You Sunk My Battleship, Herman!

   My Mona is terribly, awfully marred. Ona knows how hard I worked for my Mona. 730 nights I was suspended in a pitch black slumber tank, naked but for a nylon mask called a "love helmet" snug around my head and neck, lips spread by a tube providing oxygen. I had to prove myself, earn my Mona. Sleeping like a fish suspended in warm, viscous fluid with no light or sound takes willpower. I would dream of my Mona, her flaxen hair, wrapped around my head, neck, shoulders, arms, and torso, sealing her to me, mouths locked together, all through the night.
   Monas are delicate creatures. They have no free will of their own. Monas live to cook, clean, and pleasure. Such a beautiful, guileless creature may be granted to only one of hundreds of suitors vying for her companionship. Ona saw fit to grant me one after my 730th night in the tank. I had shown myself worthy.
  We lived in harmony for many months and one evening, after dinner, I brought out one of my favorite childhood games, Battleship. 
  "What's that?" Mona said, stroking her hair. Her voice high like the mew of a kitten.
  "Come here," I motioned for her to sit on the couch. She swept up her gown and sat gingerly beside me. I opened the board and gave her the battleship piece to hold. She held the grey plastic miniature as if it were a pearl.
  "What does it mean?" Mona asked.
  "I'll show you," I said. I mimicked a game for her and she watched every movement as if I was dissecting a frog's heart. And then, we played one game.
  To my surprise, she was quite good at Battleship. My Mona ascertained that I almost always placed my Battleship along the edge of the board, while she never had a reliable pattern, or a discernable tell. We played one game every night for two weeks. I quite enjoyed the ritual. And then, she won her first game.
   "D4."
   "YOU SUNK MY BATTLESHIP!" I cried.
   Mona yanked her hair from her face, her blue eyes bulged in confusion. I went to her side and wrapped my arms around her shoulders, stroking her arm, I reassured her that winning was a happy thing.
   Then three months after she won her first game, I came home from work and Mona asked me if I wanted her to make dinner? 
   "Of course," I replied. 
  She stood in the middle of the living room in her white gown.  Her yellow hair neatly braided away from her face, her downy eyebrows and long blond eyelashes were as angelic as before. Her eyes, however, normally dreamy, were alert to something I could not decipher from the placid expression, like a skim of porcelain serenity, on her unblemished face. 
  I should have known something was wrong when she asked me a question. Monas do not ask questions, they are not Bridgets or Tonas. It is not in their engineering to question, they intuit. She was asking me a question about a duty she was specifically created to perform and I should have returned her to the castle the very next day, but I did not want to spend one more night alone.
   A week later, I came home and found my Mona sitting on the floor in front of the battleship board. She was clearly in the midst of a game. 
   "You're playing Battleship all alone?" I said. There was a thundering BOOM inside my head. It is rare, but possible for a sore suitor who lost his bid to a Mona to find yours and deprogram her.  It takes a tremendous amount of skill and access to the sensory machine in the Castle, but it has been done before. 
   I heard the bathroom door open and a Tona walked into the living room. The strange Tona looked at me and walked out our front door without a word. 
   "Where did that Tona come from?"
   "302C."
   "Who is her suitor?"
   "Max Tripplehorn." 
   The name did not ring a bell, but I was far less alarmed at the sight of the red-haired Tona than if say, Max Tripplehorn had walked into our living room. I sat down on the other side of the game in progress.
   I asked, "Whose turn is it?"
   "Yours," she replied.
   I wished then that I had taken a look at her board, but that would have been cheating. The Tona was losing from the looks of it. The only thing left was one hit on her destroyer and one on her aircraft carrier. I had to make my next move count.
  "What was her last hit?"
  "A4."
  "Has she called A3, A5 or B4 yet?"
  "Yes."
  "Were they hits?"
  "D4," I said.
  "You sunk my Battleship, Herman!" Mona cried. 
  I pulled the cord of my imaginary horn for victory! 
  Mona stood up and announced, "I have to make souffle."
  We ate her expertly prepared souffle. After dinner Mona washed the dishes, while I watched the news. Since we had played Battleship, Mona prepared for the slumber tank. She is practically sewn into her gown with its yard or hooks on either side of her bodice and satin ribbons laced along her arms. I decided rather than reading, I would watch her undress. I placed a comfortable chair opposite her dressing mirror with a perfect view. 
  Her fingers move like a concert pianists' playing Mozart. Once unbound, the satin gown falls to the floor revealing her fine collar bone, her pomegranate breasts, and soft, smooth belly. Naked in front of the mirror I saw her do something shocking. My Mona smiled at herself. I saw it with my own two eyes. I could not miss the uplift of her rosy lips, for I was watching her intently.  Mona smiled at her own beauty. The shock of it made me gasp.
   "Mona," I was breathless."Did you smile at yourself?"
   She turned to me, the smile now gone, she answered simply, yes.
   
To Be Continued

Greener green

                   Slippery when _.

_ my whistle. 

                  Sopping _.

_ lands.

                _ behind the ears.

All _ . 

 Mt. Lemmon (Tucson, AZ)

     I am saturated. The green is greener here in Portland. The air is plump with moisture, not dry and jagged against the cheek, like in Southern Arizona.

     We are home for the time being. What a gift to wander around the continent with my pet. We have been hosted so well for the last six months in my parents' winter home in Green Valley. And now, we are cozy in a craftsman house in Northeast Portland, thanks to the generosity of a good friend. In the coming months I will write, work for money, and explore this beloved Pacific Northwest city.

Swan Island (Portland, OR)

     When I was here last June, I experienced Portland's shiny and bright side. As of this writing, I will have been here for 52 hours. I have spent that time in a dark and mossy cave.  The sky is always clouded over. The back porch is slick with moss and the ground is mushy. I have to wear layers now. Being this soggy will take some getting used to, but honestly, I am enjoying it! 

     I wonder, what kind of cave dweller am I? Am I a lumpy pile? Am I a dirt eater? Am I the kind that scales walls in search of a hole to sunny China?

     And so, my life has a new backdrop. But I am still the same girl who climbs mountains in monsoon to reach a radio tower, sweats from her eyeballs, and writes with courage, by wonder, and for love.

A Wurlitzer Dream

The pants were soaked on the bottom and bone dry on the top. No explanation for how this could happen sitting Indian-style in front of a black-and-white television. The screen is black.

We find it hysterical, my former neighbor and I.  We cannot stop laughing.

The trains aren't running in Queens. Undaunted, my sister (who is suddenly Filipino), along with my roommate (who is Mexican), decide to walk several miles in the rain to the theater. They do it for joy. I promise to join them later.

I am lying on hot smooth rocks, eyes closed, sun burning into my hypothalamus, there is no goal, there is only stillness and a deep feeling of contentment.

An old schoolmate is one of a group of gals rushing for the showers after a refreshing dip in the lake. I have a picture of her wearing an elaborate head piece of gold filigree and dancing diamond teardrops. I show it to her. She does not understand and turns away from me. I think she looked beautiful in her glittering cage.

I notice that the gals are following something.  Four women dressed in plush hotel robes are walking in lock step, carrying one door to a wrought iron gate.  Dozens of wet-haired women create a processional behind this gate. This is what my friend is following. I am following my friend.

The rocks are an uneven plain, challenging to walk across, and women stumble to their knees, but get right back up with no complaints.  Someone suggests adding one man to help carry the door of iron. The suggestion was met with great enthusiasm. One man is produced and he takes his place at the center of the robed door-bearers.

Ahead is a western style log cabin large enough to fit every species in twos.

In the belly of the mammoth log cabin is a turn of the century Vaudeville theater with a proscenium resembling an Arabian castle.  But for the light ivory arabesque patterns on the proscenium, everything else was dark: mahogany handrails, Moorish style lamps of iron cut-out to resemble the folds of a dahlia, casting long teardrops of light on the indigo, crimson, and magenta colors in the carpet. This is a castle of secrets. The stage for deception. Voices from above are discussing the fate of one in the procession. "She is klutzy but good-hearted. She can stay."

I think my Filipino sister will be performing in this theater. The stairs separating the upper and mid levels are too shallow and quite wide. I have to leap into the air lifting my hands to the sky. I leap for joy.  I feel giddy and boundless because this had nothing to do with me.

Fudgesicles

I could see the all the way to the white sandy bottom from my tiny raft, and make out the mangled and twisted sea kelp, but I couldn't make out anything else until it reached the surface. The first thing I saw was four half-eaten fudgesicles bobbing by the raft. The fudge was supple, smooth, and resilient as resin. 

My companion was an adolescent girl with hair so shaggy it never looked wet, dressed in a sack tied about her waist by a rope. She swam ahead of my floating octopus raft, announcing each object that floated by with a sensory tag: "Smells good!" and "Tickles!" and "Very sharp!" Her voice rang across the water like a cymbal in a broom closet. We seemed to be looking for something in the menacing aqua blue water, lit by stars like white paper lanterns. Dead things, half-alive things, and useless things floated by my raft. 

I would not get in the polluted water. I barely fit under the bulbous mass. 

We came upon other people bewitched by the starlight, bathing in the water, using dead fish to rub their calloused feet and elbows. The girl declared, "This is it!" 

I put my arms in the water and paddled as fast as I could, scraping my arms against sharp metallic edges, like shards of broken glass. The raft was barely moving. The octopus was too heavy. I had to get back. This was not it. The girl lassoed the octopus head with the rope from around her waist and kicked us to shore. The shoreline was a rusty color, which seemed to be from the discarded junk and dead sun-baked lobsters littering the beach. The girl swam right over the unpleasantness, pulling me and the octopus to shore. I looked back and saw four half-eaten fudgesicles bobbing in the water. 

Dream of October 17

Sydney Wayser is the key. The toy bells tinkle and my feet arch like fish flipping through the air. Her voice emanates from her left lung, just above her heart. My arms are ribbons tied around a tree branch. Frogs legs kick out from underneath me. This is not my body. 


I am in a very busy bookstore, standing on a tall ladder in a leotard and knee-length gossamer skirt. He asks me to just move and whatever I do, they will be there to catch me. One is a thin, pale, woman. Her dark hair is neatly tucked into a bun, she has vampire lips, she has long curled lashes, light blue eyes, and a straight nose that ends in a tiny square. She is smiling warmly. Behind her, is a gymnast in black. He is holding a net made of stiff, heavy rope. They are suspended by wire and expect me to jump off the ladder and dance in the aisle of the bookstore.  There are people looking for fantasy, how-to, and philosophy in the longest aisle I have ever seen. I am going to dance over their heads. He will capture it all from below.


La Di Da. I tell them I need to find it on my iPod mini (so, so, so mini). La Di Da. Once I find it, my lungs fill with helium, my heart beats irregularly. Beats as the chimes, the piano, the snare, the bass, and finally her voice. I'm an arrow. I shoot through the net. I bend like a bow and fall back into the gymnast's chest. An unpleasant kitchen memory leaves me. I can make any movement and they will catch me. I can zing! A pine tree tall man sweeps child me up! He spins me longer, longer and faster, faster until I feel I am flying. La Di Da.

10/13 at 1:15

Wednesday, October 13, 2010 at 1:15 p.m. I was lying on a white leather couch watching Pride and Prejudice with the director's commentary on. Joe Wright was saying something about walking in or out of frame from the right or left. I think most people step into my frame from the left, but I register them with the right side of my head. 

At the exact same moment Director Wright was talking about frame, she took this shot of the Queens College campus. 


I am on the couch. 


She is standing in the shade, on the other side of the continental United States. 


Wednesday, October 13 at 1:15 p.m. on Long Island it was a "beautiful crisp day."  


The white leather was cool against my over-worked calf muscles and over-stretched external obliques. 


I wanted to take a picture of it. I had framed it in my mind and then shimmering light distracted me. Poof! Just like that it was 1:16 p.m. 

Google SB 1070 now!

           In the past two months that I've lived in southern Arizona, I have not had one conversation about SB 1070 with another resident of Arizona.  The people  in my life who are the most interested in the anti-Mexican day-labor law are those who live anywhere other than Arizona.  After a conversation three days ago with New Yorker, I realized that I was hesitant to voice a strong opinion about what is happening in my backyard (the Mexican border is 40 miles south of where I eat and sleep).  I wondered if I really knew enough about the complex problem to just write SB 1070 off as “that stupid anti-American-dream-for-brown-people law”.   So, I did what you’re supposed to do in these situations, I Googled SB 1070.  Here are a few things I found out:

Did you know the majority of Arizonans support SB 1070 but, a recent poll shows 38 percent of Arizona residents do not believe the law represents a real solution to the problem of immigration in Arizona?  Yeah. The residents of this state support something that they don’t ultimately believe will solve the problem.  And, 48 percent of those polled also believe that Latinos are more likely to be discriminated against than they were six months ago. So, what are they hoping to accomplish here?

            Do I think that SB 1070 will result in greater racial profiling by Arizona police? Absolutely.  Here’s why. It is estimated that Arizona’s illegal immigrant population grew from 330,000 in 2000 to 560,000 in 2008. They represent 8 percent of the adult population and 11 percent of Arizona’s prison population.  It seems to me that law enforcements relationship with the illegal immigrant population is well established, and it’s not positive. 

            Do I agree with the 27 percent of Arizona residents recently polled that think enforcement of SB 1070 will largely or completely resolve the issue of illegal immigration (in Arizona)? Nope.  In my view, for those people, SB 1070 is about sending a message that Arizona and the United States is off-limits to all illegal immigrants.  If you want in, you have to come here legally. However, what about all the employers willing to subvert the system and give illegal immigrants jobs for their own profit?  I also wonder if those who support the law will continue to support it when the prisons overflow and we have to crack down on businesses that hire illegal aliens because SB 1070 does not stop the flow from across the border. I heard on the radio this morning that there is a shortage of agricultural jobs in Mexico, which means, even more labor is expected to come across the border, SB 1070 or no SB 1070. Good times.

Sources:

http://www.azcentral.com/news/election/azelections/articles/2010/07/25/20100725immigration-poll-demographic.html

http://www.cis.org/announcement/AZ-immigration-SB1070

http://www.tucsonweekly.com/TheRange/archives/2010/05/11/sb-1070-poll-71-of-americans-believe-new-immigration-law-will-lead-to-hispanics-getting-hassled-by-the-man

Nothingness haunts being

           The only man sitting at the bar smelled sour, like curdled milk.  Sweat saturated his t-shirt and left a jagged line of evaporated salt along the collar.  Maybe he had been touring the city all day? Maybe he had been standing in an interminable line for tickets to a Broadway show? Maybe he had been loading crates headed for Los Angeles?  He wore still white running shoes with dark blue and orange lightening bolts on the side.  A tourist. It seemed odd that a tourist would be drinking alone in a bar on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Where were his companions? Only his slightly used walking shoes led one to presuppose this man was a tourist.  He did not carry a camera, nor did he have with him any shopping bags emblematic of Soho.

The middle-aged man appeared to be waiting on someone to walk through the front door.  He leaned on the bar and propped his face up with his right hand, so that, he could easily check the door every fifteen seconds.  His watchful gesture was a mere tilt of his chin to the left.  Like a tomcat greets a breeze. He was so close to the door, he would sense the moment it cracked open.  Was he looking forward to this person’s arrival? The man finished his pint with three gulps.  Was he anxious about the person(s) coming through the door? Was he drinking alone to avoid a confrontation with who ever might be coming in? Possibly the intention of the meeting was a hostile confrontation, rather than a happy reunion.

The visitor did not wear a wedding ring.  This smelly bachelor may have been waiting to meet a beautiful woman and was drinking to loosen up, release his authentic self. He sat with his legs winged apart, his head in hand, hardly the posture of an expectant lover.  A dark V-shape of perspiration from his shoulders to the small of the back accentuated his stout frame and protruding belly, making it possible to apprehend this man’s indifference to his being and his impact on his surroundings.

Nonetheless, this man sat in the way of a phenomenon. Something would happen, as we know from experience.  A woman with strong perfume crosses your path causing you to sneeze. You look up and spy a thief freeing a woman’s handbag from her shoulder.  Behold this man who was drinking a beer at this bar on a Saturday afternoon!  Whenever the door should open, when desire should manifest in the doorway and through the bar, this man, his being, would become a part of the background to the phenomenon, the same as the stool under him.  After six pints, this pungent bachelor left the bar.  Subsequent events in the bar would not negate that our hearty binge drinker who left moments before had sat on a stool close to the door.  

The Day after Father's Day

I think I am brave/crazy for moving out to the desert to write a book no one may ever read in print. Then I hear about people like Gary's son. Let's call Gary's son Adam.

Gary reminds me a bit of a very tan, heavier Stanley Tucci. He wears a fishing cap and dark round Armani-like sunglasses and black leather loafers. Most mean wear white tennis shoes. You understand. He's direct and quick and pays attention. Unlike many of the other people at the park his age - he's 71 - Gary converses. It's not that anyone is really unfriendly, they just love to talk.

Yesterday, Gary and I were sitting on the bench away the circle of regular dog-owners that congregate in the shade of a mesquite tree as the sun sets over the Patagonia Mountains. Gary and I have a few things in common. We went to the same college and we're both from small Midwestern towns. He usually asks me how the writing is going. This time he added, "You must be bored without people your own age." I admit that yes, I am bored a times. Gary kind of grunts when he talks, "I should introduce you to my son." This is something I anticipated happening. Nearly everyone in the dog park is 30 years my senior. They probably have a son... "He's too old for you though." Adam is 45. I'm 36! Gary looks at me, "You're 36? You're becoming an old maid aren'tcha?" So, I say, "And I'm proud of it." Gary didn't believe it. I said, "I could have been married but I would have been divorced now. And I kinda like holding onto my money." Gary understood, "Yeah, lawyers fees and all that." So, we came to an understanding.

I said to Gary, I would be happy to have someone just to hang out with. Where does he live? Adam lives in San Diego. And he's not looking for anything serious either, since he has an 18-year old daughter and a four-year old son. Meaning, he's finished with fathering children, if that's what I wanted. The thing about Adam is that he has one arm. He was hit by a bus that ran a red light while he was passing by on his motorcycle. His left arm is inoperable and just hangs there for now. That's how Gary put it. It just hangs there! No prostheses will serve him. All of his nerve endings were seared-off. His settlement was large enough that he doesn't need to work. He's stays active swimming, weight-lifting, riding his motorcycle, etc. So active in fact, that he has tendinitis in other arm. He sounds like a great guy I tell Gary. And I meant it. Wouldn't you know, he's a writer too! He has not published and is not writing, but he has a lot of ideas, Gary said.

A parent's faith in their children's ability, unproven, is amazing. Gary's you-should-meet-my-son pitch was almost as amazing to me. Most people wouldn't lead with their son's lack of an arm. And, I guess Gary wasn't really letting me know what Adam did not have as much as he was sure I would see how brave and strong his son is to him.

My dream last night

I was a woman in pointy-toe black heels and a red suit. I was standing in the middle of a carpeted bus trying to grip the floor with my toes. It was dusk. I was in a strange city. Scanning the street for a sign I hoped would look familiar. A college student wearing a backpack was sitting in a seat in front of me. He was watching me try not to bump him every time we hit a pothole. My skirt was tight. I spied an empty seat. The bus was rattling like we were on a cobblestone road. Were we on a cobblestone road? What city am I in? What time is it? At least I knew who I was going to meet. His name is... I grabbed the top of another seat and threw myself in the general direction of the empty seat. The student said, You don't have to do that! But I do. I did. In my seat, I barely had room to cross my legs. My legs were a mile long. My pointy black heels were like boats. I just stare out the window. A woman in front of me is sharing a single seat with her best friend. They are sitting on a garment bag and matching overnight bag. They shift and tug the garment bag so that I am not touching it. Bitches! At least, I know where...

I am washing dishes in the dark because a circuit blew, Dad forgot to pay the bill, or the city was blacking out. The only person with light, full use of her laptop, and music in her room is my little sister. There was a feast that night. There is a huge pile of uneaten Caesar salad in the trash. I'm scooping pasta salad with black olives out of the clogged sink and tossing it into the trash where ever there are holes made by the leaves. I'm very concerned about using every last space in the trash. I do not want to lug the trash out continually while I'm washing dishes. I'm using two large sinks. Not industrial but large enough to bath a golden retriever puppy. There are forks, spoons, butter knives, steak knives, dessert spoons, and salad forks everywhere. I am very careful in the dark not to shatter a wine glass in the sink. The water stays warm and I keep on washing. There is no one drying. The half-assed dishes just pile up in a corner on the counter. My sister is in her room talking loudly on the phone. Her music is playing softly in the back ground. A former co-worker of mine appears in the darkness. She is laughing about how ridiculous all this is. Then she says, and tonight it's supposed to get up to 100 degrees. We're going to back in this house. Isn't this wild? I stop washing and march into my sister's room. I demand to use her phone. She ignores me for 10 seconds to finish up her stupid thought about something very high school. I notice from the glossy pages torn from a TEENBEAT magazine, that my sister is a teeniebopper. Do I still have a dog? I check the floor of her room. No dog. "Give me the phone!" I bark. My sister hands me her flat rectangular flip phone. It's very shiny. I dial a number. It rings. A voice at the other end of the line says, Sure come over now. We'll meet you there.

My sister and I leave the dishes and head to where the voice told us to go. We meet a group of contented and smiling people who all look like they could be related to one another. I know one of the women. She embraces me. I introduce my sister to her. We are carried away by their unity, their fidelity. They lead us down the street that just drops off into another part of town. The only way down is to step out onto a rounded end of a log, then another, then climb down some wooden scaffolding and jump the rest of the way. The dark-haired and suntanned group become quiet. The oldest man goes first. Then another and then another. I'm supposed to be watching but I can only think about how much falling will hurt. It's at least two stories to the ground. My friend says to me, Don't worry. Just watch me. By the time I turn to face it, she is already jumping down into her husband's arms. I heard him say, be careful of arms and legs. We have children and old people here. I look down and everyone is waiting for me. I have to do it. I step out onto the first log and discover there is another log end that I can easily step to. I see that I can hold the first log as leverage to jump to the next log and then I'm right next to the scaffolding. I find a place to grab, it's not very big but it's secure. I wrap my body around a support beam, I grip with my thighs and search for another place to hold onto. I find it. I have to let go of the beam with my left leg and place it the crux of two other support beams. I do it. My toes are in hold. I read with my left arm and grab a piece of wood. The rest of me goes with it. There is no where left to go but to jump down. Everyone is waiting. I have to jump! My friend is smiling and she squeezes my face. Everyone moves on together to her house. There is light coming from somewhere. We get to my friend's house and her husband explains that it will be a little crowded, we must be 10 people or more, but we'll all have a cool place to sleep. I tell him that I can sleep anywhere but my sister, she's a girlie-girl. He repeats that and chuckles. He likes the sound of it. I am dissatisfied. A woman with long wavy black hair is telling another woman who looks like a chubby preteen boy that she is in love with these two authors and both of their names are Ignacio.

Blameworthy

Last week, I went back to a book I bought in 2002 titled, Relational Autonomy. I opened it up to the chapter called, "Feeling Crazy: Self-Worth and the Social Character of Responsibility." In this chapter Paul Benson wrote:

"...that it is not reasonable to demand that someone participate in a certain type of relationship, when she has been made to feel so deeply that she is not worthy to engage in that relationship."

The chapter has been particularly comforting to me for two reasons. One, it fills my head with words that form thoughts which eventually lead to actions like writing here. This is comforting to me because through this process, I feel like I am heading toward greater understanding of a particular conflict I have relating to my personal responsibility. The second reason is the statement above tells me that this search for my relational self is not just pure vanity but has real implications for my ability to effect change in my life and otherwise. People spend a lot of time theorizing ways to explain "crazy" behavior in women. My crazy behavior will remain, for now, unspecified. My point is, that responsibility in our relationships as concept is important to a host of others besides me.

Recently, I had to end my participation in a romantic relationship (in fact the one that brought me to this corner in the first place) for what I believe is the final time. So, while I explained my position, I was conflicted because I so keenly aware that I had not been holding myself responsible as I held him responsible for the conditions under which we both engaged in our weird relationship. I have often said to my friends that his position of "not wanting to be a boyfriend" twisted me into knots emotionally. This position I took is a conflict for me because I willingly engaged in the emotional contortions, he didn't make me do anything. I experienced self-doubt, anxiety, and a lot of other negative emotions throughout the last seven months. I had hoped that he would change, and was bound by the belief that he held me above all others, as I held him above all others. When I could see that he would never share this romantic notion with me, I had to make a choice. I could let go of my belief that a romantic relationship is characterized by a principle idea of uniquely specialty. That your romantic interest cannot be reproduced or transferred to another and is de facto more important than all other non-romantic relationships. My other option was to relinquish my belief that he is that uniquely special one for me. I chose my romantic notions.

He spoke about the concept of relational self-worth, as highlighted above, in reference to my conceptualization and realization of romantic relationships in the first month we knew each other. He could see this conflict that I have with my romantic notions of true love and how I actually act in relationships like the moles on my face. Well, now I too am connecting the dots here. I deserve a lot more than he was willing to give me. I cannot blame him for my engagement in this weird relationship we shared over the last several months. So, I take back what I said! but I do not change my decision.

There was something about the way you said

Last night, my weariness was stretching my skin. I was at work until 8 p.m. So, I called almost everyone under the sun to get a drink but no one answered. I thought to myself, this is why people get married. I was only one block from work and had several more to go, my iPod was inoperable. So, I walked to the train "naked." When I don't have music pumped into my ears, I hum or sing to myself and I was singing a Ray LaMontagne song, Burn, mixing up chorus with verse and always coming back to the same place. I thought I really need to read through the Bruckner piece and the Mendelssohn too. I could possibly make yoga class or go for a run. I began making up all these tasks to do, to reassure, to comfort me.

I checked my phone one last time before I entered the subway and walked to my usual spot and read "The End of an Affair". Something big had just happened and it was such a good twist to the plot but, the train came after only a page was cleared. I stepped into the car and saw my Saturday yoga teacher. Mr. P. is one of those people that I have been intrigued by for a long time. I've seen him cry from being so moved by our practice. He's easy to laugh but he gets very excited when people stretch their limits. I also think he's pretty cute. I sat down next to him and said, "Hey." We struck up an conversation and that lead to dinner and more conversation. We laughed a lot and I was very at ease with him.

I do not believe in miracles from God but I cannot explain this encounter any other way. It was exactly the kind of human interaction I was craving. I could not think of anything that I had done or could have done to send out the message to Mr. P that I was coming his way. It was just coincidence?

One thing I want to remember. After I sat down and we told each other what we'd just been doing (he was taking a self-defense class. To which I asked, "Like kick-em in the balls and run?" To which he responded, Fighting Chaos.) earlier that evening, Mr. P seemed to step back from what was happening and rewind. He said, "What did you say to me? You said something like 'Hello there' or something?" I said, I think I said "Hey."
"Right! But you said it as you sat down next to me. You said, "Hey." And he looked at me like I just fallen over attempting to rise in crow pose.

It's YOU (meaning me)

I was catching up with a friend last night over Jameson and a cheeseburger and we got onto the subject of how people who give advice think they are trying to help, but really they are judging you or talking to themselves. We've all experienced the veiled message of "you're just not good enough" as "Yeah, I did that but I ... you should..." I've been the deliverer and the receiver of such conceit. It's not worth debating whether or not doling out judgment in spoonfuls of personal-wisdom-that-pats-them-on-the-back is good or bad. It happens. Why it happens seems more interesting to me.

Reading Eat, Pray, Love, I felt as though Ms. Gilbert was telling me to take the time to really work on yourself and you'll experience generosity, grace, and ultimately love, but YOU gotta be ready for it! So, she prepares herself by getting a divorce (not married - failure!), getting a book deal that pays for her fabulous trip (no one reads this blog, how can I get a book deal?), and then she spends hours meditating (I have a boney butt). The saying goes, "Good things come to those who wait", and not "Good things come to those who can chant for three hours every morning in a remote village in India."

I know, it's a book. I just wish someone else out there as put-off by E,P,L as my friend and I are put off by conceited advice. To Ms. Gilbert's credit, I finished the book thinking, damn that woman is smart! She exposed herself as a control freak, a needy, clingy woman, a chatterbox who needs constant attention. And she did it with humor, with candor, with clarity but more importantly - care. She likes herself and she writes herself on the page with sympathy. Maybe if I were more sympathetic towards myself I could read her book without throwing my hands up in the air in defeat when she contracts a urinary tract infection from too much awesome sex with her South American businessman in Bali.

Vacation curve

It seems that I can make anything into a challenge to fail, even vacation. It took me a few days to shed New York City, pressures at work, troubles with friends, and the man thing to allow my shoulders to drop, my thoughts not bounce from one thing to the next, and just be. And then, I buy Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert and tell myself, I can finish it all while I'm on vacation. Not enjoy it. Finish it.

I'm half-way through the book by grit. Eat, Pray, Love is not a story that makes my liberal heart bleed. She's in her early 30s, an author, with a career in writing, a country home, and a husband. She has a pretty enviable life by conventional standards. What's with the crying to God in the bathroom? I'm bad. I know. How can I judge? If all those years at Calvary has taught me anything it is that successful people and screw-ups alike seek out God, who is supreme, reassuring, affirming, and the origin of grace. I opened my heart up with each page and try not to look at her smiling, golden-haired photo on the back cover and smirk.

I'm on vacation and I have spent an entire week away from the office and the people, situations, and pressures that make it such an unpleasant place for me. What do I wake up thinking about today, the penultimate day of my vacation? Uh, huh, work. This sad realization has lead me to another realization that I must summon Nacho Libre - my chubby, slightly touched masked champion - to wrestle my control issues, my frustration, and my fear of failure to the ground. Andale!

Believe me daughter

Every visit with my parents holds the unpleasant possibility that mom and I will squabble over something and my feelings will get hurt or my mother's will. This is the way it goes and I accept that possibility (not peacefully, yet) as a part of being my mother's daughter. Based on my parent's visit to New York in September, I had hoped that we would keep our conversations civil, polite, and filled with inane pleasantries. That is easier said in a city that offers constant entertainment, distraction and anomaly to discuss dispassionately. But we're not made of air, but of water (blood), and each of us - my father, my mother, and me - crave to connect, to communicate, to be seen and heard. In fact, the connection and expectation to connect is part of the problem between us.

The last few days I haven't been very peppy or interested in exploring the area. Partly because of exhaustion. I stayed up all night on Friday to make my plane early Saturday and didn't let myself go to bed until 8 p.m. I ate too much on Sunday and had a fitful night which made me groggy yesterday. The 2.5-2.7 mile run to the clubhouse and back helped. The other issue is that they take it easy - all. day. long. So, when they ask me what I'd like to do while I'm here I have to tell them what I think is actually possible, which seems reasonable. I did say I wouldn't mind visiting the largest telescope in the U.S. which is 8,550 feet in the air and visible by the naked eye from their back yard. They just made a face like I asked them to eat bugs and said, "Ehhh, nah." But then, we're driving around Tuscon (depressing place) and mom says to me, "Are you as bored as you can be yet?"

I'm getting ahead of myself though.

Yesterday, was my mother's birthday. She's 65 years old and the mother of four children (one who forgot it and just called to chat). She chose where we went for lunch. Not more than 10 minutes into the meal she says to me, "I know you've told me before but would you say that you are an atheist?"

I'm eating mayonaised pasta and a tuna with chedder on dark rye. It was going to be a lovely day. I had fit in my run and a reviewed my investments (a long overdue task). I was looking forward to helping dad make mom feel special all day. I'd bought dad two cards, which he gave to her and she loved. We were going to a nice restaurant for dinner and I was going to surreptitiously pay for it. It was going to be a good day. And then, I'm eating lunch and all the sudden it's 20 questions about your beliefs.

I responded as I usually do, I look her dead in the eye and say as calmly as I can, "I do not believe in god."

Last September, that was enough, she stopped herself. This time, she continued, "What do you believe in?"

I'm trying not to stare at the Star of David around her neck, which most of my life carried a cross, and took a deep breath, "Well, I guess I am an existentialist. Which means, that I have morals and ethics but do not believe in a higher power." I know that's not exactly what it is but giving her any more words to work with would have been suicidal.

She has these watery blue eyes and the corners of her mouth are turned down. She's got her shoulders squared but her hands are folded over each other on the table, like she's bracing herself. She's bracing alright to forge ahead, "So, you believe in right and wrong but you decide for yourself what that is?"

"Yup."

Her eyes blink and she is taking in her own connection and deciding whether or not she is going to ask this next question. She proceeds, "So, when you die. Do you believe that you're just dead?"

This time I look at my father and my mother. "Yes."

"I know lots of people who are sick who just wish they were dead," she says in response. I figure this personal tid bit is the conclusion of our discussion, but I was wrong.

"Do your friends believe in anything?" She's trying to get a picture of my life, possibly to shroud me with prayer warriors from her Bible Study.

Why yes, they believe in evolution, humanism, democracy, the Bill of Rights, and even God! But I don't say that, I tell her, "Some were raised Catholic or Protestant but they're not practicing. They say they believe in God but that's about as far as it goes."

My mother nods her head to the familiar description of people "who believe in God."

"There ARE a lot of Cafeteria Catholics out there," She says condescendingly.

I can hardly swallow that statement. She's wearing a Star of David around her neck for chrissake! She was raised Methodist and converted to fundamentalism in her early 20s. Then, perhaps 11 or 12 years ago, she began a journey to discover where her true spiritual self lies and found that she is a Jew for Jesus, or a Messianic Jew. So, she wears the symbol around her neck, sometimes proudly, sometimes under her shirt, it depends on the company, I would guess. She of all people should sympathize with a spiritual journey, for chrissake!

So, I say, "What about you? Do you still consider yourself a Messianic Jew?"

My veiled aggression is none-to-subtle and she looks at me with all her motherly contempt and says, "Jesus was a Jew. I am a Christian. Your father and I don't go to church anymore. We stopped going about five years ago when your brother was sick. I guess we fell out of the habit. And Calvary changed. It catered more to young Christians and it was all Christianity 101. We found a Bible study that is one of the deepest and best I have been in. I consider myself to be a growing Christian."

Cue my father to pipe up, "What are we going to do today?"

Bonding

Someone keeps hogging the pillow at night and that's why I am so restless. Fortunately, she's adorable. Today, I just need to keep my head up off my desk. I stayed up too late watching a fascinating program on PBS about the amazing capacity humans have to love, to empathize and to bring one another joy.

The first section of the program focused on mother-child attachment studies of orphans from Russia. Many of these children have social and emotional difficulties and disorders that prevent them from understanding boundaries and bonding with their adoptive parents, even after a decade of attentive care and affection. It's not aspergers but rather a learned response to abandonment. When they cried no one responded. They learned that no one is there to hear them or care. It made me think of my uncle, who also had trouble with boundaries, but he was rescued from neglect as an infant.

Studies show that children who are raised in institutional care longer, tend to develop more social and emotional problems than the orphaned who are not one of many. I was very fortunate to have a foster family and only spend a few months with them before coming here. And, personality has something to do with how a child will adapt to their new family. Not to forget that mothers' brains fire off when they see their happy, smiling children in the same part of the brain that registers food or sex. So, we have a built-in reward system and children who provide parents with the rewards - smiles - are helping their adult caregivers to bond with them.

Bonding with others has been on my mind lately with conflicts at work, changes in the nature of friendships in my life, and renewed search for a partner. What this program helped to clarify for me was that bonding with those around you is a combination of early and subsequent experiences with bonding, personality, expectations, and communication. Given all of that, bonds of family, friendship, and romance, which are vital to our happiness, are amazing feats of the heart.