Rilke might have called it "unsayable."
There are moments between people when something happens. Something non-physical, non-verbal, inexplicable--mystical. It often doesn't make sense within the normal parameters of what usually contributes to the development of such a relational connection, key factors being time and shared experience.
I'm not writing about love at first sight, or even romance for that matter. It certainly can be romantic, but the connection I'm referring to can also be purely platonic. I usually find this connectivity in making eye contact with others, but it doesn't happen with everyone. There is something I cannot deny in the eyes of some strangers, in some of my acquaintances that draws me to them, that evokes greater compassion, desire to relate. It is an unspoken kinship that often never becomes fully actualized. Somehow the experiences of these people, their thoughts, dreams, and fears, resonate deeply within me like monsoon thunder in July.
I know this, whatever it is, when I see it. I am always thankful to find it. And when I do, I find my mind more at peace, my heart more fully beating.
I've been thinking some of suicide.
It really started with Elliot Smith. I wrote the following the day he died:
"It was the first I heard of his death. The voice mail notification mysteriously appeared across my cell phone screen a few moments ago. It was Andy calling to say hello and tell me that Elliot Smith committed suicide today at the age of thirty-four. The voice of an automated woman told me that Andy’s message had arrived at 8:09PM. The only thing that makes that noteworthy is that a few minutes prior I had put Elliot’s “Figure 8" in my CD player for the first time in months. I don’t suppose that there was any supernatural effect on my subconscious to listen to him, but somewhere within I want there to be a connection to him today. I want to believe that his suicide changed the world forever–that the exit of one soul to its eternal resting place changes the atmosphere of our daily lives. Part of me wonders if we aren’t partially to blame for his death? We heard his pain, we consumed it, we spun it ruthlessly around inside our stereos. We sang along with every word but never tried to reach him."
I'm not sure why all of the sudden, but suicide has become a very prevalent topic in my life lately--not regarding my own life, but the lives of others: friends of friends, co-workers of friends, strangers on the news, celebrities. And I'm still thinking about it, thinking through it, feeling broken hearted over it--wishing there was a way to reach every person who might be considering.
Cheers
Here's to good music and new friends in unexpected places.
I Love Candy Hearts.
In response to all of the anti-Valentine's Day chatter going about, I want to say I don't hate it. I'm not mad at St. Valentine for being born, or at anyone who wants to celebrate his day. I think about Valentine's Day similarly to how I think about Father's Day. Currently, I have no children and I'm not a dad so I don't celebrate. I'm not opposed to Father's Day or one day becoming a father, but it's not part of my existence right now. No need for hostility.
I had a friend who is in a relationship tell me that she thinks Valentine's Day is just another excuse to make money. That might be true, but one could say the same thing about Christmas. That doesn't change what it's
really for--we don't have to let what others make it into be our purpose also. The actual
legend of St. Valentine and why he's associated with the day is quite romantic, a very cool story. And that whole, "you don't need just one day a year to celebrate your love for someone," argument can be used for a number of holidays.
When you think about it, who's really waiting around until Valentine's Day, withholding love and waiting to express appreciation? Not many couples I know. If that's happening in your relationship it might be a good thing to consider leaving the relationship behind. And if it's happening to someone you know, be a good friend and break them up.
Guest Post by Eric
I started thinking about the lies we tell women watching That 70's Show with Taylor and Cameron on Wednesday night. The show's main female character tries to reconcile the fact that all her friends and, more importantly, her boyfriend read pornography frequently. She is initially confused. Confusion leads to curiosity. Curiosity leads to disappointment and eventually anger. And then, sadly she accepts it. She says something to the effect of, "You're like this and there's nothing I can do about it," and everything is perfect. That's it. Case closed. There is no mention of how porn is an addicting purity murderer and how it robs men and women by exchanging real love for empty, physical sensations. The episode also failed to comment on the long term effects on women who are forced to compete with airburshed, false beauty. You can see it in the eyes of a thirteen year old girl when she picks up some teen magazine and does her best to emulate the contrived women inside. It doesn't subside either. That thirteen year old girl grows up into the middle-aged woman reading the same crap under different titles. Unfortunately, we've told women that they must conform to a certain mold or they aren't beautiful. We've told them that we are going to indulge ourselves with lust and they had better get used to the idea. We've told them that they are little more than stimulants. And they have believed us.
Go ahead. Go to a club and look at women's faces. It doesn't look like they are having fun. It just looks like they're trying to impress someone. They're faces betray boredom and falsehood. Then take a look at single men who hang out in clubs. To be honest, I don't even want to talk about it because it disgusts me. They remind me of Vito Corleone selecting his fruit from the vendor on the street. This one is too soft. Put it back. That one is good enough. I guess I'll keep it. We all know how that purchase turned out. (Okay. As much as I would like to believe that everyone has seen The Godfather, I realize that there exists among you an uncultured few who have not yet experienced the masterpiece of cinema. Vito gets shot, now go see the movie. Digression ended.)
Women deserve more than the crap we feed them. My feelings don't stem from chivalry or Southern hospitality or anything like that. I just think that we treat people as if they were worth more than a piece of fruit... because they are.
Roommates
Breakfast at one in the morning is too good to be true. I shouldn’t have expected it to be stellar, but it didn’t have to be that bad. From the moment my plate passed under my nose and onto the table there was something not quite right about it, like the cook had grilled my bacon with the Tuna, or in the same skillet as the green peppers. My friend's artichoke dip was only a little better.
I’ve never been to this particular café before midnight and so I don’t know if it is equally as strange during normal eating hours. The entire front of the restaurant is covered with neon lights, and the inside is too. The ceiling of fluorescent panels erases any inkling of atmosphere or mood, and this does not fit with the flamboyant carpet of bright colors and potpourri decoration.
I was surprised at how many people were there eating. They were in groups, mostly, save the lonely guy behind me who took every opportunity to share conversation with his waitress each time she came to fill his water. With each pass she received a little more of his life story. There was a group in the corner of the non-smoking section laughing over and over. I accidentally picked "Living la Vida Loca" instead of "
Don’t Stop Believing" on the Jukebox. But they didn’t laugh like I thought they would–they became quiet and left. I suppose Ricky Martin has that effect on people.
In between tortilla chips, my friend told me that she was frustrated with her living situation, that she and her roommates hadn’t been getting along so well and she’s not sure how much she can take. I thought about the living situations I had in college and how I sometimes felt that way, too. I remembered how hard it can be to live with people, to grow weary of saying sorry and being the peacemaker. I remembered all of the times I never said something when I should have, and the things I should have said differently, and the notes I shouldn't have ignored on the whiteboard.
I used to think that living with roommates was much harder to do, but living with family can be difficult in its own right, too. My family is one that is really open about frustrations and hurts, things don’t get much time to fester–which is good. But that openness doesn’t erase the possibility of conflict. When it comes town to it living with people is hard. Relationships are hard, but they’re worth it. And every tiff has turned me into a better person. Whether or not we have good relationships will decide for most of us how satisfying our lives will be by their end. The catch is we’ll have to work for them. And sometimes I wish I weren’t so hesitant to get my hands dirty.
About a Bar
I thought the place was going to be a real hole. What kind of greedy restaurant owner installs an automated voice saying, “Attention! This parking lot is not free. You will be towed or booted. Please pay at the yellow box,” to greet incoming customers? I swear, it was the same guy who does the answering machine for
Moviefone.
The entry way smelled like cherries because of the bathrooms at the foot of the stairs. How appropriate, I thought–a sports bar that smells like outhouses.
A group of people sat at a felted poker table and passed around pitchers of beer, ashtrays, and french fries at the top of the stairs. This wasn’t the kind of bar that only smelled like cigarettes when the trendy crowd shows up for the show, smoking only when they drink. This place smelled like cigarettes every day of the year, I’m sure of it, like the break room at the Marlboro factory.
I guess we expected it to be more of a restaurant than a bar, because we stood waiting for a few moments to be seated until I leaned over and asked the drunk guy next to me, “Do we sit anywhere, or wait?” He must have been busy going over his plan to pick up the thirty-something blonde with short bangs at the bar, because he didn’t hear me the first time. I asked again and he pointed to a booth behind us with seats on only one side. Not quite.
We wandered around searching for highly rare and coveted two-benched booths. I normally wouldn’t have minded cramming in with Mandy and Chris, but I didn’t feel like drawing attention to being an extra wheel. We found one after three-quarters of a lap around the rectangular bar and were promptly greeted by our server who, as I noticed, happened to have a very nice mouth. She took our orders for sweet teas and water and I couldn’t decide how natural a cigarette might look hanging from her lips. I looked at her name tag, Chrissy. Okay, I thought, how many Chrissy’s do you know? How many of them were smokers? There was the one in eleventh. Feisty, definitely a smoker. The only other Chrissy I could think of was a classmate of my sister’s when she was twelve, which I suppose doesn’t mean that she didn’t smoke. George Burns started smoking when he was fourteen, and Toby said he busted some elementary school kids smoking
in the ladies room the other day. No, I decided. Her mouth is too nice.
Aside from the groups of six to eight people sitting at poker tables around the room, nearly all of the one-sided booths were occupied by expressionless men alone, and presumably single, who had stopped in for a beer and burger on their way home from work. Some of the men seated alone began leaving after a while. I wondered if they were leaving to meet up with friends, or a date, or going home. If they were the type of guy that you see in
movies. The kind who eat nearly all of their meals in restaurants, or over their stacks of remote controls and magazines, because they’ve never bothered to buy a table. The home theater was more important–DVD collection, digital cable, video games, all of that.
I got to thinking that maybe they’re alone because guys really are afraid of commitment and intimacy, of letting anyone know they have insecurities and doubts. Because vulnerability isn’t strength. Forget about that whole flawed humanity thing–we’re demigods, us men. And, by the way, that Achilles was a wuss for getting caught by the ankles. He should be ashamed.
Atlanta Skyline
Jeremy and I stepped out from the chatter of the party onto the deck in his backyard. The party was for two friends moving away to Los Angeles this week and its attendees were married couples, most of which I didn’t really know. The cold air and silence felt good. And this only added to the charm of Jeremy’s fenceless backyard. A few minutes before we had been talking about the possibility of little ones running around. A friend popped out from the house for a minute to say a few things to Jeremy and mention that the hill at the edge of the neighbor’s yard would be great for sledding, provided that the kids don’t sled into the drainage ditch.
Jeremy said that some nights you can see the stars from his deck. At that moment the only lights of the night were flashing tails of planes and helicopters. And all of the sudden I wanted to see the stars. I wanted to lie down across the stained two-by-fours we had been standing on and trace constellations with my hand, to try and see the farthest speckle of light I could, perhaps a window into God's living room.
I did this often in Tucson. The Arizona sky is almost always clear.
Kitt Peak isn’t far from the city and so there is an ordinance placed on outside lighting. Street lights are a soft yellow and are few. Lights on houses have to be dim, too. I used to complain about how dark the city was until I discovered how vibrant the stars shine. After that I was thankful. Somehow lying down and looking at the stars became a retreat and a reminder. A reminder that there is more than the tiny swirl of problems and burdens I carry--that I’ll be okay if questions I have now go unanswered for the time being. But the clouds held a blanket over the stars tonight. Only the skyscrapers were shining.
