honesty and compassion

Lying in bed at 5 a.m. this morning, trying to psyche myself out of an oncoming cold, it occurred to me: I haven’t written about the one idea, the one problem that has taught me the most about myself and about other people this year. The problem of honesty, compassion, and how they relate to each other. I consider myself an honest person, overall, but there’s more to honesty than not lying. There is the realization that, no matter how strongly you feel about something, no matter how utterly you believe something to be true, it is only your opinion, your truth you can ever know. There is the drive to be right, and to believe in the experiences that have shaped you until this moment. Sometimes in the pursuit of truth, armed with the tool-cum-weapon of...

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Posted on 10 Nov 1999 | Comments Off

listening

Carmela explained to me, hesitant, fingers pressed against the plastic tablecloth at her kitchen table, that she had a problem. The problem is Thursday. I never realized how odd the word Thursday sounds; how hard it is to say: the smushing of /th/ and /ur/ then with a side of /z/, flipping to the afterthought “day”. We practiced, of course, earning a bright, toothy grin from her youngest child whose name I, ironically, can’t pronounce at all. He gave me Halloween mini-M&Ms, giggled, and disappeared into the living room, leaving Carmela and I to Chapter Two, “Tomas is from Mexico.” Mostly I listen, in between explaining and defining, to her pronunciation, to the rich Spanish thrill sneaking blind kisses on the consonants. I listen...

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Posted on 5 Nov 1999 | Comments Off

reaching out

Today is National Make a Difference Day. I do admit to being a bit put off by National Anything Days simply because of the potential cheesiness factor, but at the same time, I don’t object to wandering in the realm of cheese so much these days. I have things like a webcam and an online journal that automagically qualify me for potential cheesiness. But as I’m learning, quite rapidly these days, it’s so much more important to like myself than it is to have everyone like me. I don’t want enemies, and now I know that sometimes, it’s just not my decision, so I have to deal with that in such a way that my self-image exists outside of others’ perceptions of me. Again, like many of the other things I’m learning these days, most...

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Posted on 23 Oct 1999 | Comments Off

armed nature walks

“Just got back from the mountains. I was there a week,” said the middle-aged man sitting across from us on the ferry. “O yeah?” smiled his friend, a younger, be-newspapered man, dressed in a similar khakis-and-shirt combo that is the Business Casual trend in the Bay Area. “What’d you do up there?” “Armed nature walks,” the first man laughed. “Some people call it ‘hunting’.” ï ï ï There is a name for the creature that hunts all other creatures in Larkspur. It is a growly, scarred thing with matted fur and a crusty slit where its left eye should be. They say it comes out only at night, but I have seen its jagged shape, white like jaundiced corneas, stalking the underbrush. Its name is...

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Posted on 7 Oct 1999 | Comments Off

intentionally blank

The worst part about having a journal is feeling compelled to write simply because I haven’t in a long time. I set aside today to catch up on a lot of things, including tandem, and now it’s nearly six in the evening with no end to the two entries I’ve already started in sight. They both have really great titles, but I’m going to have to keep those for later entries, and just blather for a bit … ï ï ï Living outside the city and not wanting to commit ourselves to the hell that is parking, Chad and I spend a lot of time on public transit. More time, actually, in the past month and a half than I’ve spent in my entire life, and that includes my eight-year stint in Chicago. I’ve come to understand that not only do I not mind...

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Posted on 2 Oct 1999 | Comments Off

stupid questions

There are no stupid questions. Except, apparently, the one I asked today. It went a little like this: “Hi; we’re new here. Could you please tell us where the ferry terminal is?” The woman squinted at me over the paper-wrapped bouquets of purple irises I had been admiring moments before. “This isn’t the ferry terminal,” she glared. “Right, this is the ferry *building*,” I smiled self-deprecatingly. “We were wondering where the ferry *terminal* is.” “There’s a sign,” she drawled, disgusted. “There’s a sign right out front. Why can’t you look at the sign? No one looks at the damned sign. Is this some sort of DISEASE or something?! I mean, my GOD, it’s RIGHT...

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Posted on 2 Sep 1999 | Comments Off

clean-up in aisle four

The laptop in front of me is new. The nylon jacket tied around my waist is new. The Detroit Tigers baseball cap on the seat beside me is new. The used books shoved in any free space whatsoever in my carry-on are new (to me). But some things never change. I am 30,000 feet above the Earth. My gut twists, but it has nothing to do with the gentle burr of the plane, or with the massive quantities of excellent Italian food I’ve been stuffing in my face. It is the same, the only contraction of good-byes said to people I love. My earth shifts quickly these days, little shudders of difference, of newness. Laughter comes easily and genuinely, and my abdominal muscles thank me for it. Each day I wake up looking forward to whatever life might throw at me. Of course,...

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Posted on 30 Aug 1999 | Comments Off

comeback

“Is that her?” “I don’t know, she has a laptop … short hair …” “Yeah, but does it look like her?” “What?” “Does it look like her?” “I don’t really know what she looks like.” (Pause.) “You don’t.” “Nope.” “Neither do I.” “Oh.” (Pause.) “At least parking’s only a dollar an hour.” ï ï ï “Yes, we’re having a great time. Bea told me how to say ‘go to the bathroom’ in German.” “Well, there are several ways to say it …” “Yes, but she told me the BEST way.” “Was it [insert polite German phrasing...

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Posted on 8 Aug 1999 | Comments Off

quartet

In grade school, I remember sitting in music class and listening to “Peter and the Wolf.” Fascinated by the idea of different instruments for different characters in the story, I was still confounded by the task of picking out the sounds of each within the whole. In college, Patrick introduced me to an amazing variety of classical and modern music, and urged me to listen to the individual sounds. I tried so hard, but the more complicated the pieces became, the more frustrated I got; it all seemed to blend so well that I couldn’t focus on any particular instrument. Older still, my ear for music is no less of a meat-grinder, smushing up all the delicacies into one enjoyable mass. But occasionally there are moments when I can latch onto a slithering...

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Posted on 23 Jul 1999 | Comments Off

tight pants and cold beer

Liquid360, the café where Birmingham Boardgamers is held, got their liquor license. They’ve also reportedly gone “corporate,” which means to a teenage boy (and sort of to me too) that everyone has to wear the same ugly style of logo-emblazoned polo shirt and … *gasp* … tight pants. Mind you, “tight pants” means to this teenage boy “pants with legs that are loosely based around one’s own actual size,” as opposed to what we old people call “skater pants.” Or used to, anyway, until we realized we were old and that was the lamest thing ever to call them and by the way, no one says “lame” anymore either. Regardless, I love skater pants. I love pants with legs larger than the...

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Posted on 20 Jul 1999 | Comments Off