It's Wednesday.
I finished a triathlon four days ago.
Tania is a delegate at the Democratic National Convention.
Lisa is thriving in her new director-level position at work.
Twilight is about to have a baby.
Her due date is one day before...
...I pick up and move out of state...
...in 11 days.
Michelle is in love and sad about it.
The boy I loved before I knew what love was (we're talking kid-age) is now designing my business logo.
Suzy is back in Santa Barbara because of a break up.
And she's a psychotherapist.
My little brother has a one-year-old.
Classmates from high school keep contacting me on Facebook.
Our 20th reunion is coming up.
Time, in its infinite tramp, makes life's rollercoaster rides sound pedestrian sometimes.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
Spirit Finds You
Yesterday just before my swim, I nearly walked into a young woman (about 13) who looked remarkably like Talia, my late boss' daughter who died with him in the plane crash. At the time, I wondered what she had to tell me...in such a way that I felt visited by Talia at that moment. It was more than the girl's look, it was her presence, the look in her eyes, and we were inches away from one another, face to face before stepping out of each other's way.
I was nervous for the ocean swim, it being packed with people and all, and I worried about being able to breathe through all the excitement and exertion.
Then today, recuperating from the triathlon, I remembered that I have a wonderful ocean memory of Talia. Several of us were floating in the waves in Panama, but we were all a little anxious because we were waiting for a boat to come pick us up from this tiny island we were on...and we couldn't relax on the shore because the flies were biting. Time stretched on as we waited for the boat. The sun got lower in the sky and our skin pickled. But Talia and her friend, Caroline, about 11 and 12, stood in the waves and performed hilarious comedy routines, sang funny songs, and played interactive games with us. We floated out in the swells, and laughed and laughed. They kept us light till the boat arrived.
With the entrance of that memory, I understood Talia's appearance yesterday, right before my swim in the ocean and my dip into my dream to do the triathlon. Today I still feel the calm I felt yesterday as I cruised through the water, and the ease I felt that day Talia and Caroline made us laugh in the waves.
It occurs to me only now that I went alone to the triathlon. I didn't invite any friends to the crack-of-dawn athletic event which requires a lot of waiting and a lot of roaming around for spectators. I felt a little lonely, seeing people's friends and family cheering them on. It was kind of like showing up at the airport and your loved ones aren't there to greet you. The tri was a big deal for me, but I didn't set it up in a way for my friends to be there. But you know who was there? Greg, Michael's ranch manager. He runs the event and I saw him throughout the triathlon weekend. He even discovered an error I had made in my set-up and fixed it before I started.
And Talia, it turns out.
So...I guess I didn't run it by myself after all. :-)
I was nervous for the ocean swim, it being packed with people and all, and I worried about being able to breathe through all the excitement and exertion.
Then today, recuperating from the triathlon, I remembered that I have a wonderful ocean memory of Talia. Several of us were floating in the waves in Panama, but we were all a little anxious because we were waiting for a boat to come pick us up from this tiny island we were on...and we couldn't relax on the shore because the flies were biting. Time stretched on as we waited for the boat. The sun got lower in the sky and our skin pickled. But Talia and her friend, Caroline, about 11 and 12, stood in the waves and performed hilarious comedy routines, sang funny songs, and played interactive games with us. We floated out in the swells, and laughed and laughed. They kept us light till the boat arrived.
With the entrance of that memory, I understood Talia's appearance yesterday, right before my swim in the ocean and my dip into my dream to do the triathlon. Today I still feel the calm I felt yesterday as I cruised through the water, and the ease I felt that day Talia and Caroline made us laugh in the waves.
It occurs to me only now that I went alone to the triathlon. I didn't invite any friends to the crack-of-dawn athletic event which requires a lot of waiting and a lot of roaming around for spectators. I felt a little lonely, seeing people's friends and family cheering them on. It was kind of like showing up at the airport and your loved ones aren't there to greet you. The tri was a big deal for me, but I didn't set it up in a way for my friends to be there. But you know who was there? Greg, Michael's ranch manager. He runs the event and I saw him throughout the triathlon weekend. He even discovered an error I had made in my set-up and fixed it before I started.
And Talia, it turns out.
So...I guess I didn't run it by myself after all. :-)
Sunday, August 24, 2008
388
Today....I completed my first triathlon!
It was a sprint -- 500 yard swim, 6 mile bike and 2 mile run. The Santa Barbara Triathlon has been on my radar for about ten years now. A keen desire I longed to fulfill but for some reason or another never did. I once trained for a marathon accidentally, trying to gear up for a triathlon without a bike or a nearby body of water. I spent two summers, first getting over my fear of cold ocean water, and then strengthening my swim. And this year, this weekend, today! I finally did it! And guess what was my strongest leg of the race...the swim!
It was certainly nerve-wracking. And I have a way of getting into a deep deep focus so that not a whole lot exists outside the inner workings of my head and the brief snapshots of what my senses are feeding me.
I started the swim in the back of the pack, to elude the kicks and swats of the crowd all splashing toward the course exit. Also because it takes me a little time to get used to the water and the swell, to get through the jagged breathing and nerves hitting full tilt. But I made it out to the first buoy and started my stroke in earnest. There were only about 6 people behind me just before I started it. And when I did I was still a little nervous. But then my breathing evened out and I was stretching into my stroke, all in an effort to relax...and before I knew it, I was cruising by swimmers left and right. I was movin'! It was such a cool feeling. I was getting somewhere.
The water was green-blue in my goggle-view, there were tiny bubbles rising to the surface from the splash of my hands, there were pink feet first ahead of me then drifting behind me, then another pair. There was the sound and the feel of my breath, in, then out in a an unleashing of bubbles, then sucking in, then face in the water again, lungs working it out, all the while flashes of white swim caps, bobbing against the view of mountains, and sky, then that green-blue, and the bubbles and the breathing. It was hypnotic. I was cruising along in my focus when from the corner of my eye, face in the water, I saw the black felt-marker number on my shoulder: 388. And I realized...I'm doing a triathlon!!! I'm swimming in the triathlon! And my speed picked up another notch.
It was a sprint -- 500 yard swim, 6 mile bike and 2 mile run. The Santa Barbara Triathlon has been on my radar for about ten years now. A keen desire I longed to fulfill but for some reason or another never did. I once trained for a marathon accidentally, trying to gear up for a triathlon without a bike or a nearby body of water. I spent two summers, first getting over my fear of cold ocean water, and then strengthening my swim. And this year, this weekend, today! I finally did it! And guess what was my strongest leg of the race...the swim!
It was certainly nerve-wracking. And I have a way of getting into a deep deep focus so that not a whole lot exists outside the inner workings of my head and the brief snapshots of what my senses are feeding me.
I started the swim in the back of the pack, to elude the kicks and swats of the crowd all splashing toward the course exit. Also because it takes me a little time to get used to the water and the swell, to get through the jagged breathing and nerves hitting full tilt. But I made it out to the first buoy and started my stroke in earnest. There were only about 6 people behind me just before I started it. And when I did I was still a little nervous. But then my breathing evened out and I was stretching into my stroke, all in an effort to relax...and before I knew it, I was cruising by swimmers left and right. I was movin'! It was such a cool feeling. I was getting somewhere.
The water was green-blue in my goggle-view, there were tiny bubbles rising to the surface from the splash of my hands, there were pink feet first ahead of me then drifting behind me, then another pair. There was the sound and the feel of my breath, in, then out in a an unleashing of bubbles, then sucking in, then face in the water again, lungs working it out, all the while flashes of white swim caps, bobbing against the view of mountains, and sky, then that green-blue, and the bubbles and the breathing. It was hypnotic. I was cruising along in my focus when from the corner of my eye, face in the water, I saw the black felt-marker number on my shoulder: 388. And I realized...I'm doing a triathlon!!! I'm swimming in the triathlon! And my speed picked up another notch.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Already Always Listening, OR...Right, what SHE said.
Felicia and Emily are over for dinner. They tell us they recently took advantage of the new California law allowing same-sex couples to marry.
LISA: How did you two meet?
FELICIA: Sex club.
EMILY: Shut up. (punch in the arm)
Then they tell us the story of that answer...
Felicia's Mom sits in the corner of the living room knitting. Felicia's COUSIN, FELICIA herself, and EMILY stand nearby in the dining room.
COUSIN: How did you two meet?
EMILY: The internet.
COUSIN: A Sex Club??
FELICIA: THE INTERNET.
EMILY: It's a good place for singles.
COUSIN: The place is called FINGERS??
.
LISA: How did you two meet?
FELICIA: Sex club.
EMILY: Shut up. (punch in the arm)
Then they tell us the story of that answer...
Felicia's Mom sits in the corner of the living room knitting. Felicia's COUSIN, FELICIA herself, and EMILY stand nearby in the dining room.
COUSIN: How did you two meet?
EMILY: The internet.
COUSIN: A Sex Club??
FELICIA: THE INTERNET.
EMILY: It's a good place for singles.
COUSIN: The place is called FINGERS??
.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Gramcrackers
Back in L.A. Back in the land of NOW. Back to the landscape of flatscreens in bars with Olympics on them late into the night, to the corner of the key lime pie colored room that means for me INTERNET INTERNET INTERNET!! I can't drink it in fast enough! Must...slake...my thirst!!!
I've been in San Diego at Grandma's. Frequent occurrence of late, I know. She's 97 and blind and living alone because she's so derned independent, she'd rather totter around on fossil-frail legs in a macular degenerated fog than give up her digs. She's also waiting for the welcome from the part of the family that will take her in when her bones won't hold her up anymore [Cue hold music] ... Considering those bones are creeping up on a century that should be any minute now [More hold music]...
...Okay, we're just going to let that line hold while we continue with the rest of the program. So, Grandma has lived in the same retirement village for 31 years. I remember the night she and Grandpa moved in. It was rainy. I was 6. And tired. I remember sitting on the couch that had just been set down. 31 years later, I am prone to napping on the "couch" that has replaced it, this one short enough that my legs hang off of it (you shrink when you get to be 97--couch is Grandma-sized).
Since Grams is blind and has been getting that way for years, there is no internet connection. Her last memory of modern data entry is of the Word Processor. So I explain the internet by saying it's like magazine pages inside a Word Processor. And you can send the pages as if they were themselves on a phone call, and the receiving phone is another "Word Processor" where the message you wrote or the page you sent pops up. And you can "sift" through the many millions of pages stored on the "phone lines" like you can flip through a phone book, looking at all the ads...but the pages are glossy and pretty like magazine pages. ...How she translates the tactile experiences of paper, ink, heavy dial-phones, and the sounds that go with them, to a purely intellectual chain of events, I long to see what this looks like in her imagination.
Point is, at Grandma's there is no internet. And I no longer have my Blackberry from my office job. So I am completely without access to any brief little hop to the outside world and I consider claustrophobia, for, oh, let's say just a few moments, because it's sweltering hot in the empty bedroom, can't go in there, and the T.V. is blaring in the tiny living room--did I mention her hearing ain't what it used to be? I SAID, DID I MENTION HER HEARING AIN'T WHAT IT USED TO BE?? And it's nighttime, to which my Grandma is allergic, and she can smell it on me and immediately begin choking and wheezing in a feverish contact high, so God Forbid I Go Outside Where the Criminals and Rapists wait just outside the door.
It's near 8:30, though. Bedtime for Grandma. And I wait to pounce on the T.V. to find the Olympics. Grand display of amazing feats are on for two weeks, inspiring and heartwrenching stories unfolding in time-delayed real time. In a country far far away. THAT will take me farther than even the 6 o'clock news and I can fantasize about being connected to the outside world late into the night. Grandma has said she doesn't get that channel but I don't believe her. How can you not get the Olympics? Why, that's unamerican, and Grandma is most certainly card-carrying.
She doesn't get that channel. Criminy! Now SHE's in the tiny bedroom, sweltering or not, the place is locked down like Fort Knox, and I am sitting in Grandma's chair, not one foot away from the television (placed there so she can "see" it and hear it) and I am devolving into the caverns of my mind, collapsing in on itself. ... ... ... I realize that this is what Grandma does every day. ... ...
I get up and make a freezer waffle and eat four Oreo's when that is not enough. It takes me all of ten minutes from start to finish. It takes Grandma ten minutes to get the waffles from the freezer into the toaster (but she'd sooner bury me than not make breakfast for me, so she starts early). I turn off the T.V. and work on my play...thanking God I have the faculties to at least map this manic imagination, or distract it, in the absence of internet and the Olympics.
I've been in San Diego at Grandma's. Frequent occurrence of late, I know. She's 97 and blind and living alone because she's so derned independent, she'd rather totter around on fossil-frail legs in a macular degenerated fog than give up her digs. She's also waiting for the welcome from the part of the family that will take her in when her bones won't hold her up anymore [Cue hold music] ... Considering those bones are creeping up on a century that should be any minute now [More hold music]...
...Okay, we're just going to let that line hold while we continue with the rest of the program. So, Grandma has lived in the same retirement village for 31 years. I remember the night she and Grandpa moved in. It was rainy. I was 6. And tired. I remember sitting on the couch that had just been set down. 31 years later, I am prone to napping on the "couch" that has replaced it, this one short enough that my legs hang off of it (you shrink when you get to be 97--couch is Grandma-sized).
Since Grams is blind and has been getting that way for years, there is no internet connection. Her last memory of modern data entry is of the Word Processor. So I explain the internet by saying it's like magazine pages inside a Word Processor. And you can send the pages as if they were themselves on a phone call, and the receiving phone is another "Word Processor" where the message you wrote or the page you sent pops up. And you can "sift" through the many millions of pages stored on the "phone lines" like you can flip through a phone book, looking at all the ads...but the pages are glossy and pretty like magazine pages. ...How she translates the tactile experiences of paper, ink, heavy dial-phones, and the sounds that go with them, to a purely intellectual chain of events, I long to see what this looks like in her imagination.
Point is, at Grandma's there is no internet. And I no longer have my Blackberry from my office job. So I am completely without access to any brief little hop to the outside world and I consider claustrophobia, for, oh, let's say just a few moments, because it's sweltering hot in the empty bedroom, can't go in there, and the T.V. is blaring in the tiny living room--did I mention her hearing ain't what it used to be? I SAID, DID I MENTION HER HEARING AIN'T WHAT IT USED TO BE?? And it's nighttime, to which my Grandma is allergic, and she can smell it on me and immediately begin choking and wheezing in a feverish contact high, so God Forbid I Go Outside Where the Criminals and Rapists wait just outside the door.
It's near 8:30, though. Bedtime for Grandma. And I wait to pounce on the T.V. to find the Olympics. Grand display of amazing feats are on for two weeks, inspiring and heartwrenching stories unfolding in time-delayed real time. In a country far far away. THAT will take me farther than even the 6 o'clock news and I can fantasize about being connected to the outside world late into the night. Grandma has said she doesn't get that channel but I don't believe her. How can you not get the Olympics? Why, that's unamerican, and Grandma is most certainly card-carrying.
She doesn't get that channel. Criminy! Now SHE's in the tiny bedroom, sweltering or not, the place is locked down like Fort Knox, and I am sitting in Grandma's chair, not one foot away from the television (placed there so she can "see" it and hear it) and I am devolving into the caverns of my mind, collapsing in on itself. ... ... ... I realize that this is what Grandma does every day. ... ...
I get up and make a freezer waffle and eat four Oreo's when that is not enough. It takes me all of ten minutes from start to finish. It takes Grandma ten minutes to get the waffles from the freezer into the toaster (but she'd sooner bury me than not make breakfast for me, so she starts early). I turn off the T.V. and work on my play...thanking God I have the faculties to at least map this manic imagination, or distract it, in the absence of internet and the Olympics.
Friday, August 15, 2008
My Play on Stage in San Diego
Hey folks,
Tania reminded me that I didn't tell the blogosphere that a play of mine is getting produced in San Diego this month.
Here are the details:
GOD SAID QUIET is playing at
The Fritz Blitz - "Best of the Blitz"
(A selection of the best of 15 years at the Fritz Blitz Festival of New Plays)
WHERE: Lyceum Space Theatre, located at 79 Horton Plaza in downtown San Diego.
DATES: Performances run August 14 to August 18, 2008
TIMES: Thursday - Saturday at 8pm and Sundays at 3pm.
Tickets are $18 general admission, $15 for students/seniors/military/AASD.
A Fritz Blitz Pass to see all plays is only $49.
For information (press only) call (818) 633 5468.
For tickets (public) call Lyceum box office (619) 544 1000.
Passes available at www.fritztheatre.com
Tania reminded me that I didn't tell the blogosphere that a play of mine is getting produced in San Diego this month.
Here are the details:
GOD SAID QUIET is playing at
The Fritz Blitz - "Best of the Blitz"
(A selection of the best of 15 years at the Fritz Blitz Festival of New Plays)
WHERE: Lyceum Space Theatre, located at 79 Horton Plaza in downtown San Diego.
DATES: Performances run August 14 to August 18, 2008
TIMES: Thursday - Saturday at 8pm and Sundays at 3pm.
Tickets are $18 general admission, $15 for students/seniors/military/AASD.
A Fritz Blitz Pass to see all plays is only $49.
For information (press only) call (818) 633 5468.
For tickets (public) call Lyceum box office (619) 544 1000.
Passes available at www.fritztheatre.com
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Shake Down Wake Up
"I think it may take an earth shaking an event like the end of humanity to bring people to their senses.”
- My friend Roy
- My friend Roy
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Peace Is Personal
I realized something profound today: I realized that peace is personal. And that world peace is attained when each individual knows peace within.
Too woo woo for you? Read on.
Breaking it down, I realized that what brings me peace is the physical sensation I get when I know that I am loved. I know peace when I know that I am loved or have been loved. When I remember this, I am filled with a sensation, the presence of which makes anxiety, fear, impulse go out the window. They are canceled out by the exquisite calm I feel. The negative feelings have no bearing. They don't matter when I know this peace.
Other people, I imagine, come to peace in a variety of ways and experiences. What brings you peace? What slows everything down, brings an ease to your chest, breath to your lungs, and slack to your shoulders when you encounter it? What makes you warm and quiet and grateful, lacking absolutely nothing in that moment? This is peace. Your peace.
Imagine if you made every decision in your life from this experience, standing right in the middle of this sensation. Imagine if world leaders, community leaders, individuals in each family and community spoke and acted from their personal peace. Would there be any harm, any foul? Ever?
If peace is personal, then world peace is personal. If it only takes healing and exploration to recognize our individual answers to "What is Peace?" then what are we waiting for? Dive in, folks. Visualize personal peace. Wholeness is its own reward.
Too woo woo for you? Read on.
Breaking it down, I realized that what brings me peace is the physical sensation I get when I know that I am loved. I know peace when I know that I am loved or have been loved. When I remember this, I am filled with a sensation, the presence of which makes anxiety, fear, impulse go out the window. They are canceled out by the exquisite calm I feel. The negative feelings have no bearing. They don't matter when I know this peace.
Other people, I imagine, come to peace in a variety of ways and experiences. What brings you peace? What slows everything down, brings an ease to your chest, breath to your lungs, and slack to your shoulders when you encounter it? What makes you warm and quiet and grateful, lacking absolutely nothing in that moment? This is peace. Your peace.
Imagine if you made every decision in your life from this experience, standing right in the middle of this sensation. Imagine if world leaders, community leaders, individuals in each family and community spoke and acted from their personal peace. Would there be any harm, any foul? Ever?
If peace is personal, then world peace is personal. If it only takes healing and exploration to recognize our individual answers to "What is Peace?" then what are we waiting for? Dive in, folks. Visualize personal peace. Wholeness is its own reward.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Priceless Park Bench Story
This is WAY better than the park bench pix I've posted in the past.
Thanks to Lo Smithie for the link.
Caution if you're squeamish.
Man Almost Loses Penis Humping Steel Bench | Weird Asia News
Thanks to Lo Smithie for the link.
Caution if you're squeamish.
Man Almost Loses Penis Humping Steel Bench | Weird Asia News
Saturday, August 9, 2008
The Debate Continues
My friend's 9-yr-old, Ryan, picked an apple today and bit into it. I sniffed it and the following conversation ensued:
PEMA: Mmm. Smells like the kind you dip in caramel.
RYAN: What the heck is caramel?
PEMA: ...Caramel...you know, it's, like, a candy...it's soft?...brown...square...
RYAN: You mean CAR-muhl?
PEMA: Mmm. Smells like the kind you dip in caramel.
RYAN: What the heck is caramel?
PEMA: ...Caramel...you know, it's, like, a candy...it's soft?...brown...square...
RYAN: You mean CAR-muhl?
Friday, August 8, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Jingle What?
It's 86 degrees in Los Angeles. We're baking in the heat. There's no breeze. In the refuge of the coffee shop, there is air conditioning, thank God. And CHRISTMAS SONGS?? Cute young cookie behind the counter thinks it's quaint. Personally, it's messing with my wiring, so I lean back, look at the ceiling for a stretch between "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and "What Child is This?" and stare at the pull-cords that dangle under the spinning ceiling fan. What's that on the pull-cord? I watch it till it makes a full revolution and I can see what it is. Oy, me brain. It's a tiny wooden pine tree and a tiny reindeer above it. I give in. Deck the halls. At least I'm wearing red.
Lovin' Summer, Havin' a Blast
I've been in the no-internet zone of Grandma's the last few days.
I've been jobless the last 6 days.
It's summer and hot and lazy out.
I don't have 24/7 access to the internet with a Blackberry anymore--it went the way of my day job.
Can I just say it's felt more like a high school summer evening and long stretch of days than any since? Nothing pressing to do. Lazy socializing depending on who's under the shade. Chats with Grandma. Warm SoCal nighttimes and sleeping when tired. Waking without alarm. The only thing to move toward is curiosity.
Deelicious.
I've been jobless the last 6 days.
It's summer and hot and lazy out.
I don't have 24/7 access to the internet with a Blackberry anymore--it went the way of my day job.
Can I just say it's felt more like a high school summer evening and long stretch of days than any since? Nothing pressing to do. Lazy socializing depending on who's under the shade. Chats with Grandma. Warm SoCal nighttimes and sleeping when tired. Waking without alarm. The only thing to move toward is curiosity.
Deelicious.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
The Non-Woman
First off, let me just say that "The Non-Woman" is absolutely the wrong title for this. Just because you can't see something or someone doesn't mean it or s/he doesn't exist. You couldn't see the Wizard of Oz. But he existed behind his light show. You can't see Wonder Woman inside her invisible plane, but she's in there! All of her wonderful self is in there, unseen and fighting the forces of evil.
But this morning, I got out of the ocean after a swim. Wet and tired but energized, slick in my Speedo, I walked up the beach with my swimming partner, Dov. At the parking lot were a couple of guys kicking around a soccer ball, and a tiny little dude, probably not yet two, standing bow-legged between them, gripping the ground with his feet. Santa Barbara has been spilling over with overseas tourists this summer. America is on sale, after all, with the dollar weak as it is. These guys wore the soccer jerseys, cropped hair, slim builds and fine features of folks from a far-flung place.
Then from a nearby car came a billow of black cloth toward the child. A woman in a full length black garment, head cloth, face piece over her nose mouth and neck. She wore gold-rimmed glasses that covered her eyes. She wore bulky blue tennis shoes. And bulky black gloves. She wore gloves. There was no part of her exposed. It was as if I was watching a film and her presence in the film was not cut out, but inked out by a permanent marker--especially in contrast to the contemporarily-dressed men kicking the soccer ball. And suddenly, my natural half-nakedness at the beach after a swim in the ocean in training for a triathlon felt gauche and exposed as I walked past the men with the soccer ball and the tiny two-year-old boy who turned to watch Dov and me walk by. What an affront, right? Me in my skin tight suit, ambling by the little boy and the men with the ball? I toiled with this contrast a while, and finally heard myself say to myself sternly: I'm in my own country. I can dress like this when I go into the ocean.
The only identifying element that came from behind the black cloth, besides maybe the blue shoes, was her voice, which called out to the little boy. It was sweet and light and clear, young-ish, "Yusef!"
I have seen covered women before. But never in such stark contrast, to first the men who accompanied her, and then me, near-naked me. She wore gloves.
I couldn't help the thoughts that rushed in: Where is she in there? Where does she go to be who she is inside? Where can she be exposed? Expressed? What do these men think of their woman (because automatically I assume she is "theirs," my mind associating the full coverage with ownership of her ways), their woman, at the beach, with nearly naked westerners and her little boy exposed to them? I realize these are western thoughts applied to a non-western culture.
Oh, am I aware of my lack of education here and my assumptions and perhaps prejudices. But I can't get the image from my mind, of the billowing black cloth at the beach, early morning in a West Coast American town, and the notion of being blacked out of a part of existence.
But this morning, I got out of the ocean after a swim. Wet and tired but energized, slick in my Speedo, I walked up the beach with my swimming partner, Dov. At the parking lot were a couple of guys kicking around a soccer ball, and a tiny little dude, probably not yet two, standing bow-legged between them, gripping the ground with his feet. Santa Barbara has been spilling over with overseas tourists this summer. America is on sale, after all, with the dollar weak as it is. These guys wore the soccer jerseys, cropped hair, slim builds and fine features of folks from a far-flung place.
Then from a nearby car came a billow of black cloth toward the child. A woman in a full length black garment, head cloth, face piece over her nose mouth and neck. She wore gold-rimmed glasses that covered her eyes. She wore bulky blue tennis shoes. And bulky black gloves. She wore gloves. There was no part of her exposed. It was as if I was watching a film and her presence in the film was not cut out, but inked out by a permanent marker--especially in contrast to the contemporarily-dressed men kicking the soccer ball. And suddenly, my natural half-nakedness at the beach after a swim in the ocean in training for a triathlon felt gauche and exposed as I walked past the men with the soccer ball and the tiny two-year-old boy who turned to watch Dov and me walk by. What an affront, right? Me in my skin tight suit, ambling by the little boy and the men with the ball? I toiled with this contrast a while, and finally heard myself say to myself sternly: I'm in my own country. I can dress like this when I go into the ocean.
The only identifying element that came from behind the black cloth, besides maybe the blue shoes, was her voice, which called out to the little boy. It was sweet and light and clear, young-ish, "Yusef!"
I have seen covered women before. But never in such stark contrast, to first the men who accompanied her, and then me, near-naked me. She wore gloves.
I couldn't help the thoughts that rushed in: Where is she in there? Where does she go to be who she is inside? Where can she be exposed? Expressed? What do these men think of their woman (because automatically I assume she is "theirs," my mind associating the full coverage with ownership of her ways), their woman, at the beach, with nearly naked westerners and her little boy exposed to them? I realize these are western thoughts applied to a non-western culture.
Oh, am I aware of my lack of education here and my assumptions and perhaps prejudices. But I can't get the image from my mind, of the billowing black cloth at the beach, early morning in a West Coast American town, and the notion of being blacked out of a part of existence.
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