by like minds, we mean white girls.
Not daunted, I looked, and swiped. I went on a few dates. Yes, friending felt a lot like dating: the jittery bouts, the insecurity, the uncertainty about etiquette... You want to appear confident yet approachable. You don't want to come across as desperate.
I never got a second date. Not once. There were a couple of women I would have loved to hear from again. But perhaps I wanted to connect deeply too soon and scared them away. I've done that with guys, too.
There was this one woman with whom I stayed in contact for months and months. Neither of us ever brought up meeting up again. Or we did but the timing was off. After a while we would just randomly chat, seemingly pointlessly. I didn't want to lose touch. She was driven, intelligent, impactful. Yet I wasn't dying to make plans to see her again.
On a recent Sunday, I texted her like an old friend, "Are you going to the [city where she lives] farmers market today?"
She didn't reply. I guess she's had enough of a relationship that is not real friendship.
With introspection I have to entertain that perhaps I don't want friends badly enough to make time, or break routines for. Perhaps I just like the idea of having friends.
Earlier I was reading an article in the Modern Love section of the NYTimes submitted by a millennial who happened to be polyamorous and bisexual. She confessed that crushing on a woman can be more nerve-racking that on a man because women are intimidating in that they could see through your efforts and vulnerabilities. Somehow that resonated.
I may never get good in the girlfriend department.
*Not her real name
In mid December, I searched for Ava*, my lab partner in Human Anatomy 101 in college. She aspired to be a nurse. I had to fulfill the biology sector of General Ed, and wanted something not boring. Huge mistake. I was in over my head.
Even though I had grown up in Asia, where studying for exams meant memorization and more memorization, those Latin terms in Anatomy 101 I found nearly impossible to remember. In lab, where we were supposed to pick delicate muscles apart and identify them, I tore them and hoped that no one would notice.
Great. I guess I am not qualified to be medical personnel. That's one field ruled out.
It didn't help that class started at 8 a.m. Monday, Wednesday and Friday and I was still mostly a night owl then. As the day grew shorter in the fall, I started to skip class quite regularly. In the lecture hall setting, the professor didn't take roll and couldn't care less about attendance. I studied the textbook on my own.
"You should come to class!" Cooed Ava. "It's fun!" And she insisted that there was a lot to be learned in class that wasn't in the book.
I managed to pass and, not long after, moved away from the college town. Years later I realized I never forgot Ava, her positive outlook and enthusiasm. I didn't have many friends then. And she actually wanted to talk to me. The wild excitement in her eyes talking about where her passion lay, the kindness.
Through the years I've had more than a handful of loving, meaningful, platonic relationships with women. Sometimes so intense I have an urge to kiss them, but not in a sexual way. No wonder, since it is the mind I fall in love with. Connection is connection. Doesn't need to lead to romance.
17 days after I messaged on FB an Ava with the same last name as my college mate, she wrote back to confirm that indeed she was that Ava.
"You have a good memory!" She wrote.
"I remember only good people," I replied. And earned a virtual chuckle.
She had switched from nursing to social work and psychology, she informed me. I always knew she'd do great things, I told her. She asked me where I lived. It was a short conversation. There was no "Let's meet up sometime!" or "If you ever find yourself in [this area], hit me up!" Not even feigned elation that I had found her.
I wonder if there was a creepy factor in looking for her.
I have to conclude I don't have much luck in the girlfriend department. (Luck has not much to do with it, I am sure.) Years later, I still don't have many friends. (That's a joke. Do I have any friends? Not nearby, anyhow.)
Last year, I was on Bumble solely for their unique BFF feature - designed for women looking for platonic friends. It was like white girls central. Specifically, white girls looking for like minds. And by like minds, we mean white girls.
Not daunted, I looked, and swiped. I went on a few dates. Yes, friending felt a lot like dating: the jittery bouts, the insecurity, the uncertainty about etiquette... You want to appear confident yet approachable. You don't want to come across as desperate.
I never got a second date. Not once. There were a couple of women I would have loved to hear from again. But perhaps I wanted to connect deeply too soon and scared them away. I've done that with guys, too.
There was this one woman with whom I stayed in contact for months and months. Neither of us ever brought up meeting up again. Or we did but the timing was off. After a while we would just randomly chat, seemingly pointlessly. I didn't want to lose touch. She was driven, intelligent, impactful. Yet I wasn't dying to make plans to see her again.
On a recent Sunday, I texted her like an old friend, "Are you going to the [city where she lives] farmers market today?"
She didn't reply. I guess she's had enough of a relationship that is not real friendship.
With introspection I have to entertain that perhaps I don't want friends badly enough to make time, or break routines for. Perhaps I just like the idea of having friends.
Earlier I was reading an article in the Modern Love section of the NYTimes submitted by a millennial who happened to be polyamorous and bisexual. She confessed that crushing on a woman can be more nerve-racking that on a man because women are intimidating in that they could see through your efforts and vulnerabilities. Somehow that resonated.
I may never get good in the girlfriend department.
*Not her real name
Thursday, January 10, 2019
Alpha Numeric (For Good Measure)
The other day RJ and I talked about sex.
I acknowledged that I was aware he was not getting as much as he would like, and there was guilt.
Not intending to create additional guilt, he said, "I have only about 15 years (of sex) left."
I was shocked and sad at the same time. And also feeling a bit absurd. "You've done the math!" I exclaimed.
"So you expect to have sex up till age 80," I added after having done the math too. (RJ would correct me in that it is arithmetic, not math. Then I would say but isn't arithmetic a subset of math?)
RJ expressed that it was reasonable. I agreed. But... the number just made me sadder, realizing it was not a lot of time.
RJ has always half joked about foreseeing longevity because the life expectancy in his family has been high for generations. Sometimes I do the math on how many anniversaries I can count on. The conclusion is the same: not a lot. Not enough.
That's what you get when you meet later in life. At the time, I was near 40. In my head I had been 40 a while. RJ looked really good for his age (I hate that expression). I thought he was 50, maybe slightly over. Not a problem.
Turned out there were 17 years between us. Was it a lot? Doesn't matter when you're older? Depends on whom you ask.
But we were so similar in temperament and emotional age (I guess?) and we shared plenty pertaining to the outlook on life that it just worked. Seamlessly and happily.
And, yes, we fucked like minks.
When I see people blast their 40th and 50th anniversaries on social media I think, RJ and I will never have those. It is realistic to hope for a 20th. Lucky if we get a 30th.
That's what you get when you meet later in life.
There was a time, not long ago, when 65 sounded so old. RJ will turn 65 this year. And I don't look at him and see "old". I see the brilliant, fun, tender and unique person I fell in love with. The cliché does apply: age is just a number.
I am counting down to myself turning 65 these days, to retirement.
Some couples look forward to retiring and traveling the world together. When I retire, RJ will be 82, two years past the projected sex brim. Can he travel? Will he? Will he want to? Will we have stopped having sex? If you travel but don't have sex, isn't that sad?
So many unknowns. When I wonder out loud about these aspects of our future, though (not in so many words), RJ will remind me: Who's to say he'll go first? True.
When I decided to be with him because it was so obvious because I wanted to, because it felt good to the core, I didn't do any math in my head. I dove in.
Perhaps I was a fool then. Or perhaps this kind of math is for fools.
I acknowledged that I was aware he was not getting as much as he would like, and there was guilt.
Not intending to create additional guilt, he said, "I have only about 15 years (of sex) left."
I was shocked and sad at the same time. And also feeling a bit absurd. "You've done the math!" I exclaimed.
"So you expect to have sex up till age 80," I added after having done the math too. (RJ would correct me in that it is arithmetic, not math. Then I would say but isn't arithmetic a subset of math?)
RJ expressed that it was reasonable. I agreed. But... the number just made me sadder, realizing it was not a lot of time.
RJ has always half joked about foreseeing longevity because the life expectancy in his family has been high for generations. Sometimes I do the math on how many anniversaries I can count on. The conclusion is the same: not a lot. Not enough.
That's what you get when you meet later in life. At the time, I was near 40. In my head I had been 40 a while. RJ looked really good for his age (I hate that expression). I thought he was 50, maybe slightly over. Not a problem.
Turned out there were 17 years between us. Was it a lot? Doesn't matter when you're older? Depends on whom you ask.
But we were so similar in temperament and emotional age (I guess?) and we shared plenty pertaining to the outlook on life that it just worked. Seamlessly and happily.
And, yes, we fucked like minks.
When I see people blast their 40th and 50th anniversaries on social media I think, RJ and I will never have those. It is realistic to hope for a 20th. Lucky if we get a 30th.
That's what you get when you meet later in life.
There was a time, not long ago, when 65 sounded so old. RJ will turn 65 this year. And I don't look at him and see "old". I see the brilliant, fun, tender and unique person I fell in love with. The cliché does apply: age is just a number.
I am counting down to myself turning 65 these days, to retirement.
Some couples look forward to retiring and traveling the world together. When I retire, RJ will be 82, two years past the projected sex brim. Can he travel? Will he? Will he want to? Will we have stopped having sex? If you travel but don't have sex, isn't that sad?
So many unknowns. When I wonder out loud about these aspects of our future, though (not in so many words), RJ will remind me: Who's to say he'll go first? True.
When I decided to be with him because it was so obvious because I wanted to, because it felt good to the core, I didn't do any math in my head. I dove in.
Perhaps I was a fool then. Or perhaps this kind of math is for fools.
Tuesday, January 08, 2019
Gorge
Had an inflammation, needed antibiotics. While waiting at the pharmacy, grabbed a healthy snack that was nuts as I'd need to eat prior to taking meds.
Came home and excitedly waved my bag of salted pistachios at RJ. "Shelled!" I announced, big smile, wide eyes.
"But that is the fun part!" Replied RJ.
I felt sad then. "I used to feel that way," I said.
I was taken back to a fond memory of my mother, my brother W and me sitting around cracking open pistachios. Pistachios were a novelty then, a new import from the U.S. of A. I wouldn't have imagined that years later I'd be living where those pistachios had come from.
"Happy nuts", my mother called pistachios. (And other Canto-speakers did, too. But it didn't matter.) Because they appeared to be grinning.
Cutest thing!
It was gratifying to peel them one by one, stuff each precious morsel in your mouth, until your tender fingertips hurt and you didn't care. You kept going. And it was oddly satisfying to watch a heap of moonlight-shade shells grow on our glass-lined dining table, debris and all. My mother has OCD and that must have been a rare occasion of a devil-may-care attitude of hers toward what would generally be considered a mess.
Of course, I didn't know what OCD was, or that my mother had it. All I remember is savoring the umami in my mouth. It was the taste of happiness. I don't recall speaking much at the table while enjoying pistachios, but, if that wasn't love!
I don't have many memories of genuine bonding with my mother and this was one of them.
I recall that W was the one who introduced me to shelled pistachios, decades later. He could chuck a voluminous helping in one sitting. Nothing to pop, nothing to clean up. How convenient! We agreed.
I had forgotten the joy of shelling pistachios.
Have W and I both eschewed the peeling ritual because our mother is not in the vicinity to participate? I am not certain.
And by not in the vicinity, it's more like an ocean apart. Not having my parents near - I am not sure I am ever getting over the sense of loss. And the overwhelming sadness that comes with it that I have denied for over thirty years.
There is no reconciliation. Just the relief of having cherished memories. No much relief, really.
Came home and excitedly waved my bag of salted pistachios at RJ. "Shelled!" I announced, big smile, wide eyes.
"But that is the fun part!" Replied RJ.
I felt sad then. "I used to feel that way," I said.
I was taken back to a fond memory of my mother, my brother W and me sitting around cracking open pistachios. Pistachios were a novelty then, a new import from the U.S. of A. I wouldn't have imagined that years later I'd be living where those pistachios had come from.
"Happy nuts", my mother called pistachios. (And other Canto-speakers did, too. But it didn't matter.) Because they appeared to be grinning.
Cutest thing!
It was gratifying to peel them one by one, stuff each precious morsel in your mouth, until your tender fingertips hurt and you didn't care. You kept going. And it was oddly satisfying to watch a heap of moonlight-shade shells grow on our glass-lined dining table, debris and all. My mother has OCD and that must have been a rare occasion of a devil-may-care attitude of hers toward what would generally be considered a mess.
Of course, I didn't know what OCD was, or that my mother had it. All I remember is savoring the umami in my mouth. It was the taste of happiness. I don't recall speaking much at the table while enjoying pistachios, but, if that wasn't love!
I don't have many memories of genuine bonding with my mother and this was one of them.
I recall that W was the one who introduced me to shelled pistachios, decades later. He could chuck a voluminous helping in one sitting. Nothing to pop, nothing to clean up. How convenient! We agreed.
I had forgotten the joy of shelling pistachios.
Have W and I both eschewed the peeling ritual because our mother is not in the vicinity to participate? I am not certain.
And by not in the vicinity, it's more like an ocean apart. Not having my parents near - I am not sure I am ever getting over the sense of loss. And the overwhelming sadness that comes with it that I have denied for over thirty years.
There is no reconciliation. Just the relief of having cherished memories. No much relief, really.
