More About Me?

My Personal Dna Report


You can figure out if you see me as I see me, too! Or something like that.

http://personaldna.com/psychyou-psychme.php?for=1b87459b6238

This Would Be Entirely Self-Pitying, Were it Not for the Matter of the Opera

Well, I forgot about this.

The part where Hell Week always has at least one day or evening or whatever that is, actually, hellish. I'm sure it's just superstition, but it did hold true for most years at Bryn Mawr. And then there was last night. Really, I don't know what was wrong with me last night... and isn't that the worst? Just this feeling of anxiety that has no clear root and doesn't seem to go anywhere no matter how many times you remind yourself that, in fact, there is no impending doom. Not a full-blown panic attack or anything, just this feeling where you can't sit still, but you can't quite start doing anything, because it's totally unclear what needs to be done, but totally clear that there are many important things that must happen, and probably should have started happening a long time ago.

Add to this that for some reason I was suddenly much less attractive yesterday than I had been in several days. I looked strange and full of bulges, and my face was abruptly much less pleasant to look at, and I noticed the slight differences in the way I walk. Isn't it odd how perception can change in a flash? I'd been very pleased with my appearance for several days preceeding yesterday.

Add to this that Cristina may or may not be coming tonight, and she's had a really hard week. So I really want to be present to her and help, but I'm afraid I'll stay in Weird Stressland, and there's this selfish part of me that is afraid now I won't get my own crap done, getting ready for Friday, etc. Even though in truth I want to be with her. Feelings are so damn complicated. And when we got home last night she had left this message telling me that she wasn't going to work tomorrow, but she might still want to come today, and she was crying the whole time... and I really wanted to call her back, but she'd said she was going to bed, so I didn't. I think one of the problems is that whenever I think about this whole situation and I can't be with her I feel anxious and agitated and helpless. I mean, that's inevitable. When I can be with her I feel much stronger, much more certain and open and clear. So, we'll see, but goddammit. I wish I could fix it. I really do.

Add to this that I got a thin little letter from Cornell saying that I was not accepted to their English department, but they're sure I'll have a fine career anyway. I really thought I'd get in there. I also thought I'd get in to Duke. I don't know why, but I was much more worried about getting in to other schools. So now, I have this horrible feeling that I did all my applications wrong in some indefinable way and I won't get in anywhere. My mom and Liz will be disappointed that I'm not coming back close to home, though maybe it's good. I guess I have to trust that it's good, and that I'll end up somewhere right for me, just like at Bryn Mawr. But ugh. I hate hearing no. I hate the slippery hold I sometimes have on confidence and faith.

Add to this that we're trying to clean the apartment by Friday, a task I really applaud and want to do, but which is sure to lead to at least a few bouts of paralysis. I get so... irrationally fearful of actually dealing with the messiness. As though somehow that will actually make it worse, or prove that it is impossible to fix. Not helped by the fact that putting liquid plumr (or however that odd thing is spelled) in my toliet made the contents of it it bubble, turn green, and come this close to overflowing all over my feet (which circumstance was staved off my frantic plunging) before just sitting there. That is really not what I was hoping for in my efforts to clear the clog. I mean, actually we got a lot done in the living room. By which I mean that Rachel got a lot done and I put some decorations away, but still. It's a great start. I just have trouble seeing it.

I think that's all there is to add at the moment, but this morning I was just... dreading everything, especially the part where I left the house and went to work. I stumbled down the stairs and had my first shock of pleasure when I saw that there was still a cluster of people at the bus stop-- I hadn't missed it! I hurried over to join them, and there he was. This middle aged black man, casually dressed in jeans and work boots and a sensible, dark, puffy winter coat, with a stubbly almost-beard, carrying one of those little tape recorders, the flat ones about the size of a hardcover book, playing opera. Beautiful opera music shared with everyone! Well, I'm sure everyone didn't love it, but I did. I loved this crazy image of all of us just standing around waiting for the bus while this music floated all around us. I loved the music. It made me smile, this sudden spontaneous smile, and he was smiling too... and well, here I am at work, and I don't really feel that much more together or confident or anything. But I am going to try to remember the opera...

Keep in Mind

A mis-overheard statement of Bob, the group seller, to someone on the phone:

"Then again, they're sports, and we're theater, you must keep that in mind... we're also amusing."

(I realize now it was "music" not "amusing," but still. Isn't that great?)

Ninth Book: World of Wonders

My goodness, in finishing that other monstruous post, I almost forgot that I finished another book the other day. World of Wonders, the last in the Deptford trilogy by Robertson Davies.

It was really good and exciting, like the others, but I think somehow I'm a little disappointed at how they all fit together. Maybe I was just left with too many unanswered questions? I don't know.

But the characters were really great, and I love Dunstan Ramsay, and enjoyed learning about Paul Dempster's history, though it wasn't at all what I expected. However, I really want to know what happened to David... I think this post will be extra short, to contrast with my extra long Valentine's Day post.

Happy Valentine's Day to Me... and to You. :)

I think it started when I was walking home from the gym on Monday. It felt great to exercise, and I felt suddenly healthier and more capable in the world. Then, as I was walking home, I saw the most beautiful silver-white moon against a dark blue sky. And spindly trees stretching up to touch it. It felt wonderful. I was suddenly at peace, and happy to be by myself, experiencing this lovely night.

I had been feeling some trepidiation about Valentine's Day. I'd been in a generally gray mood lately, quick to self-pity and slow to relaxation. And the thing is, I've never, never been one to complain about Valentine's Day. I like it, and I'm always remembered, even if it's never been romantically meant. But this year... I was feeling complainy. Rachel has a girlfriend, and my other friends are occupied on Tuesday nights, or not at all in the area. I was getting antsy about the idea of being alone. Quite frankly, I thought maybe the day might suck, and I was rather displeased with myself for joining the ranks of the alone-on-Valentine's complainers. But, as it approached, I began to notice how much care I was getting from all different sources. Two adorable cards from my mom, a present from Jeff (her boyfriend), a really hilarious card from Bekah, a card from my aunt and uncle (who always remember me on Valentine's Day), the promise of mail from Katie (which has now come! a wonderful, thoughtful card), and really beautiful and tender cards from Rachel, too. I've never really done much for Valentine's Day in terms of gifts or cards for others, and it touched me that all these people would be so thoughtful and kind and loving to me.

So, on the lovely walk home on Monday, I decided I would take myself out for Valentine's Day, and buy myself a present. I was thinking about comfortable and sexy lingerie, as I have none. I thought maybe I would also take myself to dinner, and see if anything else appealed to me, like seeing a movie or some kind of event. I also had this sudden and striking thought, in the way that sometimes words just appear in your head... that I had no idea what my romantic life would hold. I had no idea who I would end up loving in that way... it could be a man, as I have mostly assumed and sought, but it could also be a woman, which seems oddly more possible (in terms of my own internal compass) now that I am not at Bryn Mawr... it could even, though it's hard for me to imagine, be more than one person... anything was possible. But whatever it will be, the fact that it hasn't started yet is not a judgement on me... it just means there's a surprise coming, and knowing now would ruin the surprise. I don't know where this idea came from, but it was very clear and it felt very good.

Then, Valentine's Day itself started out fine. Almost everyone in the office wore red or pink, which was very pleasing. And I got a valentine from Courtney, with whom I don't even interact that much. But the highlight of the work portion of my day came when we were supposed to have a staff meeting, and instead we had a nice lunch/Valentine's party, courtesy of DeVida. It was yummy and exciting.

Throughout the day, I browsed online for activities and events happening in the evening, and I found this thing called Night of a Thousand Plays. Basically, it was many many little tiny plays (though not actually 1,000) all performed one after the other, by different groups of actors. I was kind of intrigued, though I had no idea whether this format would actually work for me. But they had a half price Valentine's Day special, and I decided to print out the coupon and see if I felt like going when it came time. Meanwhile, I was talking online to this man who had messaged me while I was messing around on Okcupid, with whom I had hit it off decently in our brief conversation... and I mentioned the show, and he seemed interested. So I invited him. And he said yes. Boom, Valentine's Day date. :) I was so surprised! We decided to meet for dinner and he gave me his number and his name (Swami, short for something really really long and Indian).

The plan we made was that I would go to the theater after work and try to pick up the tickets. I did, but the box office was not yet open. So I called him and we set a time to meet for dinner. Of course, there wasn't time to go home and change. Happily, I was wearing a new red skirt and nice shirt, but less happily, I was wearing my very very beat up and scuffed snow boots. I haven't bought new ones yet because I can get spendthrifty about shoes and clothes and I figured, hey, they're still workable. Which they are. But last night, I was suddenly very self-conscious and worried about them. So I found a shoe store, and went in. The cheapest shoes I found in there were over $100, and most were $300 or $400. Um, no. I'm even used to more high end shoes, or so I thought, because my foot is sometimes hard to fit. But PLEASE. What could they possible have done to a few pieces of nice leather or whatever to make it worth $300? NOTHING, at least not from where I and my bank account stand. So I got out of there, beginning to despair of my shoe changing plan... when I turned a corner and saw an Aerosoles shoe store! I went in, and found lovely little red suede boots, with tassels, in my size, for $30. So I bought them. And some tan trouser socks. And popped over to the McDonald's bathroom to change them, stuffing my mismatched cotton socks and scuffed up boots into the Aerosoles bag. Feeling new and spiffy, I hurried out to meet Swami by 6:30.

When I arrived at the appointed corner, at first I saw only an old man. But then I caught sight of a young man on the opposite side of the road, surveying everyone who passed. We ascertained our mutual identities and he came over to my side of the street. To my delight, he was handsome! He had dark, full, wavy hair and beautiful dark eyes with long eyelashes. He gave me a hug hello, which was interesting to me, because I had been debating between a hug and a handshake. We headed down the street to a little Italian restaurant right across from the theater, and got seats even though we didn't have a reservation. It was a really pretty, cozy place, and all the waitstaff were very friendly.

We talked throughout the meal about various things. He's really smart. I mean, he's about to get his PhD from Penn in physics (he'll be done in December) and he's only 25. Apparently in India he just had this really driven life and had to go go go all the time... and now that he's here, he's sort of sick of science and he doesn't really want to keep on with it as a career. He's more interested in the artistic arena, apparently, and tried many things before he settled on this improvisational jazz thing that he does. He plays percussion. But it's funny how I could notice his scientific training coming through in his way of perceiving and noticing things. For example, there was a candle on our table, and we were watching the light come through the candleholder and splinter into little points on the tabletop. And suddenly he tells me that he did a project on why light does that in just that way. It was kind of fascinating. He also told me that he loved to play with fire as a child and he has little scars on his hands from it. Which sounds like he's way more edgy than he mostly seemed, and I'd almost forgotten that until I wrote it down here.

We also talked about adjusting to a new culture, and movies... he asked if I thought he should see Brokeback Mountain, and of course I responded enthusiastically in the affirmative, and then that led to an interesting discussion of how he has trouble connecting emotionally to gay stories. He basically said that he can understand and accept it intellectually, but emotionally he hasn't made that connection. So... I tried to indicate how connected I am to such matters without exactly saying "some of my best friends are gay." Though that's basically what I said, because even though it sounds silly, it's absolutely true. And he hastily assured me that he lived in an "artists' house" and that most of the time when they had parties there were gay people making out all over the place... though it didn't seem he was entirely comfortable with this. Yet, he could hardly be entirely uncomfortable or he wouldn't have brought up Brokeback Mountain, I suppose. Anyway, we had a pretty lively talk about the movie, and how I really thought he should see it because I think it's ideal for making exactly that emotional connection. He expressed some skepticism about "Oscar movies" in general, which I found a bit pretentious, but you can't win 'em all, right? This discussion led me to ask about cultural differences in this area of thought between India and the US, and he said that, because men and women were mostly kept apart until marriage, the bonds between male friends there are much more at the level of intimacy that is expected between female friends here. I think this is really interesting, though it makes me wonder if he had much contact with women his own age before coming here.

We also talked quite a bit about the intellect, and what kind of importance it has to us, or has had in the past... he said that for his whole life he has been so focused on the intellect as the paramount thing, but now he realizes that it is not the most important thing, and he really wants to branch out and explore other parts of himself. It's funny, because he's obviously excellent in an academic environment, but I got this strong sense of him being, more than anything, sick of it. I told him about my decision to take time off after Bryn Mawr. I think, in a lot of ways, he's in a similar mental place now as I was then, even though he's light years ahead in terms of the schooling he has finished. Although from how he speaks, his work in physics is never going to be his life commitment, or even his job beyond a few money making years. He said something about wanting to work for a few years and save up money to do something else, like open a restaurant. That surprised me, since he also said he didn't like/know how to cook. So I don't know what's up with that. Really, it seemed like his real love was this percussion/improvisation/free jazz thing. I find this kind of fascinating, because I can see that trait in him (starting with the fact that he was often drumming with his fingers and working out a rhythm in pauses in conversation, especially in the theater and once we were out of the restaurant). According to him, he just decided that science was not his thing (which continues to astonish me, given how far he's going with it), and that he wished to engage artisticially. He then tried writing and painting, among other things, and finally hit on his affinity for music. Maybe this is baffling to me because I had my strongest affinities from a very young age... the first thing I was going to be was an actress who writes her own plays. And, the way Swami tells it, he was all science science science, and then one day decided art was it for him, instead. It's a very different sort of experience.

He asked me lots of questions, but I think I did the same. There were a few awkward pauses, but less than you might expect for two total strangers. Overall, I really enjoyed it. He was an interesting combination of being rather shy-seeming and a little deferent (sp??) on the one hand, and being sort of suddenly extremely committed to his opinion (the Oscar movie thing, for example). And dinner was quite excellent. I had lobster ravioli, and he had some kind of other seafood/pasta dish. Oh, this was kind of odd- at the beginning of the meal, when we were looking at the menus, I asked him if he wanted to get wine. He responded right away by saying he didn't drink. I said ok. Then he said I could get it if I wanted to, of course. Then he said he would have wine if I picked one for him that wasn't too strong. He said he was happy to try things but he didn't like them too strong. So I picked cabernet sauvingnon for myself, and then asked the waitress if she had a suggestion for a sweeter, less dry wine. She seemed very confused about what I was asking, for some reason, and finally pointed one out that said "dry" in the description. So I had no idea what was going on there, and I decided to order him chardonnay, since I find that sweet and in general white is sweeter and more palatable to less enthusiastic wine drinkers than red. I don't know if he liked it. He ate like a bird... only about half his entree (I find many restaurant entrees big, but this was just the right size, to me) and maybe half of his wine. I polished off my whole entree and my whole glass of wine, which, just to give you a picture, came in a glass the size of my head. I mean, it was not full, of course. But his came in this tiny, delicate wine glass. I know it's something I would understand if I knew more about wine, but it was odd. I had the briefest moment of being insecure about my dramatically larger appetite, but it passed quickly. I was hungry, and I decided to be ok with that. :-) I think it was interesting (word of the day, sorry), too, that were had this sort of odd back and forth in who took what kind of role in the evening. I mean, I invited him, made the plans, ordered his wine, and paid for his theater ticket. He, on the other hand, carried my shopping bag, paid for dinner, stood on the bus behind me instead of sitting somewhere else, and initiated all of the (awkwardly executed yet warm and pleasant) cuddling that took place during the play. So I don't know. I probably wouldn't be this obsessed with it if I didn't worry a little that he will suddenly turn into a real partriarchal type. Or, to be honest, that the cultural differences between us mean that he has expectations of women of which I'm fundamentally unaware. Well, who knows, I guess.

By the end of our dinner he'd expressed interest in my theological leanings (I told him about applying to grad school), and we discussed my thesis briefly. He latched onto the idea and said he could tell me about parallel situations in Indian religion and mythology. I'm super excited about that. I tried to explain it carefully and well, without assuming that he had or didn't have a base knowledge about Christianity. I can't wait to see what ideas he has about it...

Anyway, we finished up our dinner, and headed out. The waitress came running after me to give me a rose, which apparently she was supposed to bring to the table! I was thrilled! A pretty red rose, just for me, just because it was Valentine's Day and I was a woman and there. :-) Though I've also been thinking lately how men must sometimes feel less special than women, overall. I mean, I won't say that women don't still get the raw end of the deal, because we do, and I would trade being coddled for being powerful any day... but still. On Lost, there was this part with two men talking about the possible destruction of an Iraqi village in the first Gulf War. And the one said to the other, think of everyone who will be killed. Innocent women, children. And I thought, what about innocent men? What does it say that men are consistently told that women are somehow more "precious" than they are? I'm not saying I don't understand the concept of "women and children first," or whatever, but just as it is destructive to women to assume that we are inherantly sweet and innocent, it is destructive to men to assume that they are inherantly not, or that women have some kind of uncorrupted innocence/worth that men must seek to protect even at the expense of themselves, because men are powerful, and therefore not innocent. My dad said that as a kid he hated hearing that girls were "sugar and spice and everything nice" and boys were "snakes and snails and puppy dog's tails." He didn't understand why he didn't get to be nice things, too. Bah, the whole dualistic hierarchical gender system hurts everybody!

But that was a loooooong soapboxy tangent. I was delighted with my rose. Let's go back to that. ;-) We went to the show, and I insisted on paying for his ticket (it was, after all, still much less than the meal). It was at the Adrienne, in this space called the Playground, which was a really nice little theater. I wanted to sit front and center, and he was startlingly adamant about sitting back (and side, which I thought would be the worst view), and we agreed at last to sit back and center. I wasn't sure why this was such an important thing to him, like, we were looking around and i was like, well, we could sit up front, and he was like, no. Back. It was odd. Aggressive reticence? I don't know.

The play was good. I know if you've made it this far you probably are getting a little overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information in this post, but it was, and I feel I should say something about it, too, not just my date. For the first couple of little three minute (or so) bits, I wasn't sure if it would be good. Then either I wrapped my head around the format or they hit their stride or both. There was one that was basically ruined because for some reason one of the young women was on book, which was utterly distracting for us, for her, and for the other actors. And there were a bunch that fell flat. But there were also wonderfully hilarious ones, especially as the evening wore on. There was one that reminded me a lot of Dilexi, in a way! It started with this coffee barista trying to sell coffee to a rushed man. The man kept asking for something plain, and she would offer him a ridiculously complicated list of choices. It seemed a funny, if ordinary set-up. But then, the man remained calm, and the barista got all crazy, saying that he couldn't win, and the way the sketch had to go was that she kept offering him all these pointless choices until he became overwhelmed and collapsed to the ground. And then another woman came in and she and the man started flirting, and exchanged names, and the barista was freaking out because they weren't supposed to be able to do any of this... well, it was funny and exciting. The best one, hands down, was this one about a really reserved, precise man who got into a totally unexpected sexual situation... i was so funny and so well acted. There were also a couple of songs done by this guy who apparently was the musical director of Hedwig and the Angry Inch. I don't know where, but they seemed pretty proud of this, so maybe it was the original production. Anyway, he was very good.

And, true to his proclivities, I guess, it was during the musical numbers that Swami started snuggling up to me. As I said before, most of this was done rather oddly and awkwardly, but... I find him attractive, so it was nonetheless quite pleasant and I didn't mind. Though there was one moment where for some reason he started stroking my throat quite a bit, and that got weird, so I guided his hand away. But generally, aside from the awkward and abrupt way in which he intiated most of our contact, it was very gentle and nice and exploring, without being too much or going to the wrong places. And he smelled really good. ;-)

After the show we waited for the bus together, having discovered we live about three blocks apart! This got a bit long, and was the part of the evening where I was most aware of not being sure of what to talk about. But we finally got on the bus, and he stood behind me as aforementioned, and pet my head from time to time, and told me a bit about his family and also his taste in ice cream. Oh, yes, this is also when I though he was telling me something more about his grandmother's education, and I said "Wow" with a big smile, and then realized he was telling me that his grandmother had died. Whoops. That was my most awkward moment of the night. But we got over that, and when he left he bent and kissed my forehead before getting off, and we made plans to get together again sometime next week.

I was a happy camper coming home, and I put my rose in water and went online to tell people about my night... where I was promptly engaged in conversation by this other boy from Okcupid, and I found an email from a man who wanted a date for Margaret Garner (an opera I am so eager to see) saying that though he'd already gotten someone to go, I was really cute. And I still have to deal with Mark, who continues to call and email me though I haven't responded in a bit... (I know, it's not a good way to handle it. But I'm not used to this). I think that's the bottom line. This is all really great... but I'm not used to it! Apparently all of a sudden all I have to do for male attention is stretch out my hand... it's soooooooooo so so different from my previous experiences. Not that I'm complaining, but it's... weird. And I definitely want to see Swami again, but it all makes me a bit nervous as well. Like, I've gotten so used to being single I can hardly imagine what it would be like to be otherwise. Bah, I sound like I'm at least middle aged, and I'm not trying to be pretentious... but you know? It's true.

Ah, but all that aside, it was fun. It was fun fun fun and cozy and pleasant and I felt attractive and smart, even though he was definitely also attractive and probably smarter, or at least more educated. (God, at one point he was saying that he should learn a foreign language and I asked if he had studied any, and he was like, no, I just speak six Indian languages, completely serious, and I was l

Anyway, the whole thing left me grateful and happy: Grateful for my first "romantic" Valentine's Day, grateful for my truly wonderful friends and family, who are so central to my life, and grateful for the fact that I really, actually do enjoy my own company... and that I was willing to have a go at being lonely to figure that out.

:-) I wish you all the same sorts of experiences, in whatever way they work for you. And those of you who I know read this... I love you! Thank you for being in my life. It means the world.

Clearly, More Men Should Be Figure Skaters...

Because they're beautiful and graceful and I love their outfits. Sexy and amazing yay.


:)

A Lively Little Hedgehog

adopt your own virtual pet!

Eighth Book: The Manticore

And the second book in the Robertson Davies trilogy beginning with Fifth Business. Given my ravings about that volume, you may will guess I enjoyed this one as well, and I certainly did. However, it took some getting used to, as I'd become so used to Dunstan Ramsay as the narrator that it took me some time to get 'round the voice of David Staunton. And it took a long time to like him, too, but not as long as I thought it did.

By which I mean that while I still thought I was quite uncertain about him, I think I was actually already really absorbed in his point of view. As I'm really eager to get on with the third book, I don't think I'll say a lot about it, but I think it's interesting and ironic that now I'm having... not a tough time with the new/old narrator, exactly, but I keep wondering what the heck happened to David. Seeing that it left off a bit precipitously.

As usual, the characters were strong and the writing was unwaveringly excellent. And here is the very very best quote of this (or perhaps any) book for you:

"Toad showed a tendency to shine up to me afterward, when we were having ice-cream and cake at the Ladies' Aid expense, but I was cold. When I have squeezed my orange, I throw it away; that was my attitude at the time."

Robertson Davies, I love you!

My Constant Comment's Phooey? A Complaint.

Oh, fuck this. Oh, fuck this.

Namely being sick. I'm really really sick of being sick. I know a week isn't huge in the scheme of things, but I've had it up to here with the new and interesting variations on my symptoms that my body puts forth each day. And since 3 out of 4 participants in my life urge me to see a doctor, I figure I should probably see a doctor. Well, I know I should, it's gone on long enough and with a severity that is not normal for my colds. I just don't want to deal with my damned insurance and finding a time when I can actually go, which probably is never, or at least not til next Saturday.


I hate it. I really hate it. OW.


It makes everything more sucky than it would generally be, whether or not it would be sucky on its own. I want someone to carry me to a big feather bed, and stroke my hair and give me mint chocolate chip ice cream that also soothes and heals my throat on contact, and makes me stop coughing and stop hurting inside my head. I want storytelling and singing just for me, and maybe even Vicks VapoRub, or however the heck that's spelled. Most of all, I just want to feel rested and normal and fine again, in a consistent way, or for more than a couple of hours. And cared for and not like a prickly sick creature.

And I feel frustrated and overwhelmed and sort of colorless, but for all I know that's another symptom of this sickness thing. It certainly relates. And I'm lonely, and all the bits of my ears and mouth and throat and nose hurt, and ARGH.

Soon I will have another book post and that will be much pleasanter, for I am enjoying the book. But for now.... GRRRRRRRRRRRR. :( Love me and give me pleasant friendly things, says sick Becky. Even though I'm growling. Hold up my end of the conversation until I can talk normally again.

Hehe-- I could end with a song, too.

This is all very neat... this is all very smart! This had better be a goodbye, illness, this had better end in the blink of an eye! Don't feel responsible, after all, we're through. I'm not responsible! Hate me or need me, just make sure you feed me... This had better be a goodbye, illness, why, illness, try, illness, bend... This had better come to a, this this this this, this had better come to an end! This had better come to an end.

I don't know if that's quite right anymore, but in the real thing "illness" is mostly "Marvin." Anyway, trust Falsettos to make me feel a bit better. Except why do I have to go to the bathroom again? And why is my toilet stopped up?

Stupid stupid stupid boo. Thank you for listening to this message of disgruntlement. Goodnight.

Seventh Book: Radical Acceptance

This book, found by my mother and written by Tara Brach, Ph.D., is very gentle and practical. I think she has a way of putting revolutionary things so that they seem very self evident. Or maybe she just has a way of revealing the self-evidentness of things that seem revolutionary. I really want to try her meditation practices, they seem very useful. I also wonder if I shouldn't endeavor to learn more about Vipassana meditation, this being the second time it's come up in the recent past. Instead of going on and on about this book, I want to give you a few quotes:


My beloved child,
Break your heart no longer.
Each time you judge yourself you break your own heart.
You stop feeding on the love which is the wellspring of your vitality.
The time has come, your time

To live, to celebrate and to see the goodness that you are...

Let no one, no thing, no idea or ideal obstruct you
If one comes, even in the name of "Truth" forgive it for its unknowing
Do not fight.
Let go.
And breathe--into the goodness that you are.

--Bapuji

Enough. These few words are enough.
If not these words, this breath.
If not this breath, this sitting here.

This opening to the life
we have refused
again and again
until now.

Until now.
--David Whyte

Here's a tough one, from my friend Rumi:

This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
Some momentary awareness
comes as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!...

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

--Rumi

And one last one I really like:

"Seeing pure awareness without engaging lovingly in our life is a daydream. Living in this relative world without vision is a nightmare."
--Japanese Proverb

Now there's something true.

An Old-Fashioned Journal Type Post, or Sickness and Then Some

Well, I know y'all are getting sick of surveys and quizzes and whatnot... or maybe you prefer those, in which case hang on and I'll get back to that eventually. But I've had a weird couple of days, and a weird day today in particular, and I thought I'd write it down and see what I thought about it then.

The most pressing matter is that I've been sick. It started Sunday night (como siempre!) with a sore throat, but then I woke up sometime in the night freezing, just completely freezing, and with wildly aching legs. So I got up and took some medicine, and put on three pairs of pants and three sweatshirts, turned the heat up, and huddled under two blankets until I finally fell asleep.

Monday morning, as you might expect, was not the most fun time ever. I was feeling really determined to go to work, though, because we have a show this week, so I dragged myself there. But I was really spaced out the whole time, and really did next to nothing. Todd even came into my office and said to stay home on Tuesday if I felt horrible. So... I did. Even though Tuesday is opening night and I really wanted to be there. I decided I would sleep awhile and try to go in for the afternoon. I did; in fact, I rode the bus all the way there, and then felt so yucky and disoriented that I turned around and came right back. That was hard for me. I realized I feel inordinately insecure about my work. I never think I'm doing enough/a good enough job, and therefore I feel called upon to make up for it by extending myself whenever I get the opportunity to do so. It's really strange... I mean, a strange feeling. I think I became more aware of it because I was reading this book my mom got me called Radical Acceptance (book post to follow! :) ), which is basically about using Buddhist principles and meditation practices to open yourself to awareness and acceptance of everything you feel. So I was more conscious of what is going on beneath the surface, and I realized I just have this frantic feeling about work sometimes, like I'm going to be caught as a not-good employee and thrown out. Kind of like the feeling I used to have as a student, in fact. Or the feeling I sometimes have in my personal relationships, even, that if people know/understand such and such about me, or see that I feel this or that, they won't like me anymore. I also tend to think that sickness somehow says something bad about me... maybe because there have been times when I welcomed it so that I could rest. I think it's also because my mom used to get mad at me when I was sick, because she was frustrated at not being able to "fix" me.

It was fascinating, in this book, when the author talked about how all the feelings we hate about ourselves, all the petty things and the weird things and the jealousy (spelling?) and anger, aren't signs that we're spiritually deficient or missing the boat or something. It was a new idea for me to regard feelings in general as not "belonging to" or "becoming" me, but rather something experiential that I move through. Of course, then there's the whole "I" thing, the whole not having a self thing, which I have heard plenty of times, but I'm not sure I get it. Does it relate to the times when I have been looking at something, a very ordinary thing like my hands or whatever, and suddenly my perspective shifts, and there's a voice saying, "I'm alive," and it both is and isn't me? It used to happen to me fairly often as a child... less so now, but maybe different things happen now.

Anyway, so this morning as I was debating whether or not to get out of bed and go to work this morning, there was a moment of clarity when I realized there really was no right or wrong decision. It may sound simple, but it took a lot for me to see that! Or, it didn't really, it just happened. But it hadn't really happened in this matter before. So, I decided to stay home, and it felt very kind, to me. A kind thing to do for myself. I went back to sleep, and was awakened close to noon by a phone call from my dad.

I had been reminded yesterday of the CDs I made for him for his birthday, and called to ask if he'd gotten them, and he called to say he had, and he really liked them. And also to tell me that my grandma (his mom, will be 90 April 15th) is now in a nursing home and has dementia, and that my aunt Lisa (his sister, substantially younger than he, adopted from Korea) has had an operation on her spine for some kind of tumors. He also said that my aunt Susan (also adopted from Korea, and, I think, the youngest) is handling everything well, meeting with lawyers and everything. She's been taking care of my grandmother this whole time, in fact. It's amazing, because it would be for most people, I guess, but also because Susan is mentally ill. Also, his older brother Richard (12 years older, in fact) is having some trouble with his sciatic nerve. But apparently other than that he's ok.

And then he asked me if I wanted a laptop for grad school, which I think is incredibly generous of him. And then he had to get off the phone and get ready for work. (He works evenings, as a nurse's aide, and his floor is mostly patients with dementia.) So he did.

I feel confused about all of this information. I did actually hear a brief outline of it from my mom on the answering machine, before, but I just got all the details. I don't know what to think. I haven't really been close to my grandma in years, though I liked her very much as a child. I feel guilty that I didn't make more of an effort to stay close to her. And I wish I had more time to get her stories. I know she was an actress and a storyteller, like me. I know my father was very ambivalent about her, probably still is. He got the impression from her that a man was a bad thing to be, and that's a rather hard thing to put aside. And my aunt Lisa was always my favorite. When I was a child, she seemed like a dazzling personage. And last summer she was very kind to me when I needed a place to stay in NY. And this summer she came to see my play. But she seemed... different. Distractable. Ill. Old. On the phone, her voice sounded like my grandma's, actually.

Memories about each of them:

Grandma: She promised one year to take me to Wendy's for my birthday, but for some reason she couldn't. But for years she remembered that she owed me a trip to Wendy's. She got on well with my other grandma, and they did a big puzzle of the Smithsonian Christmas tree together. She sent me a tape about boxes tied with silver ribbon, and not dying with the music still in you. I often did not know how I was supposed to relate with her. She got me a beautiful nativity when I was small, piece by piece. She seemed to care a lot about making herself available to me, if I needed help or anything. I wondered if she was remembering her own life as a young woman, but I don't know. She came up for my graduations, from high school and college.

Aunt Lisa: She seemed like the coolest person ever. When we went down to Florida for my grandpa's funeral, she gave me an anklet. I treasured it and kept it on until it broke. She always wanted me to visit her in NYC by myself, but my mom said no. She was sort of wild and had boyfriends and was thin and pretty. She sent me pictures from Italy. I like her boyfriend now, Martin, and I hope he does well with all of this. She seemed less and less shiny every time I saw her, lately, but always kind to me.

Uncle Richard: He was sort of a little scary, and said things that hurt my feelings, like calling me slowpoke and laughing when I was nervous about the cows in the meadow, but I knew he liked me. He used to come up every year for the Fair, and I liked that. He would always get a shirt, and that's why I started to get them, too. He was big, and he would pick me up and say, "I know you. I know you." At the time I knew it was supposed to be special but I didn't know why. But the best story about Uncle Richard was how we went to Disney World together, and he was late coming out of the Mickey section, and we were waiting for him in the little train, and he came out all breathless and said that Mickey had called him back, and asked about me, and given him Mickey Mouse ears to give to me. That was the best. I felt so special.

Aunt Susan: I was a bit nervous around her for a long time, but very curious once I realized she was sick. She is a great artist, I mean truly excellent, but she hasn't done art in a long time. She grins and laughs and talks to herself, and engages in odd behavior around the house, but apparently she can keep it together in front of strangers. Once, they tried to have her in an institution and she escaped and walked home! It was a long way, too. She always calls me "Beck." Her Korean name was Rosanhi. I thought that was just beautiful and fascinating as a child, and I named a doll I had after her. I still think it's beautiful.

Well, that's all for now. That side of my family hasn't been very close for awhile, really. So, if you pray, say some prayers for the Fullans, and if not, just wish us all well.

Word Association for a Sick Day

word association. (165 words)
word association.
You:	rock
person:	people
mouse:	rid
head:	heart
hard:	soft
star:	shine
Crime:	death
knife:	stab
cat:	mouse
Vision:	see
radio:	star
Zip:	code
Alphabet:	written
Oral:	exam
santa:	claus
number:	one!
light:	bulb
hell:	fire
genitals:	touch
vacuum:	empty
molecule:	one
Money:	open
blacelet:	bracelet?
neck:	cord
russain:	dressing
japan:	island
odour:	smell
internal:	organ
document:	paper
men:	mendosa
monster:	rar
dream:	float
negative:	no
half:	baked
function:	math
typo:	wrong
wonderful:	counselor
foreign:	other
lynx:	zoo
lodge:	cabin
salmon:	pink
amber:	flow
fire:	burn
Utah:	state
Canada:	up
Braces:	teeth
Metal:	shine
Rubber:	band
Elasticity:	pull
Zodiac:	symbol
order:	rifle
court:	order
tampon:	insert
french:	orange
toxicity:	fumes
bitch:	nasty
sandpaper:	rough
palm:	tree
pod:	split
pester:	bug
hex:	curse
formeldehyde:	taste
corrosion:	rust
stamina:	push
Length:	measure
london:	tall
lactose:	milk
sugar:	sweet
tolerance:	low
colour:	red
Mammoth:	big
valid:	feeling
love:	bird
heart:	song
skillet:	pan
skittles:	click
Aero:	bed
floor:	foot
bedroom:	door
flash:	lightning
flat:	tire
truck:	purple
thief:	night
blood:	red
story:	book
Jack:	beanstalk
revolting:	gag
pubic:	hair
symphony:	music
pants:	on
inside:	out
combustion:	boom
steam:	engine
sport:	old
ping:	pong
gold:	leaf
gnome:	burrow
store:	up
finger:	beckon
up:	down
church:	building
faerie:	land
brittish:	accent
wild boar:	tusks
pig:	oink
skirt:	short
behind:	you
boast:	brag
shaft:	harm
torment:	break
merge:	one
band:	arm
stem:	cell
leaf:	vein
cell:	membrane
red:	rose
shallow:	pool
ex:	lover
step:	son
poison:	gas
mind:	meld
kernel:	corn
KFC:	chicken
corn:	cob
cobweb:	spider
widow:	black
door:	knob
peel:	banana
speech:	bubble
eyeliner:	black
bench:	sit
stench:	nose
wrench:	pull
stitch:	sew
forbidden:	barred
castle:	wall
german:	forest
Nine:	lives
Morgue:	cold
Forgery:	fake
sister:	hood
Irritant:	eye
period:	mark
nod:	head
egg nogg:	thick
new:	old
whilst:	why
yesterday:	now
night:	day
lights off:	breath
turn on:	touch
snack:	food
fork:	lift
steal:	take
steel:	rod
rock:	roll
tears:	fall
sea:	shore
harry potter:	cape
seal:	me
loo:	toilet
master:	slave
women:	men
ALL DONE!:	yes?
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Play With My Pig (the 100th post!)

Here is a pig. See, Lauren, I remembered! And I'm not embarrassed.

Please play with my little pig.

adopt your own virtual pet!

Sixth Book: The Memory of Running

This one, by Ron McLarty, was lent to Rachel and me by Rachel's parents, both of whom read and loved it. I wondered if it would be good... it was, and engrossing enough that I read it all day, pretty much straight through. It reminded me of She's Come Undone and sometimes John Irving. I was fascinated by the depictions of family, insanity, honesty, and love. I was particularly engaged with Bethany, and the effect she had on her family. It made me think a lot about mental illness--specifically psychosis and schizophrenia-- as more than a defacto condition for certain people, which is the only way I have experienced it in my life. I did wonder why Smithy kept getting beaten up, though.

And I think I'm too tired and sick to say much more about this, except that it's a great read and I recommend it.

The Most Astonishing Description of Me Ever

From a post by a lister apologizing for not recognizing me at an event she invited listers to:

Fast forward. 6:45 p.m., the church hall. People are coming in, and, by
way of giving up a comfort zone, I am extending myself to greet those I
know little or not at all. Suddenly I see a classically beautiful woman,
dressed with the poignant elegance of a young woman of style who is
nevertheless tenderhearted. Her face has a dark Sephardic beauty so
compelling that I have to look away. But I know I have spent several hours
in a group with her very recently; my eyes could not forget that aesthetic
high point. She must be a parishioner, of course. I hastily review my
past and conclude that she must have participated in a "share the graces"
session on Wednesday night as part of a week of prayer the parish sponsored
in January. I met several young women there whom I had not seen before.
Being committed (quite unnecessarily, as it turns out) to giving up looking
good, I asked her name. She said "Becky." I said a few friendly words and
gave a vague smile, hoping to conceal my indecent envy of her invincible
beauty.


!!!! I'm stunned and flattered and a bit embarrassed. I mean, obviously this is overstating things, perhaps for the case of a very nice writing style, but.... just the idea that I could make such an impression is enough to make me grin and blush. Mark should take a few lessons in email description from this (unbelievably) kind lady. On second thought, maybe not. And I probably would trust it less from somebody who was trying to date me. But anyway, uh... wow. If I were to describe my appearance in the ideal universe on my ideal day, I don't think it would come close to this praise. I also don't remember at all what I was wearing.

Well, I'll save this one for a rainy day, even though it could never be quite lived up to in real life! Thank you, lister friend!

First Response! Duke has returned!

Wow, this was the last thing I was expecting to find in my inbox right now:

"I am writing to you to give you an update on the status of your application
to the English Department Graduate Program at Duke University. The first
thing you should know is that we (an Admissions Committee of six that
reaches out to the entire Graduate faculty) LOVE your application.
Unfortunately, we do not as of yet have a fellowship to offer you, so we
have done the only thing we can do in the interim. We have asked the
Graduate School to place you on its official "waitlist."

Let me explain a bit further. For the sake of basic democratic equity and
simple decency, the English Department at Duke does not admit anyone to its
Ph.D. Program without "full funding." This year we received 436
applications for a very few places, which means we are required to proceed
very carefully. But the limitation placed on us does not translate in any
way to our being "luke warm" on you--in fact, we would be delighted to have
you join us should that come to pass, and we apologize for making you wait.


One more thing, which involves formal procedures here at Duke. If our
request to place you on the Graduate School waitlist is approved, you will
automatically receive an email from the Graduate School. The Graduate
School's notification email is a legal document standardized across all
departments, and it is, for that reason, a bit formal, even cold. Sorry
about that!

In the meantime, please accept our congratulations on the great strength of
your file, and let's stay in contact. I will call soon, but don't hesitate
to email or call us first:"

What to think of this?? Is it good? Is it bad? Is it good and bad? I feel excited and disappointed and pleased and jittery. I guess it's good to know that if I do eventually get in I'll be fully funded...

I'm baffled! And nervous! And eager!

A Beautiful Picture

I don't know if this is true of me or not... I don't think I'd describe myself as "fragile and delicate," though I like the stuff about strength and weakness. Anyway, I mostly just like the picture a lot.


Paper Lantern

Your inner light is a paper lantern. You are

fragile and delicate and you show people the

utmost respect. But, you lack confidence.

Just because you do not feel strong, doesnt

mean you are weak. Your feelings are your

most powerful weapon.


What's your inner light?
brought to you by Quizilla

Fifth Book: The Sunbird

Or, why I love Elizabeth Wein.

Well, this is the latest book in the series that started with my beloved The Winter Prince. I had to work to get this one! Her books just disappear, and I don't know why, and it frustrates me so much, because they're so good and deserve to be on the shelf always, unless they have sold out to hoards of excited readers.

It's so discouraging!

But anyway, after checking back several times to see if The Sunbird was out in paperback yet, I placed an advance order. And lo and behold, it came almost at once! This book follows the adventures of Telemakos, Medraut's son, as he tries to prevent his home country, Askum (in what is now Eithiopia) from being destroyed by plague carried by smugglers. It was very, very good and engaging, and full of surprises. I was sucked in and couldn't stop reading. (I'm having very good luck with that lately. :) ) And there was quite a bit with Medraut and Goewin, old friends. Well, let's not dissemble, I'm quite in love with Medraut. And I have to admit that however good the following books are (and they are) nothing can quite rival The Winter Prince for me. It's simply a masterpiece. And I think I am always hoping Medraut will come back and narrate again, even though I understand why he hasn't.

But anyway, to the book at hand. I was definitely very engaged by the intriguing plot and the many fascinating characters, especially people like Sofya who really developed for me for the first time I was also really quite captivated by Telemakos, who is a very immediate and engaging character, and I am really interested in the fact that not only does he remind me of Medraut, his father, and Goewin, his aunt... but also, and strongly, of Lleu. The shadowy role that Lleu plays in this story, especially in the relationships between Medraut and Goewin and Medraut and Telemakos, was as fascinating to me as the exciting plot. It seemed very real, just as the combined inheritance of Telemakos, in terms of what he is like, seemed very real. It does make me have more questions about his mother, Turunesh, though, especially with the revelation at the end of the book (trying not to give anything away!)... I feel like I have a sense of her, but I don't know her well, and I certainly don't know very much about her relationship with Medraut, and only a little more about her relationship with Telemakos... or, maybe it's just that I find it interesting that Telemakos looks so strongly to Goewin and Medraut, but less to his mother. Perhaps in books to come I will learn more about her...

There was one scene that struck a bit of a false note with me, and I don't know why, because I understood all the things happening in the scene, and I agreed with the general emotional result this would produce, and I even was on board with what happened afterwards, but... I think it was the way Goewin fell apart, maybe, or the fact that too many people fell apart... I'm not sure. This is the courtroom scene, again not to give too much away for future readers. Anyway, I'd be curious to talk with these mythical future readers about this as well.

Overall, the book was excellent. And everyone should please buy books by Elizabeth E. Wein, especially The Winter Prince, which apparently is in danger of going out of print again, or perhaps already has. It's worth it. She's a wonderful writer.

A Prize!

For Rachel and Katie, winners of that long ago contest. Totally unedited, and may not make any sense if you don't know these characters already. Or at least be unsatisfying. But anyway, no more caveats, here it is. Oh, except one, and I will take other precautions re. this... I'm always really paranoid about posting my work online... it's mine, the characters are mine, I made them up and/or have permission to use them, and so keep your hands off, all you random bitches who are coming around to steal my shit. Ahem. Thank you for putting up with my paranoia.

So, this isn’t how I met him, but this is how I knew I was in love. I didn’t know that I knew at the time, but later, I knew that that was when I would have known, if I’d been paying attention and not just fucking around. And do you know? It was before we ever had sex. Which is good, because if we’d just stumbled into sex I’d have been totally blindsided. Every time he gets an award for his work or some kind of honor or whatever I want to stand up and yell, and the best lay on the whole fucking island. I would say planet, but that might embarrass him a little. And overstate my sluttiness, which, while considerable, does not encompass the entire earth.

God, the sex is so good. One time, before the virus obviously, he had just finished some big deal article for one of those journals with the impossibly long names. And we were fooling around on the floor in the kitchen in his tiny apartment. He’d gone in to get some wine glasses and I followed him, and we ended up knocking over one of the glasses—before we started playing, actually, just, you know, normal slippage, and then we got carried away and I ended up with my legs around his waist and my head pressed against the wall, uncomfortably, staring at the oven. But it was incredibly hot, and I was picking bits of glass out of my back for days.

You know, I’ve said I’m a masochist, but that’s not really true. I just like to be taken care of. Swept off my feet. Sometimes I get that mixed up with pain. It’s a little embarrassing, the whole thing. But whatever, my lover reads romance novels, and he’s a fucking Ph.D. So we’re well matched or something. I’m not entirely comfortable with that side of myself. I just pretend to be. You’ll see that in a lot of maricones like me.

Right, but I was talking about being in love. It was… well, here is where I get confused, maybe our third or fourth date. I mean, the first sure wasn’t anything to make you fall in love, unless you get off on car accidents and hysterical boys. Boy, singular, man I guess, but I was hardly ready to think of myself that way. Besides, boys could be a bit more flitting and fey, and men… men were part of that strange class of creatures who could set your throat pulsing when they moved so carelessly from the locker room to their shiny manly cars, hair and skin all damp with sweat. I wanted to be a sponge, to soak it up and remain blameless. But to name myself as one of them would tip the scales, send me tumbling into some other class of being from which I could never return. I remember sobbing in the shower the day I graduated from high school, because everyone kept calling me young man, saying I was growing into a fine young man, things like that. And I wasn’t.

Boys could be fucked, but men did the fucking. Men did the choosing, boys could wait, and dally, and let things happen to them, let everything pass over them like clouds in a blue sky. You would think I’d have done a lot of pot, given my basic desire for a spacey state of mind, but I was afraid of drugs in high school. Reefer madness and all of that. I could see the red animal with small sharp claws under my skin, and I danced attendance on everything that would keep him at bay. I was afraid of everything, really, and the day I graduated from high school I was breathing in the steam and the soap and the tears until my head pounded and my fifteen year-old sister came into the bathroom without knocking and started to put on her makeup, and said, Jesus fuck in the fucking arsehole, David, you’re such a bloody fucking dishrag, why don’t you mop yourself the fuck up? She was going through an extremely profane phase at the time, which seemed to correspond with her extremely cruel phase, and preceded her extremely loud and yet romantic phase, which was a direct segue into her extremely drunk phase… but I digress.

I guess the point is that once I got out in the world, I realized you could stay a boy for as long as you wanted; there were always men ready to fuck you and ask no questions. And a little part of myself kept floating above it all, a balloon on a string, never quite part of the world of the me who went about interacting with things, just tethered a little by the red animal portion of myself.

Of course, I didn’t think of it that way at the time. I figured I was basically happy. I figured that happiness was like that, interspersed with inexplicable nervousness and uncontrollable tears. You just factored those things out.

On our third (or maybe fourth) date, I decided to take Andrew to a bar. Sort of a bar/club/gay dive, basically. We’d done the movies, and a cute little jazz show, but I was nervous because he hadn’t decided to fuck me yet, and I figured I’d get him buzzed and see what happened. That and I liked to dance. I wasn’t completely an insecure asshole. It was quiet there that night, fewer people than usual on the dance floor, and I was a bit uncomfortable with that. Andrew, for his part, was a bit uncomfortable with the whole scene. I mean, he hid it well. But he was quiet. I don’t know how I knew his bad-quiet from his good-quiet even then, but I did. He wasn’t drinking, either, so I followed suit. It felt very awkward. More so than our other dates, even the initial catastrophe.

After awhile Andrew went to the bathroom, and I waited for him so long I began to think he’d definitely scampered out the window, like people you read about or see in sitcoms, trying to escape their Very Bad Dates, and I was starting to get nervous and even a little mad—I didn’t think I’d done anything that horrible. You’ll think this is ridiculous, I guess, but it was at least ten minutes he was gone. And that was after I’d started to check my watch. I suppose I should have gone in and checked on him, but I kept thinking he’d come out any second and I wouldn’t have to make an ass of myself. So, anyway, finally he appeared, and he had this very strange expression on his face.

The thing about Andrew, I guess, is that he has a tendency to look sort of dreamy. I mean, his hair and eyes are rather soft to begin with, and if you’re not really paying attention, I can see how it would be easy to just sort of conclude, absent-minded professor, you know, and move on from there. But if you do happen to pay attention, you realize that the dreaminess actually comes from this focus that’s just utterly formidable. That he’s taking things in and processing them and giving them back at a level that’s probably well beyond you, no offense. It certainly is beyond me. And sometimes the dreamy fog-curtain of his outside thoughts just kind of peels away, and you’re left with his sharp, unvarnished interest. It’s a bit shocking. Like… lemon, or a deep-pore cleanser. Thank God he’s into religion, you know, and not, I don’t know, something black and white. He has a gentleness that he retains, even when he’s just chewed up whatever your argument was and spat out the bones.

Anyway, my point is, that as he came out of the bathroom and rejoined me at the bar, I saw that not-dreamy, not-veiled face of his for the very first time. It was like… well, I don’t know, I don’t want to get too dramatic. But I wasn’t expecting that kind of light in him. It’s like he had some kind of special hidden radiance he had suddenly let out… I don’t think he knew it. I don’t think he saw it. He seemed troubled when he came over to me, upset.

“Hey,” I said. I smiled, all sideways and crooked. I was trying not to run my hand over his arm to see if I could find the bottom of that glow against his skin.

“Hey. Um. Sorry I took so long. That was weird.” He let out a breath, and smiled back at me, looking nervous. “There was a weird guy in there; he sort of hit on me or something, I don’t really…”

I wasn’t sure what to say about that. Some guy in the bathroom hits on him, and he comes back to me all lit up? It looked not so good for me.

“Oh… was he hot?” I laughed. It sounded like my stupid sister’s laugh. Andrew’s eyes focused on me, looking mildly surprised.

“Sure. Yeah, he was.” Apparently this was the last thing that Andrew had considered. Apparently I was a bizarre, idiotic, horny prick.

“Oh.”

“He was… he seemed to have been sweating. He’d taken his t-shirt off and was wiping his face with it when I came in. It was white, the t-shirt, or it had been once. He was rather tanned.”

I bit my lips to keep from giggling inanely. What was this, some kind of porno set up or what? Maybe handsome, studious Andrew was actually a raging kinkster.

“But he was wearing a scarf,” Andrew continued, oblivious to my squirming. “I mean, like a muffler. A big knit one, made of this fuzzy gray yarn. It seemed completely… out of place. And it was torn, on the end. And he didn’t smell good. I sort of hate that, when people don’t smell good, because you know you should just ignore it, but you don’t. I don’t. I have a lot of trouble with that. Well, anyhow, he was obviously sort of agitated, and I didn’t want to stare at him, or whatever, so I just sort of went over to the urinal and tried to mind my own business. And the next thing I know he puts his hand on my back. I mean, actually on my back, not my ass or something, but still, I was very startled and I sort of whipped around, and he said, sorry.

“He had a really interesting voice. Low and a little rough, but not too rough. He swallowed, and he seemed to be hesitating about something. I was… frightened, but less frightened than I figured I ought to be.”

“Jesus,” I said. “He musta been on drugs.”

“Maybe,” Andrew said, slow and considering. He takes so little for granted. He spread his fingers out on the bar, looked at them, drummed them there.

“Well, what happened?” I said at last.

“He said, ‘Did you lose these?’ and he holds out my glasses that I must’ve lost, I don’t know, two months ago, certainly not here, and one of the lenses is broken and the side is bent, but they’re definitely mine…”

“Let me see,” I demanded, as though I had any idea about his missing glasses.

“Well,” he said, looking embarrassed, “I didn’t take them.”

“What?”

“I said they weren’t mine. I was freaked out, you know? Some weird guy handing me my glasses out of the blue sky in the middle of the washroom? I don’t know if he’s a stalker or some weird homeless prophet or what.”

“Oh.” He looked so nervous at this revelation that I touched his hand. “It’s ok, it does sound pretty fucked up. I bet I wouldn’t have talked to him at all. Unless he was really hot.”

Andrew smiled. “Well, so he tucked the glasses back in his pants pocket and watched me wash my hands, and then he was rooting around in his pocket again and I was really scared he was going to pull out my stuffed duck from when I was a kid, or something, and sort of hoping he would, and I nearly jumped out of my skin when he asked if I minded if he smoked… and I said yes. Which I think startled him, because after all you can smoke everywhere in the bar. But I figure, why ask the question if you won’t take yes for an answer, right?”

I laughed. “Gutsy,” I said.

“He took out a cigarette and passed it between his fingers, but didn’t light up. I would’ve thought he was being challenging, or something, but he just seemed curious. Somehow the smell wasn’t so bad now, either. I dried my hands and figured I should leave, but the whole thing seemed unfinished. I turned to leave anyway. After all, this isn’t a fairy tale, right? So I was heading out of there and I felt him touch my elbow again.

“ ‘You dropped this,’ he said ‘Anyway, I don’t like poetry.’” And he gave me this grimy, folded up piece of paper, and I took it, because I didn’t know what else to do.”

I waited expectantly, but Andrew was looking at the bar again. “Geez, what was on it?”

He looked up at me, with that sudden, unexpected clarity. “I don’t know. I wanted you to read it with me.”

“Why?” I said.

“You know, I don’t know,” he answered, and I figured I could trust him, because he wasn’t just being romantic, he was real and strange and talked to strangers and didn’t like cigarettes and saved things just because. “It just seems like it’s your story too.” And he took my hand and we walked out of the bar right then, really, and I couldn’t stop smiling. We read the paper under a street lamp, and this is what it said:

man like a blade of grass in sunlight

boy are looks ever

deceiving, he’s the moon

man.

he’s the moon man,

after all.

I didn’t get it then, and I don’t get it now, except that it produced such a longing in me, such a stupid longing, maybe it was just waiting to come out, waiting for something incomprehensible it could wrap itself around. And I looked at Andrew and I knew he understood, and we joked about how dumb it was to write incomprehensible poetry. And we made out for awhile and he took me home.

I stayed awake all night, and in the morning I called him and I said I wanted to sleep with him right away. And he didn’t laugh at me, but he made me wait until he went to all three of his graduate seminars.

It was great! Well, probably it was horrible and clumsy, and I thought it was great. But after all, I was in love already.