Quote 298

 Our words are giants when they do us an injury, and dwarfs when they do us a service.

- Wilkie Collins

Quote 297

 ... True art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.

- Paris Jackson

Quote 296

 (On the alienation of labor)
The work is external to the worker... he does not fulfill himself in his work... has a feeling of misery... 
The worker therefore feels... at home only during his leisure, whereas at work he feels homeless.

- Karl Marx

Quote 295

 A writer is always alone, even when she is collaborating, or giving herself over.

- Maxine Hong Kingston

Quote 294

 One's destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.

- Henry Miller

El Baile

The other day I watched Dance of the 41 (El Baile de Los 41). I was greatly affected.

The acting was achingly superb. The longing, the passion, the vitriol, the pain.... Oh, so. Much. Pain. And knowing that the film was based on true events was a punch in the gut.

I was surprised that I identified so much with the protagonist, Ignacio, a closeted gay man. Of course, at that time, being closeted was not a choice. Being outed meant the end of your career, your life. Perhaps not so much identify, but empathize. I am not sure. I cannot imagine not being able to show affection in public and being told that how you feel is amoral, a sin and a crime.

(Spoiler alert)

Amada's revenge was more than cruel. History is full of scorned women trapped in loveless marriages. For centuries marriage was a transaction, a practical means to climb political ladders, join nations and prevent war. Am I less of a feminist to suggest she could have taken a lover and left her husband be? Not only was she out to get him (to hold him captive even if she'd never have his heart), she ruined all his friends in doing so. Was that really necessary? That was pure spite.

And the ending was so cold. She was so cold. I could not bear it. An earlier scene had her collapse on the floor in defeat, both she and her husband panting post-altercation/assault, in stalemate. Her eyes communicated so much more than words could ever express. Despair, madness, sorrow... Oh my God the acting is so tantalizing. Everyone in the cast did a great job.

The film left me disturbed and saddened for more than 24 hours. I am forever haunted by images and emotions so exquisitely on display. I love when a film moves and changes me forever, as this certainly does not happen often in a lifetime. So glad I found this gem recommended by the New York Times during Pride Month.

Fair and Square

 Fairly recently, I inadvertently watched 3 Armie Hammer movies in a row: Mirror Mirror, Rebecca, and On the Basis of Sex.

I had never seen or heard of the man before. And I certainly would not have planned to watch three films featuring him back to back. (Not literally on the same day, but all within a short period of time, with no other movie in between.)

The man is dreamy. I've used this adjective sparingly as few truly deserve the title. I have called Tom Middleton dreamy, and he is. But Armie Hammer is dreamier, if that's possible. He is bewitching as John Hamm is captivating, charming and debonnaire. Armie Hammer is all that, but prettier.

Who can look into those beautiful, cosmic blue eyes, and not fall into his universe, never to pull back out?

After having seen the aforementioned movies and wondering "Where have you been my whole life?", I later came across a print ad in the New Yorker, of the Broadway play "The Minutes", starring... none but Armie Hammer.

There he is, his head occupying almost the entire page, almost life size, with those piercing, profound blue eyes, staring back, inscrutable. 

Later still, Toni Morrison died. I knew of Toni Morrison. I mean you have to have lived under a rock not to. I was aware she was iconic, a major literary figure. But I had never read any of her books, nor was I familiar with her body of work.

So when I came across an article loosely summing up her life in the annual The Lives They Lived issue of the New York Times magazine, I wolfed it. And became aware of her first novel, The Bluest Eye.

And I came to question why I have found blue to be the most beautiful eye color (hazel is a close second - OK, maybe not close). The three greatest loves of my life: JD, Taylor, and RJ - all had/have blue eyes. Although I can't say that I had planned the lineup based on eye color.

Some say you can't help what you're attracted to, the heart wants what the heart wants, blah blah blah. Now I am not so sure. Now, in the age of Black Lives Matter, I can't say with confidence that my preference of dating white men is free of deep-seated socioeconomic values and implied class. 

Since childhood, the definition of beauty has always been based on European standards. For years I never questioned who decides who is beautiful, and why we should all conform. In Asia, race aside, lighter skin is always preferred. You should see the plethora of whitening products in the market, the obsession is so prevalent. There is even bleach for the areolas and pubic hair. In Japan and South Korea, young people dye their hair or put on wigs and insert contact lenses in shades of anything but black or brown, in the name of fashion. But really they just want to look anything but plain old Asian.

And for years I have thought that brown is the most boring color for eyes. I still do.

Internalized racism is not going to self-eradicate overnight.

I know that I didn't marry RJ for his money or status (as he has neither). However I do enjoy the respect that he effortlessly commands, without trying, just by being white and male. At restaurants and public places, there is no shortage of "Sir", regardless of source and circumstance. At parties, people listen when he speaks, whereas since I was a girl I have felt it is often difficult just to get a word in in group settings.

Recently came across the expression "Pale, male and Yale". It shook me. A sinking weight descended down my spine, landing on my coccyx, making it ache dully.

None of this changes the fact that I do love the person RJ is, the fact he never tires of learning, his patience (he'd advise me, "Use your zen."), his awesome sense of humor. I could make a list. The list would be long.

But I do wonder, if all these wonderful qualities came in a different package, a different color package, would I have considered dating him in the first place?

I am not sure.

Hazard

 A few days ago I was at Bob Mills*, buying dry ice, yet again, for work.

I always brace myself for a less-than-smooth ride when getting dry ice at Bob Mills because the majority of employees lack training in the procedure. 

The dry ice is under lock and key (figuratively, since it is a combination lock, no key required). You need the code, a pair of gloves, and being able to eyeball which piece most closely matches the weight requested by the customer. You fetch it, return to your station, place it on the scale, then key in the product code. If it is not enough, you go back for more, or switch it out. (Hopefully you had the foresight not to have locked the freezer already or you'd have to reopen).

A child can do it, right?

On this particular glorious day, the cashier helping me is uncertain about the code to the combo lock. Her bagger approaches to help.

"It's 624, right?" My cashier is having doubts. This causes Cashier #2 (there were only two stands open that were not self-check) to approach to help, followed by her bagger.

Now it is a discussion, growing louder. "No! It's 634!"

"634?"

"It doesn't work."

"Oh, it's Zero 634!"

"It is not working..."

Now one of the kids is yelling out to the supervisor who is supervising the self-check area. Then two or three of them join in.

"It is 0634!" The supervisor yells back, ensuring that the entire store can hear. Now everybody knows the code to the dry ice freezer. Great.

Still more commotion and struggles and doubts. Then, like a miracle, Voilà! The treasure chest is, at long last, open.

By now I am SO amused I can't wipe the smirk off my face. Nor did I want to.

So when Bagger #2, the first one to return, was in his post again, I grinned and offered,

"How many Bob Mills employees does it take to screw in a light bulb? 
Except it's dry ice."

Nobody laughed.


*Not its real name

Rorschach

Yesterday I finished reading "Out There" by Kate Folk. It is a brilliant piece of satire/sci-fi/fantasy, in such a matter-of-fact tone, it is convincing and intriguing and relatable all at once.

(I was convinced that the author was a Brit attempting to pass off as a San Franciscan as she used words like "ticked" (as opposed to "checked", as in checking things off a list), and "alight". But, no, born and raised in the U.S.)

The part that was a punch in the gut for me was the excursion the narrator goes on with Sam, the man she's fallen into a routine with for 3 months, but not exactly in love with. "Without distraction", she writes, and suddenly spending so much time together, forges the reality that they do not have much in common, their conversations superficial. Before the trip is over, she has decided the relationship (or non-relationship) is over.

So. Much. My trip with Taylor that killed us.

We were only 1 month in. I have always thought that the weekend getaway was premature and therefore destined to devastate. Now I am not so sure. Maybe even if we would have waited, we were doomed.

I thought I was madly in love with Taylor. But it is possible I was only in love with an idea of him, and what he brought to the table.

Maybe it would have been unfair to Taylor. 

We had our routine, too. Or so I thought. And in the end, it was not what he'd wanted.

When I was single and spending a bit of time online dating, it occurred to me from early on that (hetero) men tended to be all about "How are you going to fit in my life?" They have a certain lifestyle, a routine developed over time, and they are not about to change anything. It was almost like women had to prove themselves flexible and accommodating enough to be worthy of their time and consideration.

I was reminded of a Modern Love (NYTimes) story I'd recently read, "A Man (and Meals) Worth Losing Sleep Over" by Rebecca Bohanan, which had reminded me of the memoir "Apron Anxiety" by Alyssa Shelasky. Both are accounts of what it is like to date a driven, career-minded chef. Both women have lost themselves in the process of fitting in the crazy schedule that is an ambitious chef's life. Neither chef changed a thing for the women.

After meeting RJ I realize that, when you enjoy and cherish someone's company, the paradigm of both parties' lives will change. 

Kate Folk's protagonist, when mentally prepping for the next guy, drones on about starting over, "We will have eggs on Sunday mornings. We will juice.", imagining a routine on repeat, no matter who the partner.

Actually life will have other plans. My life has changed because of RJ. Some of my preferences have changed. He has done things, gone places, he wouldn't have, if not for me, and vice versa. We don't each get what we want all the time. I don't think of it as compromise. In fact I rather dislike that word. It is just how life works out. A new, organic pattern will form, and evolve. Your lives will never be the same again. And somehow, it all fits.

If it doesn't all fit, it is not worth staying. And definitely not worth mulling over.

I think this is a milestone for me.

Quote 293

To love a person
is to learn the song
that is in their heart,

and to sing it to them

when they have forgotten.

- Thomas Chandler