I have not posted any content in a while. Bad Monkey. but I have excuses, and since barely anyone reads this blog and I feel sort of narcissistic (cheers to google for helping me spell that correctly) when I write it I don't have to make any further argument for why I have been neglecting the literary flowers in my internet window box.
It was Passover. Before today my last day off was The 7th. I finished strong yesterday, even dropping thank you notes on the many guilty parties to my insanity and stress. Never underestimate the power of a "Thank You" note to anyone over 60. I want a vacation someplace warm but time's a luxury that isn't available to my super busy co-conspirator. She's at that point where she has to be there for everything, and she's super responsible so there's no way she's jumping in the car with me. Secretly I find her dangerously attractive because she's so responsible and reliable. But I still keep asking her to go places with me.
I have been writing though. I wrote a few yelp reviews. You can read those here http://www.yelp.com/biz/bedlam-coffee-seattle#hrid:GJyZvdb4aBCP9xfLG1FjSA
and
http://www.yelp.com/biz/urban-yoga-spa-seattle#hrid:CEav5dsMArw5_sj6i2kgDA
And I write my mom and sister:
Christopher
to Katie, Lisa
Apr 25 (2 days ago)
"We gonna rock down to electric avenue!" Outside the office I hear the radio playing over the cacophony for dinner service. Jeremy shouts for AJ to pick up his food. I only have a minute to write this. The throng of people arriving at 5:45 is the same batch I have been feeding every two hours, like babies.
Prime Rib, medium, up!" Kris shouts. Max has come to the door once, when she comes back I will have to stop this and go see what she needs.
I'm still in Passover. The feeling I have right now about work is not too different from touching fire: I desperately want to not be here anymore and would love to pull my hand away. Overall this Passover has been smooth, but arduously detailed. I know very specific Judaic procedures and laws these days usually known only by the most Orthodox. Good for something, I guess. I have worked 134 hours of the last two weeks. Yea me! Marissa had 16 hours of overtime too, plus she has two 5 hour rehearsals a week. We're soul tired. Exercising has saved me from losing any hair. I love working here at the Summit, but this time of year is the worst.
I will touch base with Elise tonight, Katie. I know she has been taking on clients left and right and lots of her bars are gearing up for summer patio season, but I can catch up with her and see if I can't get you some reduced anxiety....
I remember how much fun your Graduation was, I hope that the trip is great for you.
Mom, keep up the good work with not smoking and remember, the first weeks are your strong suite, keep it up!
There's Max.
Love
Chris
Love to you for reading this too.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Belltown's own crying indian
This morning as I was leaving to go run I passed a guy drinking a beer in front of the corner shop.
“Yum,” I thought.
He finished his beer and tossed it down on the sidewalk. This gentleman was one of several of the same mysterious-to-the-cops industrious young men that always stand there. They dress very similar to each other, perhaps to appear similar when the cops show, or maybe they are all in a boy-band. “B-boy’s Town?” On the way back from my run as I waited for the light to change in front of the cross-fit that isn’t open much I decided.
Come on.
I picked up the cans and the chee-toe bags from their feet and looked up and said,
“Man, can you believe people would disrespect OUR neighborhood like this? I mean you and I, we live here, why would they do that to us?”
I looked around, the trash can that used to be in front of the Ahjang market is now across the street. As I crossed the street, a lady dressed in the standard issue puffy nylon coat- maybe she’s going skiing later—says,
“Thas why they got street cleaners.”
“Yeah, but the city doesn’t seem to like to spend money, and I would rather they feed some folks that need it our use it for housing homeless.”
Now, I should stop here and say that I am an ethical person, but it is always OK to lie to a crackhead.
“besides, its not about hiring a street cleaner, You live here, I live here- this is your neighborhood, why would you allow (still pretending I don’t presume it was her and her pimp who tossed down the beers) someone to trash your home? “
“Sounds like you want to cal the cops, go on and call em.” She said.
“I don’t want more cops, I just want people to show some class, ya know?”
“I gots class, it wasn’t me!” She said as I left.
We can live and let live, and I certainly don’t want anyone getting hurt, but I am going to start to make my streets cleaner and try to get my neighbors (aka crackheads) to clean up after themselves. As I write this I know that Bedlam has done more for this neighborhood than any other organization or business in the city and I want to say it is with respect that I patronize them. But we’re numerous, and have less “business” risk than them so I suggest we start doing some browbeating. If you know anything about cocaine you know it makes people paranoid, so if we all start talking to crack heads and dealers about cleaning up, twenty different random people, sometimes several different ones in an hour- its going to be weird to them. And fun for us.
“Yum,” I thought.
He finished his beer and tossed it down on the sidewalk. This gentleman was one of several of the same mysterious-to-the-cops industrious young men that always stand there. They dress very similar to each other, perhaps to appear similar when the cops show, or maybe they are all in a boy-band. “B-boy’s Town?” On the way back from my run as I waited for the light to change in front of the cross-fit that isn’t open much I decided.
Come on.
I picked up the cans and the chee-toe bags from their feet and looked up and said,
“Man, can you believe people would disrespect OUR neighborhood like this? I mean you and I, we live here, why would they do that to us?”
I looked around, the trash can that used to be in front of the Ahjang market is now across the street. As I crossed the street, a lady dressed in the standard issue puffy nylon coat- maybe she’s going skiing later—says,
“Thas why they got street cleaners.”
“Yeah, but the city doesn’t seem to like to spend money, and I would rather they feed some folks that need it our use it for housing homeless.”
Now, I should stop here and say that I am an ethical person, but it is always OK to lie to a crackhead.
“besides, its not about hiring a street cleaner, You live here, I live here- this is your neighborhood, why would you allow (still pretending I don’t presume it was her and her pimp who tossed down the beers) someone to trash your home? “
“Sounds like you want to cal the cops, go on and call em.” She said.
“I don’t want more cops, I just want people to show some class, ya know?”
“I gots class, it wasn’t me!” She said as I left.
We can live and let live, and I certainly don’t want anyone getting hurt, but I am going to start to make my streets cleaner and try to get my neighbors (aka crackheads) to clean up after themselves. As I write this I know that Bedlam has done more for this neighborhood than any other organization or business in the city and I want to say it is with respect that I patronize them. But we’re numerous, and have less “business” risk than them so I suggest we start doing some browbeating. If you know anything about cocaine you know it makes people paranoid, so if we all start talking to crack heads and dealers about cleaning up, twenty different random people, sometimes several different ones in an hour- its going to be weird to them. And fun for us.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Maxwell
The room was cold. He lifted from the bed and went to the bathroom in the dark.
In the bathroom he felt how thirsty he was.
The light from the refrigerator falls across the linoleum, his legs. Briefly he wonders where Max is off to. He stands there drinking water from a cup that has a map of Wisconsin on it, a bird and a rat.
He recalls that his daughter calls Wisconsin the beaver state, which always makes his wife smile and steal a glance at him. He pours the rest of the water into Max’s enamel dish on the kitchen floor and turns toward the bedroom.
They had been drinking for hours. Torn pieces of beer mat and cocktail napkins with drawings on them. The TV endlessly flickering images. Eventually they left; the bartender had looked unconcerned at their advanced state of drunkenness. It was that kind of place.
The bar was in a neighborhood of single-family homes. Walking along the sidewalk quietly because by now it had grown late, she came upon a cat. It was longhaired and began doing figure eights around her ankles. She clumsily bent and began to coo, taking the grey flat face in her chapped fingers.
“You like me, don’t you!’ she said.
He turned, smoking a cigarette. “What?” Was this directed at him, he thought. He turned again to look up at the silvery leaves of the tree above him, they swayed in his vision and he decided it was he, not the leaves that moved. He looked up the quiet street, for what he did not know.
The car was cold, the smell of cold plastic and old ashtrays overwhelming. The sound of his keys too loud. He looked over and saw her standing at the car’s passenger side, she had a coat on he did not recognize. He leaned over and unlocked the door.
“He wants to come with us, don’t you?” She was nose to nose with the cat, which wore a blue flea collar. It wasn’t a coat she held, now he saw.
“We’ll keep him and he can drink milk, I always wanted a kitty.” Her gushing baby talk and noises are making him sick.
He couldn’t find strength. He pulled the car into gear as she closed her door, began complaining that her purse strap was closed in the door.
She opens the door then slams it again quickly, tosses the purse to her feet.
He’s concentrating on driving, the streetlights wet pools streaming toward then over them. The cat scratches her and for a moment is under the pedals of the car, he yells violently at her. He is driving. She yells back and he slams the steering wheel repeatedly until they realize nervously that they are being watched by a cabbie, the car has a single moveable light affixed near the rearview mirror, a retired patrol car. The cat has begun to groan deeply from under the seat behind him.
At the next corner he realizes he has missed the turn and is lost. He tries to focus on the green sign swinging beside the red light but cannot. She wants to pee.
You can’t wait? He looks around nervously, the cat is making noises like a raptor from a movie. No I can’t wait she says, she is pulling on the cat’s leg, the cat and the floor mat it is holding to is coming out from under her seat. The cat’s eyes judge him suddenly yellow in the light from the dome light of the car.
She leaves the door ajar and walks away into the shadow of a Honda with red plastic letters ’99 ACCORD LOW MILES across the window. He begins to doze, his wrists resting on the wheel, he awakens: she is yelling, cussing. She falls back into the car, licking the meatiness of her thumb, bloody. Let’s go. He pulls the car out into the night.
When things like this happen he sometimes wonders if he is cut out for this daddy thing. It’s not that he is ever violent, but the rage that wells up in him at his inability to keep her from harm, at the futility of being a father unable to fix something. He could kill the people who drive too fast down his street. It scares him. His wife had put out food, then called in that voice that made her sound as if she would be an excellent auctioneer or maybe run a square dance. Maxwell had not appeared, which was not like him. His daughter had not noticed the cat missing as she readied herself for school and ate breakfast. After dropping her at school he drove deliberately around the streets in search of him, his mind and stomach lurching as he slowed near culverts and gutters in fear of what he might find. Fearing the worst, finding nothing, which turned out to be far worse. At work his wife calls, he’s anxious when he answers but she is only calling to say she isn’t going to stop at the dry cleaners after work. He downloads a picture from his Facebook page. At the copier he makes signs.
LOST CAT
He does not want to go home. He’s walking around posting the signs when a man approaches him quickly.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“yes?” He is electrically shocked by the interaction. He has been dwelling in his head too long as he slapped the signs against the phone poles, thinking abstractly about the bands and bars advertised on the posters he covered with Max’s image, slap slap slap slap the staple gun cold and heavy in his hands, his anger welling.
He assesses the man quickly, a fight or flight feeling. He resolves to calm himself.
“Yes?” he says again.
“Can you tell me where the 264 stops on this street?”
The number means nothing to him, the question is like a dot on a white page for a moment and he feels flustered and is worried that he may seem deranged, a crazy with a staple gun…
“The bus?”
“Oh, yes. Umm, Well it stops uh, down there,” he points past a row of cars to the nearby stop sign and the familiar rectangle of the bus stop where the grass has died and he sometimes sees the forlorn girl in the blue parka standing.
“Thanks, lose your cat?” the man says.
He will be able to go home now, his daughter will not cry! Tonight the familiar solid paperweight shape by his foot will not make him cranky, he promises.
He is elated, he breaks into a smile and says, “yes, I have! You know where Max is?”
“No, I just see your poster. Good Luck, though. “ The man begins to walk towards the stop.
He turns and drives a staple.
In the bathroom he felt how thirsty he was.
The light from the refrigerator falls across the linoleum, his legs. Briefly he wonders where Max is off to. He stands there drinking water from a cup that has a map of Wisconsin on it, a bird and a rat.
He recalls that his daughter calls Wisconsin the beaver state, which always makes his wife smile and steal a glance at him. He pours the rest of the water into Max’s enamel dish on the kitchen floor and turns toward the bedroom.
They had been drinking for hours. Torn pieces of beer mat and cocktail napkins with drawings on them. The TV endlessly flickering images. Eventually they left; the bartender had looked unconcerned at their advanced state of drunkenness. It was that kind of place.
The bar was in a neighborhood of single-family homes. Walking along the sidewalk quietly because by now it had grown late, she came upon a cat. It was longhaired and began doing figure eights around her ankles. She clumsily bent and began to coo, taking the grey flat face in her chapped fingers.
“You like me, don’t you!’ she said.
He turned, smoking a cigarette. “What?” Was this directed at him, he thought. He turned again to look up at the silvery leaves of the tree above him, they swayed in his vision and he decided it was he, not the leaves that moved. He looked up the quiet street, for what he did not know.
The car was cold, the smell of cold plastic and old ashtrays overwhelming. The sound of his keys too loud. He looked over and saw her standing at the car’s passenger side, she had a coat on he did not recognize. He leaned over and unlocked the door.
“He wants to come with us, don’t you?” She was nose to nose with the cat, which wore a blue flea collar. It wasn’t a coat she held, now he saw.
“We’ll keep him and he can drink milk, I always wanted a kitty.” Her gushing baby talk and noises are making him sick.
He couldn’t find strength. He pulled the car into gear as she closed her door, began complaining that her purse strap was closed in the door.
She opens the door then slams it again quickly, tosses the purse to her feet.
He’s concentrating on driving, the streetlights wet pools streaming toward then over them. The cat scratches her and for a moment is under the pedals of the car, he yells violently at her. He is driving. She yells back and he slams the steering wheel repeatedly until they realize nervously that they are being watched by a cabbie, the car has a single moveable light affixed near the rearview mirror, a retired patrol car. The cat has begun to groan deeply from under the seat behind him.
At the next corner he realizes he has missed the turn and is lost. He tries to focus on the green sign swinging beside the red light but cannot. She wants to pee.
You can’t wait? He looks around nervously, the cat is making noises like a raptor from a movie. No I can’t wait she says, she is pulling on the cat’s leg, the cat and the floor mat it is holding to is coming out from under her seat. The cat’s eyes judge him suddenly yellow in the light from the dome light of the car.
She leaves the door ajar and walks away into the shadow of a Honda with red plastic letters ’99 ACCORD LOW MILES across the window. He begins to doze, his wrists resting on the wheel, he awakens: she is yelling, cussing. She falls back into the car, licking the meatiness of her thumb, bloody. Let’s go. He pulls the car out into the night.
When things like this happen he sometimes wonders if he is cut out for this daddy thing. It’s not that he is ever violent, but the rage that wells up in him at his inability to keep her from harm, at the futility of being a father unable to fix something. He could kill the people who drive too fast down his street. It scares him. His wife had put out food, then called in that voice that made her sound as if she would be an excellent auctioneer or maybe run a square dance. Maxwell had not appeared, which was not like him. His daughter had not noticed the cat missing as she readied herself for school and ate breakfast. After dropping her at school he drove deliberately around the streets in search of him, his mind and stomach lurching as he slowed near culverts and gutters in fear of what he might find. Fearing the worst, finding nothing, which turned out to be far worse. At work his wife calls, he’s anxious when he answers but she is only calling to say she isn’t going to stop at the dry cleaners after work. He downloads a picture from his Facebook page. At the copier he makes signs.
LOST CAT
He does not want to go home. He’s walking around posting the signs when a man approaches him quickly.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“yes?” He is electrically shocked by the interaction. He has been dwelling in his head too long as he slapped the signs against the phone poles, thinking abstractly about the bands and bars advertised on the posters he covered with Max’s image, slap slap slap slap the staple gun cold and heavy in his hands, his anger welling.
He assesses the man quickly, a fight or flight feeling. He resolves to calm himself.
“Yes?” he says again.
“Can you tell me where the 264 stops on this street?”
The number means nothing to him, the question is like a dot on a white page for a moment and he feels flustered and is worried that he may seem deranged, a crazy with a staple gun…
“The bus?”
“Oh, yes. Umm, Well it stops uh, down there,” he points past a row of cars to the nearby stop sign and the familiar rectangle of the bus stop where the grass has died and he sometimes sees the forlorn girl in the blue parka standing.
“Thanks, lose your cat?” the man says.
He will be able to go home now, his daughter will not cry! Tonight the familiar solid paperweight shape by his foot will not make him cranky, he promises.
He is elated, he breaks into a smile and says, “yes, I have! You know where Max is?”
“No, I just see your poster. Good Luck, though. “ The man begins to walk towards the stop.
He turns and drives a staple.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
A morning email
Once I was told that a letter should be worth reading. It's sort of an aphorism, and sounds Mark Twain-ish, maybe I heard it from a professor. Anyway I put some stock in that thought and if you and I correspond, you know I try and make it worth reading. You and I don't correspond, though. I know this because basically the only people I write letters to regularly are half of the Summit staff (I publish a daily missive at work) and my mom and dad. I get told that I should bind the dailies at work into a book, and one day I might. I would have to take out all the names to protect the innocent.
In the meantime,
here's another letter...
Mom,
Its a Thursday morning. Its raining. Do you know they say you should never begin a novel with a sentence about the weather? Then again writers say that you should never listen to other writers. I am not a writer.
The neighbors will be mad if they are home. He could not help himself and genuinely did not care, however. He jumped higher and higher each time, mumbling along since he truly didn't know all the words Chuck D was saying, jubilantly cheering, "Can't Truss it!" along with Flava Flav when the time came. Fleetingly he considered downloading all of Public Enemy's music, but instead sipped more coffee. His beautiful and talented girlfriend had left the apartment moments before, in a rush to catch the bus that took her to rehearsals. He had made her scrambled eggs and brought them, an adoring fawning man deeply in love, to her along with coffee spiked with Swiss Miss and 2% milk while she reviewed dance videos by the rain smeared window. Yesterday the couple had begun the day even earlier, he had trudged through the slushy snow to the car, a rented Audi. She peered into the mirror applying mascara. She was nervous because she was shooting with very hot photographer http://michaeldonovanphotography.com/portfolio4.html and wanted the shots to be good. Her agency had labeled her a "bod girl." Her agent, a woman who had plucked her from a yoga studio, was planning to use the commissions she made from Marissa's work to buy a new Porsche next year. Marissa could not conceive of such success and was naturally demure about her looks. He smiled and knew better. The dishwasher resoundingly clunked in the kitchen. He noticed that the carpet needed vacuuming.
He began to sneeze. The sneezes came from deep in his lungs and he moved not unlike a strange bird dipping into a pond as he found his way to the bathroom and spun the toilet paper from the roll. He loved the sneezes, they felt somehow great. He needed to think about leaving the house. Outside the weather was uninviting. Rain and cold. He would leave anyway, as soon as he had finished writing to his mother.
His thoughts went to his younger sister. She was brilliant, and she had the same quality of youthful enthusiasm for life that had made him jump around to the music earlier. maybe this was genetics? Passed down from mother to son and daughter? He had to get ready, although the appointment he had was of not to significant importance: he had a physical therapist who was helping him to improve his running. Such was the life that he now found himself able to focus time and money on hobbies.
Life was good for this man, and he knew it.
In the meantime,
here's another letter...
Mom,
Its a Thursday morning. Its raining. Do you know they say you should never begin a novel with a sentence about the weather? Then again writers say that you should never listen to other writers. I am not a writer.
The neighbors will be mad if they are home. He could not help himself and genuinely did not care, however. He jumped higher and higher each time, mumbling along since he truly didn't know all the words Chuck D was saying, jubilantly cheering, "Can't Truss it!" along with Flava Flav when the time came. Fleetingly he considered downloading all of Public Enemy's music, but instead sipped more coffee. His beautiful and talented girlfriend had left the apartment moments before, in a rush to catch the bus that took her to rehearsals. He had made her scrambled eggs and brought them, an adoring fawning man deeply in love, to her along with coffee spiked with Swiss Miss and 2% milk while she reviewed dance videos by the rain smeared window. Yesterday the couple had begun the day even earlier, he had trudged through the slushy snow to the car, a rented Audi. She peered into the mirror applying mascara. She was nervous because she was shooting with very hot photographer http://michaeldonovanphotography.com/portfolio4.html and wanted the shots to be good. Her agency had labeled her a "bod girl." Her agent, a woman who had plucked her from a yoga studio, was planning to use the commissions she made from Marissa's work to buy a new Porsche next year. Marissa could not conceive of such success and was naturally demure about her looks. He smiled and knew better. The dishwasher resoundingly clunked in the kitchen. He noticed that the carpet needed vacuuming.
He began to sneeze. The sneezes came from deep in his lungs and he moved not unlike a strange bird dipping into a pond as he found his way to the bathroom and spun the toilet paper from the roll. He loved the sneezes, they felt somehow great. He needed to think about leaving the house. Outside the weather was uninviting. Rain and cold. He would leave anyway, as soon as he had finished writing to his mother.
His thoughts went to his younger sister. She was brilliant, and she had the same quality of youthful enthusiasm for life that had made him jump around to the music earlier. maybe this was genetics? Passed down from mother to son and daughter? He had to get ready, although the appointment he had was of not to significant importance: he had a physical therapist who was helping him to improve his running. Such was the life that he now found himself able to focus time and money on hobbies.
Life was good for this man, and he knew it.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Birthday note to my moms and dad November 18th
Mom,
Clearly I understand that the reasons behind taunting always stem from insecurities and fears inside the one doing the putting down. I know too that the enmity I endure from those I care for comes from a place of fear and anger at aging and so many things changing around them. I don't need to imagine how hard it would be to be a person that got treated harshly by someone who needed to put someone else down to feel better about themselves, I live with it daily. I am graced with an ability to charm (thanks dad) and comfort (thanks mom)
What would be hard to imagine would be how impossible it would be to ever truly feel good about myself if I had to rely on other people around me to validate what I already know. You guys taught me a lot of self reliance, you know. And I appreciate the people in my life who love me, but I know I wouldn't even have those good people around if I didn't honor and know the truth of my own soul. I love and know myself well enough to know that the love and support and care I get from others is the icing on the cake. That's the key. Love thyself.
Theologically (if I may sound like dad for a minute-another nod to you dad) at St. Edwards University (thanks for making that happen mom, I am eternally grateful) I learned that "God" dwells in each and every one of us. So to achieve true good one need only let "God" out of your soul via your actions and movement in the world. There is no force moving things around other than the collective energy of those who populate this earth. Dad would not agree, he feels there are several other layers, and while I agree that there are no doubt other layers, how much ability or interest to manipulate the slice we live in is debatable. Wishing everyday for something will only give you hunger. Go and do. Here it is, my Oprah couch moment: Get up everyday and do good. Its my secret-principle-agreement-habit and so far so good. The Dali Lama I am not, but I have read his books too and he touches upon the same ideas. I owe my three parents a giant debt of gratitude for giving me the tools and teaching to seek answers, thanks for the Head Start and the liberal upbringing, all the alternative lifestyles and the variety of cultures you made sure I experienced. Trips to Europe and life in the Caribbean...being son to a single mother, these things made me love diversity and appreciate women. Thank you.
A big nod to Elizabeth, who taught me to cook and to forgive and forget, to rise above and know myself. No son is as lucky as I am to have had such a strong mom. I cherish the times we enjoyed in the kitchen on Hidalgo, and look forward to more. Sorry the mediatating didn't stick.
Back when I didn't love myself, I ignored or worse attacked my loved ones, found little time to do good in the world and generally took up space. I decided to change and do good. It works. When I lose sight of it, things get funky. Will it work? Its better than wishing. Its better than sitting around the house hoping for change. I'm out there, I help and change and comfort and it rolls back in in spades.
Please note that I am not attacking anyone's beliefs here, mom. And you should know that you push my buttons when you drop the pop-psychology book stuff on me, I am glad it works for you and only feel that you should realize that everything you are looking for in these "shelf help" books is already inside you.
Thanks ya'll for making the crazy wild decision to carry me into this world, I love you!!!
Clearly I understand that the reasons behind taunting always stem from insecurities and fears inside the one doing the putting down. I know too that the enmity I endure from those I care for comes from a place of fear and anger at aging and so many things changing around them. I don't need to imagine how hard it would be to be a person that got treated harshly by someone who needed to put someone else down to feel better about themselves, I live with it daily. I am graced with an ability to charm (thanks dad) and comfort (thanks mom)
What would be hard to imagine would be how impossible it would be to ever truly feel good about myself if I had to rely on other people around me to validate what I already know. You guys taught me a lot of self reliance, you know. And I appreciate the people in my life who love me, but I know I wouldn't even have those good people around if I didn't honor and know the truth of my own soul. I love and know myself well enough to know that the love and support and care I get from others is the icing on the cake. That's the key. Love thyself.
Theologically (if I may sound like dad for a minute-another nod to you dad) at St. Edwards University (thanks for making that happen mom, I am eternally grateful) I learned that "God" dwells in each and every one of us. So to achieve true good one need only let "God" out of your soul via your actions and movement in the world. There is no force moving things around other than the collective energy of those who populate this earth. Dad would not agree, he feels there are several other layers, and while I agree that there are no doubt other layers, how much ability or interest to manipulate the slice we live in is debatable. Wishing everyday for something will only give you hunger. Go and do. Here it is, my Oprah couch moment: Get up everyday and do good. Its my secret-principle-agreement-habit and so far so good. The Dali Lama I am not, but I have read his books too and he touches upon the same ideas. I owe my three parents a giant debt of gratitude for giving me the tools and teaching to seek answers, thanks for the Head Start and the liberal upbringing, all the alternative lifestyles and the variety of cultures you made sure I experienced. Trips to Europe and life in the Caribbean...being son to a single mother, these things made me love diversity and appreciate women. Thank you.
A big nod to Elizabeth, who taught me to cook and to forgive and forget, to rise above and know myself. No son is as lucky as I am to have had such a strong mom. I cherish the times we enjoyed in the kitchen on Hidalgo, and look forward to more. Sorry the mediatating didn't stick.
Back when I didn't love myself, I ignored or worse attacked my loved ones, found little time to do good in the world and generally took up space. I decided to change and do good. It works. When I lose sight of it, things get funky. Will it work? Its better than wishing. Its better than sitting around the house hoping for change. I'm out there, I help and change and comfort and it rolls back in in spades.
Please note that I am not attacking anyone's beliefs here, mom. And you should know that you push my buttons when you drop the pop-psychology book stuff on me, I am glad it works for you and only feel that you should realize that everything you are looking for in these "shelf help" books is already inside you.
Thanks ya'll for making the crazy wild decision to carry me into this world, I love you!!!
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
pretend
“He’s a fuckwit.” He said. The sidewalk crunches underfoot as they emerge from Brewster’s. Mark lights a cigarette, blows the smoke skyward as is his custom.
“Well, you are an asshole, punctuating his epithet with a cursory tug at the cig, “and damn good at it, too.”
“The hell does that mean? I’m saying he’s a fuckwit, no one believes him." Russell turns to Mark, “do you?”
“I didn’t say I do, just saying that calling him out does you no good, is all.” The two pause at the light. A cab slows, drifting towards them, then accelerates.
He reaches for his wallet as he approach the door,
“And they do believe him, Mark, the fricking do, that’s the sad part,” extracts his license and nods to a man on a stool drinking from a large mug, “Hey Doug how’s things man?”
"Good, Thanks Mark, Russell-ID.” Taking a final drag from his cig and flinging it behind him, says, “They don’t, they don’t believe him, they just choose to go along with it and that’s what’s truly screwed.” A wall of inside swallows their backs.
Two girls, one in dark bangs and black nails are by the beer taps. Shot glasses and beers in front of them. A guy passes them with his bike helmet. “And I was laughing and trying to be nice at the same time, you know, but really, the guy’s wearing pleated jeans, I mean come on.” She’s laughing and drinking her scotch. Her friend is dirty blond and dressed in office clothes, victim of happy hour gone long
“So, what? He’s hitting on you, guys do it all the time, bad fashion never seems to prevent them from trying, so what did you say? “
“Well, I guess I didn’t realize he was hitting on me, because, you know, I never even thought about—anyway, I was being nice, I guess’
“That was your first mistake,” she says, as she pokes a message out on her phone,
“I know, I know, “ her voice rises as she explains, “ but anyway then he asks me what I am doing tonight, and that was when it hit me,”
“What hit you?” she puts her phone off to the side among the beer glasses.
“That’s when I said, Oh shit this guy is hitting on me, so trying! And I made up the story about the conference call and meeting you.” The bartender reaches over a tattooed arm to place flickering votive candles in front of the girls. He nods first at the empty shot glasses then at the girls, turns to the bright screen of the register and begins poking.
As the door closes out the bar sounds outside, Mark steps to the urinal. Russell stands at the sink, leaning in to look at a mark on his cheek. “It’s the game, man. It’s pretend and pretense. Everyone dressed up as something.
"Really? I’m dressed as a man, you…well, you dress for shit,’ he laughs and pushes Mark, who steps forward to avoid tumbling into the urinal.
“We have jobs and credit cards and cars and houses and get up and wear ties, but we’re the same as we have always been, just pretending. I’m just pretending, here.” He turns from the sink. Stands there wringing his hands.
“That fuckwit is pretending, and you know it. And all the girls he gets, they know it too, but what else have we got?” The door swings open and they turn towards the sound of music and conversation. A man stops confused for a moment, then moves towards the urinal, each man careful not to touch the other as they move.
“let’s find another bar, the only girls in here are from my office.”
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Heavy Storm Preparedness
You do what you can to avoid the worst; take precautions and put in your efforts.
You worry about your family, your property. At the end of it, as the winds pick up and the effects start to show up on TV, you watch.
Maybe it won’t be as bad as they expect. You say.
Maybe it will turn. You hope.
The talking heads on news channel thrive on destruction and change.
Eventually as the destruction starts to loop on the TV, you turn in for the night.
The worst always happens once its deep night.
In the morning, you’ll get on the net to check out how bad it was.
There are loses and things saved. There are things that will need patching.
Eventually it all goes back to normal; the world finds a way to cope with changes,
Strong and able to absorb the worst, at least for now, little will seem different.
Life goes on.
Election day 2010.
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