| Journal & Weblog | Write to Save Your Life | August 24, 2003 |
|
 |
posted Tuesday, August 27, 2002 100 Things
Thank You  Thank you for the impressionable weekend, for the tasty things to eat, the avacados, artichokes, pistachios, and meals cooked on the grill. Thank you for holding my hand six miles. Thank you for holding me. Thank you for the laughter and the jokes, but thank you also for the serious conversations, the probing questions, and what-ifs. Thank you for making me feel included, and for taking the initiative to gain my trust. Thank you for throwing the frisbee in the park. Thank you for making plans with me. Thank you for being a friend and a lover. Thank you.
Raining Minutes  You can smell the rain inside the office. It's a reminder that we are not as isolated from the outside world as many of us would like to believe and that the natural world is everywhere, touching everything, despite our efforts to sterilize, organize, and level. I keep thinking about this too, how time became too precious living in the clean worlds of office space and automobile and home. I forget what rain feels like on my face.
Elements of Style But we are all writers and readers as well as communicators, with the need at times to please and satisfy ourselves (as E.B. White put it) with the clear and almost perfect thought. Thanks, Kian.
Parts of Me  Gay pride celebrations in the birthplace of Amendment Two should probably expect a protestor or two, yet the past few years have seen a decline in protestors, while the parade and ensuing festivities enjoyed a burgeoning attendance, indicating to me that perhaps this city was lightening up a bit, maybe re-evaluating its original beliefs. Despite the past dwindling, a few protestors hit the street corners with renewed fervor this year and, given the incredibly tacky ensemble of those celebrating their pride in the park, I'm not completely sure they didn't deserve to be protested. Regardless, Carl and Aaron and I played their presence up as much as possible with a few prime photo ops.
The weekend played out rather smoothly in some aspects and like a bad episode of Frasier in others. "Poor situational comedy," I should say, surrounding the misadventures of Dave, who I'd sworn to protect at some point back when we were still fresh from high school. Perhaps deep down I want to protect that innocent, optimistic part of me that I still associate with him. On the other hand, I'd like to take the irresponsibility of that age?of this age, too, apparently?and wrap it up in ball like so much masking tape and toss it away for good. Somehow it seems as though escaping that should be so much easier than it is. There is still time for me to grow up. Mike, you've stolen my heart. Then again, it's not really stealing if I want you to have it, is it?
Grandiose Week  This week has been grand (apologies to Mr. Caufield for use of the word, but it's so appropriate): good food, better company, great discourse. Need I mention reality-altering sex? A week full of heady laughter and heavy emotions and come today I'm filled to the brim with life and love for life and love for those who inhabit my days. When it comes down to it, is there really any difference between love and living?no, I mean really living?
Bulging at the seams I sail through easily and without strife, confident that my fuel tank is full enough to last me throughout the year (and the next, and the next) whatever may come.
Full Day  Today, we renounced the air-conditioned confines of our cubes for a 26-mile bike ride to benefit some local charities. After the two-hour ride and four hours of volleyball in the midday mountain sun, I'm beat, although mustering enough energy to hit the pool to see shirtless, muscled boys in orange shorts. In lieu of reflective introspection and a seriously written entry, a song recommendation will have to do: Phats & Small's "Change."
Censor There are several things I've wanted to write about lately, but this Internal Censor keeps me from laying it out in black and white. Although it's understandable, since afterall this journal is available to the public, this self-imposed censorship has kept me from getting to the core of what's going on in my head even when writing in traditional, paper-bound journals. Virgina Woolf encountered this, personifying the Internal Censor in her essay, "Professions for Women": She was intensely sympathetic. She was immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the difficult arts of family life. If there was a chicken, she took the leg; if there was a draft, she sat in it. In short she was so constituted that she never had a mind or a wish of her own, but preferred to sympathize with the minds and wishes of others. Above all, I need not say it ? she was pure.... And when I came to write, her wings fell on my page: I heard the rustling of her skirts in the room.... She slipped behind me and whispered.... Be sympathetic; be tender; flatter; deceive... Never let any one guess you have a mind of your own. Above all ? be pure. And she made as if to guide my pen. I now record the one act for which I take some credit to myself.... I turned upon her and caught her by the throat. I did my best to kill her. My excuse, if I were to be had up in a court of law, would be that I acted in self-defense. Had I not killed her, she would have killed me. It causes me a certain amount of angst to sense many of the same qualities of the Internal Censor within myself. Could it be that I've become my own blockade? I wonder if deciding to share my writings with an audience has calloused me into writing less-than-full-life entries and capturing "safe" moments. I wonder if I have it in me to lay it all out like it is.
Progression
Again, I can't stress enough how monumental small gestures mean to me. An email, a phone call, a wave, or a smile can all mean the difference between a good day and a great day. It was another extended weekend spent in the big city with Mike—another weekend filled with many such aforementioned gestures—and I parlayed the time into an opportunity to see friends and get out a little as well.
Now that I have the new camera, I'm hoping to incorporate some photos here on a semi-regular basis in order to take advantage of this amazingly versatile medium, one that allows such additions without the need for glues or scissors or film development. Audio would be the next, logical progression, but it will be a while before I dig out my microphone again.
Bad Food, Good Times  The week has been spent finishing color-block canvases (a la Trading Spaces, per the photo to the left), eating Hershey's Kisses by the handfull, bike-riding, beer-drinking, sexual frustration, and babysitting an ever-present sense of waiting—waiting for something better, something bigger, an important event or milestone. No more waiting, I say.
Last night, I met up with John-Michael for dinner at La Casa Fiesta after an eleven-mile ride. Beer, tortilla-chips, and salsa. Who needs PowerBars? We discussed more sex — after an extensive phone conversation earlier in the week that followed his thesis interview — and I tried not to show my embarassment over being so loud (JM: "I want to be fucked, really hard, in a leather sling."), but our fellow diners seemed not to notice. Dad invited me over for beer and barbeque this weekend, giving me the oriental rug we used to have in the living room of the old house as I was leaving. I hadn't seen it in about six years since moving to college, the divorce, the move, and it brought back memories of coming home from high school to do homework on the floor while watching Star Trek or Jerry Springer. I think there are still a few faded pizza stains on it. I keep having to do a double-take whenever I walk into my apartment now. My new digital camera came in the mail today. I have to keep reminding myself not to fall into the materialist bliss of consumerism, that this new toy should not bring me as much joy as it does. I should be Catholic. I unpacked the box's contents and gingerly laid out a chorus line of plastic-smelling pieces and manuals, making sure not to miss any bit that might detract from my new-technology experience. The battery is now contentedly charging on my desktop. The thrill of potential photos hangs in the air.
Moment A genuine moment of happiness: I had been cleaning house, paying bills, watching television, surfing the web, and otherwise conducting menial tasks around the apartment this afternoon as M went to finish up some last minute business at work?even though it was a Saturday?and it was starting to get late so I had pulled into a semi-disappointed parking space and sat there while waiting for my cell to ring, reading a book, turning lights on and off, opening windows, looking outside for a maroon Intrepid, and being generally restless, but just when I had considered leaving to meet a friend for drinks or simply hit the sack, the phone rings and I can feel my heart pounding its way into my throat as I catch his name on the caller ID and hear his voice on the other line, his subsequent and repeated apologies, his wish that we see one another tonight, and hurried responses fall from my lips like rocks from a cliff, pulled by gravity or a force I cannot see, and as I press the red button on my phone to hang up, I feel beams of light streaming from my face and rush to capture the moment that will no doubt fade with the relentless current of time, elated at the idea that right now, at this very moment, I am happy.
Work the Room I was driving to work when I spotted a dark-haired woman on the dirt trail that runs along the fields bordering our office building in all directions. She was wearing a yellow short-sleeve shirt and khakis, typical attire for an office worker taking a midday stroll, and her dedicated gait reminded me of warm fall days last year when I would venture out onto the trails that vein through the waist-high grass and yucca and prickly pear to get away from the boxed-in feel of my cubicle. The summer is here and I haven't done nearly as much hiking and biking as I've wanted to. My lack of outdoor activity is due to having so much going on otherwise, such as weekday trips to the city to visit friends, last-minute concerts, lunches, weekend drives to the mountains, clubbing, and Mike. I'm not disappointed to see my outdoor meditation adventures slip to the side. I've let my social life slack for a long time and at one point Scott turned and said to me, "You know, developing your social life is just as important as improving your professional life." I hadn't ever thought about it, but I think he's right. The weekends pass in blurs of color and smells and tastes and sounds, and I have to pause for a moment whenever anyone invites me to some omnium-gatherum or bedizened soirée, running through the calendar in my head to ensure I don't have any prior plans. It's fun, yet exhausting, this life-scaled room-working. And I can work a room, let me tell you. But part of me longs for those quiet evenings in the warm fields of solitude and I have to look no further than this journal to realize that life is a cycle and I will doubtless be there again. The key is to enjoy what moment you're being offered now.
|
|
|
Of note, Mike and I attended a major league soccer game on Saturday, courtesy Dave and Ramon. Held at the new stadium, the event was a shiny new coin found unexpectedly and we quickly snatched up the opportunity to see the new complex, drink beer, and watch tightly-uniformed young men kick a ball around in the early-evening summer heat. It was nice to spend some time with Dave as well, who I was concerned about after his roommate and best friend, Scott, left for NYC. He seems to be doing just fine.
| Top |
|
Copyright © 1999-2003, Chrisonomicon |