Thankya Jesus

Have you ever heard that accepting generosity is a compliment to the person who offers it? I'm thinking that ties into a sense of self-worth: the more easily you can accept someone's generosity, the more in tune you are with your worthiness, your simple worth as a person.

Since this blog is an experiment in exploration, henceforth we shall commence with the Thank You Catalog. An exploration in practice, a practice of thanks...

Since I was in high school, I imagined the day I would be able to give thanks to everyone who ever helped me in my life. The fantasy usually took place from the podium at the Oscars, statue in hand, cameras rolling. Then it was a huge party. This is what I'll do, I would think. When I make it big I'll throw a huge party and invite everyone who ever meant something to me, believed in me, wanted me to do well and supported me in my desires and endeavors...Of course this means I have to make it big for people to finally know what they mean to me. No pressure.

I think the fantasy came from such a small view of myself that I wanted people to see I deserved it ("see what I did with your help?") I wanted to show them their kindness wasn't wasted on me.

Well...you know how when you save money bit by bit, it adds up and before long your sitting atop piles of green? Lets call the Thank You Catalog the savings account of thank yous. Slip in a 50, and watch it grow. Then, one night if I'm standing there at the Oscars podium after all, dolled up and weightlifting a gold statue, I can just say, "read the blog amigos!"

The inaugural Thank You Catalog entry honors Janey Jane, who, in the gathering of momentum that launched me out of our city and into my dream--playwriting school in New York--gave me $400 for a used leather jacket she may never have "bought" in the first place had it not been for her love, belief in me, support of my dream, and passion for the person I was and friendship we had. Janey Jane and I are still the sweetest of friends and I have many many things to thank her for. But that teeny little act of kindness that took all of 90 seconds to transact accompanies me to this day when I think about people and moments in my life for which I am grateful and full of love.

Love Sweet Love, or What the World Needs Now

Someday I will undertake to understand the kick in the gut and the subsequent tears that certain generosity brings. Once, I was so broke, I had to steal quarters from the parking drawer at work to get a sandwich from the Mobil station on the corner. When I say once, I mean, once upon a time in my life--it was a span of sandwiches and a season of thievery.

During that season, I was taking a weekly seminar where we all got to know and admire each other quite deeply. And as one of the evenings was wrapping up, the seminar leader, Pam, said, "Why don't we just look around the room and check in with everyone before we leave, see where we're at." She said it because huge tears were streaming down a face I couldn't keep straight to save my life. I was holding my breath trying not to make any sounds, so I was that dear-me-I'm-crying-and-can't-stop shade of red.

Someone, it turned out, had slipped a 50 into the book under my chair. When I bent down to gather my things and saw it there...oy. I opened my book and stared at the bill like a mouse had just walked on hind legs into the room bearing a hall pass and telling me in front of everyone to go to the vice principal's office. A mouse. In other words, what-the--?

And then I lost it. Tears from here to eternity in gratitude for the person who felt moved by me to the point that he quietly slipped an entire 50 into my possession. I could live a week on $50. I could buy groceries with that. Take the bus with the rest.

I think about those tears sometimes when someone's generosity tugs at me, noting the difference in my gut between now and then. Somewhere along the line I have discovered I am worthy of a generous offering, or someone's love, or their time. Worthy of a healthy paycheck, a full hour at lunchtime, and some help when I'm stressed. How do we get it into our heads that we're not worthy? And how might we smite the bigger issue of poverty if folks remembered that primary condition, worthiness?

School

These days I think people and experiences cross my path for the express reason of teaching me something. I've always thought that, but recent times have produced so many of them, they're like cue cards and I'm studying for the test. There was "The New Guy" to yank my anger out into view and discover how deep it resides in me (he's the sweetie I was dating who forgot to, oh, call me when Michael died.) Jeff, from the post below, resurfaced anonymously long enough to provoke me to share my real feelings about being flaked on. Interestingly, though he apologized, he himself was not one of the flakes. Allen invited a lunch date today--using the term very loosely here, way more lunch than date. But it reminded me what a reflection he was when we did date last summer, of my carefulness and reserve around affairs of the heart.

It's only Wednesday, and these have already populated my week. That's like cramming. I'll need coffee for this.

Fine. Here's Naked.

Dammit, who keeps saying NAKED??
"Sitting on a park bench naked", "These pages will always be naked," nyeh nyeh nyeh naked. Pfuh.

Ergh. Here's the NAKED response to the post below...

Dear "Sorry,"
Yes, it hurts my feelings when someone doesn't keep his word. When excitement or fun or connection is part of the picture, it hurts my feelings even more to get flaked on. Full on break-ups have been fulfilling in contrast to some of the forgotten plans that have left me dangling in the mystery of manliness...making me pull out my Nancy Drew for clues...."Am I getting that familiar silent shaft, instead of hearing, 'hey, man, sorry, not for me'?"

For the sake of fairness, I have been the silent escapee, myself, so I get the allure. But it's ugly. Having also dated my fair share of women, four out of five doctors surveyed agree men are "way more prone" to vanishing disease.

So. Where does that leave us, my "Sorry" friend?

On the outset, it probably left me sad and confused, wondering at my worth and why folks think I'm great, but not "the great," or even "a great." These days, it is what it is. The runner is a runner, and not a match for me.

I do have to say that the anonymity of your post--considering what the apology is for--strikes me as a decisive reminder of the of the alleged disappearance itself. But like a spirit visiting from the other side, maybe you could only summon enough stamina to be partially revealed, shake some chains to send a message. So, thank you.

From,
Pema

If a Tree Falls

Is this tree falling in the forest?

Anonymous said...
Morning coffee. Freezing rain. Procrastinating the work I have to do. One of those whimsical mornings when you decide to Google people from your past you've lost touch with. Just to see... Now an hour or so later, I've read your whole blog. So much struck me, but this post struck me the most. Am I one of those guys? Maybe... sort of. I've often wondered, and often regretted having not said or done more, but especially regret having let you down. I am truly sorry.

I'm a little sideways at the irony. It's anonymous.
I can't recount the men who have peed on my shoes and trotted off to the next tree. It's the pee trot. The tree trot. But thanks for the apology, Stranger.

Jello

I kind of feel like Jello today. That area between my throat and my legs feels a little wobbly, like the surface of a bubble. No explanation. Just do. My mind is quiet and is a little stingy with the big thoughts to share, or the funny observations. So for today, just Jello.

Due Process of Desire

At 19 I fell in love with Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. She also wrote my other favorite, The Fountainhead, in which one of her characters, at the end of his journey, beaten and undone says the thing I have never forgotten:

"It is a big responsibility to want something. Not like to get my name in the papers or sleep with some woman, but to really want something."

Today the quote is returning like a roller coaster on its track, round and round and round. I'm thinking about due process, let's call it. Due process of desire.

I want things passionately. I have been known to sink my teeth into a desire like a dog on a bone, and shake it into submission. But in the course of my life, my wanter has been in varying degrees of malfunction. At some point, I repressed my desires to the point of not knowing what they were. Then I went looking for them. Found them. Didn't know what to do with them. So I started a personal campaign. How do I dance with these things?

What trips me up is the heat of my desire. Have you ever noticed that when you really really really really want something, goddammit, somehow you just have to wait a teeny bit longer than you thought you should? You really really really really want a job. You show that to the people hiring, and they're like, whooee what's up with Desperado over there? She's a little too clingy to fit our company. Or the guy (or woman) you think is dreamy. Come on too strong, showing the weight of what you want and kiss that dream goodbye.

It occurs to me that that measuring act of emotional balance around a desire is part of the responsibility of wanting. You can't just throw your passion or drive into someone's lap and expect them to sort it out. You have to measure it.

This points to two things: 1) detachment 2) patience

WHAT?? LET GO OF WHAT I WANT?? BUT I WANT IT!! WAAAII-IITT? I HAVE TO WAIT??

Remind you of any two-year-olds in your life? It reminds me of me and I'm 36.

Desire unleashes all these powerful, empowering emotions, and sometimes it's more than I can muster to chill out and let it follow its due process...It's a wave. It'll accumulate, rise and crash on my shore, then recede. (Ahh, can you hear the tape from my quiet place saying, "breathe"?)

...Now that I'm all Zenned out, that concept, due process, or unfolding, is a kinder one that "responsibility." I'm going to go with that one. But thanks, Ayn Rand, for getting me there.

Reconsidered and Recused

This daily post got the better of my conscience
and is thusly replaced, or rather, deleted. Now go
sing songs of freedom and make daisy chains.

Don't Cry for Me

To celebrate the culmination of Tania's campaign leadership work, Lisa and I went to the election results watch party, or the Super Fat Tuesday party--as one of the Obaminators put it, since it took place on Fat Tuesday. She was as buoyant as ever, despite the bronchitis, a 5:30am start to the day, and weeks of meetings, organizing, and late night calls from volunteers.

Tania's enthusiasm for Barack Obama can blast a room clear of doubt in two heartbeats. She was so inspired by his book and the leader himself, that she went to a volunteer meeting on a Thursday, started canvassing on a Saturday, and turned her duties as a neighborhood team coordinator into those of the Santa Barbara Team Coordinator in about 6 weeks' time.

Tania's enthusiasm grew as Obama became more than a candidate. He became a movement. This groundswell of people came forward as citizens of a nation, rather than passive riders on The Big Bus. People were talking and volunteering and pasting bumper stickers...getting excited that things could really be different.

Then my fear grew. What if...our nation puts ALL of its hope into this rising star? When movements swell, they swell from the heart. It is our passions and desires that get us off our rumps and into the election booth, and beyond. We get excited like teenagers that goodness really IS possible, and we pin all of that possibility on the ONE we think will make it for us.

What will happen to everyone's morale and spirit if something awful happens to Barack Obama? What will happen to the light that he is growing, and the hope people are excited about? Strategically, if you want to put a hole in a nation, kick its hope in the shins. Worse, knock it out completely.

That's when I started writing about leadership and personal accountability. 'Cause I got scared of the country's rampant hope. (Backwards? Maybe.) You have to understand that I just lost a leader, myself. My late boss, who died in December, was a leader and mentor to many people he encountered, especially those of us who worked with him directly. After losing him so suddenly and tragically, it has given me a lot of moments to meditate on what you pin your hopes on when your leader is gone.

What I have come up with is what lies here in these blog pages. That we need to call on ourselves to fulfill ourselves; that we need to be contributors ourselves, instead of solely placing our hopes on someone who will do it for us, save us for us.

Back to Tania. On Less-Super Wednesday, it was time to break down the campaign office after an undecided race. People were asking Tania if she was upset that Obama was not the clear winner, if she felt like she failed, if she was having a hard day. And when she was telling me this story she was grinning and saying, "Are you kidding me? I feel great! My work is DONE. I did what I set out to do: I helped win 112 precincts out of 131!! I delivered on my promise."

Then she quoted the Dalai Lama: "Attachment to outcome? Bad idea."

And this my friends, brings me to the moral of my story. Tania shouldered her hope. She carried the weight of it, even while campaigning her heart out for the man who would improve her country. She's a HUGE supporter of Obama, and yet, she did not give ALL of her hope over to him. She volunteered for the campaign so she could CONTRIBUTE to the leadership process, which if you think about it, is exactly what Barack Obama is doing.

Tania is my inaugural Exemplary Human of the Week, because she so well exemplifies the notions I've been pondering aloud here these days. Let's be a nation of Tanias. :-)

Obama cum Evita

Tania was the Team Coordinator for the Santa Barbara Obama campaign.

She likes to write lyrics to popular songs, making them entirely new songs, and making her very popular among her friends and admirers. With this song, she even got a balcony to sing from...

Head Heart Gut...Knee

I'm not voting. Should I vote? Don't even know if I'm registered.
Grumble bumble.
Driving to the precinct.
Who's it going to be?
A WOMAN?? How could I not vote this history into being?
Obama? Dreamer, compassionate, purposeful. I believe him, too.

So I head into the parking lot. Moments away. It hits me:
Head, heart, gut.
Which am I going to vote with? Head, heart or gut?
No idea.

I get into the booth. Dennis Kucinich is on the ballot and I realize, great! He's my heart candidate. If I voted my heart, I would vote for him, most believable, least shit-talker of all of them. But he's not in the running.

Next, head and gut. Hillary is definitely the logical choice. She's the head candidate. 30 years of service, firmly entrenched in a political machine that has proven to do good things for a nation. And she's a woman! But...I don't trust her. I just don't trust her, why don't I trust her? My gut says no Hillary--

And Bam! It's Obama. My gut says no Hillary, so I vote Obama. I fill in the little charcoal dot, and realize when I'm driving away I've voted KNEE.

Knee jerk.

Thank you to my other body parts for playing foil to the champion: reaction.

Love a good conversation

Pasted from comments on "Reflections on Loss, Leadership"

Dan said...
It's an unbearably geeky reference, but I've always like the song "Hero" from the SpiderMan soundtrack.
"Some say a hero will save usI'm not going to stand here and wait"
It's also been said "be the change you want to see in the world"
There are many things we cannot change, cannot impact... but MANY things that we can
February 4, 2008 11:33 AM

Pema said...
The most pressing being the awareness that we each are our own saviors. However it is that we remember--divinely or politically--that WE ARE NOT LOST when plans go radically awry, when hope goes peekid, this is the most important impact we make.

I waited till I was 35 for my dad to save me, help me, see me as someone who needed his parental shepherding. Going it alone during a debilitating health condition, I was upset and grasping at anything that could be a factor in my illness, emotional, physical, psychic. When I said to a health practitioner, "What's it going to take for my dad to notice that I need him? What has to happen to me?"

The air sucked out of the room and she looked at me sharply. "Bite your tongue," she said. "You need to take care of yourself, and believe that YOU are your protector, no one else."

She was saying what I am saying now. We can place hope in people and things outside ourselves--leaders and lovers and politicians--but it is only that little flame in us that is going to keep us alive and thriving when shit hits the fan.
February 5, 2008 1:16 PM

Answer

Before the days obfuscate the view, the answer to Feb. 1's post is in the first comment on its page. A little too much answer if you ask me, but I'm just the one on the bench in goose bumps. Not just naked, apparently, but also transparent. :-)

Reflecting on Loss, Leadership

"Loss is not a deficit. It is a shifting of weight. It’s a reorganization of soul and will and life and light and purpose. WE create a new normal. We cannot be mired in fear of loss, fear of terror, fear of fear. We must step into the creation of our lives—daily. We must be a light that radiates outward and affects our elders, our juniors, our peers. And when we die, when we go, those we once led will step in, and in turn lead. We each must lead in order to affect leaders around us. We must realize the chain of worth and recognize our power is not held in whom we choose or whom we adore or disdain or desire. It is in ourselves and in the desire itself. Reach deep within for the balance and the ballast of your strength. It comes from love. It grows from faith and trust. It thrives in sharing your understanding. Be a light and know that light does not stop with you if you stop. It continues rippling out to every one of us, so that when one life is extinguished, it's light is not put out. It carries on, through those we’ve affected, those we love, those we’ve led. "

This came out yesterday after weeks of gestating loss, and uncountable hours meditating on personal accountability. I got scared about the great American hope we're placing on our presidential candidates, to pull us out of this country's present abyss. Loss in our lives is inevitable. Death is inevitable. Yet, HOPE and personal accountability cannot go with it. We each must remember our individual contribution to the equation of our lives. We cannot rely on one person to pull us out of a nose dive, whether personal, political, national, or in our neighborhood. Shift the weight of hope to your shoulders, too. Take on what you don't like, if just in living by example. Perspective will save us. Strength in our own characters will save us.

Obfuscate

Which of the following does NOT define OBFUSCATE?

1. to make obsolete

Photo: www.janchipchase.com

2. to make obscure or unclear

Photo: www.hickerphoto.com

3. to confuse, bewilder, or stupefy
Photo: barkbarkwoofwoof.blogspot.com

4. to darken
Photo: www.tommangan.net

Purse Porn

Check out this little number.

bow chicka wow wow...

"Debra"

So, anybody who's followed along knows it's been a rough month. I still haven't emailed back the really cool people who sent nice messages reaching out in what's been a very sad time. (Until you kind folks do get that personal email back, THANK YOU for your note and thoughts and love. You haven't gone unappreciated.)

A few weeks ago, one of the vmails I get is Regina, friend from forever years ago, technically 15 but more like 10,000. She's my sistah. She leaves this message. I've spoken to hardly anyone in my tired grief, and she says, "I know things have been hard, but when you're ready for a fun story, call me."

When I call her, she says, "I met a guy. He's your type. I told him so. Then I told him about you and he seems not to care you're a state away."

I can ALWAYS count on RP to stir up a party.

Fast forward to the email I get from said guy-who's-my-type. We correspond here and there with the knowledge I'll be in Portland in a couple of weeks for a b-day party: funny email conversations, curious diction. When the PDX weekend arrives, I lose my glasses on the way there, and instead of meeting Mysterioso as planned, I have to get an eye exam and a pair of new specs on the fly. Regina makes an appointment for me...at Sears Optical.

So I get off the plane and head for...Sears. Destination of diplomats and champions, queens and Kennedys. And it occurs to me that all is not lost. Transportation and schedules point to the best rationale: Steve, the man I haven't met, Guy-Who's-My-Type, Sr. Mysterioso de Portlando, should meet me at...SEARS. I call him. He's down. Our first glance is a reflection in the mirror as I'm trying on frames. And forever emblazoned on the brain is this song, by Beck:

Enjoy. (There are two versions, because the second one is TOO funny to miss.)
"Debra" by Beck
"Debra" by Beck and a woman who rivals him in cool

Good Marketing for 411

PEMA: Hi, this is Pema.

VOICE: Hello, I'm calling from Pacific Bell Yellow Pages, the world's largest opportunity to list your business...

PEMA: Okay.

VOICE: I'm calling to update your information.

PEMA: What information?

VOICE: We're the world's largest directory blah blee blah blih bloo....I'm calling to update your business name, address--

PEMA: Whose listing?

VOICE: I believe the last person I spoke to was...Susan.

(silence)

VOICE: Maybe Susan used to be there.

PEMA: What business are you looking for?

VOICE: (Irritated) Pacific Bell Yellow Pages. We're the world's largest phone book, best way for your business to be found by customers seeking your services gurgle blah blah brbrbrdd...

PEMA: No, what business are you calling? What listing are you calling about?

VOICE: Allied Architects.

PEMA: Wrong number.

VOICE: Oh. Sorry.

Slip of the Ear

Regina and Gina both like to be Right. But in order to discern who owns that title, they first have to point out what's wrong. Then they pit their evidence against one another to find out who in the end will reign triumphant. Sometimes it's all one can do to believe the other...to the point of conspiracy and collusion with old ladies...

REGINA: Want a piece of my caramel?

GINA: CAR-mul?? It's CARE-uh-mel.

We're standing outside a drug store/grocery type place in Portland. They're waiting for me to finish at the ATM.

REGINA: It is NOT CARE-a-mul, it's CAR-mul.

GINA: I never said CARE-a-MUL. I said CARE-a-MEL.

REGINA: CAR-mul.

An old woman bent over the plants for sale nearby turns around.

OLD WOMAN: CAR-mul. They're CAR-muls.

Gina looks at the woman, looks at Regina. Grabs her iPhone from her pocket.

GINA: I'm looking it up on FICTIONARY.com

Stupid Dum Dums

REGINA: I got See's Candy for after lunch, but went and ate that stupid Dum Dum.

40 in Portland

Happy Bday Gina!!
Morning-After shots of the slumber party. Who said you get too old to sleep over?

TK & MK in Panama

TK TKO


MK & TK at the Canal

Hey Talia

Talia's memorial service was today. In the auditorium of her school, 20 girls stood up and sang lyrics they wrote to "Hey There Delilah," her favorite song. They changed the words to "Hey Talia," and sang to her as if they were talking to her on the other side, in the stars, a thousand miles away. They kept some of the original lyrics that made sense. The rest they wrote just for her.

The magic of a girl at the border of womanhood is astounding, subtle, precious. Imagine 20 of them, long hair and hoodies, fresh-faced and light-voiced singing to their friend in front of an auditorium of faces coursing with tears, as they leaned into each other in a loose line across the stage.

listen to "hey there delilah"
Hey there Delilah
What's it like in New York City?
I'm a thousand miles away
But girl tonight you look so pretty
Yes you do
Time Square can't shine as bright as you
I swear it's true

Hey there Delilah
Don't you worry about the distance
I'm right there if you get lonely
Give this song another listen
Close your eyes
Listen to my voice it's my disguise
I'm by your side

Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
What you do to me

Hey there Delilah
I know times are getting hard
But just believe me girl
Someday I'll pay the bills with this guitar
We'll have it good
We'll have the life we knew we would
My word is good

Hey there Delila
I've got so much left to say
If every simple song I wrote to you
Would take your breath away
I'd write it all
Even more in love with me you'd fall
We'd have it all

Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me

A thousand miles seems pretty far
But they've got planes and trains and cars
I'd walk to you if I had no other way
Our friends would all make fun of us
And we'll just laugh along because we know
That none of them have felt this way
Delilah I can promise you
That by the time we get through
The world will never ever be the same
And you're to blame

Hey there Delilah
You be good and don't you miss me
Two more years and you'll be done with school
And I'll be making history like I do
You know it's all because of you
We can do whatever we want to
Hey there Delilah here's to you
This ones for you

Oh It's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
What you do to me.

hey there delilah
you be good and dont you miss me
two more years and youll be done with school
and ill be makin history like i do
you know its all because of you
we can do whatever we want to
hey there delilah heres to you
this ones for you

oh its what you do to me
oh its what you do to me
oh its what you do to me
oh its what you do to me
what you do to me

Adding It Up

Laura picks up Sophia from preschool. Sophia is about to turn 5 and so Laura tells her that tomorrow they will begin touring kindergartens to choose Sophia's school next year.

Sophia, who has a very articulate mother with a near lifelong desire to homeschool, tells her mom she doesn't want to go to kindergarten. She wants to be homeschooled.

So Laura lays it out. In her words: "I told her that mommy has to work and asked her if she would just try this, one year at a time, and if she hates it, we will find a way to change the situation. I explained that it's because our family is so small that mommy has to work, but for instance, maybe I might find another job someday which could include her (we both dream to live & work on an organic farm), or maybe mommy will get married and not have to work full time, etc. But for now, we are going to look at schools and try to choose one."

And Sophia says, "Okay, Mommy, tomorrow we should look at kindergartens for me and we should look at men for you. Maybe you'll find one you want to marry."

Preacher, Plumber, Pisces

My dad is all three, and responded to one of those monikers in a way I've never heard him articulate. I guess I never asked, so he didn't tell.

Stay tuned...

God's Foot (In Mouth) Soldier

This is mostly for the benefit of my dad, who's a preacher.
And reminds me of my mom, who one Sunday in the church lobby had a loud slip of the tongue in her excitement about sending the kids to "Fuddruckers" for lunch.

Enjoy it, Pop.

Tee hee ha Ha HA!

The Weatherman

With Nick Cage. How did I miss this in 2005?
I got sucked into it tonight. Sucked in.
You have to check it out.

Swan Dive - A Tiny Play

Swan Dive
by Me, Pema. 2008c.


ALABAMA sits on a couch. She is alone in the living room. She YELLS offstage.

ALABAMA
You never said it.
Well?

She is still. Looks toward the noise in the kitchen. She gets up to walk to kitchen. Changes her mind. Turns around and sits in a chair just outside the door.

DOUG flies through the swinging door from kitchen.

DOUG
(yelling)
What could I possibly say right now that remotely compares to your imagination??

The door obscures her when it's open and the force of his entry knocks her off her chair. SHE clatters and thumps to the floor. Scares him.

DOUG
What in Hell!!

He STANDS above her WALKS to couch and stands behind it. Looks at her on the floor.

She CRIES.

DOUG
Ah! Nope! Not crying!

ALABAMA
I am too crying!

DOUG
I won't come over there till you stop.

ALABAMA
You don't talk right!

DOUG
Maybe you don't hear straight.

ALABAMA
Just say it!

(Pause)

SHE crawls into the kitchen.
It is silent in there. Doug PACES.

DOUG
Are you still crying?
(less conviction)
Because if you are, you can forget it.

ALABAMA (Offstage)
It's not even THREE words!

DOUG
God knows.
(Realizing)
One-two.
Jesus wept.
Jane ran.

ALABAMA pushes the door open with her body. She scoots on her knees. Holds two plastic cups and a bottle of gin.

ALABAMA
I can hear you. Not so hard?

DOUG
Working it out.

She POURS the gin into cups and holds them out to him. He joins her, reluctant.

ALABAMA
Happy days. I'm yours. You're mine?

HE sits on the floor. Entwines arms with her. They hold their cups close.

DOUG
I...
...do?

She KISSES him. They DRINK.

A Dreamer's Dream

Ever follow the white rabbit?

In Dreamtending, you follow the characters/images in your dream to gain some understanding of them. This is the story of a symbol that I followed into my waking hours, and back to dream again. In the Dreamtending way, I'll describe it in present tense, without pronouns or articles.

I dream I am dreaming. I am sleeping in R.V., on stiff, brown, wool flannel divan. Outside window in dream within dream is dirt plaza, one side obscured by one wall. I awake to look out into plaza and see photographer taking photo of man leaning against wall in front of him. My eyes follow camera lens. It is Michael. Looking at me even from this distance, sunlight in face and eyes, with smirk and when-ya-gonna-notice-me look. Michael wears green sweater and white shirt collar. I reach him with outstretched arms, bury my face in his neck and hug him. He hugs me with same fervor. He knows something I do not. Protects me with what he knows.

THEN:
Close-up inside open refrigerator. Someone pulls out pink wine. I call wine Zin.

That's it.

Next day, at work, in passing, I see something about a zinfandel and my dream comes back momentarily. Later, at lunch, I am strolling past Cost Plus and decide to go in to see the sale furniture they're advertising on the window. Next to the furniture is a wine display with a funny name: zinfatuation. Before I walk off, my dream comes to me again. I figure what the hell. It's the second time Zin has crossed my path today, I'll buy it just to see where it leads. At the register, there is a tiny blue book called "Dreams." I smile, figure I'm on the right track, and walk out with my mystery bottle of Zinfatuation.

At home, I open the wine at dinner--I don't usually drink wine with dinner. I was just following through with the whole trajectory. I told Lisa and Tania the story of the bottle while opening it...and we toasted to dreams. Then, Lisa wanted to tell me something. She said, I know dreams are often about yourself when you dream them, but a few nights after Michael died, he came to me in a dream. He said everything was going to be fine. And to tell you that. I didn't want to tell you, it's kinda weird. But since you're talking about dreams, I thought I'd tell you.

I followed the white rabbit, or the bottle of zin, and it led me back to the message my dream had for me, in the plaza, hugging the man who knew everything would be alright.

When We Were Small

I had a friend who started drinking at 14 and stopped at 24. She held that, approaching 40, she was still 10 years less mature emotionally than she should have been, that the drinking took ten years off of her emotional growth.

"The New Guy," currently 47, survived a brain aneurism when he was 16. He is so childlike that sometimes I could look at him and actually see an 18 year-old. I wondered if some of his growth stopped around the age of his trauma and recovery.

Today, my work neighbor came into the office. This is a man in his early 70s with more energy than a zip car zooming on the kitchen floor. He and Michael had a fondness for each other; Barry had watched Michael grow up as a friend to one of his boys. "I still can't believe Michael's gone," he said. It's just hard to understand." Then he said: "When you have kids, it doesn't matter how old they are, even when they're adults, when you look at them you see the young person they were. You see the child."

Do you ever wonder at which age you got stuck and if you're still fighting your battles with a plastic light saber?

If it's true that on some level every one of us is still a kid at the very heart-- that place so close that when your goat gets got, you go right back to it--then hell, we could rename Congress "Romper Room." We could print Mr. Rogers on the dollar bill. We could have prom over and over and over and over...oh, wait, we do that with marriage and divorce and re-marriage.

How old do you think the president is--at heart? What his momma done make him cock his walk like that? And Osama? Still melting Ken dolls with the fire poker.

6'

What did the fish say when he swam into a concrete wall?

Damn.

What do you call gum that bees chew?

Bumble gum.


Okay, two silly jokes for you because I'm going to get all deep on you again. Kind of hard not to be deep in light of the recent circumstances. Yesterday was Michael's memorial service. I haven't read the program yet, but it's got color pictures allover it. It's on the floor next to my bed, between a few books, and every time I see it, it's surreal. Weird. Maybe I should get rid of it. Mostly because MK was such a vivid character, and was so against people making a big deal over him that it feels silly that a) he's not vivid anymore, considering "viv" is Latin for "life" and b) we're all busy making a big deal over him.

That's not what I was setting about to write tonight. Get your gear. We're diving in.

So, Michael's and Talia's deaths were two in what has seemed like a season of death. Since Christmas-time, I have had a friend whose mom died, a friend who lost her mentor to cancer, someone else related to all this sorrow who also lost his niece a week later, a friend whose aunt died, a colleague whose 18-year-old cat died, and another colleague and close friend of MK's who spread the ashes of his friend the day before Michael and Talia died.

...which makes me wonder the following...

Are death rates increasing universally? At a faster pace?
Or just in my head? My circle.
Are there seasons of death? Like December?
Does death come like El Nino? Flooding every nine years or so? I remember my brother's death in high school started a string of tragic teen deaths that lasted for several years at our school.

In the play "Angels in America," a man with AIDS in the 80s is visited by a ghost from an earlier century saying the plague was worse than the current epidemic:
"Whole villages of empty houses. You could look outdoors and see Death walking in the morning, dew dampening the ragged hem of his black robe. Plain as I see you now."

Does it come and go, ebb and flow? Or are people checking out? Jumping ship while the rest of us suckers sail into global insanity?

Is death something I should get used to? Not be surprised by? And if so, then what is there to learn by not being JADED by loss, rather understanding of it? (knock wood)

Death is a passage. But for us left behind, at least the way most of us see it, it's a sorrowful state of affairs that has us picking up pieces that were put together perfectly fine before tragedy came along. Or not picking them up as the case may be.

I think there is something to learn here.

Have you ever been watching a film or reading a book, you're gripped by the story and the relationships and you realize, someone has to die here for the story to stay honest. Who is it going to be?

Other societies view death as a more natural part of the landscape of their lives than we do. And they continue relationships with the departed in ways that our society finds freaky.

There is definitely something to learn here.

I Have Learned So Much

I
Have
Learned
So much from God
That I can no longer
Call
Myself

A Christian, a Hindu, a Muslim,
A Buddhist, a Jew.

The Truth has shared so much of Itself
With me

That I can no longer call myself
A man, a woman, an angel,
Or even pure
Soul.

Love has
Befriended Hafiz so completely
It has turned to ash
And freed
Me

Of every concept and image
My mind has ever known.


by Hafiz
translated by Daniel Ladinsky in THE GIFT.

Sweet surprises are good

This is where I was headed today.A pretty drive over the hill from Santa Barbara to visit my friend, Ezron. We were headed to a movie and then a hike.

When I got there, it was late for the movie, he said, and I had to get back kind of early, so we got in his car. "Where are we going?" I asked.

"The casino," he said.

He works there as a videographer and after two years of knowing him, I'd finally see where he works. We got out of the car and the valet took it away. I followed him into the pretty hotel lobby and he said, "We're a little late, they might get mad a me a little bit."

"Should I turn off my phone?" I asked. Maybe they started some kind of show?

"If you want." He shrugged and smiled.

Then we were in front of the spa and he was saying to the girl at the counter, "We have a 1:10 appointment."

"Are we getting massages?"

"You are. See you in an hour."

And he left.

He led me to the jowls of heaven and left me there defenseless in the maw of delight.

Such a surprise it was, so completely out of left field, me standing there barely kempt in hiking clothes and a pony tail after weeks of too-tired-to-look-cute, entering a flute-music-overhead spa with ladies used to luxury.

Have you ever tried using a tissue face down on a massage table with your face sticking through one of those padded donuts? Once on the table, I cried.

So so sweet. And no more shoulder kink.


Photo credit

The Forgetting. The Remembering.

I am walking up the stairs to work, like I've done day in and out for two years. And Michael crosses my mind. Not the Michael who is dead, or the Michael whose daughter died, but the Michael standing at his office window, phone to ear. The Michael I’m laughing about telling the funny thing I saw at lunch. The guy whose advice we could use—wait one sec, I’ll go ask. …Oh. I can’t. He’s not there.

Shit, how could I forget that?

It’s like the left side of me knows he is dead. The left side of me was there to get the calls, work through the days, tell his mother. Yes, I told his mother.

But the right side of me is where my memories are stored. My memories of Michael alive. And when they come up, it's like THOSE memories each in turn have to learn that Michael is gone. Each memory as it surfaces has to learn what the rest of me knows.

At some point, I am guessing—hoping?--they will reach critical mass, and the rest of the memories stored away will all at once absorb the awareness that Michael is no longer there to consult, counsel, laugh at, with…and the New Normal will be less of a jolt again and again.

Atune

"Respect the delicate ecology of your delusions."


(oops, fell asleep on the couch last night before I posted, but fell in love with this line before I drifted away. From Tony Kushner's "Angels in America.")

From Many Voices

Independent published the article a day early. Read it.

expeditious

tonight i'm writing an In Memoriam for Michael in our local paper.
that is a string of letters I am not sure of yet, what they will turn into or from where their order will come.
i'll link it here on Thursday.

"Futch"

Tania is painting Lisa's toe nails.

TANIA: You know, some people use nail polish remover instead of letting the polish grow out from the last time they painted them.

LISA: I had 22 colors in high school, and a little corner shelf I built in 7th grade shop class to paint them on.

Normalish

Finally did laundry today. Cleaned my room, washed dishes. Talked to Grandma on the phone.

I posted my furniture on Craiglist, too, clearing out space. Suddenly it seemed imperative to be rid of every last thing I don't use or don't like, likening those things to that awful itch from the tags in my sweaters that I can't take out because the damned things will unravel, so I scratch, absentmindedly unhappy. Then I commenced wondering at the wisdom and folly of buying a $2,000 desk. It doesn't have to be $2,000. But it could be. To redirect my emotions to a desk I will love so much I can call it a companion. My friend, who also lost Michael, just bought a baby grand piano. That totally trumps my desk. But he was her bff, so bring on the baby grand.

ouch

i sprained my face on the popcorn in my teeth. seriously.

Body . Spirit

Michael Klein, 1970 - 2007
Islas Secas , Dawn of Time - End of Time

Another Country

I sat on the Mission steps tonight. Conquerers always get the best real estate. Just before sunset. Cloud cap over the sky. Distant ocean. White plaster and red tile roofs of homes in the foreground, and the main thoroughfare moving with cars. A few tourists.

I watched the cars head toward home in the twilight. And in them imagined people of another country. I am the tourist. In their land. Watching their way of life, imagining their foreign language thoughts as they plan dinner, mull over the day, look forward to seeing their kids. A habit I know but at present am set abroad from.

I go home to cook dinner for myself for the first time since before Christmas. Conversations outside of work are still hard to focus on; language goes all watery before they're through. Grief is another country.

Unfoldmentarianism

I sit here and wonder, "What will I blog tonight?"
and then immediately see that I'm alive and well, living a vibrant life and wondering why I'm even wondering, "what will I blog tonight?"
As I type, the kittens torpedo through the room. Good traction on the carpet, those claws. My margarita buzz wears off, kind of melting down my sides. The song Dov and I "wrote" or rather "allowed" in the moments I followed it out of my mouth, hums in me. The pictures of Michael I saw on other people's blogs cling to the insides of my skull. Lisa asks why she didn't use her guest-blogger time to ask where are all the good guys for this good woman (er, me). Tania watches TV in her Obama earrings made from Sculpee. I wear an uber-soft robe in a comfortably lit room. My work, especially at present, is difficult but rewarding. I grow.
What will I blog, indeed?
Let me sit here and think about it.
I'll get back to you.

P.S. Lisa left the kitchen tonight, where she was making Mexican food, to meet me out for Mexican food and margaritas. Then she asked me kind questions and remembered historical funnies. Then she sprang for the bill. Lisa is an old friend who's been around for the growth. Lisa is cool.

I LOVE my purse

I don't love the "new guy."
Tragedy didn't suit him, so he didn't call.
My purse rocks.
The "new guy"?
History.

thank you, marley 12/31/07

"dov? dov, listen to the song we wrote. it's really amazing.
i might be drunk."

Right click-me mom, hit "save as" and enjoy my first hit single! :)

far as the smoke flies
far as the eagle cries
far as the lake lies across the land
far as a mother opens her arms
far as the lamb lays down

open your voice
open your underhanded
understanding

far as the garden grows
far as the tugboat pulls
just when you think you have it all
far as the water falls

just when you think you know
that's when it's time to go
that's when it's time to know
just when you think know

The Car

PEMA: We're here to-- Do you have a-- What were we telling them?

KURT: That we, uh, that...

KHAN is listening intently in the huddle we created, waiting for one of us to finish a sentence.

KURT: Our friend and colleague parked his car here before Christmas and then died in a plane crash and we're here to pick up his car.

KHAN blanches.

KHAN: I'm, my gosh, I'm--

We are blocks away from LAX. In KHAN's eyes, you can see him calculating, trying to recall news briefs, flipping through imaginary etiquette books, while we all stand in this circle in the parking garage wondering what to do next.

At the counter, I pull out the death certificate from my notebook. I pull out my ID.

The longer I wait for the people to find the key, to type in the date Michael parked, to find the car in the lot, to call each other on the intercom and disappear and reappear and give me more forms to fill out, the more closed-in my vision gets. My breath is shallower by the moment and my fuse is short. I see only a wall of keys on the valet board behind the counter. The very large lips of the young woman helping me. The piercing in the side of her lip, like a metallic beauty mark. The people on either side of her looking forlorn and unsure of what to say or do. I am stoic against the tears that want to come, in waves.

I get the keys. Valets have pulled the car out front. Kurt and I hug. We cry. I get in.

How do I start it?? The radio comes on with the car and plays a commercial of a new show Michael invested in. I get out and tell Kurt the synchronicity. I go back to the Mini, and I can't figure out how to adjust the seat or see the odometer or open the windows. My brain is too fogged from the black interior, the tears on the reverse slide down the back of my throat, the impossibility of mental focus on these simplest of mechanics to get me out of this garage.

I am finally out, I pull into the sunlight. And immediately I drive to the side of the road. The tears are heavy and my breath is jagged. Fucker. Jerk. Dammit. This is *not* my drive. This is his view and his scent. The performance hum under my ass and my feet is HIS ride, his familiarity.

The wheel under my hands is glossy wood and a paper-smooth leather. Its contours cradle my grip. There is life here all around me and under me. I am breathing it and applying myself to it, and moving with it.

I drive fast. Fast in his fast little car. Change the radio when I hear music he wouldn't like. Dance wildly in the driver's seat. Absorb the man in his absence.

The Bus Ride

I used to ride the bus to work and wish that on the 20-minute Express, I could muster the courage to stir up an exciting collective debate, about politics, our community, current issues. Instead of opening a book or staring out the window, the newest rider would lean in and ask what we were talking about today.

This memory popped into my head in the recent days since my friend died. Our journey through life is like a bus ride. Some people get on when you're already in progress, and sometime later they get off; but in that ride you've been changed. You've participated in a rousing discussion, you've engaged in fearless dialogue, you've provoked the social experiment that lies in you and everyone waiting to play with you if you're courageous enough to just play. You've utilized those spare 20 minutes. For good! And learned something you never knew about yourself and the person next to you and the person next to that one. And before you know it, all those 20 minutes are stacked into days and weeks, a lifetime; and the bus door opens, and a passenger waves goodbye, and he gets off at his stop, while the buzz he stirred in your bus continues, and your journey, continues.

Real Emotions Have Curves

So tired.
13 hour day today.
Slow parabola of emotion.
It's actually shaped like thisbut I like the word parabola.
Many emails from friends of long ago contact helped throughout the day.
Many laughing moments with Michael on my mind. Jerk has us working our asses off.
Much love for a bright light. Two very bright lights.
Remind me to tell you about the bus ride.
I'm serious. Remind me or I'll forget. And it's good.
G'night.

1 Survivor

The miracle is Francesca Lewis, 12 years old. She survived a plane crash in the jungle and the three days it took to find her. Francesca, bless her, is the only survivor. My friend Michael, 37, and his daughter, Talia, 13, did not survive. The pilot was also lost. Search crews found the plane this afternoon in mountainous terrain in Panama.

One Survivor, Three Dead in Panama Plane Crash

Thank you all for your prayers and good thoughts and love you sent their way. Their families can still use them if you have more in you.

PRAY hard PRAY now

My boss and his daughter and two others are missing after their plane was spotted flying low over a forested area of Panama.

Even if you don't believe, fake it and pray. Send positive images as you open presents, send love as you share dinner with your families. Give Christmas another miracle.
Panama searches for missing plane, 3 American passengers

Hard to Swallow

Today's turkey sandwich
The bad service at the restaurant from where today's turkey sandwich came.
Obese pallid unhappy-looking people.
Obese pallid unhappy-looking people with stringy hair hovering at poverty level in the town from where I come.
The town from where I come.
Consumerism.
Which is to say, the status of the dollar.
Rather, the status of dollars plural.
Meth...
Crumbling the edges of the town from where I come.
Privilege
And striving for it.
Holidays sometimes.

Guest Blogger--Lisa

Ok...so we recently got kittens. If you've been hanging out at Pema's park bench, you know that Pema has already posted about this, as has her friend Nico. I am borderline a crazy-cat lady, therefore another kitten-post. They are now officially named: Zola and Brie. After cheeses (Zola is short for gorgonzola). Anyhoo, this two kitties had two sisters, and Pema and Tania had to hold me back from getting all four. I was told by many that the rule is that you can have one cat per person in your house. Any more, and you fit the categorical definition of crazy-cat-lady. FINE. Someday I will be, but for now, I will express it in the form of photos.

Law Abiding

I think I learned an unspoken physical law of the universe. I was reading my bitch book when it finally occurred to me that this coy peek-a-boo of a mating ritual we adult humans dance is indeed real. As much as I have abhorred reading this tripe, I suddenly got that I am dancing it too, with my feathers and foot-stamps and fluttery fa la la.

Oh, but it's true.

During this long dating run (who said you had to train for a marathon--this marathon IS the training), I've found it curious that the people I really liked cut out early. And those I didn't have feelings for thought I was the coolest most amazing fabulation conflagration.

There was a guy who swooned, actually swooned, when we kissed (that I wasn't swooning wasn't okay). There was a guy who professed his effulgent heart maybe three weeks in. Then there are the immediate WE-talkers..."We'll have to do that someday..." said, like, on the first date. All of these people had WE-talk in common. I raise an eyebrow at immediate WE-talk.

So here I am reading about how to bump up my bitch and I realize that everything the author's been telling us in this book about MEN is true for ME. She's saying, "play it cool and they'll come running." And it's not that I have played it hot or urgent or needy with the folks I've liked. But I haven't played it COY. And if MY attraction habits are any indication of the rule, it's the COY we go after! Naturally, the guys I've had less interest in have met with the long arm of not-so-fast-there-mister. And they've gone crazy for me. Yet the guys I've thought were cool enough to open up with were the ones who sang sayonara as they escaped out the back. Interesting. F'ing ridiculous, but intriguing if you're willing to let it.

Alright. Now. Who can I ignore? Ah yes, the new guy. Who cares if he likes the damn purse.

Family Rocks

Rob & Sue the groovy two.

Revolutionary Food

If you squint, you can find peace in this picture.
I had it for lunch at the Indian buffet and it was peaceful indeed. "Green Peace and Potatoes"

Introducing the LIP-HUG

I worked my arse off to plan the office holiday party. Six weeks of invite lists, elusive venue managers, plans that fell through, strings that got pulled, deciding sit-down dinner or all-night appetizers, stylish desserts... or...or...are these people gonna be happy?? I stress about throwing a good party. I really like a good party.

So it happened that after weeks of planning--and working--my ass off, the night of the party I drank off the rest of what was left of it.

This is a rare--rare--occurrence.

Let me introduce a rarer occurrence: the lip hug. Playing steadfast (er, drunk) ear to the drunk and emotional wife of my colleague, I was rapt audience to Erica as she cried and talked. We bonded. We were like, tight. Sisters by this point.

Fast forward to the car ride home in a black stretch SUV. There were three of us couples, including Erica and her husband, another colleague and wife, and Phil, my date. Music blared and the chatting never ceased. We were there for each other, Erica and me. We had each other's backs. And then we reached Erica and her husband's house, the first stop; and in the goodbye, the kiss-and-hug Erica and I meant to exchange, turned into a k-i-s-s and quick hug. It was like a five-second exchange. Right there between my date and my colleague, the loud music and Erica's man.

In my state, I was vaguely aware of this extended kiss goodbye. It was nothing goopy; imagine instead a long, joyous squeeze of a hug where you even squeal a little, but this hug took place between our lips! When the vagueness finally cleared and my brain registered that our lips were still touching, I gave her a quick squeeze and cheerfully hugged her husband goodbye. Nothing to see here people! Nothing strange at all about that extended goodbye where time slowed down and everybody stopped talking to wonder at it.

Then I promptly forgot about it.

Until the next morning, as the sun filtered into my room, along with images from a pickled night before, and bam, the memory of...the lip hug goodbye.

Folly Lolly Laa La La La Laa

'Tis the season to be spendyBreak the bank and pray to trendy

like BALL PARK franks

they PLUMP when you cook'em.

Performance Enhancers

Saved by the Beauty

After I pushed the crosswalk button, I did something not rare to my nature but rare in my work rush. The winter sun hit the street in such a way, down the few blocks that head toward the ocean, that I got caught up in the pretty view and my gratitude for living in such a beautiful place. A certain peace washed over me. Without looking, I knew the signal light was turning green--I know the timing. But I was held up in that moment. Till I let it go and stepped into the street and watched a car drive right through the crosswalk. She didn't even see her light turn red. If I had walked with the light three seconds earlier, I'd be, as the kids say, all up in her grille. Thank you, beauty.

Seriously, What's the Difference?

"Former US Senator George Mitchell has outed some of the biggest names in baseball in his long awaited report on steroid usage in Major League Baseball.
...Barry Bonds, Jason Giambi, Gary Sheffield, Eric Gagne, Miguel Tejada, David Justice, Chuck Knoblauch and Andy Pettitte.
...So pervasive was the use of the substances, Mr Mitchell warned that 'hundreds of thousands of children' were also using steroids to get ahead in the sport."

VERSUS

"PAMELA ANDERSON has been named TV's Sexiest Woman Ever."
HELLO BOOBS ON STEROIDS, LIPS ON JUICE
But wait, what? You're a female over the age of 12 and you haven't considered medi-spa-ing into the silicon, collagen, better-than-botox, lipo-sucked new frontiers of beauty? I'm sorry. You don't exist.

Who's shouting about the hundreds of thousands of girls and women starving and carving to get ahead in the "sport" of their lives? It's open season on the human body, people. Get it. Or don't buy in.

Uhhmm...

Is it possible? That I can rattle off my boss's address and phone number when the phone rep asks, but when she asks my name....my r.e.c.a.l.l...f.a.i.l.s.
Um, Uuhh, P-, Pema. Heh. Right.

thank you nico!

moar funny pictures

Introducing...!!!

Zola!


and Brie!
...short for Gorgonzola and Brie&Honey, because Lisa and Tania are such HUGE cheese fans. The names of course are pending until purchased, subject to change or alteration, unstable at the moment as a dollar arm-wrestling a Euro. Lisa likes to refer to them as Gorgonzola Maureen Shazam Willow, and BrianneHoney Isis Buffy, or some such string of all the kitty name possibilities. Tania likes to try on Honey instead of Brie. Whoever they are, right now there are eight little furry feet flying around the corners upstairs making kitty rumble noises overhead. So cute. And surely there will be more pix to come. Here's Lisa's blog so you can see more now...

Ella & Aunty!!

mixin it up meow-like

We got kittens! (pictures to come)
Apparently there is a kitten season, which it currently is not. So our new little fuzz flips, who arrived during this week of Hannukah--aka the miracle of light--are being referred to as our little miracles of Hannukah.

They are as yet unnamed, but some monikers in the meow mix are these:

Personal faves - Shazam and Isis

the rest:
Gilda and Lucy
Zola and Roxie
Cricket and Daisy
Emily and Charlotte
Rocket and Cherry
Bugsy and Bo-Peep

and about a hundred other silly options. No doubt they will have one thousand and six nicknames once their real names surface. But for now, we focus on the real ones.

They're SO cute! And they're hilarious. Tania has been kitten-drunk for two days. Her favorite word to chirp is "kittens!"

Poetextry

A+
:)
BTW, my mom and Will think you are awesome (so do I, but u already know that). Sorry we screwed up your date with Lee.
U KICK ASS!!!
Hello heather Ella and i r up now does 1030 or 11 sound ok what Hotel r u at?
You? Yes. Always...
Okay, perhaps you affected my brain, because I could never really think straight...But it always started with the shiver I'd get from being close to u.
No, only if YOU got close to me...
Hey, I've seen 2 ladies in the past couple of dayz, that resemble u alot...Making me think of how unnerving ur beauty is...!! In any case, howd your boss enjoy Pace?
Hey Pems! A student in my acting class is producing a monologue festival. Call him if you want to submit some material. Crister 4155554764 Tania
NYC is a better place when ur here. Can't wait to lunch tomorrow.
305e87#9LW
Have a good evening:-) --Troy--
Brandy just sang hallelujah!
Darling.. It's your very favorite whore.. :)
Thought of you today. Several times. We need to talk. At the strip club now but feel free to text.
Would U like to go with me to SOHO Thur? Tommy Castro Band! 9:00pm
Hey-this is Tifanie's new cell number.
Fwd: Hey pema! Wishing you a very Happy New year for 2007!! -van
Fernando new num.please save
(RE:)Jetscott@yahoo.com
Matthewsiwiggins@hotmail.com
81 west st 2n nyc 10006
Teo says hi. He throws a big fluffy pillow at u. Have a wonderful day, pemicita!
Pema! I looove you! My email is indigocoffeebean@earthlink.net

The Book

it is so hard to stand behind my inner bitch.

The Exchange

My boss got his braces off, so today I brought him an apple.

Then he gave me a book called, Why Men Marry BITCHES.

It says that. BITCHES in all caps.

Being unmarried, I took back the apple.

Have you Teetered Today?

This is Your Brain on Friday-at-5pm

I'm sorry, did you? Did you say something?

Testing 123

There's a new guy. There's a new purse. The litmus purse.

Overheard

- What? You love me?
- No.
- What did you say?
- Can. you. get. a real. gun. for. me.
- (dismissive, immediate, impassive) No. Real guns are not allowed.

...said the 10-year-old to the 7 year-old at the martial arts studio, tonight as I waited for my kickboxing class to start.

On "Daily"

If you check daily, you may've noticed that my daily has not been, well, daily. I've considered this since day four of my blog when the funny dried up. All of a sudden, the funny things that were happening daily, they slowed down. They happen every few days, not every last day of the cyber year. Turns out.

I grapple then with the title of this bloggiepoo until I realize that as long as some of you are checking daily, then how about that, the title fits. Like how I just passed that buck? A buck a day adds up, though. You'll be rich in no time. And I'll keep typing.
:-)

I'm Plagiarizing

Because Nico relays it so well.
thehumanproject.wordpress.com
Yeah, what he said. Except, insert "Park Bench Daily."

Morning Dreams

...have been weird on vacation. Only on the first night, sleeping between high thread count sheets and a nest of pillows in a suite of my own, did I wake up leisurely. Since then I remember two in particular:

#1
A room on my parents' house that I'd never seen before--it's my brother's, who has been dead for 20 years, cracker crumbs leading to the closed window that, when opened, leads to a pool. The pool water is a plastic container, like waterbed material. Mom jumps in.

#2
I'm making out with a friend who is recently married.

and Surprise

Omaha is not bad. It's pretty amazing, actually. Surprisingly hip. Not flat. Did you know plains roll? They dip and swell and have trees and sky, it's beautiful. Omaha rocks. Who. Knew.



My brother and Ella, his new little creation.

Plain

I am in Omaha.
Omaha.

Beauty

Beauty, on the other hand.
Gorge me on it.
Please, gorge me with beauty.

New

Number one reason to change the holiday party venue:

It's too small and it's overrun by people so young, they haven't even been removed from their plastic wrappers yet.

Pretty

I don't trust pretty.

Is that bad?

It's just, pretty scares me.

I'm dating a guy so pretty he makes my teeth hurt.

Last time I got this close to pretty, I woke up a year later on the floor of a hotel bathroom, cold tiles and middle of the night compressing my sobs into a boxed-in time warp, back to day-one when the voice in my head said, actually said loud, "she will devastate you."

Pretty is a rocky road. Pretty is a mystery. Pretty is a lobotomy. Mine.

No, I don't trust pretty.

Postal Torpor

You know the experience of standing in line at the post office. Second only to waiting to be called at the DMV, itself just this side of waiting for Godot.

For some reason, I muster more patience at the Post Office. Imagine, standing on your feet all day, meeting face to face with annoyed people who have been glaring at you each of their 30 minutes in line. Then pushing their papers around and taping their boxes. It calls for a sweeter compassion.

Yesterday I zip into the post office on the way to lunch to find I've forgotten to pay for my P.O. box, and now I'm locked out of it. But great clicking heels of fortune, the line is EMPTY! There are only two people working but with no line, this'll be a breeze...tick...tock...tick...you've got to be...kidding...tock...me...tick...

WHAT is happening? It becomes clear. Patron number 1 is poring over sheets of stamps, deciding on one, changing her mind, deciding on others. Patron number 2 is locked in a quiet but intense conversation with the only other postal worker. They are gesturing with their hands and their faces are expressive. Patron number 2's stack of mail in front of her and it becomes clear that they are NOT talking about mail...tick, tock, tick...

People are gathering behind me. Patron number 2 is so easy in this conversation, I wonder who she is. How does she stand there in this conversation, with only one other worker on duty, and take up all this time, with no compunction whatsoever? She's happy as a lark as the line accumulates. If I weren't so curious, I would be furious. This social more is almost unbreakable in this fast-paced country and she's smashing it to bits. I mean, at least you could LOOK guilty, ACT busy, acknowledge the waiting humanity with a shoulder shrug and a lopsided smile.

After separating and straightening each of Patron number 1's several dollar bills with a snap, the only postal worker working places them next to each other on the counter, then gathers them and places them preciously in the tray. I'm up. I step to it and, while he's away investigating my locked box, I decide to listen conspicuously to the pair STILL talking at the other window. Who could she be? Who is she to this postal worker that the six people now in line do not exist?

I can barely make out what she's saying, but under my obvious scrutiny, she begins to move. But in mid-step she returns and says, "How's Hector?" Postal Worker reponds. She's back and chatting. "What about Lula?" "And Vic?"

I finally get it. Who can stand at the post office window and chat as if no line stacked up behind her? Whose wits can match those of the quietly satisfied, unhurried tree sloth variety of postal worker? ANOTHER POSTAL WORKER!!

She used to work there and she's catching on up with the chit chat from this side of the counter. My postal guy comes back with my mail and only then does the conversation next to me begin to end. The people in line are so used to the yawning stretches of time there, they haven't even noticed.

Underwater

Yesterday after work, I was so tired and pulled in so many directions I hid in the bath in snorkel gear.

How do parents do it?


Photo credit

Retail Medicine

The dress is so beautiful I'm taking it off the rack.

Nevermind it's a size small and $205 on sale. I hold it up to myself in the mirror and admire the ivory crocheted top with the sweeping neckline, the navy floral skirt with the orange oversized flowers spilt down its sides. It's me if ever I hanged on a clothing rack. Beautiful and thoroughly original, I'm saying to myself, "just hold it up to you," then, "maybe you could just try it on anyway."

I am not a size small. There are five minutes left to my lunch. I'm gripping onto the hanger and these...delusions! I say, "Hang it up, Pema. Get ahold of yourself."

I hang it up. I shake my head a swift jerk as I walk away.

I say to myself, "You just said, 'Get ahold of yourself.'"

Dress lust.

Platinum Medicine

Eagle Medicine

"...the dance that leads to flight involves the conquering of fear and the willingness to join the adventure that you are co-creating with the Divine.

...If you have pulled Eagle in the reverse, you have forgotten your power and connectedness to the Great Spirit. You may have failed to recognize the light that is always available for those who seek illumination. Heal your broken wings with love. Loving yourself as you are loved by the Great Spirit is the lesson which the contrary Eagle brings."

-Jamie Sams, Medicine Cards

Why Do Whales Sing?

"It turns out that humpbacks near the Great Barrier Reef do so for one main reason--sex. Joshua Smith, a marine biologist at Australia's University of Queensland, has found that though female humpbacks don't actually sing, male songs can be heard up to 12 miles away and can last as long as 22 hours. They are 'likely an important courtship display.' That's not to say the humpbacks are wooing life partners. 'When a male is singing and a female is present, it is not like that male is courting that female for life,' Smith wrote. 'The function of song would be more for immediate reproductive benefits, more like a one-night stand.'"

(Frank Burns writing for Audubon Magazine)

Aka "blowing hot air," in the whale world and human night life as it turns out.