Stars. I love stars. I enjoy watching clouds, big masses of nothingness floating by in my view. They move, change shape, stretch out into elongated fingers that stretch into other white masses. With the right climate, those wispy fingers form into other shapes, stretching far beyond the eye can see. A bird, running dog, bull's head, or Wile E. Coyote in hot pursuit of the ever-changing Road Runner. Comical in the moment, a delight to see and feel the release from within as the imagination releases, the tension melts away.
I saw such clouds the other day. Outside the sun shone brightly, blue sky. It was a sunglasses day.
Inside, the clouds had already formed - unmoving, they were blobby but not, with stringy hairs poking out, reaching out towards other whitishy, hairy brethren. This was white on black, a still image. A side view. Hardly noticeable, no Mickey Mouse or Flintstone character. A mossy looking cloud resting deep, hiding, actually below the breast close to my chest. Like a coveted treasure - it looked like a spoonful of yogurt that was sliding apart, gravity or centrifugal force drawing it away from its core. Just the one, about a quarter's breadth, maybe a little thicker, but wide enough for a thumb to rest upon.
What is this, this cloud, this deviant from my imagination? Why is this not shape-shifting into something I like, a tree, a moon, or a heart that denotes the love I feel for someone? It's stretching alright, but into what? More of itself or, worse, is it reaching out into other areas , creating toxic clouds that don't belong?
I don't want this here. I don't want to know that my right side has this misplaced postage stamp of unwelcomness that hides beneath my breast tissue like some sort of evil nymph or ogre under a mass of morning glory or outstretched fern.
I am healthy. I have no risk factors. I have nothing that calls attention to this cloudiness that has decided to stay with me rather than move on to the next environment. It does not enlighten my imagination nor release my stressors.
This cloud, this stellate cluster, this little mass, its presence is not welcome.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Sunday, January 2, 2011
The Windblown Rental
Life in a rental.
Not unlike life in a rental car, I might add: restrictions, limitations and, in the case of a Plymouth Neon I once rented (purple, at that), drafty and somewhat leaky. The car's trunk leaked, only discovered after two days of driving through a massive Washington rainstorm. Fortunately, a dryer was near the destination, otherwise it would've been a miserable trip.
This rental unit, though, aka, my 1935-era apartment defintiely has charm. It's an upstairs unit in a four-apartment building located in a very quiet neighborhood. Rooms are square, well-painted, and southeastern light pours in, which I love. This is quite obvious by my multitude of sunrise phone pix I've posted on facebook. Can't get enough of those colors.
All door handles are original glass, and crazily, all doors close with ease, no stickiness over the shiny hardwood floors. The selling feature, other than the upstairs location was not the view of the Mormon Temple in the distance as pointed out by my landlord. I controlled my commentary and chortle in that unexpected closing deal point. I'd like to point out that despite their 10 million holiday bulb and display this year, not a single red, blue, or orange light could be seen from where I stand right now. Sad. I had to drive by and get blinded by the massive electrical display the Temple is widely known for. If you've not seen it, hurry and swing by: in Oakland, just off Highway 13. You'll see the sky lit up like a fireworks display just over its peaked tower. Can't miss it; I think airline pilots use it as a guide in heavy fog.
No, the selling feature was the closet hidden behind a flush wall. Very Batman, if you ask me. The wall swivels out; in its prime, it once held a Murphy bed and built-in dressers were tucked in behind. Now, it's just a virtually unnoticeable walk-in closet with a swing-out single paned window for daytime illumination. Love it!
Besides these fine features and the olive green gas stove, circa 1971 of which it's four burners are either on High or Off (makes for some very interesting cooking, I tell you), the downside is where the rental becomes a true rental. I'm sitting here at my desk, facing south a window nary 12 inches from me. As I type these very letters, a cold draft sweeps down over the Levoloar slats and chills my fingers. The string that's used to draw up these blinds sways not from my fast typing but from the wind that's gusting through the 75 year-old, single-paned windows. I hear wind whistling here.
I have a heater, oh yes, of course I do. However it's a single wall unit located two rooms away. It effectively heats that space dirctly in front of it, which is where I often stand to scald my skin and warm up.
My landlord maintains that the windows add character, not unlike the ancient galvanized pipes with little to no water pressure do too. I think he's got stock options with PG & E, as my gas bill has been climbing steadily since moving in: showers take an extra 20 minutes since a trickle makes for some slow shampoo rinsing. Yes, I'm bound up in a hat, extra sweater, down booties and finger-cut gloves. Finger tips are bluish ice cubes. Ear lobes are rounded icicles.
For charm, I freeze. Could I move? I'm bound by a lease for another 10 months. I suppose I could plasticize my windows with that funky clear insulation, aka, dry cleaner packaging. Dare I? Then my lovely rental would lose some of the charm that makes it so inviting. That devine secret closet wouldn't have its clear, southerly light casting a pale glow upon my clothes - they'd be shrouded by an opaque plastique hue.
Life in a rental. We must accept so many of the benefits in the face of the pitfalls. Like that Dodge Neon, I got great mileage but paid a ton for extra trash bags and laundromat usage. Here, I'm in an optimal locale, but feel like I'd get a different kind of trash bag on my windows that might chip away at that convenience discount significantly. I heard the windchime tinkle outside and noticed that the blinds just clacked against each other as another gust blew through.
I need to go stand in front of my heater and defrost.
Not unlike life in a rental car, I might add: restrictions, limitations and, in the case of a Plymouth Neon I once rented (purple, at that), drafty and somewhat leaky. The car's trunk leaked, only discovered after two days of driving through a massive Washington rainstorm. Fortunately, a dryer was near the destination, otherwise it would've been a miserable trip.
This rental unit, though, aka, my 1935-era apartment defintiely has charm. It's an upstairs unit in a four-apartment building located in a very quiet neighborhood. Rooms are square, well-painted, and southeastern light pours in, which I love. This is quite obvious by my multitude of sunrise phone pix I've posted on facebook. Can't get enough of those colors.
All door handles are original glass, and crazily, all doors close with ease, no stickiness over the shiny hardwood floors. The selling feature, other than the upstairs location was not the view of the Mormon Temple in the distance as pointed out by my landlord. I controlled my commentary and chortle in that unexpected closing deal point. I'd like to point out that despite their 10 million holiday bulb and display this year, not a single red, blue, or orange light could be seen from where I stand right now. Sad. I had to drive by and get blinded by the massive electrical display the Temple is widely known for. If you've not seen it, hurry and swing by: in Oakland, just off Highway 13. You'll see the sky lit up like a fireworks display just over its peaked tower. Can't miss it; I think airline pilots use it as a guide in heavy fog.
No, the selling feature was the closet hidden behind a flush wall. Very Batman, if you ask me. The wall swivels out; in its prime, it once held a Murphy bed and built-in dressers were tucked in behind. Now, it's just a virtually unnoticeable walk-in closet with a swing-out single paned window for daytime illumination. Love it!
Besides these fine features and the olive green gas stove, circa 1971 of which it's four burners are either on High or Off (makes for some very interesting cooking, I tell you), the downside is where the rental becomes a true rental. I'm sitting here at my desk, facing south a window nary 12 inches from me. As I type these very letters, a cold draft sweeps down over the Levoloar slats and chills my fingers. The string that's used to draw up these blinds sways not from my fast typing but from the wind that's gusting through the 75 year-old, single-paned windows. I hear wind whistling here.
I have a heater, oh yes, of course I do. However it's a single wall unit located two rooms away. It effectively heats that space dirctly in front of it, which is where I often stand to scald my skin and warm up.
My landlord maintains that the windows add character, not unlike the ancient galvanized pipes with little to no water pressure do too. I think he's got stock options with PG & E, as my gas bill has been climbing steadily since moving in: showers take an extra 20 minutes since a trickle makes for some slow shampoo rinsing. Yes, I'm bound up in a hat, extra sweater, down booties and finger-cut gloves. Finger tips are bluish ice cubes. Ear lobes are rounded icicles.
For charm, I freeze. Could I move? I'm bound by a lease for another 10 months. I suppose I could plasticize my windows with that funky clear insulation, aka, dry cleaner packaging. Dare I? Then my lovely rental would lose some of the charm that makes it so inviting. That devine secret closet wouldn't have its clear, southerly light casting a pale glow upon my clothes - they'd be shrouded by an opaque plastique hue.
Life in a rental. We must accept so many of the benefits in the face of the pitfalls. Like that Dodge Neon, I got great mileage but paid a ton for extra trash bags and laundromat usage. Here, I'm in an optimal locale, but feel like I'd get a different kind of trash bag on my windows that might chip away at that convenience discount significantly. I heard the windchime tinkle outside and noticed that the blinds just clacked against each other as another gust blew through.
I need to go stand in front of my heater and defrost.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Love & Life Drifts Upon an Open Sea
We give. We take. It's often a school of hard knocks because it seems that we're experiencing the take more than the give part.
If I look at the big picture, I'd have to say that I'm a giver. Not like a giver in the sense that I'm one of the Chosen. Rather, that I give of myself, my assistance, or my generosity, my heart, or an ear, or a present or two or three or four for a holiday or birthday. I probably 'shouldn't' as it often makes the receiver uncomfortable to receive a pile of gifts. Yet, when it comes down to it, I'm really thinking of her and what she actually gives to me without really knowing it.
Life is a gift and it seems we take so much for granted -- or is it that we take love, affection, interaction, patience, kindness, thoughtfulness, time, effort, desire to overcome adversity, peace to such an extent -- that we often only see what doesn't occur or the difficulty in the moment. We let go of the fact that more often it is laughable, engaging and simple such that when the hard shit arises, that's all we hold onto: the impenetrability and extremity of it all.
A ship sails the sea. Days and days it glides over the ripples. The sun shines, fish and dolphins leap and dive. Clouds form and dissipate, wind blows and fades. All is gentle, manageable, we are flowing over time, taking in all the rays, the moon, the clear and opaque life and beauty that surrounds as it should be.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, high seas wall up, water pounds and plunges the deck, sails flap and tear. The rudder trips port, then starboard, then port, then starboard, completely out of control. Fore and aft we lose ballast. We try to right ourselves, yet minimally, only seeing the darkness in that moment ahead instead of the placidity that preceded. The moments become hours, darkness overtakes and we lose our way -- stars, our once coveted guiding lights are obscured or forgotten.
We let go, fall to this temporary force by feigning ignorance, inability to guide through, or lack of desire to bond and labor a bit through this unseemly power. It's too much. It's too vast, overwhelming (because of its newness or distant familiarity from storms past?), as it seemingly instigated and pushed us to a level of instability that's determined to be too far; we cannot come back, recover, settle down. This surge is too foreign; it is scary.
When the squall moves on, all we see is the destruction, the bent floorboards, the lack of direction, the loss of movement, the tattered sails, the difficulty. The thrashing. The absolute defeat. Nothing is what it was before. What's worse, though, is that we see only this - the pummeling, the lack of forward movement. We don't see that we can suture taut the canvas, that we can counterbalance this temporary disruption. Overlook the pummeling as what it was: a transitory incident. It is deduced that more will come thus it is better to abandon ship altogether. No sense in learning during the calm, during the blue sky moments.
We take for granted what such natural phenoma can offer: the struggle that presents us with the gift of growth, awareness, the ability to come together, fresher, more alive, more connected . We disengage because it's easier. Let go of the rope, don't bail its water that might appreciate its strength. Just leave it adrift and never look back or reflect on what happened.
I've lost a lot this year. More than I could ever say here. Much is my own doing (or undoing?), my own unraveling and allowing for an unsteered course. However I've discovered that 50% of which I'm responsible and for which I've repeatedly apologized has been countered by an even stronger 50% to abandon ship. And though my confidence wavered in these hammering storms, not having had any experience from which to draw any skill over these tides, I'm willing to find an emotional sextant and learn and try to locate a path, something that charts us towards tranquility and not torrent.
Sadly, this simple, yet ancient tool is seen as beyond difficult to comprehend as it is far too new or different to conquer another possible rough sea ahead. It is tossed overboard, and again, that which housed so much life and potential is abandoned without any regard. We took for granted all that we learned, the stillness and harmony and only give this life, this experience a half-hearted nod and headshake; no sense of bailing out water (overlooking the fact that it's worth the effort especially as time and sun will dry out that which remains).
Gave some, took a lot. Unwilling to give more and take less.
I gave a lot, received even more. I am willing and already do provide an open heart and hand so that part of the ballast is restored, strength in the steerage is coordinated such that a passageway is sought but needs another's sail, another's hand and heart to see us through.
Instead, love remains adrift, floating and abandoned.
Given this, I wished that the other would recall and believe and embrace what Maya Angelou wrote, "Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope."
A rather rare, albeit workable, rough sea - even those which may seem unexpectantly horrid - should not be a barrier or wall or reason to walk away from love. Truth, patience, willingness to examine and change and hope are reasons to sail through. There have always been other rough seas, but now there's something better, a port to which we may reach and find safety and comfort: love. There is always hope.
If I look at the big picture, I'd have to say that I'm a giver. Not like a giver in the sense that I'm one of the Chosen. Rather, that I give of myself, my assistance, or my generosity, my heart, or an ear, or a present or two or three or four for a holiday or birthday. I probably 'shouldn't' as it often makes the receiver uncomfortable to receive a pile of gifts. Yet, when it comes down to it, I'm really thinking of her and what she actually gives to me without really knowing it.
Life is a gift and it seems we take so much for granted -- or is it that we take love, affection, interaction, patience, kindness, thoughtfulness, time, effort, desire to overcome adversity, peace to such an extent -- that we often only see what doesn't occur or the difficulty in the moment. We let go of the fact that more often it is laughable, engaging and simple such that when the hard shit arises, that's all we hold onto: the impenetrability and extremity of it all.
A ship sails the sea. Days and days it glides over the ripples. The sun shines, fish and dolphins leap and dive. Clouds form and dissipate, wind blows and fades. All is gentle, manageable, we are flowing over time, taking in all the rays, the moon, the clear and opaque life and beauty that surrounds as it should be.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, high seas wall up, water pounds and plunges the deck, sails flap and tear. The rudder trips port, then starboard, then port, then starboard, completely out of control. Fore and aft we lose ballast. We try to right ourselves, yet minimally, only seeing the darkness in that moment ahead instead of the placidity that preceded. The moments become hours, darkness overtakes and we lose our way -- stars, our once coveted guiding lights are obscured or forgotten.
We let go, fall to this temporary force by feigning ignorance, inability to guide through, or lack of desire to bond and labor a bit through this unseemly power. It's too much. It's too vast, overwhelming (because of its newness or distant familiarity from storms past?), as it seemingly instigated and pushed us to a level of instability that's determined to be too far; we cannot come back, recover, settle down. This surge is too foreign; it is scary.
When the squall moves on, all we see is the destruction, the bent floorboards, the lack of direction, the loss of movement, the tattered sails, the difficulty. The thrashing. The absolute defeat. Nothing is what it was before. What's worse, though, is that we see only this - the pummeling, the lack of forward movement. We don't see that we can suture taut the canvas, that we can counterbalance this temporary disruption. Overlook the pummeling as what it was: a transitory incident. It is deduced that more will come thus it is better to abandon ship altogether. No sense in learning during the calm, during the blue sky moments.
We take for granted what such natural phenoma can offer: the struggle that presents us with the gift of growth, awareness, the ability to come together, fresher, more alive, more connected . We disengage because it's easier. Let go of the rope, don't bail its water that might appreciate its strength. Just leave it adrift and never look back or reflect on what happened.
I've lost a lot this year. More than I could ever say here. Much is my own doing (or undoing?), my own unraveling and allowing for an unsteered course. However I've discovered that 50% of which I'm responsible and for which I've repeatedly apologized has been countered by an even stronger 50% to abandon ship. And though my confidence wavered in these hammering storms, not having had any experience from which to draw any skill over these tides, I'm willing to find an emotional sextant and learn and try to locate a path, something that charts us towards tranquility and not torrent.
Sadly, this simple, yet ancient tool is seen as beyond difficult to comprehend as it is far too new or different to conquer another possible rough sea ahead. It is tossed overboard, and again, that which housed so much life and potential is abandoned without any regard. We took for granted all that we learned, the stillness and harmony and only give this life, this experience a half-hearted nod and headshake; no sense of bailing out water (overlooking the fact that it's worth the effort especially as time and sun will dry out that which remains).
Gave some, took a lot. Unwilling to give more and take less.
I gave a lot, received even more. I am willing and already do provide an open heart and hand so that part of the ballast is restored, strength in the steerage is coordinated such that a passageway is sought but needs another's sail, another's hand and heart to see us through.
Instead, love remains adrift, floating and abandoned.
Given this, I wished that the other would recall and believe and embrace what Maya Angelou wrote, "Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope."
A rather rare, albeit workable, rough sea - even those which may seem unexpectantly horrid - should not be a barrier or wall or reason to walk away from love. Truth, patience, willingness to examine and change and hope are reasons to sail through. There have always been other rough seas, but now there's something better, a port to which we may reach and find safety and comfort: love. There is always hope.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Last Call Laundromat with the People
At the laundromat on a late Saturday afternoon. This is what 'people' do. I realize as these words topple and tumble onto the page that, indeed, I am now officially part of this group so many of us scorn: People.
People. People suck. Why? While driving, it's the people who get in our way, the slow drivers, or 'those people' who drive aggressively and fast. It is those 'people' who speak on their cell phones while riding mass transit such that we non-people hear one-half of the conversation, although the phone's often on speaker due to the squealing brakes and noise; we're hearing the people on the other end of the phone too.
It is 'people' who use the term "people" when they are attempting to get our attention. For example, "People please. Pee-puhl, pleeeze listen to me." These unheard leaders raise their hand into the air and attempt to address the multitude of us muttering non-listeners. All of us chatting together, all of us, um, people. Mr. Meek, my seventh grade social studies teacher referred to us adolescents as People. That was 35 years ago, far ahead of his time.
We are called "people" because it's socially acceptable to do so rather than the age-old, quasi-sexist "Ladies and Gentlemen." This has gone to the wayside probably because more and more men rarely act gently, let alone as a gentleman might, which may be known as chivalrous. You know, holding open a door or laying down a trench coat over a curb-cut's puddle. Who would do that latter act anyway, other than, say, Popeye for Olive Oyl (skittle-lee-doo!)?
And ladies? Well, hard-fought (thank you Phyllis Schafly of Nancy Reagan era, who headed up Ladies Against Women), but this has held on much moreso than the gentleman thing. The feminist movement has keenly nudged the Lady title towards the door, though. Yet, even among my contemporaries, we women, that is, I still hear referrals to our gender as, "That lady over there," or, "Some lady nearly drove her shopping cart into me." We struggle to use the term 'woman,' and 'young woman,' and know well enough to occasionally not refer to our female sistahs as 'girls.' Alas, we fall back to the 'lady.'
At the very least, it's sad I know, since I am, I can honestly say, no lady. A woman yes, but definitely not a lady. Sure, I can don the heels-and-hose, wear the dangly earrings, and hand over an unopened jar of preserves to some guy to twist open. However, when an errant youth hollers out, "Hey lady!" when trying to get me to move off the sidewalk, my head does not turn towards his voice. Ladies have poise and . I lumber and work terribly hard not to knock things over. As my mom once said to us as she took us into an overpriced crystal and finery shop, "Hands By Sides." To this day, I try to adhere my elbows to my ribs when walking near someone's China hutch. And as such, as a loose deduction of not being a lady, and not being part of Tom Jones' iconic tune, "She's a lady, whoa-oh-oh!..." I am officially people.
People in laundromats -- we're all doing a cleaning job with our most intimate clothing and our basic outer wear. When people fold clothes, they hold them up, find the seam, gather the fabric together in a cloth-form of origami. This is true for every article but underwear. Men who fold boxers, or those male people, yes, they hold them up for all to see the snappy plaid or Garfield and Odie pattern. When it comes to their briefs? No. We don't see them at all.
Women with bras and "panties," (I've never been fond of that term), me included, do a quick grab-and-clasp fold, like it's a taco shell snapping in half. There the undies are on top of the wheelie-basket pile. We grab them by the waist band, quickly pull taut along the hips (holding them low, near our own hips, away from the general public's eye), snap them shut, and jam them into a mound of other undies. It's as if nobody has ever seen a pair of undies held up in the air or tossed to the side in a mad fit of passion. Underwear folding is personal, though.
And it's a horror movie if any of them should flit and flutter off the pile and onto the floor. Then what? Make a mental note to wash them at home or do we assume that mythical food-on-the-floor five-second rule? That is, we speculate that no cooties scampered across the linoleum and into the waistband if scooped up within five seconds? Uh huh. Scientists have proven that it could be on the floor for two seconds or ten: the outcome's still the same. Snatch those panties up, shake them out, roll them up, plunge into the pile, and move on.
When the sun drops, as it does earlier and earlier on these winter days, the laundromat lights illuminate us in a way that parallels the piercing lights of a darkened disco bar after Last Call. We appear less appealing, we're here, alone in a barren place, on a Saturday, doing something we'd rather not do, and, worse, we're not necessarily going home with someone savory and lusty. Instead, our arms are filled with folded towels and rolled socks all stacked into a basket, rolling cart, or wheeled luggage.
We here in the end-of-day Laundromat are the post-Last Call people without a Saturday night date - we are the ones glancing around the room, reading skewed flyers on the walls, staring at our unringing cell phones, or sucking down the final droplets of our over-priced melted ice drinks. We are the pale ones under the blaring lights who've not danced or moved much during the past couple hours. We, us Saturday evening laundromatters are the post-Last Call singlets and instead of smelling like sloshed gin and dancefloor sweat, we smell fresh and clean like Bounce.
No ladies or gentlemen here, I have become, as a result of incidences and unexpected disconnections am one of them, a member of the group known as The Evening Laundromat People. As a sidebar, I'd like to request that nobody think of that famous Charlton Heston phrase, "Soylent Green is People!" Instead, think of it simply, as Mr. Meek hollered in advance of us really understaning his meaning, that I am people.
People. People suck. Why? While driving, it's the people who get in our way, the slow drivers, or 'those people' who drive aggressively and fast. It is those 'people' who speak on their cell phones while riding mass transit such that we non-people hear one-half of the conversation, although the phone's often on speaker due to the squealing brakes and noise; we're hearing the people on the other end of the phone too.
It is 'people' who use the term "people" when they are attempting to get our attention. For example, "People please. Pee-puhl, pleeeze listen to me." These unheard leaders raise their hand into the air and attempt to address the multitude of us muttering non-listeners. All of us chatting together, all of us, um, people. Mr. Meek, my seventh grade social studies teacher referred to us adolescents as People. That was 35 years ago, far ahead of his time.
We are called "people" because it's socially acceptable to do so rather than the age-old, quasi-sexist "Ladies and Gentlemen." This has gone to the wayside probably because more and more men rarely act gently, let alone as a gentleman might, which may be known as chivalrous. You know, holding open a door or laying down a trench coat over a curb-cut's puddle. Who would do that latter act anyway, other than, say, Popeye for Olive Oyl (skittle-lee-doo!)?
And ladies? Well, hard-fought (thank you Phyllis Schafly of Nancy Reagan era, who headed up Ladies Against Women), but this has held on much moreso than the gentleman thing. The feminist movement has keenly nudged the Lady title towards the door, though. Yet, even among my contemporaries, we women, that is, I still hear referrals to our gender as, "That lady over there," or, "Some lady nearly drove her shopping cart into me." We struggle to use the term 'woman,' and 'young woman,' and know well enough to occasionally not refer to our female sistahs as 'girls.' Alas, we fall back to the 'lady.'
At the very least, it's sad I know, since I am, I can honestly say, no lady. A woman yes, but definitely not a lady. Sure, I can don the heels-and-hose, wear the dangly earrings, and hand over an unopened jar of preserves to some guy to twist open. However, when an errant youth hollers out, "Hey lady!" when trying to get me to move off the sidewalk, my head does not turn towards his voice. Ladies have poise and . I lumber and work terribly hard not to knock things over. As my mom once said to us as she took us into an overpriced crystal and finery shop, "Hands By Sides." To this day, I try to adhere my elbows to my ribs when walking near someone's China hutch. And as such, as a loose deduction of not being a lady, and not being part of Tom Jones' iconic tune, "She's a lady, whoa-oh-oh!..." I am officially people.
People in laundromats -- we're all doing a cleaning job with our most intimate clothing and our basic outer wear. When people fold clothes, they hold them up, find the seam, gather the fabric together in a cloth-form of origami. This is true for every article but underwear. Men who fold boxers, or those male people, yes, they hold them up for all to see the snappy plaid or Garfield and Odie pattern. When it comes to their briefs? No. We don't see them at all.
Women with bras and "panties," (I've never been fond of that term), me included, do a quick grab-and-clasp fold, like it's a taco shell snapping in half. There the undies are on top of the wheelie-basket pile. We grab them by the waist band, quickly pull taut along the hips (holding them low, near our own hips, away from the general public's eye), snap them shut, and jam them into a mound of other undies. It's as if nobody has ever seen a pair of undies held up in the air or tossed to the side in a mad fit of passion. Underwear folding is personal, though.
And it's a horror movie if any of them should flit and flutter off the pile and onto the floor. Then what? Make a mental note to wash them at home or do we assume that mythical food-on-the-floor five-second rule? That is, we speculate that no cooties scampered across the linoleum and into the waistband if scooped up within five seconds? Uh huh. Scientists have proven that it could be on the floor for two seconds or ten: the outcome's still the same. Snatch those panties up, shake them out, roll them up, plunge into the pile, and move on.
When the sun drops, as it does earlier and earlier on these winter days, the laundromat lights illuminate us in a way that parallels the piercing lights of a darkened disco bar after Last Call. We appear less appealing, we're here, alone in a barren place, on a Saturday, doing something we'd rather not do, and, worse, we're not necessarily going home with someone savory and lusty. Instead, our arms are filled with folded towels and rolled socks all stacked into a basket, rolling cart, or wheeled luggage.
We here in the end-of-day Laundromat are the post-Last Call people without a Saturday night date - we are the ones glancing around the room, reading skewed flyers on the walls, staring at our unringing cell phones, or sucking down the final droplets of our over-priced melted ice drinks. We are the pale ones under the blaring lights who've not danced or moved much during the past couple hours. We, us Saturday evening laundromatters are the post-Last Call singlets and instead of smelling like sloshed gin and dancefloor sweat, we smell fresh and clean like Bounce.
No ladies or gentlemen here, I have become, as a result of incidences and unexpected disconnections am one of them, a member of the group known as The Evening Laundromat People. As a sidebar, I'd like to request that nobody think of that famous Charlton Heston phrase, "Soylent Green is People!" Instead, think of it simply, as Mr. Meek hollered in advance of us really understaning his meaning, that I am people.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
chix again
I recently moved to a neighborhood with many apartment buildings, a bit of outdoor recreation, and plenty of shopping opportunity. I thought I'd blend in with the woodwork, not really be seen as I toodle around hither and tither. Just another Common Man, apple in the face and all, walking and shopping among the masses, unremarkable, nondistinct. Who would've thunk that they'd be hanging around Trader Joe's, milling in hair product stores, or sitting idly on park benches heads up, watching?
There they are: the singlets, the women who shop while scanning who's behind them, the ones with eyes seemingly on the backs of their heads, or maybe concealed in their oversized watches or Timbuktu biker bags.
I've been walking around my neighborhood lately, occasionally purchasing products, often pawing a cup of Peet's that ignites my system. Once in a while, I find an open stool there upon which I place my watchful self, and there I plop and view the world that strolls by on the sidewalk. The families are plenty, single dads and moms, buddies who yammer over a slice of pizza across the street, or the homeless dudes who hold out mottled Street Sheets and an empty donation Starbucks cup. Even the occasional EMTs or police officers all hot and confident in their deep blue wool and shiny leather uniforms saunter the street and nearby cafes embuing us with that sense of protectiveness and precautionary safety. Those who are women in uniform are often ensconced in conversation with their uniformed brethren. They are not the ones with the eyes.
It's the women, the chix, the bespectacled woman with the wandering eye who I see scanning the crowds, the aisles of cereal, the card shop's humor section, the rows of hair products before me. They are the watchers. I know this sounds paranoid, but it's happened on a number of different occasions.
It's like a porn movie without the cheesy chika-bow-wow music: she's taller than I, a page-boy cut brunette clad in a navy waist coat, hipster jeans and cool Adidas shoes. Her skin tells me she's younger too, none of the crows feet age lines that carve up my eyes. She reaches up, over her head for a 24 ounce bottle of Biolage spray and examines its contents like it's a nutritional chart. Then, as she replaces it, she tilts her head slightly in my direction; is she wondering if I need to pass by, is she really reading labels, or she peering in my direction?
I'm searching for a mousse, preferably Paul Mitchell; all the white bottles look alike to me and because I'm officially in the reading glasses age, I squint to read what each 12 point font indicates upon the labels. As I see her cocked head, I worry the product I seek will be near her and I'll have to interact. I sniffle from unease. From my sketchy peripheral vision, I see that she's reached towards a hip-level shelf and withdraws some other brand, some other type of bottle, this time it looks like a molding gel. Far from the spray she originally sought.
I find my product, look in her direction and see that she's smiling. I give the ole 'up nod, sniffle and turn. She smiles again. I'm uncomfortable. This is a hair product store. I pay and leave. About eight paces beyond I hear the tinkling bell of the shop; she's leaving too.
I went for a run the other day and saw in the near distance sitting on a park bench a solo chik. She was cool too, with her dark her pushed up into a peak - she needed a haircut - oversized jeans, boarder sneakers, and a black leather jacket with yellow hoodie poking out behind her neck. Her eyes were partially concealed by sun-shade glasses; nerd glasses I like to call them (only the nerdy kids wore them, even if I do understand their practicality). Beside her was her reusable TJ's bag and in her hand some sort of multi-purpose phone, perhaps a Droid, maybe an iPhone. She stared at its shiny, black face; her own bland, sealed lip expression demonstrated her boredom or dismay with it. It appeared as if she wanted it to ring or do something significant like expand into a tool, a skateboard, or a piece of cake. Young enough, cake would not affect her metabolism or weight. She glanced up as I rhythmically huffed towards her. She watched me plod by.
As I passed by, I hoped that she didn't call someone to report that she'd spied a lezzie sporting tights and a mismatched long-sleeved shirt jogging around the lake or that she wanted to hang and see if I'd return. I didn't want to know that the glance she gave me as I approached followed me as I curved the edge of the lake. About 30 minutes later, when I rounded the final corner, she was walking opposite me. She looked up, gave me the up nod and smiled. I breathed a 'hi' and kept going. Despite my fatigue, I actually quickened my pace.
Tonight, I encountered one outside my building. I haven't lived here long, but in the short time I've never seen anyone but my landlord hover in the perimeter of my building; he lives in Fresno, a land far, far away from this dwelling. I worked late and approached my walkway with the same nonchalance as always: I never see anyone so I'm not usually on alert. The sensor lights illuminated before I approached my door's steps which I thought odd. They're sensitive but not that sensitive. As I plodded up the walkway, I was mildly startled by the presence of a tallish blond, wrapped in a thick, western leather, sheepskin coat, the kind the Marlboro man would wear. Sky blue scrubs and clogs covered her legs and feet. She appeared as surprised as I to see someone approaching; she croaked into her cell phone, "Hey, it's me. What's up? You okay?" I didn't know if I should've said hello in that moment or ignore her. Seemed an odd place to be having a rather personal phone conversation, unless of course she was really speaking to me. She stood, head downcast on the walkway just beyond my front steps, between the two rose bushes where the pathway light shone upon her plastine shoes and cast a eery glow upon her face. She lifted her head as I stepped up the steps. Ill at ease again, I of course pulled out my key which unlocks my office door. This does not fit into my lock. After taking a moment to stare at its incapacity to open my door, I swung the appropriate key around my finger, slid it into the lock and entered.
I didn't know what amazed me more, that there was another human who lived here in this building or that she's a chik, like me, or so my gaydar tells me.
These women, these ogling singlets with their sidelong gazes imbalance me. It's not the same nervousness I get, those crazy swarming butterflies when there's whoosh! beauty before me. Oh, no, that's one of those blushing sensations and I do my best not to stumble and fall all over myself with an introduction. That's an okay feeling.
These are different, like a visual Craigslist Personal ad, without the aggravating text script ("U r 1 hot bayb") or self-aggrandizing descriptions that often result in a well worn self-help book summary or an external appearance not unlike those wacky, wobbly fun house mirrors. These are the ads on the sleeves by way of the furtive, coy glances, the pawing of same-brand products ("I like peanut butter stuffed pretzels too!"), and cupped hands around half empty containers of chai tea while peeking through their mod glasses. These are singlet chiks, singlet women and they are everywhere - as I discovered before - but now I'm noticing that they are in places I least expected: where I shop and live. And I feel funny around them, awkward.
It's funny, but now that one has spotted where I live, not that I'm famous or anything, but just that I'm another in the statistic of a few, I feel like I'm going to have a little Yelp numbered pin poking out of my building that denotes An Older Chik Lives Here! Marked for all to see and discover.
And I thought I was anonymous among the masses.
There they are: the singlets, the women who shop while scanning who's behind them, the ones with eyes seemingly on the backs of their heads, or maybe concealed in their oversized watches or Timbuktu biker bags.
I've been walking around my neighborhood lately, occasionally purchasing products, often pawing a cup of Peet's that ignites my system. Once in a while, I find an open stool there upon which I place my watchful self, and there I plop and view the world that strolls by on the sidewalk. The families are plenty, single dads and moms, buddies who yammer over a slice of pizza across the street, or the homeless dudes who hold out mottled Street Sheets and an empty donation Starbucks cup. Even the occasional EMTs or police officers all hot and confident in their deep blue wool and shiny leather uniforms saunter the street and nearby cafes embuing us with that sense of protectiveness and precautionary safety. Those who are women in uniform are often ensconced in conversation with their uniformed brethren. They are not the ones with the eyes.
It's the women, the chix, the bespectacled woman with the wandering eye who I see scanning the crowds, the aisles of cereal, the card shop's humor section, the rows of hair products before me. They are the watchers. I know this sounds paranoid, but it's happened on a number of different occasions.
It's like a porn movie without the cheesy chika-bow-wow music: she's taller than I, a page-boy cut brunette clad in a navy waist coat, hipster jeans and cool Adidas shoes. Her skin tells me she's younger too, none of the crows feet age lines that carve up my eyes. She reaches up, over her head for a 24 ounce bottle of Biolage spray and examines its contents like it's a nutritional chart. Then, as she replaces it, she tilts her head slightly in my direction; is she wondering if I need to pass by, is she really reading labels, or she peering in my direction?
I'm searching for a mousse, preferably Paul Mitchell; all the white bottles look alike to me and because I'm officially in the reading glasses age, I squint to read what each 12 point font indicates upon the labels. As I see her cocked head, I worry the product I seek will be near her and I'll have to interact. I sniffle from unease. From my sketchy peripheral vision, I see that she's reached towards a hip-level shelf and withdraws some other brand, some other type of bottle, this time it looks like a molding gel. Far from the spray she originally sought.
I find my product, look in her direction and see that she's smiling. I give the ole 'up nod, sniffle and turn. She smiles again. I'm uncomfortable. This is a hair product store. I pay and leave. About eight paces beyond I hear the tinkling bell of the shop; she's leaving too.
I went for a run the other day and saw in the near distance sitting on a park bench a solo chik. She was cool too, with her dark her pushed up into a peak - she needed a haircut - oversized jeans, boarder sneakers, and a black leather jacket with yellow hoodie poking out behind her neck. Her eyes were partially concealed by sun-shade glasses; nerd glasses I like to call them (only the nerdy kids wore them, even if I do understand their practicality). Beside her was her reusable TJ's bag and in her hand some sort of multi-purpose phone, perhaps a Droid, maybe an iPhone. She stared at its shiny, black face; her own bland, sealed lip expression demonstrated her boredom or dismay with it. It appeared as if she wanted it to ring or do something significant like expand into a tool, a skateboard, or a piece of cake. Young enough, cake would not affect her metabolism or weight. She glanced up as I rhythmically huffed towards her. She watched me plod by.
As I passed by, I hoped that she didn't call someone to report that she'd spied a lezzie sporting tights and a mismatched long-sleeved shirt jogging around the lake or that she wanted to hang and see if I'd return. I didn't want to know that the glance she gave me as I approached followed me as I curved the edge of the lake. About 30 minutes later, when I rounded the final corner, she was walking opposite me. She looked up, gave me the up nod and smiled. I breathed a 'hi' and kept going. Despite my fatigue, I actually quickened my pace.
Tonight, I encountered one outside my building. I haven't lived here long, but in the short time I've never seen anyone but my landlord hover in the perimeter of my building; he lives in Fresno, a land far, far away from this dwelling. I worked late and approached my walkway with the same nonchalance as always: I never see anyone so I'm not usually on alert. The sensor lights illuminated before I approached my door's steps which I thought odd. They're sensitive but not that sensitive. As I plodded up the walkway, I was mildly startled by the presence of a tallish blond, wrapped in a thick, western leather, sheepskin coat, the kind the Marlboro man would wear. Sky blue scrubs and clogs covered her legs and feet. She appeared as surprised as I to see someone approaching; she croaked into her cell phone, "Hey, it's me. What's up? You okay?" I didn't know if I should've said hello in that moment or ignore her. Seemed an odd place to be having a rather personal phone conversation, unless of course she was really speaking to me. She stood, head downcast on the walkway just beyond my front steps, between the two rose bushes where the pathway light shone upon her plastine shoes and cast a eery glow upon her face. She lifted her head as I stepped up the steps. Ill at ease again, I of course pulled out my key which unlocks my office door. This does not fit into my lock. After taking a moment to stare at its incapacity to open my door, I swung the appropriate key around my finger, slid it into the lock and entered.
I didn't know what amazed me more, that there was another human who lived here in this building or that she's a chik, like me, or so my gaydar tells me.
These women, these ogling singlets with their sidelong gazes imbalance me. It's not the same nervousness I get, those crazy swarming butterflies when there's whoosh! beauty before me. Oh, no, that's one of those blushing sensations and I do my best not to stumble and fall all over myself with an introduction. That's an okay feeling.
These are different, like a visual Craigslist Personal ad, without the aggravating text script ("U r 1 hot bayb") or self-aggrandizing descriptions that often result in a well worn self-help book summary or an external appearance not unlike those wacky, wobbly fun house mirrors. These are the ads on the sleeves by way of the furtive, coy glances, the pawing of same-brand products ("I like peanut butter stuffed pretzels too!"), and cupped hands around half empty containers of chai tea while peeking through their mod glasses. These are singlet chiks, singlet women and they are everywhere - as I discovered before - but now I'm noticing that they are in places I least expected: where I shop and live. And I feel funny around them, awkward.
It's funny, but now that one has spotted where I live, not that I'm famous or anything, but just that I'm another in the statistic of a few, I feel like I'm going to have a little Yelp numbered pin poking out of my building that denotes An Older Chik Lives Here! Marked for all to see and discover.
And I thought I was anonymous among the masses.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Surgerical Removal and Loss
We're always talking about surgical removal of wrinkles, bunions, tumors, warts, and extractions of impacted teeth. I'd like to discuss the surgical removal of space.
Not as in Space, The Final Frontier, but space, as in the gap between bone and tendon,the crevasse between at-rest and forward movement.
Last week, I subjected myself to the closing of a 3.5cm gap between my right humerus and my supra- and infraspinatus tendons and muscles. Shorn right off they were, nary a tab hung in the wind to which my surgeon could reattach. He opted for four titanium - Super Power I like to call them - screws and a bunch of Kevlar suture by which to lasso these muscles to their metallic pier. Second time I've had some Kevlar sewn into this shoulder. I should, essentially be bullet proof by now.
But it's the gap to which I refer here. The gap that allowed so much to occur and fall to the wayside. The cavern of air in which energy was lost and desired outcomes not completed. I had no idea how large this was until I was told recently, and by then, it seemed that there was so much damage, a repair seemed delayed, essentially late. Like wanting to see the tide roll in at dawn but waking up after the sunrise and discovering the beach and all cool shells are already swimming under water.
It has been repaired, though. And now, the pain ensues. The sutures have closed the gap, healing must follow, but not before so much damage has already occurred behind it. Closing the trench only seals a part of the wound that ripped apart long ago, little by little until, at last, it laid, open-mouthed, untethered, and basically ignored or unnoticed. Loss of life in this forward moving structure during these past couple years has made the recovery and rehabilitation a little more painful.
Look ahead, don't forget what occurred in the past to make this injury come about, learn from it, grow from it, and renew. It hurts, yes, but, ideally, it will get better and ultimately, the ache, loss, and pain will subside. Like a surgical removal of loss, perhaps now I can have a surgical removal and replacement of what disappeared in this vacuous gully.
I want to heal this wound and recover and grow from what still remains.
Not as in Space, The Final Frontier, but space, as in the gap between bone and tendon,the crevasse between at-rest and forward movement.
Last week, I subjected myself to the closing of a 3.5cm gap between my right humerus and my supra- and infraspinatus tendons and muscles. Shorn right off they were, nary a tab hung in the wind to which my surgeon could reattach. He opted for four titanium - Super Power I like to call them - screws and a bunch of Kevlar suture by which to lasso these muscles to their metallic pier. Second time I've had some Kevlar sewn into this shoulder. I should, essentially be bullet proof by now.
But it's the gap to which I refer here. The gap that allowed so much to occur and fall to the wayside. The cavern of air in which energy was lost and desired outcomes not completed. I had no idea how large this was until I was told recently, and by then, it seemed that there was so much damage, a repair seemed delayed, essentially late. Like wanting to see the tide roll in at dawn but waking up after the sunrise and discovering the beach and all cool shells are already swimming under water.
It has been repaired, though. And now, the pain ensues. The sutures have closed the gap, healing must follow, but not before so much damage has already occurred behind it. Closing the trench only seals a part of the wound that ripped apart long ago, little by little until, at last, it laid, open-mouthed, untethered, and basically ignored or unnoticed. Loss of life in this forward moving structure during these past couple years has made the recovery and rehabilitation a little more painful.
Look ahead, don't forget what occurred in the past to make this injury come about, learn from it, grow from it, and renew. It hurts, yes, but, ideally, it will get better and ultimately, the ache, loss, and pain will subside. Like a surgical removal of loss, perhaps now I can have a surgical removal and replacement of what disappeared in this vacuous gully.
I want to heal this wound and recover and grow from what still remains.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Birthdays
Friends, siblings, doggies are aging. Even I'm getting older. Of course, I'm thinking of all the peops I know who celebrate -- or don't -- this annual step towards maturity or Medicare.
I wanted to say that the collective birthdayers -- or 'we' -- are headed towards graying, but many of my friends aren't gray, or, perhaps those melanin-lacking hairs don't show for one reason or another. I need to mention the unintended step towards wrinkling, not in a bad, but because this is what age brings us. Most of my shriveling posse leans towards the contented side, which usually means they're not knitting their eyebrows together in typical angry fashion to earn those forehead wrinkles. They're a pleasant crew, aging well, aging steadily. I, too have discovered the facial caverns on myself: Crows feet from too much laughter may crevasse on the outer perimeter of eyes, but again, this results from smiling, not bitterness nor a history of (ew, yuck!) smoking, although I may admit I am headed toward a juvenile version of elderhood.
Basco's ten years old. A good age for a doggie. I'd say a great age for a dog who went blind three years ago. He's graying a bit, mostly on his hind legs, just over his knees. He's always been an old soul, even when he was a puppy he had a gently whitened, muzzle. He seemed okay with whatever life presented to him. I'd like to age gracefully like him.
Mom made sure that each of us celebrated our birthday, one way or another. My brother John was usually shafted: his day fell in mid-December when most of us had school plays, concerts, and other events that trumped his special day.
Mom's birthday was one never to be missed. She wasn't the biggest fan of Mother's Day, thinking it a useless reminder of her motherhood. But her birthday? Never Forget her day. Never. Call, send a card (in advance), order flowers or a gift to arrive early or on the day of. She loved yellow roses, but as an 8 y/o, I stole her heart when I gave her a bouquet of 3 dozen pink carnations which the florist sold me for a wrinkled dollar. I'm certain I looked like a street urching and he simply wanted me out of his boutiquey store.
She once said to me that celebrating her birthday was a way to show her she mattered, that she was loved, that we honored her presence. Her day is coming up and believe me, even at rest, I know that she's hoping for us to toast her on May 22nd. I will. I always do.
Alas, the birthday is unavoidable. It arrives a mere 12 months just after the last one. Even if those around us do so, it's one of those dates that we simply cannott forget, unlike Jury Duty obligations or the semi-annual dental appointment.
Thus, I suggest we toast the day of aging. Raise a glass to those who are avoiding another year and to those who embrace the day (or month) of their birth. Glad you're here getting old with me. I raise a tasty, frothy beer to each of you and to those whose birthdays are upcoming. Many good wishes and best of luck during your year.
I wanted to say that the collective birthdayers -- or 'we' -- are headed towards graying, but many of my friends aren't gray, or, perhaps those melanin-lacking hairs don't show for one reason or another. I need to mention the unintended step towards wrinkling, not in a bad, but because this is what age brings us. Most of my shriveling posse leans towards the contented side, which usually means they're not knitting their eyebrows together in typical angry fashion to earn those forehead wrinkles. They're a pleasant crew, aging well, aging steadily. I, too have discovered the facial caverns on myself: Crows feet from too much laughter may crevasse on the outer perimeter of eyes, but again, this results from smiling, not bitterness nor a history of (ew, yuck!) smoking, although I may admit I am headed toward a juvenile version of elderhood.
Basco's ten years old. A good age for a doggie. I'd say a great age for a dog who went blind three years ago. He's graying a bit, mostly on his hind legs, just over his knees. He's always been an old soul, even when he was a puppy he had a gently whitened, muzzle. He seemed okay with whatever life presented to him. I'd like to age gracefully like him.
Mom made sure that each of us celebrated our birthday, one way or another. My brother John was usually shafted: his day fell in mid-December when most of us had school plays, concerts, and other events that trumped his special day.
Mom's birthday was one never to be missed. She wasn't the biggest fan of Mother's Day, thinking it a useless reminder of her motherhood. But her birthday? Never Forget her day. Never. Call, send a card (in advance), order flowers or a gift to arrive early or on the day of. She loved yellow roses, but as an 8 y/o, I stole her heart when I gave her a bouquet of 3 dozen pink carnations which the florist sold me for a wrinkled dollar. I'm certain I looked like a street urching and he simply wanted me out of his boutiquey store.
She once said to me that celebrating her birthday was a way to show her she mattered, that she was loved, that we honored her presence. Her day is coming up and believe me, even at rest, I know that she's hoping for us to toast her on May 22nd. I will. I always do.
Alas, the birthday is unavoidable. It arrives a mere 12 months just after the last one. Even if those around us do so, it's one of those dates that we simply cannott forget, unlike Jury Duty obligations or the semi-annual dental appointment.
Thus, I suggest we toast the day of aging. Raise a glass to those who are avoiding another year and to those who embrace the day (or month) of their birth. Glad you're here getting old with me. I raise a tasty, frothy beer to each of you and to those whose birthdays are upcoming. Many good wishes and best of luck during your year.
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