Grace.

Each day, I get off the metro and walk a few blocks to meet my carpool after work. I usually pass two or three homeless people on my way, and they’re usually the same faces. One is a skinny, dirty man in some variation of a contorted yoga position. Very rarely, he’ll be sober enough to stand up and beg for money, but most days he’s passed out, lying in a pool of his own urine. Throughout the year, people drop off their leftovers from the Cheesecake Factory and Maggiano’s Little Italy for him. In the days leading up to Christmas, people leave him baggies filled with Jelly Beans by his resting head as he sleeps on the tiled floor of the entrance to the metro.

The other bum is a large, alcoholic-faced, schizophrenic woman. Lately, she’s been browned by the sun. Most of the time, she’s wandering around a three block radius, keeping an eye on her red grocery cart full of trash: empty pizza boxes, a dirty, leopard-print coat, plastic soda cups, bags up the wazoo, an umbrella with a duck head, and a rake. I know, I don’t get it either. I don’t know if people give her their doggy bags. She tends to be less docile than the other bum, and I’ve never seen her asleep or passed out. She gestures furtively, and talks loudly to herself, so people might be afraid to approach close enough to give her food.

I used to see these homeless people with the same sort of regularity that I see my coworkers. I always felt sorry for them, for the filth in which they live, for the things they’re missing out on. I’d pass by them at 7:00 AM, and once more at 5:45 PM, and I’d think to myself at the end of the day, “I got so much done in the span of the day, what have they accomplished?”

I haven’t seen either of these people in the last few weeks, and I sort of miss them. Maybe they’re at a shelter because it’s been so hot. Or maybe they’re dead. I’m not the Princess Di sort, so I’ve never done anything to help either of them. But every time I pass by the abandoned grocery cart, which has not moved from its spot in the middle of the sidewalk in days, I wonder where the red-faced crazy lady went. As for the guy, I don’t go on his turf anymore—he sleeps in the tunnel that my ex uses to get home from the metro. There are just certain faces I’d rather not see anymore.

The sky was a crisp blue that September morning. With just that line you know what day I’m talking about. It seems that across the whole country, not a single cloud was to be seen. From New York to Minnesota, nothing but clear, blue skies.

I didn’t notice that the West Bank arts quarter at the U of M was unusually empty that morning. I was half asleep when I came out of my micro econ class. I was probably still wearing my pajamas, which I wore often to those early morning classes. The annual, outdoor poster sale was on its last day, and I stopped to buy a Charlie Chaplin black and white print from the movie "The Kid." I gave it to my boyfriend at the time as a gift, and I purposely didn’t tell him where it came from. I couldn’t have known then that every time I’d see a Charlie Chaplin movie after that day, I’d think of September 11^th. My stomach still plummets to the floor as I wince with the memory of what I saw in the student lounge that day and in the days that followed.

Kids crowded around the big screen TV on the ground level of my dorm. Some were crying, but most were shocked and frozen in place. I had just run like crazy from the poster sale, having realized that something wasn’t quite right from a radio blaring out the open door of a truck. With each step, I began to panic more and more. One thought kept repeating itself in my brain, "My father is in New York City."

It would be hours until I’d find out that he was safe. That he’d walked for five hours. That his building was damaged. That he thought the sound of the first plane crashing sounded like guys moving furniture upstairs. That he’d just been in that building ten minutes before it was hit. That he’d be coming home for a month. That his work site would be relocating to New Jersey. That he’d stay at home for a month, thinking about what he had just experienced. Thinking. A man like my father, not working, and just thinking. Unthinkable torture.

But he was physically unharmed. He walked away. And I thought about what he must have seen as he walked. Had he seen people jumping out of the windows? I haven’t asked him that. I don’t want to know the answer.

The trouble with soulmates is that they’re supposed to be welcomed with open arms when they come back from their wanderings. I ran into mine in the lobby of my dorm that morning after many months of not seeing each other, and an even longer period of not speaking to each other. There were four of us at that moment–my boyfriend and me, and my soulmate with his girlfriend.

I don’t know what I expected from him. He was just as shocked as the rest of us. I thought he’d take me aside, maybe. That he’d let our jealous, insignificant others talk to each other for a few minutes as we sorted out our private understanding of the world. Maybe I thought he’d put his arms around me and just hold me. I thought he would’ve reacted in some way when I told him, that at that moment, I had no idea if my father was dead or alive. But he didn’t react. We stood there, the four of us, after I blurted out that, "My dad is in New York City," and nobody said anything.

My words hovered in the futile space between us all, thick of envy, jealousy, regret; every other emotion but the ones I wanted him to feel. I was hoping for duty, loyalty and love. Indestructible love. Some proof of a sacred bond, the kind that comes from sleeping together as children, innocently waking up together. The kind that comes from the pact, "If we’re not married by 28, we’re marrying each other." The kind that keeps us on the phone till late at night. The friendship that requires climbing through a window to get into his room, arriving unannounced. Snuggling together on his porch, watching the shooting stars. Sitting together by the fire, doing homework, as the blizzard snowed us in. Feeling safe in his mom’s house, loving her as much as I loved my own mom. Holding the puke bucket for him when he had the flu on New Year’s Eve, 2000. Knowing that any girl he’d ever go out with would be no match for me...that I could have him anytime I wanted him. That I would understand his soul the way no one else could.

I couldn’t understand why he was behaving so unlike himself that September morning, when the world outside was crying, and the world inside was too. I didn’t want to admit that the rift between us had begun to grow years before we got to college. That morning, the crevice just opened wider than ever before, and it took a catastrophe for me to realize that he and I would never be together. Our lives were preserved in the honey of our adolescence, never to mature into adulthood, the way this country was suddenly forced to do.

Lasagna and Napkins

A woman who looks like she’s in her middle forties sits alone in her kitchen, eating lasagna. Her company is the air conditioner and the TV, which emits the quiet audio of a foreign film. The windows behind her are enormous: spectacles of a giant. In front of the window, an oak stands taller than the house: no light breaks through its branches. It seems as if the woman is in jail, but not against her will.

Her head is bowed low as she cuts her fork into the greasy clumps of cheese. Juices spurt out and red sauce splatters across her face. Calmly, she reaches across the counter and tries to remove a napkin from the holder. The way she reaches across so slowly makes her seem patient and far beyond my years. Someone stuffed too many napkins in at one time, probably her, and she has trouble yanking one out. The napkin rips a few times but the woman gets it out eventually, in pieces.

Something about her face is making me forget the fact that she is sitting alone, eating lasagna. She doesn’t mind the lonely feeling; she has the television to whisper soothing, Italian words to her. Her short, black hair has streaks of gray at the temples, another sign revealing her age. Her eyes are a bright blue color, that of the Mediterranean Sea, perhaps the youngest looking part of her.

I feel a sort of sadness creep across me. Perhaps it is the fear of being like her one day. I am forced to admit that this woman is my mother and the silence between us makes me want to scream. She interrupts my thoughts, "Pass the salt please." These words escape her lips lifelessly, without feeling or emotion. She speaks with a careless lack of respect for time. The air conditioner turns off automatically and I remember that it has a mind of its own. My ears throb for some kind of noise, just a bit of sound to fill the void between the woman eating lasagna, and me.

A clanging sound, like pots being slammed together, makes me jump. My mother has dropped her fork on the floor. Slowly, like a giant tortoise, she lumbers off the stool and bends over to pick up the fork. I can’t take it anymore.

"Mom, were you ever happy?" I blurt out. I say it impatiently, the exact opposite of how my mother would say it. She’s crouched down on the floor, sweeping her hands around her, looking for the fork. I tower over her, my arms crossed. I demand an answer.

"Well?" I say.

"Can you step to the right a bit? You’re blocking my light." She doesn’t look at me, and instead, she continues to look for her fork. I feel the rage boiling inside of me, the feeling that I’ve had since I was very young. Without moving an inch, I stand centered above her. I refuse to give her even a bit of satisfaction.

Several seconds go by and the air conditioner turns on again. My mother finally finds her fork. Putting her weight onto her knuckles, she gets up slower than she had sunk down. I continue to stand upright without blinking, but now my mother is towering over me. She stands perfectly still, and looks me in the eyes. For a moment, she seems as though she is about to speak. I hold my breath.

Nothing. Nothing comes from her lips, which are lined in red tomato sauce. She sits back down on the stool and reaches for another napkin, this time to wipe off her fork, I presume. She encounters the same problem as she had last time. Piece by piece, she shreds the napkin so that finally, it is gathered in a small pile of confetti.

I shift my weight to awaken myself from the trance, and I shiver at the thought of ever being like her. Perhaps at this moment, I vow to God that I have become a believer. Just let me be as opposite from her as possible. I turn on my heel and walk quickly out of the room, closing the door behind me, separating myself from my mother even further.

Fat Jack

"Jesus, Marry and Joseph. How many times do I have to tell you not to smoke in the house? And get your goddamned feet of the coffee table." Fat Jack rolled his chubby ankles off the crappy table that he bought at a garage sale years ago. Ignoring the cigarette part, he grumbled a little, grunted a bit, and went into the TV room to get away from his tractor wife, who plowed through the house every five minutes, shooing, bitching and cleaning. Smoke trailed after him through the door and into the next room.

Little Tommy sat on the floor by the couch playing with his toy trucks. The TV blared in the background. Fat Jack howled at his son, "Jesus boy, I told you to turn off the TV when you’re not watching it." Little Tommy looked up at his daddy and whined a little, but he got up, clutching his favorite truck, and turned the TV off. Scampering up the stairs, Little Tommy left Fat Jack to himself on the couch.

Jack sat on the ragged couch in peace. He breathed deeply and inhaled the nicotine and tar, which would kill him exactly fifteen years, two hundred and forty-seven days, fourteen hours, twenty-two minutes and fifty seconds later. He sat, catatonic, and reflected on his life.

He thought back to his first memories on earth. Strangely enough, they were of his father shooing him away when he had just gotten home from work. He remembered his years in high school. His first date. His first job, working as a grocer for the dirtiest little hole, which closed down only a couple years ago. He remembered the first day that he met his wife. His remembered the birth of their first child. He remembered his one-night-stand with the beautiful woman whose name he never knew... and mid-memory, his wife stomped through the living room. She brushed past Fat Jack as an elephant would brush past a tree, jerking him out of his day dreaming of the bigger and better years gone by.

"Why do I have to keep reminding you? Put that damn cigarette out," She mooed, and thudded up the stairs to sandwich little Tommy in between his sheets so that he wouldn’t be able to wriggle out of bed until morning.

Joey Met His Match

Ring…

Ring…

"Hello?" A groggy voice picks up. On the other end of the line a little girl giggles and hangs up abruptly.

The tired man looks at his nightstand alarm clock. Its neon green numbers say two twenty-two A.M. Just as the man begins to drift freely into his dream of three big-breasted women, the phone rings again. This time it only take one

Ri…

"Damnit, who is this?" He asks, annoyed.

Giggles again, only this time, the assailant reveals her name.

"I’m Sally, who are you?" She sounds as though she should be wearing pigtails and eating a Popsicle.

"I’m…" The man almost answers the caller’s question. He stops himself.

Instead, he asks, "How old are you?" Thinking that he’ll catch her off guard.

"I’m six and a quarter." No such luck. She’s quick.

"How old are you, mister?" She retaliates. Her ‘s’ sounds like a ‘th.’ Missing a front tooth.

"Too old," he answers.

"You mean you’re older than twenty?" She asks in a surprised voice.

It’s the man’s turn to giggle. He can’t pull it off. Too hoarse.

"Sally, aren’t you supposed to be in bed right now?"

"Yes," she answers shortly, and picks up again without a pause. "What games do you like to play?"

Quick. Very quick.

The man waits for a moment before answering lamely, "It’s been a while since I’ve played any games."

He glances at the clock again.

Work tomorrow.

"Do you play hopscotch?" She asks, ignoring his answer.

"Yes," he answers.

Sweet, cotton candy giggles.

Silence for a moment. Could she be hesitating?

"What’s your name?"

He answers this time, "Joey."

"I have a friend named Joey," Sally offers.

"Joey?" She sings his name. To him, it never sounded so melodious before.

"Yes, Sally?" He tries to mimic her tone, but fails.

"Do you have a girlfriend, Joey?"

He should have known.

He thinks for a minute. Not sure if he should say yes or if he should tell her about his wife too.

She’s six and a quarter, damn it.

"Aren’t you too young to ask such questions?" He fights back.

"No, I’m six and a…" she stops.

"Finally," he thinks, "stumped her."

He hears the sound of faint footsteps approaching on the other end.

Only slightly audibly, he hears a woman’s voice. "Sally, what are you doing out of bed?"

"Goodnight, Joey," Sally whispers.

He manages to echo, "goodnight," before she hangs up the...

Click.

Last Sunday, I went to Kramer Books at Dupont Circle. Besides a pretty good dessert menu, they’ve got a great selection of books on travel, philosophy, and fiction. That’s all one really needs, anyway.

I picked up a book called The Interpreter of Maladies, by Jhumpa Lahiri. Actually, the title on the cover was all in lower case, as a sort of understatement. This book won the Pulitzer Prize in 2000, so I don’t have to gush over how good it was. It’s a collection of short stories in a variety of settings (India, America, and England), focusing on several themes: immigrant assimilation (or lack there of), marriage (arranged and non-arranged), and nostalgia (a rather common anomaly for all immigrant communities).

I’d recommend reading this book because it doesn’t force any huge “ah-ha” moments on you. Each story sort of goes about its business of telling itself, and each one leaves off on a “take or leave, I don’t care” note. It takes a lot of skill as a writer to restrain the desire to preach.

One criticism of the book is that it did not save me from the inevitable strange man who tried to start a conversation with me while I was reading by the fountain in the middle of Dupont Circle. I thought I could stick my nose further into the book as he passed by, but apparently when a person is reading, that’s the perfect time to mutter something to them and sit a little bit too close, while staring at the side of their head.

Blogging about blogging seems sort of like trying to discover the last mirror in the reflection of a mirror. Before I started putting my thoughts up on the web for everyone to read, I did a fair amount of reading of other people’s blogs. For months, I felt guilty for spying on their personal lives without leaving them a note or tipping them off to my presence lurking about. I wondered at what point people started doing things in real life just so they could blog about it later. Is it art imitating reality, or reality imitating art?

As time went on, I realized that I was suppressing the “writer” in me. The quotes are to reflect the irony of the word, since I’m an observer, first and foremost (yes, another pretentious line on an otherwise unspectacular blog). But a silent observer is no fun, I’ve decided.

It turns out that while my goal was to be honest in my writing, I haven’t been able to find the courage to completely let loose and just be myself on here, perhaps for good reason. I tend to ask myself the following rule when I post: “Could you say this to a person’s face? Or are you hiding behind a computer to say things you wish you could?”

Too often I’ve seen bloggers reveal their souls to strangers, and then say that they’re lonely or that they don’t connect with people in the “real” world. Perhaps it’s easier to just unleash ourselves, and open up in this incredibly receptive and sympathetic environment than to do the same with real-life acquaintances. It’s easier to give someone the link to our blog than to reveal, face to face, the pain that some of us carry within.

The uniqueness of the human experience isn’t really that unique, and the more honest people are about their lives, the easier it is to strip away the unimportant details that we use to mask the true core of who we are. Here’s an inspirational line that I ripped off from someone I don’t know: "If you want endless repetition, be with a lot of different people. If you want infinite variety, be with only one."

We’re all afraid of many things: being judged, not being liked, not fitting in. We all hope for the same things: a chance to discover our strengths, to pursue the dreams we have, to be happy. We’re all embarrassed by the same things, too: having something stuck in our teeth, having a booger hanging from our noses, smelling foul for one reason or another. We’re afraid to be vulnerable, to appear needy, to be sad, to be too human. We’re afraid of being average. (Thank God my mom cured me of that early on when she said that, “even average people have the right to live good, productive lives.”) We’re scared of failing, of trying, of changing, of being rejected and hurt. I can’t possibly list all of the things that scare the crap out of me.

Being human isn’t pretty. It’s really quite depressing and dreadful. Honestly, I’d much rather be around trees than people. But here we are, and we didn’t ask for it. There are plenty of humans, and we seem to be chopping down all the trees. What now? I think the hardest part of living is finding an interest in the things that surround us. The details are what make this dreary world sparkle; the surprising beauty that bursts out of the rot of life is what drives people to seek…something more. I’m afraid of people who don’t have this desire because I feel like they aren’t fully human. I see my old self in them, and I want to tell them to wake up. It’s not so bad in reality.

Go do something. Plant a garden and eat fresh salads. Read the old encyclopedia volumes and tell people random things you learned. Sing opera in a falsetto while shaving your legs. Watch Al Gore’s “An Inconvenient Truth” on the big screen, and get to the movie theater on a bike. Compliment a random person on the metro and see what they say. Start your own blog, or post comments on mine. I don’t care what you do, just do something.

I used to want to live life as if I never existed. That was my goal: leave no impact on this earth from my presence. Now, that sort of makes me sad in a big way. I think I’d like to somehow change things, leave a footprint somewhere. I’m just not sure where yet, and I don’t know if I will ever figure that out. But perhaps the search itself can make a few ripples, and that’s enough for me.

After several years, she began to say to him, "I’ll accept you, all of you. I’ll love you no matter what you do." He never liked the way those words sounded; something about them seemed unnatural. Or maybe he never understood what they meant.

In time, she forgot how to love him. She only accepted him, and even that was uncomfortable to him.

***

Music pounding. Strobe lights through smoke, bodies sweating against each other, hands sliding down curves and backs. She grabs a stranger’s hand and leads him to the dance floor. He interlaces his fingers through hers and allows himself to follow, weaving through the mob towards whatever she has in store for him.

Thighs between thighs, her hands clasped behind his neck, drawing his lips to hers. Darkness pierced by white lights as they drip and flow into each other. He accepts what she gives and doesn’t say a single word.

Even through the dark, she sees a soft smile across his lips. He’s graciously taking her in as she spins around.

Arms wrapped around her, she feels his hands run down her breasts, his stomach pushed into her back; she smiles too, but he can’t see her face.

The fleeting moment disappears, the song ends, and they leave the floor. A new song blasts through the walls. "Can I call you sometime..." He begins to ask her. She smiles and he knows that he’s asking too much. He kisses her again, and accepts that that was the last time they’ll see each other.

I glance up from my book as the train car gently shifts from side to side and comes to a full stop. The doors open, and a mob of people rush out. New people rush in. Suddenly, I realize that I’m staring at a younger version of Jude Law. He’s wearing a blue shirt, no tie, suit jacket, holding a paper under his arm. But he’s not alone.

She’s California-chic. The technical definition for tanned arms, sleeveless, flowing dress, hair pinned up, multiple piercings in her ears exposed. I watch them, while pretending to look at anything else but them. She must be at least fifteen years older than him—wedding ring on the appropriate finger.

Jude Law and I make eye contact like hummingbirds for the next twenty minutes. Each time we look at each other, we look away at the same time. I pretend that I’m not really staring at him, that I’m only surveying the train car. He’s probably wondering why the random girl keeps darting her eyes around, like she’s following a fly. I’m wondering if they’re having an affair.

He’s intently focused on her, leans in really close to her ear, moves a strand of hair from her face. They talk in hushed voices, and the noise of the moving train makes it impossible to hear them. Besides his fingers grazing her cheek to place the unruly hair behind her ear, they never touch… until he says, “This is my stop.” And they kiss each other’s cheeks just once, in a very simple way.

I know that he is in love with her, and yet I can’t explain why I know that. It’s just the way he listens to her speak; even when he catches me spying on them, eyes darting like a lizard’s tongue, he stays in their own lagoon. He’s hanging on her every word, and I can’t figure out what makes a man feel that way. They stand still, and I see the world spin around them, wanting desperately to be a part of their understanding of each other.

I sometimes feel like running around in random figure-eights, swinging my arms in circles over my head like a propeller for no particular reason. It’s, at times, an all-consuming joy that finds its way out of me like a wound-up demon with wings and a clown nose that honks if you squeeze it. Ridiculously happy, some might think, this girl is ridiculously happy. And they might be right.

Life is too long and too short at the same time. I can’t stand the thought of parting with it, so I drink things in till I’m about to break open; I’m delirious on the smells of subway cars and muggy DC summer days, sidewalks littered, emanating sewer smells and incense. Somali men and beggars stand on the curb, listening to a 1980s boom box the size of a small refrigerator as suits walk past. I don’t make eye contact, but I smile to myself, as a man in a wheelchair waves an American flag and offers me a pack of gum for a quarter. The weight of the air makes it difficult to move.

When the weather is right, that is, when lightning and thunder clouds gather, I let butterflies take shelter inside my stomach. Darkness meanders around the row houses and hedges. Street lamps attract purple clouds of moths and insects. Leaves breath, rising and falling like an infant’s back in sleep. I exhale like a white oleander and release the butterflies into the night sky again, watching them corkscrew and flutter in Picasso triangles, to no place in particular, the way I sometimes do.

I once read that all women are crazy and that all men are stupid, and the sooner we can accept this, the easier life is for everyone involved. Yes, it’s cynical, but everyone is cynical now-a-days. It’s totally in fashion.

I thought about what being crazy means. There’s the over-quoted saying that being crazy is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results. Pursuing a man who’s turned you down before sort of falls in that category. Then there’s, of course, the manic sort of crazy—the kind of crazy that men are scared of, and rightfully so. Something along the lines of a serial murderer mixed with a Suzy-homemaker and a set of dull butter knives. But what about the rest of us?

Yes, I’ve done things that I’m not proud of, said things that weren’t polite, perhaps thrown the pillow/remote/anything available/ a bit too hard. I’m the first to admit it, and certainly the one to regret it most. After the dust settles, I always feel a profound sense of guilt and shame for acting like a certified lunatic. I take full responsibility for my actions, but I still think that there is some fundamental mechanism inside women’s heads that leads them to the boiling point and then some.

In high school, I learned that salt lowers the boiling point of water. I’m now starting to think that men’s stupidity is the salt in my cauldron (paying homage here to the witch that I can sometimes be). Once the pot is stirred, there’s only one thing that can happen: a big, mean, green explosion.

Before any of the males out there get offended, allow me to explain. I’ll give you more credit than I give women, because I think you don’t notice the traps we sometimes set for you (which really factors into the stupidity aspect, but that’s really just a snake swallowing its tail). Although with time, most men start to notice even the well-hidden traps, simply because repetition is the best way to instinctualize something (no, instinctualize is not a word), but that really doesn’t solve the eternal conflict between the sexes.

At the root of this innate conflict is the fact that men and women don’t speak the same language, and that’s more than just speaking past each other. I’ve heard the quote that “the best relationship is between a blind woman and a deaf man.” It’s sad, rather crude, and somewhat defeatist. There’s got to be a better solution than that. Plus, we’re already not communicating enough and too much at the same time.

For some reason, people tend to talk louder and slower to an immigrant who doesn’t speak English, as if that helps them to all of a sudden understand what’s being said. Maybe women’s craziness is a way of speaking louder to a person who doesn’t understand what they’re saying in the first place. And men’s stupidity is not knowing how to let women exhale their collective animalian grunt every once in a while.

Inside of a woman, there’s always something on fire, and that has nothing to with any external thing. Something’s always simmering. The smart thing for a man to do is to just step back, and let her explode. Then, let her clean up the mess too (the metaphorical one, not the crap in the living room…nice try).

Perhaps in time, I, along with my female counterparts will reach a state of zen that douses the fire within us. But then again, this might be akin to the fact that I once found an on/off switch to the eternal light in the sanctuary of my synagogue. It was duct-taped and untouchable for a damned good reason.

I’ve recently stumbled on a fellow blogger’s site: Madox23. It turns out that we both have a passion for books. Personally, I’ve never been in a book club, and it’s something that I’ve been talking about doing for ever, but like hairy legs in the winter, it’s really easy to put off. Until now.

I’m officially starting a book club. Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things won the Booker Prize in 1997. I’ve seen this book lying around my cousin’s room quite a few times. My aunt swears by it. In fact, while I was “gone fishing” in Minnesota, my aunt saw that I had this book, and started re-reading it again. So, check back here for the first book club meeting in about two weeks, and I’ll have some of my thoughts up.

“My Night at Maud’s,” directed by Eric Rohmer, was a random pick from Netflix that, as I now see it, was a bit like stumbling out the window and landing on a fortuitously placed bed of down. I watched it twice yesterday, both times still in my pajamas; had I taken my pants off, they would have been able to stand on their own. (This analogy comes from my father’s rather insightful comment that if your socks can stand on their own, it’s time to change them.) I thought I’d give myself a night to sleep on my thoughts and see if the impression the film left on me would still hold up under the humid morning carpool to work.

Indeed, it did, and it has made me smile in a knowing, Cheshire-cat kind of way, as if I’ve been right all along. I practically threw myself a cake and balloons party while I was brushing my teeth this morning, hair dripping wet from my shower because the film has put the idea of grace so articulately, that I feel a sort of validation from it.

I realize that if you haven’t seen the film, then the above doesn’t make sense. In fact, if you haven’t read Gilead, then it’ll make less sense. If you don’t know the inner workings of my mind, it’ll make anti-sense, actually, and you’ll become dumbfounded by the things you thought you used to know.

Without giving anything away, I’ll say that the film is the story of a man (played by Jean-Louis Trintignant) who battles with his religious view of his world, and tries to reconcile the temptations that are a stumbling block to his inadvertent pursuit of sainthood. I say inadvertent because I got the distinct impression that his purpose for a saintly life was to enjoy his time on earth, and not to reach the paradise of the afterlife in heaven.

If that character were to appear before me in some alternate universe, but be very real, and then suddenly look at me the way he did at a certain female in the film, I would never have to speak another word to him. He would already know everything about me, everything that matters, at least.

And now, you may bring the mule over so that it may kick me in the head, and I might think a different way, perhaps the way that Maud thought. Two ways of pursuing two very different things.

Seriously, if you want this to make sense, rent the movie on Netflix and we’ll start a dialogue. There’s plenty more to discuss.

There’s something wonderful about people taking chances on each other. About inviting someone you’ve just met–guy or girl–for a walk, or going in to some random museum about beads. It’s very much "Before Sunrise" or "My Evening at Maude’s," but in a platonic way. That’s what life is all about for me.

A Saturday that started out in a burrito shop with my girlfriends, then lazily shifted to the movie theater across the street... that led to some wandering around DC, including passing by the Ford Theater and the house where President Lincoln died...that progressed to dinner at one of the girl’s apartments. Impromptu pasta with a large, cheap bottle of wine, and amazing conversation.

We both took a chance on each other. We put our walls down, and ignored the sometimes-silences that are natural. That’s rare around here. People don’t seem to invest themselves into these sorts of relationships; I don’t know why that is. People are afraid of silences and awkward moments. Maybe they find these interactions draining, instead of invigorating.

Some have said that making friends is like dating. You have to screen them and go out first in groups. Then, if they pass the initial test, meeting for drinks or happy hour on a Thursday night is the natural progression. Spending one-on-one quality time together is rarely done, unless you’ve decided that they’re worth the time it takes to commute to their apartment and back, which can take hours.

I never thought that my adult life would be full of these sorts of interactions. I don’t know what I expected, but I–along with many other Americans–am living a paradigm. We know more and more people, yet we are more isolated overall. We have more ways to communicate with each other, but we seem to say less and less. Movies like Crash (which, in my opinion, shouldn’t have received the Oscar for best picture, but hey, that’s me) and Lost in Translation (one of my favorite studies of human nature) are doing well because they’ve hit on something. It’s the transformation of how people interact with each other. And audiences see themselves, their stories, in these characters.

Our daily interactions have descended beyond the notion that we just don’t know our neighbors anymore. There’s something fundamentally missing in the interactions that we do have, even with people we consider to be our friends. I can’t put it any other way but to say that it’s a fear that people have–letting someone in, putting their guard down, feeling free to say anything they want. It takes guts to take a chance on someone, to look at someone in a positive way, and to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Willa Cather once said that there are two or three human stories in the world, and they go on repeating as fiercely as if they’ve never happened before. That’s what giving the benefit of the doubt is...it’s understanding this concept and seeing yourself in another person’s variation of your life. No judgement, because you’d be judging yourself.

I’m starting to like people again. I’m starting to see myself in them again, and that helps to bridge the gaps that unfortunately exist. I suppose that’s part of adulthood, understanding that you can’t simply trust any person you meet. But I sometimes wish to return to childhood and be trusting of strangers for no other reason than that they’ve never let me down before. So I took a chance, and I had a lovely evening where I felt at home with friends. And I’m grateful for it.

Friendships are hard enough to cultivate as an adult, why make things awkward on top of that? Men and women can’t be friends because sex always gets in the way, or at least that’s what Harry said in When Harry Met Sally. I don’t agree with that reasoning, but I’m finding that making friends with men at this point in my life takes more scheming and plotting than caring for a three-legged dog with an inflamed thyroid gland (no, I don’t know if dogs have thyroid glands).

It starts like this. A man and a woman run into each other somewhere—they haven’t seen each other in a long time. They don’t know each other well at all; they’re the definition of acquaintances. “What have you been up to lately?” They bring each other up to speed, and fill in the job-family-relationship gap. Ahh… the relationship gap.

“So, are you seeing anyone?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

And then the games begin. Inevitably, a question pops into the woman’s mind, “Could I see myself with him?” But it’s almost subconscious. It’s just a little harmless question that’s programmed into the genetics of all females. It’s subtle, and it’s private. This leaves the door open for a possible inquiry like, “Well, we should get together sometime.” No pressure. “Sure,” he says, “that sounds good.” Both people go their separate ways, for now.

A few weeks go by and some friendly emails are exchanged. Tentative plans are made to meet for coffee or something non-committal like lunch. Lots of smiley faces are used.

Then, the email arrives. “Hey! Just wanted to tell you that I have a girlfriend now. It’s official, finally.” He said what?

What kind of crap is that? I mean, seriously. First of all, why would I want to know that? If we don’t know each other well enough for me to ask him what brand of underwear he wears, then why would I need him to fire off a warning shot across the bow? The message is loud and clear:

THIS MAN HAS BEEN CLAIMED. HE IS OFF THE MARKET. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO GET ANY CLOSER, OR YOU WILL LOOK LIKE A COMPLETE FOOL, BECAUSE HE’S OBVIOUSLY WAVED THE “I’M NOT INTERESTED IN BEING FRIENDS WITH YOU ANYMORE AND THE ONLY REASON I EVER WAS WAS TO POSSIBLY DATE YOU” FLAG. HE WILL NOT RECIPROCATE. HE WILL NOT RETURN PHONE CALLS. HE DOES NOT WANT A NEW FRIEND.

Does he think that I’ve already started to sink my fangs into his neck and drag his limp body into the piss-smelling, dark corner that is the dating world? Why does a guy assume that just because I said, “Lets get together sometime,” that I would care if he was seeing someone? What should one say to make it abundantly clear that they’re lonely as hell for a friend, and not a date? Once the flag is flown, he’s sort of taken that quiet little question—could I see myself with him?—the question that sat dormant in my mind, and was my own little conversation with myself, and waved it around for all to see.

Then, the politics and the ridiculous reality of DC life come into the picture. Would the twenty-something guy want to spend a precious week night or, god forbid, a weekend day on a non-date with a woman, just to hang out the way kids used to do in junior high? Would he want to haul himself across town just to putz around and talk about something interesting? Somehow, I highly doubt it. It would be a chore, more than anything. Free time is limited as it is—why bother wasting it.

In college, men with girlfriends still had female friends. I think this might be because they always wanted to keep their options open. I mean, really, marriage is the farthest thing from a male, twenty year-old’s mind. College-aged men were all about having freedom and socializing. What the hell happens to a guy after college to turn him into a dating machine? What makes a man close off to non-sexual female contact?

I’m this close (and for the record, I’m squeezing my thumb and pointer finger very hard together) to dumping the entire concept of pursuing any more friendships with males. They are so degrading and humiliating in their presumptions, that I am now asking myself, “What’s the point?” The minute he gets a girlfriend, he’ll dump our friendship anyway. Ugh. A very frustrated ugh. Prove me wrong, someone.

I had an amazing time with my family at the cabin. And oddly enough, I have no moody writing in me right now. Just a quietness that probably comes from sleeping in till whenever, reading good books, and eating plenty of Twizzlers.

I went to a beautiful wedding this past weekend. I was so happy for the couple that I kept squealing during the ceremony, and I’m sure people around me thought I was infected with some disease. I swear, I’ve never seen two people more suited for each other. Completely unconventional people with a very unique wedding. Their wedding program had a quote on the cover, “I have found the one in whom my soul delights.” I sat in the very back of the synagogue and even I could see that this was true. What a wonderful thing to witness. For a long time, I’ve believed that true love is not staring into each other’s eyes, but looking out in the same direction. My friends were the embodiment of that idea.

Weddings aren’t shows. They’re celebrations. The ceremony should be the focus of the wedding, not the dinner menu or the wedding cake. In fact, you don’t need to serve dinner and have a wedding cake to make the evening memorable. And really, nobody cares. Nobody cares what kind of centerpieces are on the tables, or if the chairs have back covers, or if the bridesmaids are all wearing the same shoes. The only thing that matters is that the bride and groom enjoy themselves and that the guests help them celebrate.

It’s true. Girls plan their weddings before they even find a man to marry. But I think this is a bad habit, sort of like being selfish. I can see men being scared by this concept too. They might wonder, “How do I fit into all of this?” It’s the image of a couple at the altar, the gown looks beautiful, but the man’s face is silhouetted with a big question mark in place of the eyes and nose. I must admit, I’ve been guilty of this myself, but I see the light now.

I danced like a maniac, ripped my dress twice, and didn’t get to bed until 3:45 AM. It was the most fun I’ve had in a very long time. I took with me the desire to have a celebration just like theirs: full of family and friends, great music, and the marriage of two best friends.

I don’t know why, but I feel like crap. It started with a really mean comment. He said, “They just want to live their lives.” And I was thinking, “What a fucking mean thing to say.”

***

I’m sunburnt and my skin is itching. I don’t fit into my skin. “You’ll be in your prime when you’re 43,” She said. I think I can’t wait that long.

***

I get disappointed often. I somehow fill my head with delusions and bunnies. Lollipops and soft blankets. Beautiful love and real emotions. People don’t take that kind of responsibility well. It takes strength to hold up another person’s dreams and needs… and insanity. Anchoring, it’s called. How anchored do you have to be to keep another sailboat from drifting away?

Some say, “Why even ask this question? Let them hold themselves up.”

I often wonder if it’s me. How did I come to be this silly person with randomness seeping through my pores? I’m quick to get angry and quick to forget. I’m defensive and sarcastic. I live in the moment, long enough to realize that it will be over soon, and that makes me want to cry. I’m a seventy-three year old man with a seven year-old son. No, you sicko, not literally, just Gilead.

I want loyalty more than anything. If a person can look at who I am, and just see me....

Stay with me.

Ups and downs, pissy moods, selfish outbursts, neediness.

Pure joy, laughing naked in the kitchen, wrestling on the floor.

Just stay.

Please... just see me.

Irritated, short-tempered.

I’ll cry with you.

It doesn’t take much to know. We sit on the floor with a candle between us. Hour after hour pass by. Twelve of them, to be exact. The candle has melted down completely, and we just sit and stare at each other. Content. There is nothing else but the two of us.

Whatever misery we create, whatever happiness we feel.

Teach me. Show me who you are and call me on my bluffs. Take my breathe away with how you think. What makes you human each day.

I’ve tried being like all the others. “You’ve got that Russian immigrant angst,” She says. I feel ashamed in some way that I have this disease. “So serious,” He says. I can’t be any other way. I’ve tried.

I can’t do a simple task without thinking about what the consequences are. A cup of coffee? No, thanks. That styrofoam cup will end up in a landfill and will take eighty years to biodegrade. A not so simple task? Months of contemplation and fear. Move to NYC? I can’t. I couldn’t possibly. Maybe. Some day.

But, for you? Anything. Just tell me what you need. Tell me, and it’s done.

Respect me, marry me, show your loyalty. And I’ll never leave your side. A basket case, your best friend. Sand and ocean, rock collections. Wave jumping, salt water stinging eyes. Burnt skin, seashells.

Scared beyond belief. How can I possibly agree to that? How can I trust her?

Just stay. Stay with me and love each moment. Good and bad. Tired, scarred. Stomach hurts from laughing. Sleepy, sweating, holding each other, humid air blowing in through the window. Almost drifting into dreams.

That’s all it takes to unlock me, my secret self in this mediocre shell.