The Power of Me

Recession, right. 'These days, that's how it is,' we keep hearing. Or, 'but with this economy, people need all the help they can get.' Right right right. But apart from living in a bubble where all of my bills are paid, and being unsure whether or not I even notice that we're in 'recession,' though everyone keeps saying we are, I still have an opinion on this outlook. The outlook I refer to is that in 'these times,' we need to help others as much as we can. I personally, however, am taking this opportunity to be as selfish as possible.

Take Dominicks for example. I have a relationship with this store in that I visit it every so often (I go much more frequently to Jewel Osco, but don't worry, it doesn't matter). Usually I go to the Dominicks in between Illinois and Grand near the AMC movie theater in River East. This is so that I can get snacks for whatever movie I'm about to indulge in on a Monday in the middle of the day when everyone else is at work and hating their lives.

But though I like Dominicks in that they are there where I need them to be, they piss me off. You see, they ask for me to donate to causes and such. But how do I have money for that? I'm about to go to a movie, which even at matinee prices is nearly 10 ducks these days. And also I need the snacks! Christ, even with 'this economy,' a 5 oz carton of greek yogurt is still over $2. I mean I could probably churn the shit for cheaper than that (maybe I'm thinking of butter). Donate to a cause?

I'm not entirely sure what cause I'm asked about. Maybe prostate cancer. Let's say it's prostate cancer. Weeks ago, there I am at the checkout line at my trusty Dominicks. And I'm pretty sure the only and the only reason I don't go through a self checkout machine is because they don't have any. So damn, I need to actually talk to someone to get my illegal in the theater snack fare.

Before this cute, admittedly she is hopelessly cute, chubby latino lady gives me my bottom line balance, she says, 'Donate to prostate cancer today? A dollar or two maybe?' And she peers up at me--she is short afterall, short and stout--through her little glasses and the flesh around her eyes.

I take inventory of how much cash I have with me, but who are we kidding, I probably wouldn't donate even if I had dollar bills coming out of my nostrils. I'm selfish, that's the point of this blog. And I mean too, come on it's a dirty trick: putting me on the spot like that.

I'm cornered. If I say no, I look like an asshole. And there is this woman who is blonde and has a baby standing there behind me, waiting for me to answer whether or not I want to donate to prostate cancer. When I refuse, she probably thinks about how her cooing little baby there is going to grow up in a world of never ending recession and hate. Can't say I blame her. That's exactly what the kid is getting.

But I guess it doesn't matter that we're in recession. The point is that I'm kind of selfish. And I do feel a twinge of guilt as I gather my belongings and stuff them into my sack and frolic along across the street to the AMC. Who knows what I am about to watch. Probably something horribly frivolous like 'Ghosts of Girlfriends Past' or some such. As I give the theater cashier my money for the ticket, I grin at her and I tell her thanks so much, and to have a nice day.

I'm so excited about this movie and my snacks, I hardly even remember we're in a recession.

Is it Essential That We Wear Shirts?

There's something that has been bothering me the last 24 hours. I saw a black man walking down Sheffield street yesterday, a rather balmy afternoon, and he didn't have a shirt on. But that's not really what was so disturbing. Not as much as that I noticed him, and then he noticed me noticing him, and then he stopped walking away from where I was, and instead started walking toward me.

But that's not what disturbed me either. No, I was disturbed by my reaction to him. Alarmed by the fact that he looked like he may have been drunk, as he was swaggering to and fro, compounded by the fact that he had no shirt on, compounded by that I took him to be homeless, I panicked. And then I hurried off about my business, in a direction opposite from him. So, in essence, I was running away from him. But why?

He wanted to have a word with me it seemed, and I rejected the possibility of any discourse with him based on my judgments and fears. What was I afraid of? That he would spit on me? That he would talk at me nonsensically as so many 'street people' tend to do? That he would harm me, pull out a gun, flash me his wang? Who knows? Maybe he'd vomit on my shoes, or simply, ask me for some change. 

Though any of these outcomes are possible, I surmise that the latter is probably, in all its simplicity, the most likely. The poor no-shirted man probably just wanted me to give him a dollar or something. And would that be so bad? Couldn't I just offer up a tiny little George Washington so that he might believe the human race is not all about stinginess and greed? Maybe if nothing else, he felt lonely, and he'd find that he had a friend in the world...if only for a moment.

But I didn't offer that GW. I was too scared. I read recently that if we are to find the path of higher understanding, we must realize that human encounters are opportunities to unleash our full potential, to live among greater joy. Though it's one thing to understand that, and quite another it seems, to act accordingly. Oh well, this is a journey, this crazy life. I have no intentions of lambasting myself for not speaking to the shirtless man who wanted my ear. But I want to tell him, if he could ever read this, that I'm sorry I fled him. He deserves better.

And so do you. 

Who Knows, Death Could Be Friendly

As I walk along all these budding tree blossoms, inhaling the spring air and reflecting on joys that result from putting the winter down like a maimed mare, I've also been turning over a new topic in my mind: death.

I'm telling people lately that I might die young, before I'm 40 to be exact. They don't take well to that notion, particularly if they care a great deal about me, and even more particularly if they are my mother. This make sense. We don't like to think of losing someone from this world who we cherish. Who would we talk to with the same level of familiarity? How would we feel like we're not alone through life's adventures (and misadventures)?

For my part, I do feel alone a lot. The human spirit is conditioned to feel alone, lest he or she give up the rooted belief that nobody else has the same thoughts or feelings, or can understand the degree to his or her suffering. I understand this. I am one of these human spirits that clings to such a belief. But the belief is horsewash. Suffering is suffering, is it not?

I mean yeah some people might say they'd rather suffer a broken heart than deal with the death of a loved one. Try Jeopardy: broken heart for 500, or being a rape victim for 700? Broken heart, please. Sprain the ankle for 250, or be a part of a mass exodus as a result of your native country falling siege under a nasty, power hungry regime for 400? Twist my ankle, I'll take the ankle. Accidentally getting pepper-sprayed, or being fired from your favorite job? Who knows!

It's nuts when you try to compare levels of suffering, isn't i? The point is, suffering is suffering. We all feel it, and we all deal with it in different ways. But how is suffering linked to death in a direct way? Well, good question. In my experience, if I encounter too much suffering, I naturally feel like I want it to stop. But instead of thinking of ways to get myself out of the suffering, say, by sprinkling some faith over my head, I think: maybe it's time for me to die. Maybe it's my destiny to die young.

And so back to my mom. She would say, but you're too young, I can't believe that you'd want to give up at this point. Is death giving up in all cases? Surely no. I mean we all have to die sometime. I've recently been reading a fantastic find: 'Conversations with God' (book 1). One of the magnanimous ideas promulgated in this book is that we choose our path, we choose our life journey's components, and so naturally, we choose our death.

But a contingency to this concept, is that your soul has to really want to die in order that you find your way out of the breathing part of this life. So I wonder, when I'm walking down Clark street on a sunny Monday afternoon (Mondays are such fucking depressing days), and I'm thinking, I'm tired of being afflicted by the weight that I feel of the world, or the burden of my own internal suffering, I might just die soon so that I can stop this charade, does that mean I really want to die?

In that moment, I guess sure, I want to die, or maybe at the very least: I'm indifferent about life. But the next day, or two days later maybe, I'll be in touch with something more inspiring, something that looks more like faith. And I'll think, but I can't die yet, I have too much to do!

But does god take irrevocable requests? Like 'Monday, I got that yellow slip from Jinnene down in Chicago. She says she's tired and wants to die.' But then Wednesday I send a follow up note that says, hey it's me again. Scratch that last request. I'm all good now. If I can live a pretty long life replete with helping others any way I can, that's what I'd prefer.

But is it too late? Will death come knocking on my door, like a book from Amazon that I didn't cancel before the cancelation date? Woe is me, this is so complicated!

I'll help you along my little discussion here. The point is, and Neale Donald Walsch, 'Conversations' author, would agree, the soul has certain desires. If I choose to live a short life, and do what I can while I'm here, and then go, then so be it. But the truth is, I don't really think I have that in store for me. No, there's lots to do. I'll have to find a way to quiet the blue Mondays.

And speaking of blue, maybe I'll be like that adorable old lady from the film Titanic, the one with the gentle blue eyes. The one who had that sapphire stone. She died an old lady, quietly, and harmoniously, alone, in her sleep.

Imagination is Everything

It has been said by purveyors of truth that the key to life is to exercise imagination. Actually I don't think I recall hearing those exact words, and I'm not sure I even know a true purveyor of truth for that matter (do these people still exist?). Earlier in my blog, I think I said that the key to happiness was to not care what anyone thinks about you. And I really still believe that. I do. But today, I'm saying that I'm my own purveyor of truth, and I'm telling you: you could die if you don't use your imagination.

I recently did read, however, in a novel that I very much liked ('Winter's Tale' by Mark Helprin--pick it up, you can't be sorry that you did), that in order to find some sort of path to wisdom, we've first got to be willing to become a bit crazy. Doesn't Seal say something like that in a smash 90's hit too? I really feel bad that his face is so slashed about. I wonder if Heidi minded. Anyway, I believe in this concept of finding sensibility through insanity. And so, I'm afraid, if we want to be sensible, it seems that we've got to be okay with first (or concurrently) being crazy.

I personally would say that I'm pretty nuts. Not so much because most people don't understand me, but for my mom as a rare exception, but more because I do things that run in a river far away from the forest of the norm. I refuse to work in corporate jobs. I hate social activities. I'd rather eat razors than date regularly, just for the sake of it. I'm unpredictable. I flake out on people (not purposefully, but who knows how I'll feel any given day?). I send random texts that make no sense (to others, but they do to me) to test people. I truly believe in love even though I've not gotten a really good dose of it.

When I say love, I mean the most pure kind of love that you could possibly imagine. The kind of love that makes you feel like you'll live beyond this life, or that your love will outlast your mortal body. I believe in romance. The kind that can last a lifetime. I believe that one can love a person indefinitely; and that though there may be doubts, the feeling of certainty will always be stronger than the fear of failure to love, or the fear to lose.

I spent a long time being really cynical. But I'm starting to look around me, and I'm realizing how simple it is to be jaded. There are all kinds of reasons to be cynical and depressed and mean and bitter. There are countless ways to want to give up, to lose hope, to be sad, to believe in the worst in people. That's all easy.

But what's not easy, what's a challenge, what's sexy, is to believe in something better. In something deeper, something that will transcend the ages. Something that is pure and just and bright and awesome. I think this is love, no matter where it comes from, or who it's directed toward. Ideally, the feeling is directed toward everyone because everyone deserves to be loved.

Isn't this stuff crazy? My imagination sauteed it all together in a pan of hope. I'm pretty sure when I'm finished...it will be delicious. Either way, I'm certain it will end in something superiorly sensical.

Use your imagination too! It could really take years off your waist and add an entire new glow to your face.

Two Little Red Birds

This morning, on a Sunday early in spring, as I was taking my coffee and thinking of life as I often do, I spotted two little red cardinals outside my living room window. This window overlooks a courtyard, and the view beholds a couple of leafless trees; though make no mistake: there shall be green leaves, and lush, in no time at all. But my window, in this moment, is ajar, and I can smell the fresh spring air, and hear the sounds of tiny and happily uttered cheaps.

It is the little red birds that say cheap cheap, as they dance and fly and play with one another. What they offer to me in so doing, is an upgraded view outside my window: rapid flashes of red, one in concise succession after the next. All the while, the sound of cheap cheap, not unlike what you would expect to hear from a nest of newly hatched little mouths to feed. Do their wings get tired? How long do they jest in the courtyard before they bore of the backdrop, and heed a pursuit for more?  

What they say might be cheap, but what I hear is priceless. Spring has finally arrived, it's true. 

But Clinging on is Just No Good

Previously, I wrote a rather lengthy bit justifying that reaching out to an ex can be fine and acceptable. I'm not taking that assertion off the table. But recently, after observing some friends, I came to realize a new truth: It can't really do much good, can it? 

Say this girl named Leah dates this guy, Joe. She likes him, but he likes her more. He's a bit too 'man's man' for her taste. This means that he plays a hell of a lot of video games, and he loves porn and strip clubs, and he eats awful shitty food, and talks about his past sexual exploits as if they were triumphs or chores that he completed, as opposed to tender memories that ultimately made him a more feeling person. 

He hangs out with his man friends and gets wasted into the wee hours of night; he does this very often. And when Leah suggests that she and Joe do something cultural, be it watch the symphony or visit a museum, he kind of sighs and puts it off and makes excuses. In general, when she gets emotional for whatever reasons, even if she cries because she is happy or moved, he asks her why she is crying, and tells her that it makes him uncomfortable. 

Leah gets fed up with all of this. And though she realized from the beginning that Joe was just not right for her, because she likes him, and because she likes having him around every now and again, she struggles with cutting it off. But one night, late in December, she does just that. They have an emotionally charged 'chat' in her car, which is replete with lots of tears (on her part, heaven forbid on his; a real man doesn't cry, right?). 

Months pass. She begins to miss him. Not that she wants him back, but she has an impulse to see him. She wants to talk to him and laugh with him, and give him a hug. So she calls him. But he doesn't return her call. This hurts her, but she understands. Soon after, she runs into him at the bar where she works. He will not look at her.

She approaches him and asks if they can talk after she gets off work, if only for a few minutes. He says that he's not up for it. This hurts her too, but she understands. Later that night, he sends her a text message to apologize for his reserved behavior; he says that he hopes she understands. The next day, they talk on the phone for a couple of hours. This is depressing for Leah, however. Depressing because 1) she realizes that whatever spark existed between them (though minor), is now completely dead. 2) Joe thinks Leah is crazy. He even states this.

Suddenly, during this call, as she fights back tears, Leah questions her decision to contact Joe, and her erstwhile desire to keep up any type of discourse with him. What's the point? It was over months ago, why bring out the dead? Why go looking for a love that just wasn't meant to be? 

Sure, in certain situations, people in relationships can end the relationships, and then remain friends afterwards. But sometimes it's just not possible. And the point is, if you know that, I don't see why you'd fight it. Move on...and don't look back. 

By the way, it's officially spring now. Time for new beginnings. 

I Vote 'No' to Proposition Dating Rule: 'No Stalk'

I superiorly wish someone could explain how exactly these bullshit rules and terms ignited regarding the infuriating and heartbreaking world we call dating. Like waiting two days to call someone after obtaining their number? What? Not taking leftovers home from a first-date dinner? Um, no. No stalking unless you're a stalker? Fat chance. And oh! Okay okay, one of my favorites: don't, under any circumstances, call a person after you have been 'dumped' by this someone, because that's desperate, and yes, stalkerish; and of course it violates one of aforementioned rules of ridiculousness. But we'll talk about the latter of these two: the ends of things. 

Before we all get happy and clear, let's review the term 'dumped'. Wow, what a racket. This is such a horseshit way to describe the end of a relationship. It implies that the one person took the other person and, quite like that wonderful image in 'Slumdog Millionaire,' hoisted this other person into a pond of straight up fecal matter (actually in the movie, the boy fell into it, he wasn't hoisted, but the image was nasty either way). Unfortunately, society doesn't account for the fact that it's not exactly easy to 'break-up' with a person, and that sometimes ending a relationship can be just as hard for the person that's ending things as it is for the person who's being ended upon, if not harder. 

For the record, I would never sling someone that I cared about into a pile of excrement, or trash, or anything that wasn't pleasant to land in. The truth is, I care deeply about the people that I date. That's because I'm not an ignorant asshole and I try to consider others; and I actually put a bit of thought into choosing my flavor of the quarter or season or year or whatever you want (Depends on how good they are in bed. I'm kidding! Kind of).

But who cares right? That's just a silly way to explain a transpiring of events: being dumped. The bigger picture is, we tend to be trapped in these stupid boxes about how we perceive what's sane 'etiquette' when we take the plunge and let another person into our intimate little lives. The other night while I was having a bar chat as I often do (being a bartender not an alcoholic), a friend said that it wasn't 'healthy' that I thought nearly every day about a guy from my past. Not healthy? What the fuck is healthy? 

Correct me if I'm wrong, but if I can say I'm happy, and kinda mean it, I think I might be kinda healthy. It's natural to think about people who have impacted our lives. Also, I imagine that typically we don't fall in love, like the real kind of in love that we can't shake, but a couple times in a lifetime. And let's not forget that I'm among one of the few hopeful (not hopeless) romantics who still abound in this depressing world. Who knows, maybe after all of the fantastical masturbation fodder this person has offered me, he'll like show up at my door out of nowhere and offer to service me in real life. Of course I mean that I think about him in a rational, concerned sense, and not (always) necessarily a sexual sense. But now the tangents are just becoming tentacles on an octopus. 

Stalker behavior, as people see it, typically in women, is when women want to stay connected to a man. So, of course, they beg and plead and message upon message and show up at doors and cry and cry some more. Why is it usually the women and not the men? I mean don't get me wrong, I'm a woman, and I'm telling you I get it: there are some crazy bitches out there. These are the types of women who need filing cabinets for their emotions. I get all of that. And men: You have to deal with them, and I am quite sorry for that. Better you than me. 

But let me step up to the plate for my gender. Nobody had an individual say in how the great power of all the lands decided to divvy up the emotions and logics. Women got the short end of the stick with emotions (because they are judged for expressing them in volatile ways) and men got fucked when it comes to needing to, well, get fucked. It's nobody's fault. Let's just all get along. Let women stalk a bit and sometimes just chalk it up to: she cares about me, and she's a complicated individual. By the way, why must men always get all machismo when another dude starts up fighting shit in public, typically around drinking? I'm here to say: that's AS big of a turn OFF as stalking. 

What men might not realize is that it sucks for women to deal with men and their inability to express emotions. Like if you feel a way about something, why not just say it in a diplomatic way? Why fucking ignore it (the problem), or ignore her (the woman who cares what you have to say)? Emotion good. Emotion part of man and of woman. Emotion don't mean any harm. I mean come on. 

Men might not have been conditioned to express emotions, lest they look like faggoty fools, but jump into the new millennium, guys. Check out what's gaining stead with the ladies: that's right fellas, a realized man. A man who isn't afraid to cry (at the very least during a break-up, fuck it's hard, how bruised must you be to avoid tears during that??), or watch an intensely love-infested movie, or articulate calmly and admit being wrong, or listen even if you don't get it, or hell, I don't know. All of it's good. Better than ignoring issues and women who challenge you altogether. Shite, again the tentacles of tangents. 

I'm just saying I find it interesting that people judge my stay-in-contact impetus (through my thoughts or through my actions) as unhealthy, 'stalker' behavior. Though frankly, I've spent a lot of time perfecting my ability to not give a fuck what other people think of me. I'm an exception to many rules. My parents have been divorced for some 27 odd years, and yet they are best friends. 

So if I want to call a guy out of nowhere, regardless of whether or not I broke up with him or he broke up with me, it's potaytoe potahtoe, who cares? We're just two people in this wacky universe, and at the end of the day, we're all starving for connection. We all die to have someone ask us how we are. If I think about someone and I want to know how they are, I don't consider these shitty dating laws, I call them (or text or email or telegram them) and ask them. What's stalkerish about that? Isn't that like, I dunno, compassionate? I ain't scared of no pesky emotions.

Of course there's a flip side to that (isn't there fucking always?), which is: unfortunately many people don't take break-ups too well. Rightly so. They suck. And to be on the receiving end of them, can tend to, let's say, suck. So good; or not so good as it would go. Anyway the past several days, I've been thinking about a guy that I was with not long ago. We dated for a few months. He was hot, but not the kind of hot that you think of in terms of a life partner. It happens. 

Anyway, this guy, we'll call him Justin, was more into me than I was into him. That happens too. And make sure you understand: I do have a seed of humility; I'm not one of those heartless bitches who takes pride in saying 'he was all up in my shit'; it happens. In fact, my heart was pummeled into tiny little fragments, like baby platelets of glass that would feel absolutely smashing to digest, not too long ago by a different guy named, um, Rex, so check mate on my ass regarding that one. 

So I got to the point where I felt it was unfair for Justin that I hem and haw about where we were. After what I had learned from having my own heart broken, I knew it was a better idea to stop seeing each other; to make it easier on me because I needed space, but also on him because I was simply being a flake, and who deserves that? 

But the problem is, feelings don't go away. So I was thinking about this Justin; three months or so have passed give or take, and I decided to call him. So I texted him and asked if I could get together with him. No response. So I called him and left him a message because a real man (or woman) will actually CALL and not simply email or text, telling him I was thinking of him and blah and blah. I said that I understood where he was, but if he should change his mind about talking to me...blah and blah. No response.

Hmm. I feel his pain, I do. I'm sorry, I want to support that break-ups are hard. But being closed off to another person, with good intentions, opening up to you, I feel, can only impact you in a negative way in the future. But c'est la vie. Some people like Justin have more of a fatalistic view on things. Some people like him hate women who break up with them, and never want to talk to them again. Fair enough. Potaytoe potahtoe. 

For my part, however, I can't imagine ever not responding to someone that I once upon a time cared about. And so this all got me to thinking. So I reached out to another one of my exes to ask how he was doing; you know, the one who smashed my heart to baby platelets of inedible glass. Don't worry I'm over it. He hasn't responded either. HA! 

Stalker behavior? Do I give a fuck? I have a good heart, and I think that's all that matters. I'm out to hurt nobody; and in the end, the only person who really has the ability to hurt us is the I in us that makes us us. I say screw rules and ill-placed little dating terms. Happy spring romance! May you not deal with many break-ups and feel a new need to stalk.