lunacy's child

More Pictures

2009-10-21T08:14:00.005-05:00

Pics from two weeks ago while running around Indira Nagar. It's a firmly working class district with stretches of poverty that run throughout.

Street Vendor

Street Dogs 1

Street Dogs 2

Working Class Neighborhood 1

Breakfast

Working Class Neighborhood 2

Trashed

Scaffolding

Holiday Decorations

Propane Tanks

Sacks On A Street

The Rear End 1

The Rear End

Cows In The Street 1

Cows In The Street 2

The Edge Of Poverty

Fruit Vendor

Bumper To Bumper

Ram

2009-10-20T11:07:00.002-05:00

I was Sally, a young woman just relocated to a new city. He was Mrs. Smith, an elderly, widowed landlady.

We pretended that it was June 10 and that I'd seen an advertisement for a one bedroom apartment with garage space for $600. The occupancy would begin July 1. I liked the apartment, but the bathroom was being remodeled and wouldn't be ready for a week. What's worse, my furniture was already on its way and would be there in 3 days.

There was a lot going on.

All that I knew is that I wanted the apartment repainted. I wanted to do something with the stove and refrigerator I bought in advance. And, that I'd been sleeping on my cousin's couch and was not very comfortable.

So he and I pretended to meet up and negotiate everything.

Mrs. Smith was so nice. We worked things out with any argument. She wanted a $1200 security deposit––$600 more than I had budgeted. But, I got off with $500 rent for 6 months, and $600 thereafter. I'd budgeted for $600, so I felt fine about the rent. She said she couldn't paint the apartment for another 6 months, but would if I committed to a one-year lease. And she agreed to to let me store my things in her garage until the bathroom remodeling was completed. Even better, she said I could replace her old stove and refrigerator with mine if I agreed to leave them behind when I moved out.

It was a fun roleplaying game during yet another 90 minutes training session for my company's "university program" here in Bangalore. The best part was that it seemed like the man playing Mrs. Smith smiled the entire time and we got along like we were married.

He sat next to me for most of the day a few days ago. At points, I could feel his forearm rest next to mine—Indian men don't refrain from body contact with other men. For me the experience was immediately homoerotic. For casual body heat connected us in the otherwise ice-cold training room. His presence sedated me and generated an odd mixture of tranquil yearnings.

It's a weird sort of crush—he's only 21. Which means I'm his (very) hypothetical father. Which is ok really. It's not really a do him now (!! … ! ... !!) sort of attraction. But I do like it a lot when he smiles and awkwardly says, "hello, Jonathan" in a heavily accented English that lightly rolls off of his tongue like chocolate & peppers.

And I have to assume he's straight. It's not even a game I play full of I hope's and maybe's. Or subtle suggestions of difference played in a quiet tune in a private, dimly lit room. I accept it as a matter of lonely fact.

His name is Ramanathan, but we call him Ram (pronounced Rahm with a lightly trilled r) in class. It's a shortening of his name. One that's a lot easier for me to pronounce, even though it's basically like my name with an extra syllable. The nickname is endearing. It smiles. It innocently winks. It bonds.

He's my height (5'7")—if not an inch shorter … a pretty uncommon thing. He's black –haired and brown-skinned with a figure that echoes the transition from adolescence to manhood.

The other day, he was wearing shorts. They were long, black and shiny. I saw his calves. They were defined and furry. He's my hobbit now—though I try to let the reference only casually stick in my mind. Attachment is what the young or the less wise do. I wonder if he has attachments to anyone … his family, friends … someone special? What contours are shaped by those expressions? Are they like hands that move over and around almost close enough?

He wears glasses. Wireframes that expose the lens along the underside. They lend an air of intelligence to him. I cannot figure how smart he actually is. There are times when he appears to be brilliant in silence—then speaks and reveals a warm and funny cluelessness.

He often seems to sit in his own world contentedly. I wonder if his apparent happiness has a secret. Perhaps, like all of my previous boyfriends, he is wounded and hides his pain behind a just barely chipped veneer. It wouldn't surprise me. I've come to accept the inner logic of my attractions and theirs.

We're involved in a workshop project together now. So, along with one other team member, we spend an hour or so every weekday night trying to plan and practice our presentation. In his soft and the surprisingly rising tones, he stakes out his piece of the project and then relents under the force of my persuasiveness. Just at the point where his weakness is revealed and he says "Ok, Jonathan", I relent and long to carry him somewhere soft and comfortable while running fingers though his hair.

This leads to nothing.

The whole experience really is just a mental exercise of maturing desire. I could let it take me so many places—in my mind. But that's just where it's at and where it will gather dust until it no longer applies. Perhaps I am rehearsing my next opportunity—whoever he will be. Maybe I am allowing my experience here in India approach a level of stomach-fluttering intimacy.

Whatever it is, I take it home with me nightly to my small room in the Diamond District. I rehearse tomorrow there, glad that no one takes notice.

Oh Shit

2009-10-11T06:32:00.000-05:00

Everything was going great today until I stepped in a pile of anythingshit.

I'd taken an Ambien last night at 11:30, and after a week of fitful sleep, I slept like a small child sucking on a pacifier. Eleven hours later I faded back into consciousness—ceiling fan blades spiraling endlessly.

My room, shrouded beneath heavy curtains, is perpetually dark. I could open the curtains, but my only views are one of a thick tangle of burglar bars and the other of a trash heap that looks like it has been accumulating since the 1970s. Waking up in a room like this always feels a little disorienting as it's hard to tell if it's darker in the daytime than at night.

Once I'd showered and dressed, I headed over to the Cow Standup for breakfast. This isn't the actual name of the restaurant. The sign is in Kanada (pronounced: kah nah dah), Bangalore's primary language spoken by about 55 million Indians. And I can't read it. I think the instructors at my training program gave the dive the nickname. It has tasty South Indian breakfast fare—steamed idli and lightly crisped dosas served with orange sambar and pale green coconut chutney. There aren't no sit-down chairs. Just enough room to stand up next to narrow tables and eat on one's own.

I'd slung my camera over my shoulder earlier and put it to use once I was done eating. There are so many interesting moments in India. And many happen so quickly it's pointless to reach for the camera and lightly touch the autofocus button. Click. Everywhere you look there are people and animals engaged in activity—walking, talking, carrying, eating, sleeping, selling, buying.

In the midst of this commotion I stood, moving in slow motion, unclasping the lens cap, pulling the camera strap out of view, and twisting around towards each compelling subject. And click, on they went—sometimes staring with inquisitive eyes that people only reserve for foreigners.

My happy wanderings took me up and down 100 Foot Road. Despite its name, the road really stretches several kilometers and is usually choked in traffic and exhaust fumes. As on any day, today a seemingly endless procession of cars, motorcycles, motorized rickshaws, and bicycles started and stopped in slow-moving rivers mixed with shiny new metallic hues and faded shades of yesterday.

The road is bordered in both sides with stores rising two and three stories high. Western clothes shops. Grocery stores. Dentist and optical shops. They're all set back from the street. Massive trees, some in orange flower stand out in front and broken pavement veers in all directions.

Alongside this scene I strolled, snapping pictures at the unwary or at objects that seemed absurd. It was sultry outside, the first really warm day I'd experienced since arriving in Bangalore sixteen days ago.

After an hour, I took a break at Café Coffee Day—India's nationwide barista chain. Like Starbucks, they serve an assortment of coffee drinks and teas. Unlike Starbucks, in a strangely old-fashioned way, you pay your bill at the end of your stay. The place was blasting with Western dancepop tracks. A pair of average guys played chess in corner, while a trio of women wearing vibrant saris chatted in another. I drank the Mochachillo I'd ordered in slow deliberate sips. The air condition daubed at the sweat I'd built up from all the walking in the humid, outside air. With each cool swallow, life slowed down a little.

Then I was off to FabIndia to buy a couple of authentic Indian garments known as kurtas. Basically longish shirts without a collar, kurtas come in a variety of brilliant fabrics and textures. Some are extra short—stopping just below the waist. Others are as long as one's knees.

I tried on several and ended up looking like a finely textured marshmallow with stick-like arms popping out from long, open sleeves. But two, one white and the other cream-colored, looked great. They both were lightweight and finely brocaded in woven design. So I bagged them and headed back to 100 Foot Street in the direction of home.

The day had been so rich and full of stimulation that I felt like I was floating as softly as dandelion snow. I wasn't really in the mood to take any more pictures. I just wanted to coast back to the apartment and add my bag of goodies the to the small pile of items I planned on shipping back to San Francisco.

Then I looked down on, saw the smeared trail, and realized I'd just stepped on a pile of anything shit. Who knows what creature had left such an unwelcome gift.

Who cares.

I spent the next kilometer dragging, twisting, and scraping my shoes in sand, gravel, water, and pavement—anything I could do to clean of my shoes' soles. People slowed down and gawked at me. And I just pretended that I wasn't really me. And that I wasn't really there.

But moments like these fade. Or at least, should fade.

So there I was, a kilometer later, walking on Old Airport Road, surrounded by throngs of people—all headed in their own direction. I'd just walked under a massive pedestrian bridge when I spotted a sign on a wall whose picture I had to take. One last photo for the day.

I set up the shot, looking for that ideal sweet spot from which to shoot. Got on one knee to still my shaky hands. While I shook my head free from the camera strap, one older man came close and stared at me quietly. I had no idea why I finally got into position and click, snapped the shot.

It was only when I stood back up that I realized that one of my feet had been firmly planted in another pile of anythingshit and I hadn't even noticed. I didn't even want to wait for the third strike. After two I was out.

So I started to grind my shoes in some gravel all over again.

Ugh.

Don't Fuck With Men In Dresses

2009-10-08T12:23:00.000-05:00

Too camp. From The Daily Mail:

Two thugs who attacked what they thought were a pair of transvestites picked on the wrong men - when their intended victims turned out to be cage fighters on a night out in fancy dress.
Dean Gardener, 19, and Jason Fender, 22, singled out the two men walking along a street in wigs, short skirts and high heels.
Bare-chested Gardener was caught on CCTV confronting one of the men in a pink wig, black skirt and boob tube - then seen swinging a punch, a court heard.
But the other cage fighter, wearing a sparkling black dress and matching long wig, sprang to his friend's help, delivering two lightning-quick punches to the two stunned yobs.
The cage fighters were then seen teetering away in their high heels, stopping only to pick up a clutch bag they dropped during the melee.

The India Office

2009-10-08T11:22:00.001-05:00

The funniest part of last night was sitting at work listening to a group of Indians listening to When The Saints Go Marching In behind me on a laptop and singing along. Listening to such an old-fashioned tune in the country's technology city center

The India office is in the city’s Diamond District, a conglomeration of high tech business, its attached aspirational lifestyle, and the poverty that seems to encircle every neighborhood with squalor. I've been coming here daily after class to check my corporate email and enjoy better Internet access than the spotty service I'm getting in my apartment.

Although the glass exterior is shiny from the street, the building is pretty shabby inside. Everything seems worn around the edges. Chipped paint. Dusty corners. There are scuff marks along the walls. And there are signs in the stairwell that read: "Do Not Spit Here".

We're on the second and fourth floors. The second floor, where I park myself for an hour or two, is a large room crowded with long tables bristling with Ethernet cables and power cords. Developers swarm around these tables in black, mesh-backed chairs working on the company's assortment of software projects. The room easily supports the intricate workings of 350—maybe 400 minds. And I sit among them.—a newbie from halfway around the world. Listening to a jazz song.

I suppose at some point I will just mingle with everyone in the same river flowing in the same direction. But for now, cultural adaptation takes its own time.

16,001,100 Dimwits

2009-10-04T02:31:00.000-05:00

While narrowcasting my previous post on Facebook, I was confronted with this captcha image text:

Just One Moment

2009-10-04T01:57:00.001-05:00

I walked out of my apartment the other days after classes and looked up into the tall and narrow courtyard, around which layers and layers of stacked apartments wound. Even while looking up, I could feel the mud-colored cobblestone pavement beneath my shoes’ soles. It was as if I were stretching in two directions at once. Up. And down.

Diamond District Apartments

The sun had already begun to fade across the courtyard’s deep well. And the light evening breeze to stir. Noises flitted: a child’s laugh, the bang of a closing door—or the exotic rhythm of Indian men in conversation on the farthest edge of nearby.

The moment could well have lasted forever, but even as one step lifted from cobblestone, the other landed firmly down. And I was swiftly gone.

A Few Pictures

2009-10-02T08:57:00.000-05:00

I thought I'd post a few pictures from last week's busy day in Bangalore. Some of the pictures came out pretty cool. Most them, however, feel pretty blah--but I'm posting them because they document an interesting experience. Enjoy.

Temple Entrance 1

Temple Entrance 3

Dodda Ganesha Temple Exterior

Bull Temple Exterior

Nandi, The Bull

Cubbon Park Trees 1

Cubbon Park Trees 2

Cubbon Park Trees 3

Rickshaws In Transit 1

Rickshaws In Transit 2

Rickshaws In Transit 3

Rickshaws In Transit 4

Bald & Beautiful

Saris

A Lighter Shade

2009-09-28T11:06:00.003-05:00

I wrapped up today’s coursework around 5pm in my part of the world. I had to rush out and get to my company’s office in time to have someone look at my unresponsive mobile phone. When I walked past a crush of people at the hotel’s entrance, my thoughts were busy with all the material we’d covered in our private and frigid conference room and my wish to call my mom.

I walked through a security gate. The sun hinted at the verge of sunset. Darkly colored men stood in pairs on uneven pavement. Makeshift stores with corrugated metal roofs loomed against the street’s crooked edges. Occasional caramel colored women strolled by in saris. Kids rattled past me on rickety bikes. All while the smell of a thick, open sewer wafted from nearby.

And then all of a sudden I felt very white. Like a hotel towel—or the surface of an hen’s fresh egg. And there was no graceful way to escape this whiteness. There was only the hurrying of my steps and a desire to avoid all eye contact.

Not only didn’t I fit in, but I walked straight through the middle of this scene like a reverse color exclamation point. That is to say, dressed in trendy narrow knee length plaid shorts, a raspberry t-shirt, a MacBook Pro under my arm, a Nikon D-70S camera with a large telephoto zoom lens slung around my shoulder, and a cute, black manbag from Muji. Essentially: highly privileged and a walking reminder of what no one around me had.

But maybe even there I betray sincerity. It is very presumptuous to assume that people around me valued my particular materialism. It may well have offended them. Or at the very least confirmed their perception of Westerners. Perhaps I was just the white guy that tickled the edges of their self-interest.

There are so many variations on this theme. And it is like staring into a kaleidoscope. Or a world full of elusive answers that ultimately reveal my not so important and insecure point of view.

Maybe this flash of insight is more about poverty than racial/ethnic differences. That is to say, being white actually implies a privileged position of wealth—let alone opportunity. I’ve been forming great relationships with my 13 Indian classmates, all of whom are college graduates and, although no white, belong to the Indian middle class.

The men, women and children on the street were clearly members of a lower social class—though I hate the way that economically objectifies an entire population. My middle class American status, on the other hand, has elevated me to the ranks of the well off here in India. It’s just so hard to imagine hundreds of millions of impoverished Indians living for miles around me. And why I feel so white and wealthy and even self-involved.

I’m ruminating on this subject. It has generated on one of those a ha! moments, as if in the face of so much difference I’ve encountered a truth that is fleetingly familiar. And I need to let it digest.

Heartburn is so uncomfortable.

A Full Day

2009-09-26T12:57:00.002-05:00

Twelve hours later I’m exhausted. I’ve spent all morning, afternoon and evening participating in a mad dash through chaos otherwise known as the Bangalore City Tour. The name sounds far more glamorous than it actually is. It’s part of the “university program” my company offers incoming employees to get them up to speed on how the company uniquely tackles the complex world of agile software development.

It’s a six weeks course, eight hours a day, Monday through Friday. Company employees teach the program. Some are developers—others project mangers, business analysts, etc. They all seem to have one thing in common: a real passion for the company and what it does. I have to admit, it’s infectious … and also refreshing in an otherwise cynical corporate world.

Our first session happened yesterday. We spent most of the day becoming introduced to the ins and outs of the company’s India location. Practical matters such as access badge provision, company mobile phone distribution, and the all- important location of the toilet.

We also played a number of team-building exercises, the last of which was a two hours long treasure hunt all over the office. I’ve participated in these sorts of exercises to know what their real intention is: teaching people to learn how to coordinate team-playing and solutions-driven behavior in a way that maximizes the group’s overall strengths.

But I’m a lot older than the rest of the students. They’re mostly 22-ish—whereas I’m 39. And I guess that means that for most of them, the exercise was largely perceived as a fun diversion from the program’s drier coursework. I could be wrong and I don’t mean to imply that these men and women have the maturity levels of teenagers. But there was something about their shared glee and commitment to action that I didn’t share.

Today’s tour was a special Saturday excursion. It was my first opportunity to experience the central city a few miles away from the corporate areas on the outskirts of town.

We caught a bus at 7am and drove to the city’s Bull Temple—a Hindu shrine dedicated to an enormous rock carving of a bull. There was a separate shrine celebrating another huge rock carving covered in butter (?!) of the elephant-headed Ganesh, the Hindu deity of luck. Before the temple tour was over I had:

Removed my shoes and socks
Stood in a long line of people performing silent chants
Had temple priests bring up donation trays with flaming cups above which you were to fan yourself with the fire’s heat
Circled around the rock in a reverent procession
Finally daubed myself with a red smudge on between the eyebrows and stepped back out into daylight.

We then had breakfast on the bus. Steamed lentil dumplings called idli as well as fried rice flour donuts—both of which could be steeped into sweet coconut chutney.

After breakfast we journeyed to the city’s central Cubbon Park for a series of team games. We divided into 4 groups of 4-5 people and gave our teams names. The name snail popped into my head when my group brainstormed our identity. It was odd enough to like and so we christened ourselves as the Super Snails.

The games were ridiculous. Essentially, the first game involved two buckets and 5 potatoes. Every team member was enjoined to place the potato up high between their legs, hold the potato in place until they crossed 15 feet to the bucket, and squat in order to drop the potato in the bucket. Each team was timed and the team who completed dropping all five potatoes by squatting in the bucket in the least amount of total time, won.

Huh.

See, for everyone else the game seemed like a fun and free way to spend 20 minutes competing against one another in a friendly fashion. For me, however, the game seemed only to operate as a metaphor for competitive defecation.

The second game was equally odd. We were each to wrap a heavy string around our waist, to which another string had been tied. We were to place this dangling string behind our backs. A long iron nail was attached to this string. And as it swayed to and fro we were to stand over a open bottle and slowly attempt to lower ourselves so that the nail would drop into the bottle. So while the first game was about merely taking a shit, this second game was like being challenged to take a high precision quality shit.

After the games, we enjoyed a second breakfast. This included karabaat and kesabaat—two delicious savory and sweet varieties of a sticky rice paste. These tasted so good that I brought home a few to eat for breakfast tomorrow morning.

From the park we bussed to Bangalore’s Commercial Street district. Crowded with a seemingly infinite number of shops, our teams were once again challenged to a game. In this game we were tasked to journey to a number of shops and either buy something from the shop or take a photo of the shop. Obviously, the intent of this game was more collective problem-solving, but it also served the purpose of allowing ourselves the opportunity to get to know an extremely congested and vital part of the city.

We we stepped off the tour bus, everything seemed to be happening at once. Cars and motorbikes snaked through the narrow streets while honking. Stray dogs sleept on pavement. Beggars, wearing hardly any clothing, leisurely strolled. Street peddlers hawked their wares. Smells of food waftrd from restaurants, stand-ups and open sewers. Rich colors of saris hung from open doors ways—rippling in the wind like satin flags.

My team never achieved the game’s goal. Instead, our team leader who happened to be one of the program’s instructors, decided to go shopping for a Bose stereo system.

Ok.

Running dead last, we met up with the other teams at a local café named Koshy’s. It was a warm day and plenty of iced tea and coffee had been passed around. I opted for some hot masala chai instead. Years ago, my best friend V_____ visited me in Texas from London. One afternoon, I came home from school and found her sitting on a picnic table in front of my apartment reading a book and sipping hot tea.

“Why are you having tea? It’s hot outside!”, I said.

“Hot drinks are the best thing to have on a hot day.”

“Why is that?”, I replied.

“Because it makes you sweat a bit and when there’s even a tiny breeze it cools you down.”

I didn’t believe her until I tried it on my own one day. And, true enough, it worked. So in a city like Bangalore, that has very little air conditioning, a refreshingly cool hot drink is a nice way to deal with the weather.

After the cafe, we boarded the bus a gain and travelled to mall named UB City—one of many new shopping malls springing up in the city. Walking inside was like entering another world. The chaos and assault on the senses smoothened into a serene air-conditioned calmed. Chill marble floors and gold ornamentation gleamed from all directions.

We reached our next destination by taking a long, sinuous escalator rising in slow waves above the center of the mall. Tucked into an elegant corner on the second floor, an opulent restaurant named Khansama waited for all 25 of us to arrive and sit down at an impossible long set of tables and benches. The food was served buffet style and included vibrant salads, and tropical fruit, piquant curries of all types—easily twenty, and sweets like kulfi (a frozen, thick desser like ice cream) and a chocolate fountain in which to coat small peices of cake.

One of my colleagues, P_______, a beautiful and intimidatingly intelligent woman, offered to show me around the buffet room. She explained the ingredients of all the dishes., recommending things based on her experiences. I ended up with one plate full of 10 kinds of salad and another plate topped with 15 kinds of curry. And a bowl of tropical fruit! And rice pudding! (And caramel-flavoredkulfi!)

We wrapped up our meal in about one and a half hours, splitting up into two groups: one remaining for a movie and the other headed home. I chose the latter option, being too tired to carry on. Those who opted to return climbed into the tour bus and we journeyed another thirty minutes back to our apartments. Then somehow I ended up making plans with an Australian couple to meet up after a brief hour’s rest and continue the day with a little shopping about a mile’s walk up the road.

By the time I returned, the day had eased into sunset. I was carrying to shopping bags full of bedspreads, sheets, and pillowcases I had found at a home furnishings store called Fab India. I spent all of $30 for the entire set and accomplished one of my goals to achieve during this trip. I’ll be buying a new bed when I return to San Francisco and these linens will come in handy.

The apartment was empty and still when I stepped inside after the day’s odyssey. I kicked off my shoes at the doorway—as polite Indians do, and dropped off my things next my bedroom’s wardrobe. At first I thought a few minute’s rest would sober me up, but I quickly lapsed into a couple of hour’s slumber and ended the day as I had began it.

Comforting Power

2009-09-24T19:41:00.003-05:00

It’s hard to describe the contraption I’m supposed to use to wash my clothes. It is rectangular. And it has knobs and switches. But I’m not sure how to use it. And there is no dryer. I used to drip dry my clothing all of the time. But then I started to develop a never-ending bout with jock itch—which vanished as soon as I began to regularly dry my clothes in a machine. I suppose I’m glad I brought a couple of tubes of terbinafine cream (Lamisil) with me to India.

Culture shock, anticipated for weeks, has set in early—indeed even before I head out the door of my “executive suite” as displayed proudly on the apartment building’s signs, culture shock has jarred me from silly fantasies of a nice break from the US.

For instance, I walked into my “kitchen” last night after of a very long flight to Bangalore, expecting to find it stocked up with food as advertised in my company’s informative brochure, I only found stale cookies and a cockroach.

This morning’s shower happened in a cubicle with an enormous faucet, a sputtering shower nozzle., and a large blue plastic bucket. I’m not sure what the bucket does except make noise when spray insistently taps it. There is a tiny hot water heater perched on top of one of the bathroom’s walls. It has to be turned on about 10 minutes before showering. There is enough water for about 4 minutes of washing and rinsing and then it’s cold water all the way.

Now I mention all of this not to complain from a privileged point of vie--though there is a rant buried preciously near the surface of this prose. I really do intend to primarily describe an experience. But on a deeper level, I mention these things because comfort is about privilege and to explore how power is implicated in everything we do—consciously or not. Which means I have normally have power--and still have power in this situation actually. But power should never be abused. And in the face of so much struggle by the poor in India, I should question that power and eat a slice of humble pie.

Taking Pictures In Chicago

2009-09-24T13:42:00.002-05:00

Chicago is about architecture—-there’s no doubt about. Many of the worlds finest skyscrapers can be found in this metro area of 9 million people. Work brought me to this city. I’ve just started a new job and the company likes its US employees to participate in an orientation at the company’s headquarters. I thought it was a great opportunity to finally get to know a city I’ve long wanted to visit, however brief this two day trip was.

I snapped these photos while walking around downtown. The first day was about noticing details. The second day began with a heavy gloom that shrouded buildings in clouds.

Between B & C

Neon Motion

Up The Escape

Waste Bins

Park Here

Showboats

In The Mist 1

In The Mist 2

In The Mist 3

In The Mist 4

In The Mist 5

Of Grace & Aging

2009-09-18T15:16:00.005-05:00

My mom and I have an ongoing dialogue:

Mom:	Getting old sucks.
Me:	Only if you think it does.
Mom:	Well it does.
Me:	I think that aging is a journey up on which you have no choice but to embark and learn what you may along the way.
Mom:	You say that because you’re still young.
Me:	But I’m not a child anymore.
Mom:	Great, now I feel even older.

Sometimes she casually drops a desire to off herself before she gets too old. I tell her that hurts a lot for a son to hear words like that from his mother. Sometimes she replies that she she’ll accept her aging the end. But sometimes the subject just changes and I wonder how serious she is. More often than not she elaborates on a belief that while aging sucks, we all have to live each day to its fullest if we are to make the most of what we have.

A friend of mine read the following passage aloud at dinner with a small, intimate group of people last night. It came from Carol Leifer’s book, When You Lie About Your Age, The Terrorists Win. As one word after another slipped from his mouth, I thought of my mother and our conversation to which we keep returning back. The passage somewhat lengthy, so indulge me.

It starts around the age of forty-five—when the only time people say you’re young anymore is if you drop dead. Getting older is hard—there’s no way around it. Your life starts being written in pen where it was once in pencil.
I thought briefly about lying about my age. Please, it’s almost a prerequisite for women at this point. And it would have been a very easy plan to implement, as well. Friends tell me that I don’t look my age, thanks to good genes and insane slatherings with sunblock. But then recently it came up again, and I realized why the lying was a no-go: Shea Stadium. Yes, blame the grande dame of Flushing for the blazing light that is the truth of my age. See, my greatest memory to date happened at Shea Stadium—and no, it wasn’t when I was briefly on the roster in 1986 and stole home off of Roger Clemens in the World Series.
It was in the summer of 1966, at Shea Stadium, where I saw the Beatles. I was ten years old and went with my older brother Marv, who was twenty-one and home from college—and who felt like going on the same day. Pretty wild, huh? Nothing has been exciting to me ever. Yeah, I know I could be all gooey and say the most exciting day was the one I met the love of my life, or the first time I laid eyes on our son, but I’d just be fibbing, even though those two days were really quite perfect. No, It’s the Fab Four. We drove there in my brother’s white 1964 Sunbeam convertible with the top down. We got great seats. I sang along to every song, being a rabid Beatles fan at the time because of my older sister and brother. I screamed my lungs out. I got to stay up late. But mostly, I was part of it. I was in it. I experienced the greatest rock band of the twentieth century, live—at an incredibly pure and impressionable age. Now tell me about the time you shook hands with Batman at the car show!
So not surprisingly, this memory blows people away. But lately, I’ve noticed pretty soon after the blowing away is over and long gone to bed, a number of people then remark, “The Beatles…. Jesus Christ! How old are you?” See, you can’t tell this story without revealing your age. In fact, it’s to my advantage to tell people my age ‘cause I went as such a young kid. So it got me thinking—if I can’t share the greatest memory of my life to date, then what do I share? Because I see now that when you deny your age, you deny yourself. And when you lie about your age, you become your inauthentic twin. But most important, when you lie about your age, they win. (And of course, by “they,” I mean the terrorists.)
I remember crying when I turned thirty-four. For no other reason than thirty-four seemed “old.” That seems pretty dumb seventeen years later. And that’s exactly the problem I feel with aging. We’re getting older every moment. I’m older now that when I first brought up those damn Mop Tops. So why latch on to a problem that only gets worse with every passing second?
[…]
So here’s my aging advice, for what it’s worth, and I think it works wonders. It’s not the latest cream or the name of a doctor who did some work on some celebrity who doesn’t look like she’s had anything done. No, it’s two things that I feel can make this a whole lot easier for you, so listen carefully. Number one: No one gives a crap how old you are except for you. Didn’t think so, did ya? But it’s true. You are your own greatest accountant (especially if you’re Jewish).
And number two is merely a couple of sentences, Grasshoper, that id you accept—truly accept—will make the rest of your life a whole lot better. And here it goes: This ends. We end. I can hear you out there saying, “But I already know that, smart-ass lady writer!” But do you? Then why are you getting an eye job when eyes are supposed to crinkle up on the sides when you laugh? Why are you cutting and pasting when the tread on a tire is supposed to show some wear. If you’re fifty-three your face ain’t supposed to look sixteen.
Again, this ends. We end. And I know your religious belief may tell you otherwise. I know mine do. But for now this is all we know. So you can go on fighting it, and crying over it, but really, what is the use? Accept and deal. And it’s easier to grasp than you think. We accept “the end” with so many other aspects of our lives—work deadline, “must remit by” bills, “the end” as the last credit on a movie. But for some reason we still think somewhere that we’re supposed to be here forever. Believe me, I once thought so, too. But losing a parent changes that. I guess it’s the old food chain thing—when a link is missing and you’re the next one up, that’s some pretty powerful stuff.
So give this a whirl. You know when you book that vacation you’ve always dreamed about? For me, it was Maui. And you plan every waking second to make full use of being in this wonderland that only existed up till now in your head? It’s a Sunday to Sunday trip. And there’s no getting around it—your return flight is booked, with sever penalties for changing it. And even if you wanted to stay longer, they’re sold out at the hotel, so that’s not even possible. You don’t fight it, you just enjoy and accept it. And life to me is that week in Maui. You just soak up the number of days you have and wring every last drop out of ‘em. Yes, aging sucks. But so does day number seven of seven days in Maui.
[…]
Be who you are—memories and all. Enjoy your life. It ends. We end. Getting older is supposed to happen. Okay, so my rack isn’t as high as it used to be. But guess what? They’re mine and they didn’t come from a box and there’s no chance the FDA might recall them. I’m here, and if my calculations are correct, it’s around day five for me in Maui. The sun is shining, the breeze is blowing—I’m drinking a mai tai and listening to “Day Tripper,” remembering when I saw the lads from Liverpool play that song. And the best part is—I’ve still got two days left. So what else will I do here in my paradise

Wrecked

2008-06-26T13:48:00.002-05:00

When I took my hands off the steering wheel, I immediately reached for the glove compartment. Did I have my latest insurance card? And where were my sunglasses? -- those cute white plastic framed glasses from the drug store. I was going to need them when I stood in the heat outside. Exchanging info. And waiting for the police.

Oh yeah, and my phone? It had been left at home. So I hoped I'd come up with some brilliant way to contact my mother for help. I should call my mother, right? I didn't even know her number by heart.

And I wondered where all the smoke was coming from. And why airbags deflated so slowly. And why my thumb was swelling, my arms were scratched, and my ears ringing. My mind hummed with these questions. Like a struck tuning fork.

"Are you okay? Do you need any help, hun?"

I stared at the middle-aged woman with short blond hair as I cracked my door ajar.

"I don't know."

I didn't know. How did this exactly happen? I had turned left across traffic onto Westheimer Road from a smaller side street. I'd spotted the traffic on both sides. There was a gap -- swiftly closed by a Jeep SUV that swerved from behind another car and sped towards my vehicle. He had right of way and I simply had not spotted him in his last minute sprint for freedom.

But that's all hindsight. At the moment, there was merely a big car's sudden silhouette. And then a flash of brilliant, pearlescent white as all of my neurons lit up the mental switchboard. Time sped up. Time slowed down. And I somehow ended up travelling from a nice afternoon out to an ambulance en route to a hospital where I'd be treated for minor injuries. And I still don't exactly know how it happened and what I was supposed to be doing when it was done.

This is my modus operandi. To try and figure everything out. Even when it's least appropriate or useful in situational context. I have this theory that everyone bears a personality signature -- and that these insights into a person's core behavior become more obvious in the midst of a crisis. Some people leap to help others. Some sit and cry or walk around in a rage. Others attempt to coordinate next steps. Not me. In the midst of a car wreck I obsessed on trying to understand the car wreck.

Back at the incident:

I couldn't find any up to date proof of insurance --- just an old card. And I had no phone, had misplaced the car key, and the cops were on the way. Back inside the vehicle, I kept on putting things in and out of my bag while observing my swollen thumb turn into a small, purple sausage. My windshield was cracked. Airbags floated like spent jellyfish.

"Excuse me."

I stepped out of the vehicle and met the SUV owner. He didn't believe me when I explained that my only proof of insurance was an expired card -- but that the policy was active and had remained the same. Frustrated, I handed him my driver's license and insurance info, headed back to my bludgeoned car, and realized that the smoking engine was still running. There was my key. In the ignition. How did it get there?

"Excuse me, sir. Do you need to make a call?"

The blond woman handed me a heavy, brick-like phone. Confused, I stared at it briefly and then started to dial my grandma's number. I'd love to know why I never thanked her for her help.

Sit Down

2008-06-26T00:00:00.001-05:00

"Sit down."

Pause

"So anyways ..."

This was a fine example of parenting. While her father sat on the edge of a vintage sofa talking with an acquaintance in a funky, old-fashioned cafe, his two year old daughter played near a computer station. By herself.

Perched on sandals and toes, she stood alone atop the station's desk chair -- talking to a computer monitor while methodically pushing keys on the computer's keyboard. She was lost in her own unobserved reverie. Until.

"Get down from there."

Pause

"Okay, so what I meant was ..."

Her voice spread about the cafe like rippling waves in a reflection pool. She typed. Klack klack klack. Giggled. And gleefully bounced two feet above the ground.

One shoulder strap of her violet overalls swung loose as she shifted onto her toes and teetered on the age of a pocket-sized catastrophe. But her left arm remained still. Encased in a plaster case, her arm was the most inert part of her body. And like all children with broken limbs she was smiling and swinging back and forth -- two feet above a cool concrete floor.

"I told you, sit down."

Pause

"As I was saying ..."

Oblivious to him, she paid him no heed. Instead, she lingered briefly with her eyes a finger's width from the flickering monitor. Then jumped down, squealed with abrupt delight, and reached her free hand towards an electrical power strip.

Not Very Nice

2008-06-20T00:00:00.004-05:00

Being a recent transplant, comparisons are inevitable. For instance, in Texas people aren’t really that nice. As a native Texan I have no problem saying that we’re not. Because we're not. Just mind the warning posted on the premises about concealed weapons and we’ll do just fine.

Yes, Texans can be ornery, but they are often polite -- our mothers beat it into us. And more importantly, they are friendly. You don’t have to be nice to everyone in order to be friendly to a few.

In California, it seems the opposite holds true. Don't get me wrong. It's a very nice place. In fact, from they day I moved until they day I left and in the thirteen years in between, I was consistently surprised by just how nice people were to each other in the Golden State.

Strangers who struck up randomly intrusive, but cheery conversation in grocery stores, on street corners, or in the elevator. Impromptu dinner party chats with brand new best friends about buttsex and its aftermath. And the best part of nice: deliberate commitments to vague future plans that never happened between new best friends forever who never actually were.

Californians just aren’t very friendly beneath that sheen of nicety. They might seem like they’re reaching out as one friend to another – but the cultural rubric is far more oriented around laissez faire notions of non-obligation and independence than in other parts of the country As a result it’s not easy to make friends in California.

Sure, if you’ve got family and roots, or are recently immigrated into a tightly knit ethnic enclave, then you have a decent shot at developing a rich and supportive social network in cities like Los Angeles or San Francisco. Otherwise, though, true and lasting friendship can easily become elusive. And life in the Golden State can be irredeemably lonely in the midst of so many smiling faces.

So, I think I’d take friendly over nice.

Even if it means living somewhere where people are gruff, conservative and more likely to assume the worst about me than the best. Like here in Houston. I must be adapting already. And if you don’t like it, you can shove it up your nice little ass.

Big Man, Little Dick

2008-06-19T23:59:00.001-05:00

Life is full of disappointments.

The Point Of Self-Absorption

2008-06-03T14:20:00.000-05:00

As practicing therapists, my uncle R-- and his wife B------ are great resources. Somehow, despite a long estrangement with my mother that distanced us from one another, they have consistently been the two members of the family I go to in a crisis. I have such a difficult time asking for help. But it is easier with them

I think it is because I trust their wisdom. That maybe, were they to reject my request, they would still give me the soundest advice for dealing with uncertainty. That maybe in those years of distance, they developed the insight and perspective that distance might lend.

I emailed them today -- hoping to give them a mental health update as well as ascertain if they had put together a list of any therapists I could call.

I often worry, when I try and sit down with people and discuss my mental health that I am received as being "somewhat self-absorbed" as C-------- put it. It's hard not to talk about mental health without a certain level of self-absorption. Mental illness attacks the very essence of one's identity and how one relates to total experience -- so how could any discussing surrounding developments, impacts, and needs come without talking a great deal about oneself.

I think that's the point.

From:	their.nephew@myfamily.com
To:	uncle.r--@myfamily.com; aunt.b------@myfamily.com
Subject:	Dinner Plans & Update
I forgot that I'm travelling to New Orleans on Thursday for a friend's wedding and can't make dinner this week. I'll be back on Sunday night. Would you like to get together before you leave for California so I can learn the ropes for dog sitting? I was also wondering if you'd had any luck with locating therapists?. I met with the Montrose clinic psychiatrist last Friday and it was a good meeting. After completing the patient intake evaluation he agreed that I have bipolar disorder (II) and deal with a great degree of anxiety -- but he also said that the irrational anger, emotional instability, and withdrawal indicated depression which should also be treated. Furthermore, I've had disassociation episodes, stupors, and moments where I just mentally and physically freeze up like an overloaded circuit -- sometimes for over an hour -- for many years (including the incident that led me to hospitalize myself 10 years ago and call you (Uncle R--) from the hospital. As a teenager I didn't really know what they were so I just called them "freak outs" and later "panic attacks" based on what some people in your field have said to me. I was even evaluated for epilepsy if only to rule that condition out. These have become increasingly pronounced over the years and I described a few recent episodes in detail to him and he confirmed what my friend in New Orleans had suggested. He said that it's true I experience anxiety and panic attacks. But that these specific incidents are anxiety induced catatonic episodes. A---- (friend in NOLA) and I talked on the phone after I met with him so I could get her second opinion of the medication regimen he was suggesting as well as his evaluation. She thought it was sound and he didn't sound like a quack. So that relieved me and I've committed to having him as my doctor. I think it's a great step forward for me. He's added Risperdal to my existing regimen of Lithium and Lamictal. Once we evaluate if Risperdal is helping to stabilize my moods as well as the catatonic episodes, he wants to add an antidepressant to the mix and see if all 4 medications will help get me to the other side of this mess. I think what's upsetting about all of this is the sense that much of the time I feel like I'm functioning normally and then any of the above issues will just swoop in out of nowhere and remind me that that things are not as "just ok" -- as I keep insisting to myself ... as if to just wish it all away. Like I was having a coherent, but stressful day last Thursday until I received the bad news about the termination of my mental insurance coverage. And I almost didn't show up because some switch inside me flipped and I began to detach from things and started to mentally slow down and withdraw as I was heading over. But it was good I showed up so soon because the conversation and focus pulled me out of what feels like sliding towards a mental black hole. And then by the end of the evening I felt fine as if all the above was just an illusion. Long email I know and I hope I don't sound to self-absorbed, but I guess I'm mentioning all this because it might help you in talking with colleagues? And also because you've shared your concern and are more than capable of engaging the above in ways that many wouldn't. And also because I don't have many people with whom I can truly discuss this and sometimes my episodes are scary. Hope to see you both next week and hope you're well in the meantime. Love, Jonathan

Lentil Soup

2008-06-03T14:19:00.000-05:00

2 cups brown lentils
1 1/2 tsp salt
12 cups water
1 pork sausage link (uncooked)
3 large unpeeled carrots
2 yellow onions
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon Better Than Bouillon chick stock
2 cloves garlic
1 table spoon grated ginger
1 red jalapeno finely chopped
1/2 teaspoon ground ancho chili powder
3 small unpeeled yellow potatoes, quartered and sliced
1 1/2 cups of sliced crimini mushrooms
Freshly grated parmesan cheese

Slice unpeeled carrots and sausage lengthwise into quarters, then chop into 1/4" wide pieces. Add carrots, sausage, lentils, salt and bouillon paste to 12 cups water and bring to a simmer. Simmer for approximately 1 hour or until lentils are begin to soften but are still undercooked. Finely chop onions and caramelize in frying pan with 3 tablespoons of olive oil for approximately 20 minutes. Add to soup when translucent and browned add to soup. Press to cloves of garlic in a garlic and add to soup, along with ginger, ancho chile powder and chopped re jalapeno. Stir and taste broth mixture. Add more salt if more saltiness is desired. Prep potatoes by quartering lengthwise and chopping into 1/4" wide pieces. Do not peel. When lentils are nearing readiness (see above), add potatoes and mushrooms. Cook for an additional 15-20 minutes until potatoes are tender and lentils are cooked and yield to pressure without being mushy. Serve with freshly grated parmesan cheese to taste.

Makes 8 portions

Listen To Your Mother

2008-06-03T14:18:00.000-05:00

Even in the presence of committed support I hesitate to reach out. My instinct is one of wariness and I generally test people's commitment before making myself vulnerable. This level of distrust is pervasive in my life: work colleagues, people I date, friends, even family -- let alone strangers I meet for the first time.

This behavior is the 900 lb. elephant sitting in the middle of my living room. But I'm not stupid. I know it's there and have known it all along. Large and hulking -- a brooding, leathery place of resistance I just don't have the strength to heave it off the floor and push it out the door.

But that's the point. I don't have the strength. And I've rarely trusted anyone enough to ask them for help.

I was chopping cucumbers and avocado on a red plastic cutting board last night. I was staring at the edges of my kitchen's white formica counters -- where chocolate brown formica creases ran. I caught the flashing of stainless steel slicing back and forth. I gathered and separated only to gather again and again.

My mother was seated across the counter. It was sultry inside -- the kind of heat that comes from two people wanting to save money by adjusting the thermostat to the limits of comfort.

We'd been discussing money. How we'd split the bills. Where my cash flow was headed. What was fair. Then in the midst of what was a calm, constructive conversation, I started with confidence but ended up sobbing.

"I'm trying to be careful with my money so I have a buffer in case something goes wrong. And I don't know what I'm going to do if it does ... I'm so vulnerable ... I've never been this exposed before. I'm so vulnerable and scared and I don't know what to do ... how to fix it ... how I'm going to get to the end of this and what's going to happen ... and I'm frightened, Mom. I'm scared."

I wanted to crawl away to someplace dark and safe as tears trickled down my cheeks. But there was nowhere to go. So I just balled up my fists and pulled them close to my chest as if that action would defend me from my fears. And I closed my eyes, as if avoiding any glimpse of Formica would shield me from this unnatural and uncomfortable exposure.

Then I opened my eyes and saw my mom, teary-eyed herself, stand up and walk around the counter to me while saying:

"Jonathan, it's going to be ok. It's alright, sweetie. This isn't like 20 years ago. I'm a different person. You have a strong family. I'll be there for you. The whole family is here for you and we will help you get through this. You can rely on us. We're not got to leave you in lurch. You've got everyone here and close by now. Me, your grandmother, your uncle and aunt. L-- & C--------. Everyone."

"This is why I wanted you to come back."

I finished preparing dinner and we brought warm bowls of homemade lentil soup and cool summer salad to coffee tables in the living room. I grabbed the DVD remote, pressed play, and we watched the final episode of Six Feet Under Season 2 -- the one where Nate, whose life has been turned upside down, finally has to reach out to his mother for help before brain surgery and sobs in her arms saying: "I'm so scared."

The Importance Of Shoes

2008-05-29T15:23:00.000-05:00

The other evening I showed up at L-- & C--------'s for dinner with their daughter. L-- has been friends with me since I was 12 -- longer than anyone outside my family. Moving back to Houston has meant that I get to have an active friendship with him and his family for the first time in almost 15 years.

C-------- was on the phone with our mutually close friend A----, who lives in New Orleans and practices as a psychiatrist. A---- is a gorgeous woman whose hair rarely looks the same way each and every time we get together. She's full of creative energy and possesses an inexhaustible, free spirit. She makes my dimmest moments bright.

After a great deal of oats sowing since her previous divorce in 2003, she met a man she couldn't resist and is getting married in less than two weeks. Our Instant Messenger chats have been abuzz with her plans for months now.

So when I walked in the door, , C-------- handed me the phone and said it was A----. While we spoke, I found out that people were attending to her hair and makeup as practice for the wedding. It was a novel experience for all. Apparently, her hair stylist had never made a hairvase before.

Me:	A hairvase?
A----:	Yeah. I'm having them put a vase on the top of my head and they're wrapping my hair around it to keep it in place. Can you believe it?
Me:	[Laughter]
A----:	My hair stylist had no idea what a hairvase was. "A hairvase?," he says, "I've never of such a thing in my entire life."

So yes, the wedding was on her mind:

A----:	I had a freakout yesterday and today.
Me:	Why? What happened?
A----:	Oh, well we have 190 people confirmed for the weddings. And I'm just worried ... if it's going to work out ... if people are going to have a good time.
Me:	It'll be fine.
A----:	Yeah. But you know it's a lot of people.
Me:	How many of those people do you know? Family, friends, everyone.
A----:	All of them.
Me:	Well I know you and you wouldn't know anyone who wasn't cool or able to handle themselves at a party.
A----:	You're right!
Me:	So it's all good.
A----:	I know, I know. It's gonna be ok.
Me:	Remember you can only have this one particular experience once. Nothing ever happens twice. So enjoy it to the fullest.
A----:	And I have the best shoes!

Commencement

2008-05-24T23:24:00.000-05:00

Sitting on a wooden deck at the end of a hot day is a marvelous way to shed the weight of the world's weariness. My aunt and mother talked about simple things -- even heavy subjects were distilled into simplicity. Like their jewelry, they often prefer sleek dialog focusing on the here and now. I kept most of my observations to myself. In this weather, encumbered conversation can stick to people like moist skin on scorched vinyl.

A breeze lifted the hair from my neck -- reaching places seemingly trapped in perpetual humidity. As each tendril of air unfurled along my body, I wanted to lay on the grass, my arms and legs as wide apart as I could stretch them and let that breeze wind its way back just on more time.

Mom had mentioned that Summer truly begins in Houston when the humidity skyrockets and thunderstorms start churching from the Gulf towards the coast on sultry afternoons like this. It's been so many years, I had almost forgotten.

While silvered wood decking cooked beneath my lawnchair, I sipped from a heavy glass foamed over with German hefeweizen beer and lemon flavored soda. As I had done on a hot day in June in 1993 when Frau Maria Talhammer sat me down in the kitchen at the hotel in Wuerzburg, Germany where I served as a receptionist and host.

She was a tall, flaxen haired woman in her mid-40s. She explained to me as she poured both beer and beverage into a tall glass, that this drink, a Radler, was the perfect drink for a hot summer day.

As she spoke in her softly delivered German, I could hear the liquid reach the rim of each glass. And the the sound of the foam dissolving bubble by bubble. And I watched each drinking vessel sweat with condensation.

Then I looked past cream colored wallpaper out of the open window next to where we sat -- out at the baked salmon covered roof tiles shared by practically every building in the city. There was just a hint of a breeze. And as I slowly and satisfyingly quenched my thirst with my boss smiling across the table from me, I knew I had discovered Summer's companion.

Like a series of looped photographic reels, this moment plays forever in my mind. I can visit it anytime. So when Summer blazes in all the places I've called home, I return to see if I missed any details. All I have to do is close my eyes.

And after I blinked and remembered all that in a sliver of a second, there, too, in front of me was my mother smiling on this hot day in May. While her and my aunt's dogs whirled from one end of the yard to the other, she smiled and we shared our beer and lemon soda drinks together. While my aunt talked on and on. And that breeze, my truest friend, caressed me. And in its embrace, I drank quietly and noticed absolutely everything.

He Said

2008-05-22T00:39:00.000-05:00

"You're stupid."
"You're great."
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"I'm really proud of you."

"What a waste. You can't do anything at all."
"You'd make a great chef if you wanted to be one."
"You act like a fairy."
"That was great Jonathan. You hit that ball like a pro."

"Common sense. You don't have any common sense."
"How did you figure that out?"
"You idiot."
"I knew you could do it."

"People are going to think I'm a wacko because of you."
"If anything, you are definitely unique."
"Kids like you should be sent away."
"Hey there! How ya been?"

"Oh, I'm sorry ... didn't mean to interrupt you there doing ... you know."
"I guess I'm supposed to talk to you about the birds and the bees -- though you already know all about that."
"Why do I even talk to you?"
"How would you feel if I got to be you father and adopted you?"

"You little stupid son of a bitch."
"I know I've said things to you and I'm sorry."
"Give me that. Give me that you fucking faggot or I'll beat the shit out of you."
"Please forgive me."

He had blue eyes. They were very intense. No matter what he said, I listened.

The Unbearable Lightness Of Knowing

2008-05-19T23:28:00.000-05:00

A brief IM chat:

Him:	Hello there
Me:	Hi, who are you?
Him:	I'm XXX. Live in West Oakland. I saw you in my friends list but don't have any notes as to where we met.
Him:	Just figured I would IM and see if we wanted to keep in touch.
Me:	I don't know who you are so it's cool to delete me. Cheers.

Dare I Speak?

2008-05-16T00:53:00.000-05:00

There is this moment. Right before I open my mouth. When I mentally hesitate and briefly question my commitment to the ensuing content. I rarely refrain from actually speaking. Communication is an avalanche and the snow has long started to roll before the words come rumbling from above.

Still, there is that moment. The one that might best be represented in a simple question: Dare I speak?

Dare I say: No?

Or: I don't know?

Or more importantly: Can you help me?

Words are so easily rationalized. Earnest statements delivered in deadpan. "How are you?" questions that inevitably resolve into "Just fine" -- when you've actually gone off the deep end. How deep does that deep end go? And if you got that far and came back again, would you dare speak about it?

Or would you let the experience lay fallow? A ripe soil from which all else grows?

My mother came home from work today. She'd had had a long day expressed more in body language than in word. Encountering her was like first encountering the weight, then the rope, then the person, and then the question she posed: "How was your day today?"

Dare I speak?

"It was ok." I surveyed the sleek black surface of my desk now crowded with oversized flat panel displays, audio monitor speakers, paperwork, and this morning's vacant cereal bowl. She snuck a glance at my monitors.

"I didn't do anything today."

Yesterday had been a bad day. I've been on medical leave since the end of March and am in the morass of applying for California State Disability. Prior to faxing my first application (never received), I made a mental note that I had to be vigilant when dealing with state bureaucracy. Prior to walking my second application (left at home) and delivering it in person, I took a deep breath and hoped for the best. Shortly before going back home and picking up the application, I sobbed in front of an elevator while standing on industrial carpet. My reflection a bleary eyed stainless steel portrait of a lost soul.

But I went home and retrieved the application, hustled back to the squat 1970s office building and spoke with a lady behind a bulletproof glass window. Should that make me feel more secure? She assured me that my fragile one page document would be processed and, yes, I could provide them with my new address when I moved to Houston in a couple of weeks.

This is where I'm at now. My new and very unplanned for home.

Sitting silently in front of a desk, while a ceiling fan whirls. When my mother asked that question, I was reminded of silently standing next to a fax machine yesterday. I was slowly peering at the paperwork in the tray. The instructions to my right. And the credit card authorization device to my left. I kept looking back at all three. Slowly. As if suddenly something might change. I was breathing slowly and thinking I could just stand there for a while before making any decisions at all.

Then a slender, young black woman turned to me: "Is yours sending? Mine ain't."

I robotically pressed the send button and the paper started to thread through the machine. It was a comforting sound -- that sound that something makes when you've succeeded. When your very existence is validated. I reveled in that state endlessly and immediately looked at her.

Dare I speak?

"I guess mine is working."

She walked away.

I'd faxed a copy of a Notice of Computation to my private disability insurer. They want to be kept in the loop regarding the State Disability application process. I won't get long term disability payments from them if the state process goes awry. I'm already getting short term payments -- so it's the long term payments that are at stake. But I also have to apply for Social Security disability or they won't grant me long term support either. And to do that without much hassle they referred me to a Massachusetts law firm that handles Social Security Disability applications.

But see, I won't get Social Security Disability until 24 months from now. And I'm not going to be on disability that long.

(How was your day today?)

The real problem is that I still hadn't received any confirmation that my state benefits had actually been approved and I'd now been waiting a month for the money. So I called them.

(Jonathan. Breathe. It will be ok.)

When you call California's EDD office you get to choose if you are a Spanish speaker or the rest of the world. This always strikes me as odd. I pressed numero uno and quickly navigated away from the endless navigation tree by pressing 0. I do this often on phone systems. I press 0 or say "Operator" as quickly as possible. If that doesn't work, I press any number that gets me to a human voice and ask them for help in reaching the appropriate department.

After pressing 0, the EDD office takes about 45 seconds to tell you that:

1) You may have to wait as long as 10 minutes during peak hours
2) Have your social security number ready.

Cool. So I listen to the smooth jazz music playing in my ear piece and realize it was the exact same song that had played the last time I contacted them. Then I heard a ring tone. And that same stupid recorded voice came back on and told me that all representatives were busy. Sigh. I put my phone on speaker phone so I could browse the Internet while waiting.

Now this is what really annoys me. When I'm waiting on hold and the music is playing, the first time I hear a ring tone I think I've been connected to a live person. Yay. No way. That stupid bitch is telling me AGAIN that all operators are busy. And she does this every 30 seconds.

I wait about 10 minutes listening to the extended smooth jazz mix perforated by a focus study approved voice letting me know what I already know. That I'm still waiting.

Finally I'm put in touch with a representative, but dare I speak?

"I'm calling to find out what's been going on with my disability application."

"Let me check your file. Okay. It seems we've been having problems contacting your employer."
"Really?"
"The call log shows two attempts were made without any response."
"Seriously? What number do you have?"
"XXX-XXX-XXXXX"
"That's the wrong number."
"It's what you wrote in your application."
"That doesn't change the fact that it is the wrong number."

Oh no.

I arrived in Houston a week ago -- a sudden decision made only a few weeks before. Always the temptress, San Francisco had tethered my heart to endless isolation and yearning for too long. My psychiatrist agreed and said it'd be good for me to be with family and friends. So I walked into work the next morning, gave HR my leave letter and walked out, started packing, and came full circle to my birthplace after a 20 year absence.

It's been my intention to locate a psychiatrist and a therapist right away but finding my underwear seemed more important. Which explains why I overreacted when my private disability insurer called shortly after finding out that the state agency had rejected my application until they either reach my employer or I appeal their decision. And he wants to know what I'm doing to find treatment.

It's the first truly intimate call of the day.

So after I hang up I call a psychiatrist whose number I received before leaving California. He's a needle in a haystack -- and the only needle that take my health insurance. He's still accepting new patients, too. But the earliest he can see me is June 9. Almost a month from now. How many more calls am I going to get in the meantime from perilously pleasant male insurance representatives who just want to know how I am and what I'm doing? My only other option is to visit a community clinic that offers referral services -- but the coordinator has not returned my calls.

"How was your day?"

Yesterday was awful. I was laid off just two days previously. My flex spending account benefit vanishes with the job and for the last year I'd saved roughly 30% on all my medical bills including prescriptions and supplements that my HIV physician had supported. I was frantic about not losing $650 dollars still left in my account.

So my mom asks me this question today and I just wasn't sure what to say. When she asked me the same question yesterday I said I was fine with papers rustling between nervous hands and was crying not less than 3 minutes later. I'm so scared about not doing this right. Not having money to eat or see my doctors. Or get better, so I can get on with my life. To understand what it means again to look at people as people, to push past hollow smiles, to redirect from instant outbursts, and private, gut wrenching despair. Or to refrain from disassociating, shutting down -- withdrawing from reality because it no longer feels real.

I'm at a critical and necessary junction. I've recovered enough to know that all that has happened will end. But all it takes is a stressful day or a push button trigger and shadows lengthen and hope pales. But I am daring to speak. And when I speak I am saying:

Yes, I can.