Strange Fascination

I am obsessed with my computer keyboard.

Well, more accurately, I am obsessed with getting rid of what is lurking within my computer keyboard.

Have you ever turned your keyboard upside down and pounded the side? A lot of debris comes floating down. A lot. It reminds me of that scene in Breakfast Club when Ally Sheedy’s character puts her fingers in her hair, leans her head over her sandwich and vigorously shakes causing it to “snow.” And it’s just as gross.

I shake and pound my keyboard until nothing else comes out. Then I fold a piece of paper multiple times and shove it between the keys – sweeping forcefully back and forth – to loosen any stubborn hold outs. Then I turn the keyboard over again and shake and pound anew. To my immense satisfaction more disgusting tidbits tumble out.

Experience has taught me that a piece of paper folded multiple times works better than the sticky end of a post-it. At first I thought using the sticky part of the post-it would pick up more stubbornly lodged keyboard flotsam and jetsam, but while sticky, it is too fragile and limp to have the desired effect. The thickness of the multi-folded paper makes it sturdy enough to extricate the bits cowering in the corners as well as those that cling to the bottom with opihi-like tenacity. It is also flexible enough to get under the keys as well as along the sides.

Those pressurized air canisters are also a great tool in this effort, but they can be kind of expensive. Blowing a concentrated stream of air works just as well (I have good lungs…another reason not to smoke, kids!) Just be careful about getting dizzy and the potential to hyperventilate. Oh yes, and remember to blow at an angle, or else the debris will pelt you in the face.

It is fascinating that no matter how many times I run my folded paper through the keys, debris continues to fall. Sometimes I need to pound more vigorously. Sometimes just one or two pieces fall…but to my delight (and yes, I know that’s weird), something almost always comes out. I think part of the reason is because while it is easy to sweep horizontally on the keyboard due to the alignment of the keys, thus quickly dislodging anything in the horizontal path; digging vertically through the keyboard is more difficult and there are more places for the debris to hide. So there’s always a little bit you missed.

One reason I have so much debris in my keyboard is because I eat while I work or play on the computer. Hmm…have I just upped the gross factor? Or are we beyond that point already? However, that cannot account for all the junk I find in there when I clean. I do not know what that other stuff is or where it originates. It just gives me immense satisfaction to watch its departure.

I realize many may find this strange and disgusting. Perhaps even a bit OCD-ish. Why am I so captivated by cleaning my keyboard? It is odd, because I am not a neat freak. I am actually quite comfortable with a certain degree of messiness around me. I think it may be because while the “getting my keyboard clean” aspect of this appeals to me, the main attraction is more about seeing the debris fall out. It is kind of like popping a pimple or squeezing out whiteheads from your nose. You are glad that gunk is not inside anymore, but it’s more interesting to see that white stuff extruding out of your pores.

Or is that just me?

Busload of Pride

I missed my bus today.

That in itself is not a significant event. (Although it bothers me that if I had left my apartment building one minute earlier I would not have missed it.) Rather, what my missing the bus today represents is of more significance.

I might have made it . . . if I had run. I chose not to run. Not because I am unable to run. Not because I was too exhausted to run. Not because I knew another bus would get me to work on time (I was a tiny bit late to work this morning). But rather, because of pride.

Now, when I see people running for the bus, I do not think less of them. In fact, I am rather sympathetic in a removed sort of way. I do not pity them, but a mental “bummers,” comes to mind and then my brain is off to another topic.

Running for the bus is not beneath me. If it was my first day at work, I would have run (at least I think I would). If I had a meeting and by missing that bus I knew I would be late, I would have run.

For some reason, I would feel embarrassed and odd if I ran to the bus and boarded it out-of-breath and knowing that people in the bus probably saw me running. Even worse than that would be if I had run and the bus had taken off without me. I would have run in vain. Yet, it is not the expended effort with no reward that troubles me. It bothers me that people would have seen me run and the bus leave without me.

Part of the problem is that I “know” these people. Not like their names or their trials and tribulations, but in the way you “know” people that you see often, but never interact with. Like, if you go to the same neighborhood venue a lot, you will often see, but not speak with many of the same people. At the bus stop, there is usually middle-aged glasses guy, Wisteria lady, girl my age, mom and daughter, tall Japanese lady, young blonde guy, gay bag guy, etc. I see these people (usually) five days a week. I would always be the person running for the bus as it drove away.

I realize that I am giving this a lot more thought than anyone in the bus would. Perhaps they would not even notice that I ran for the bus, much less remember me. Still, something within me stopped me from running. I thought about running, then immediately dismissed it.

As I was walking toward the bus stop, an older lady waved her arms to the bus driver indicating she wanted him to wait as she slowly waddled to the bus. At this point I was sure that if I walked quickly, I would have made it. I started to, but as I put my hand in my sweater pocket, I realized I could not feel my bus pass. I immediately slowed down and went to sit at the bus stop. By the time I fished around in my pocket and found the bus pass, I still had time to make the bus, but I was already sitting down.

I remained seated. The bus doors closed and the bus roared away. I sat there thinking I must be an idiot or incredibly vain. I did not rule out a combination of the two. I still have not.

I would rather think it was a passive-aggressive move to avoid going to work, than to believe I am that vain. Or lazy. I can live with lazy. But vain? I think my pride is a bigger problem for me than even I realize. It is probably the most influential thing keeping me from pleasing God, too. I mean, there are a myriad of things, but my pride is obviously the largest of the stumbling blocks.

It is strange, because I do not think of myself as a prideful person. For example, when going out in public, my standard is try to be as clean as possible under the circumstances. I occasionally use hairspray, but I do not wear make-up and have no real fashion sense (No stains on my blouse? I’m good to go!) I do not feel I embarrass easier than the average person. I do not think I go around singing my own praises, although others may disagree.

But, I guess there is a difference between a boastful pride and a more subverted, less obvious pride. The second type is probably more insidious because it can be hidden not only from others, but from yourself as well.

I goeth before the fall? Better make sure I’m not walking in front of you.

Now that’s prideful!

Loss

It has been a tumultuous week. Yesterday, my heart was so heavy that all I wanted to do was wallow in my own sadness. There's a certain comfort in wallowing. Perhaps that's why pigs do it.

This week I went to my Uncle's funeral. I did not think it would be as emotional as it was for me...remains for me. I saw family that I usually only see at weddings and funerals. It was nice to see them. It was nice to be together, although I am virtually a stranger to some of them and them to me. Yet, I have known most of them for all our lives. There is some comfort in knowing that you share blood. Odd, isn't it, the power of familial bonds.

After the funeral, my Aunty (the widow) collapsed in the restroom and was taken to the hospital. Later that day, my mom informed me my cousin was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and the outlook is rather grim.

I did not experience a tidal wave of sadness -- powerful and forceful. But more along the lines of feeling myself sinking slowly into the depths of the ocean. Overwhelming, not in a dramatic way, but rather, in a quiet, silent, sensory deprivation type of way. No wailing or sobbing, but as my chest tightens ever so slowly, tears silently seep out of my eyes.

I cried out to God. Asked for refuge. To hide in a cave. Wanted to continue wallowing. God is good. He allowed some time for wallowing, then He provided real comfort. Thanks, God.

Today is better. My heart is not as heavy and I have decided wallowing is for pigs. My Aunty is doing well and should be going home today. They believe she collapsed from dehydration, so she received fluids and is feeling better. My parents visited my cousin and said he looks well, although he has quite the battle ahead of him.

I miss my Uncle. He always had a ready smile and "hello," and would ask how I was doing. Even when his health began failing and he was weaker and had difficulty getting out of bed. He was soft-spoken and conveyed a gentleness that was welcoming and comforting at the same time. From family stories, I know he could be strict, but I never saw that side.

They showed a video at his funeral, of my Uncle in his wheelchair, singing "Jesus Loves Me" to his great-grandson. Singing in the halting way that older people sometimes do, as though they cannot get enough air into their lungs. But it was sweet and genuine...childlike in the loveliest, most respectful and complementary sense of that word.

I love you, Uncle. You will be missed.

Journalists Home

I missed my bus today.

Every morning as I get ready, I have the news on the television. I like to hear about the weather and I think the audible sounds help stimulate my bunny Blackberry. Of course, I have no proof that the noise is good for him, but I like to think I am doing my part to avoid bunny-brain atrophy.

Anyway, like I said, I like to hear the weather and other local news, so I usually watch the NBC or CBS affiliate. Today however, the most compelling stories were on ABC's Good Morning America. So compelling that I sat down to watch the news and finally left my apartment just in time to see my bus roar down the street as I waited on my floor for the elevator to arrive.

What was so compelling? GMC showed footage of the two young journalists who were imprisoned in North Korea coming off the plane and into the arms of their loving and relieved families.

Euna Lee and Laura Ling (younger sister of journalist and former "The View" co-host Lisa Ling) were safely back in the United States after 140 days of imprisonment. Tears ran down my cheeks as Euna hugged her 4-year-old daughter and husband. Wouldn't you know it, I had already put on my make-up, so I was trying to dab my eyes so I wouldn't get streaks down my face, but Bare Minerals (which I just recently began using) is actually quite forgiving and I just left my face the way it was.

Anyway, I digress. I do not know if it is because they are Asian or women or Asian women, but this story makes me choke up every time I hear or read about it. Maybe it is because I keep thinking about a little girl not knowing what was going on, but just that her mommy was not there. Maybe it is because North Korea's Kim Jong Il is so darn unpredictable and seemingly kind of crazy.

Ling did not focus on how scared they must have been. She did briefly mention worrying about being placed in a hard labor camp. I would think there were darker things I would have been afraid of imprisoned by myself (they kept both women separated). She said they were called into a "meeting" and were led into a conference room. I can imagine being so afraid of the unknown. After nearly 5 months, where are they taking me? What fate awaits? And then as the door opens, seeing President Clinton. I think I would have lost it. I probably would have collapsed in tears of relief and pent-up anxiety. Ling said as soon as they saw the former President, "We were shocked but we knew instantly in our hearts that the nightmare of our lives was finally coming to an end, and now we stand here, home and free."

President Clinton was the diplomatic envoy that got the two women out of North Korea. He looked good. Distinguished, proud, but suitably humble and very Statesman-esque as he followed the women off the plane and embraced his former Vice-President Al Gore and shook the hands of the family and well-wishers.

Of course now the media is buzzing about potential repercussions. Everyone has been very careful to separate this "humanitarian" mission from any sort of official diplomatic message or position from the current White House. Relations with North Korea are tenuous. Clinton went to Pyongyang at the behest of Kim Jong Il. Mix into that morass the three American hikers who were arrested in Iran, possibly for spying. How does Clinton's humanitarian trip influence Iran's perspective of America in these types of situations?

And of course, the other big story this morning was about George Sodini of Bridgeville, PA who shot up a gym leaving 3 dead, 15 wounded before committing suicide. Apparently he had written about his loneliness and killing plans in his on-line journal. I wonder if anyone had been reading it, and if so, did they think he was just blowing off steam? It is difficult to determine sometimes what is just "venting" and what may be a real cry for help. Ah...but that is fodder for another post.

There is so much to be concerned about...but for now I am going to be happy for Euna and Laura. That they are home, safe with their families. God bless.

Mutual Hate Society

I hate going to the dentist. And I am sure the feeling is mutual. When my dentist sees my name in his appointment book, I am sure he groans inwardly, as he is too much of a professional to outwardly groan.

My intense dislike has nothing to do with my dentist as a person. He is a nice guy and thoughtfully asks about how my parents are doing and if I have been on any trips lately. I, too, am a nice enough person. I politely answer his questions and ask after his health. It is when I sit in that dental chair and he puts on his mask and eye shield that the mutual hate society begins.

It stems from the fact that I have a small mouth. (Hey, no snickers or nasty comments from the peanut gallery!) I do! My jaw can only open so wide and my teeth are all sort of close together. Suffice it to say, it is not only my sensitive gag reflex that would prevent me from being a successful gay guy. Anyway, I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, small mouth.

Many times I wish I could unhinge my jaw, leave it there for the dentist work on and come back later and pick it up. At the very least, I wish the dentist would knock me out with some high-grade anesthesia. I think it would make life easier for both of us.

I understand that his goal is to get in there and get his work done; however, I cannot keep my mouth open or wide enough for him to accomplish that. It's neither of our faults, but it leads to a frustrating situation. The pain gets so bad if I try to keep my mouth open "wide" that tears seep out of my eyes, I get a monster headache and it takes everything that is within me not to leap out of that chair.

Luckily I have not had a cavity for several years...until my last visit. I had two small cavities in my molar. One word: excruciating.

At the end of the ordeal, my dentist pats me on the shoulder and says, "Good job." (See, he is nice.) I respond feelingly, "You, too." He laughed and said, "Good team work."

We are both glad that we won't have to see each other for another six months.

Rollercoaster Ride

Well, it has been a tumultuous week. Actually, this has been going on for longer than a week. I am just so exhausted by it all. I feel like an insignificant pawn in the Governor's chess match with the Union.

I work for the State. My classification is temporary civil service. This basically means I have a contract that ends every two years. In the regular course of business, even if your contract is not renewed, you are expected to go to work and will get paid. If the State plans not to renew your contract, they give you notice that they will let your contract lapse.

We have not had any notice. One day they say our positions are safe. The next day my boss tells us that if we do not hear differently, do not come to work on July 1. *sigh* Yo-yo action at its cruelest. Actually, it is not as bad for me as it was for my co-workers. Both have about 8 years in with the State. You need 10 years to vest in your health insurance. If they had a break in service, even for one day, they would have to start at Year 1 again. Plus, they would lose all their sick leave...some of them have over 3 months worth of sick leave. As I have been here less than 2 years, all those extra considerations did not really apply to me.

I was worried about health insurance, though. As of yesterday, the staff in the benefits office said that July 1 we would be considered unemployed and would have no insurance until we could apply for COBRA if we chose. My co-workers had to go to the pharmacy on their way home to fill their regular, long-term prescriptions (high blood pressure medicine, and the like) before they didn't have health coverage anymore. I was hoping not to get sick or hurt or need any kind of hospitalization.

So, yesterday we packed up our stuff, took down our pictures and other personal items and drove home after a rather glum day at work. My boss promised to call if the Governor signed our contracts to extend them.

No call last night...

Except my friend wanting to know how I was doing and if I wanted to go out and drown my sorrows. Very sweet offer. Very nice friend. But I told her I was okay and that if I felt worse later (I figured it would hit me in a week...when it wouldn't feel like vacation anymore, or when I applied for unemployment), I would call her and take her up on her offer.

When I woke up this morning, I checked for messages. "You have no messages." *Sigh*

So, I rolled out of bed and started a load of laundry. The water is still filling the machine when our office secretary calls. She found out this morning the Governor signed a 3-month extension for us and I should come into work today.

At this point, I am so numbed and de-sensitized, I wonder if I even want to go back to work. But the practical (mortgage-owing, bill-paying) side of me wakes up and says, "Go to work!" So I hustle out as soon as I can, happy that I did not unload my junk from my car yesterday, so it is all still in my trunk. I leave my clothes in the washing machine (I hope they aren't too gross by the time I get home) and set off for work.

So, like my co-worker said, it's like getting 3 months notice. After all that I have gone through, I really feel lousy about working for the State, and in particular, this Governor. I do not know what her agenda is, but she put a lot of good, hard-working people thorough a whole bunch of stress. I have a mortgage, but I don't have kids...in private school or college. I don't have to take care of my parents. It's just me, and I am lucky enough to have family here, so I won't be homeless. There's always someone's couch to sleep on, if worse came to worse. Other people in my position may not be as lucky. I know in the Department of Health alone, there were over 500 people waiting to hear whether they would have a job or not.

Through it all, I knew that it was in God's hands. That helped with the stress part. It didn't really help for the "I'm just a pawn" part. Frankly, I would rather have them tell me a month ago that the contract would not be renewed. It was the uncertainty and the daily good news/bad news dynamic that was really getting to me. I felt like an expendable bargaining chip for the Governor.

One good thing that came from all this is that people have been incredibly supportive. One lady from the Division across the hall gave me a hug today, because of the turmoil she felt I was put through. People that I generally just see in the hallway or have the occasional chat with have made a point to drop by my cubicle to say how unfair they thought this all was and how glad they are that our contracts were renewed. That makes me feel better about working for the State. The people are cool.

Happy Father's Day

To all the men who:
Sacrifice for others,
Stuck around through thick and thin,
Tried to rectify your mistakes,
Walk in faith,
Want more for another human being than what you had . . .
Happy Father's Day.

For all the men who:
Tried and keep trying,
Mentored and keep mentoring,
Encouraged and keep encouraging,
Hoped and keep hoping,
Loved and keep loving . . .
Happy Father's Day.

Happy Father's Day to my Dad. A man who embodies all of the above and so much more. I am so lucky to have you as my earthly Father. I love you.

Head Sweating

I am a head-sweater.

TMI?

I don't know why I am a head-sweater. I do not think my parents are head-sweaters, but I should ask and find out for sure. I mean, maybe it's genetic.

For those unfamiliar with the term head-sweater, it simply means that I sweat from my head. It always begins with the head. Perhaps this makes sense because heat is supposed to rise upwards and people are always talking about the importance of keeping your head warm.

Some people sweat from their feet. Others may have damp palms. Some people sweat from their underarms or elsewhere. For me, it is my head.

I do not even need to be particularly hot, when I notice a little drip maneuvering its way from my scalp, past my hairline, down my brow, and into my eye. (Ouch, it stings!) Or perhaps if I tip my head just so, gravity will work her magic and it will slide down my cheek. A meandering tear. If I'm hot, eating spicy food, etc. hand me a towel to apply to my fevered brow (or wet head).

At its most innocuous, it is inconvenient. At its worst, quite embarrassing. You see, when my head sweats, I do not only have to worry about combating the actual sweat coming down my head (rivulets), but my head gets hot, too. (It looks like I'm blushing or have a bad case of rosaca). And I wear glasses. The result? My glasses fog up. And if the unobservant (or forgiving) of you may not notice the sweat, you will definitely notice my glasses fogging up when you can no longer see my eyes. Like walking out of Ice Palace on a humid day. Voosh! Instant fog.

So, not only do I have to worry about discretely sopping up the immense amount of liquid pouring off of my head (is this the price I pay for being well-hydrated?), but I also need to be cognizant of wiping my glasses so I can actually see. Sometimes I just take off my glasses and squint. I prefer semi-blindness over having to wipe my glasses and my forehead every 5 seconds or so. This way I can focus on my sweat and I get the bonus of not being able to see clearly the expressions of those around me...or where they may be focusing their attention (perhaps on the girl who is sweatting profusely from her head and has the foggy glasses?)

You will rarely see me wearing a hat. Perhaps a visor on occasion, but not a hat or cap. Not just because I tend to look silly in hats, but they also trap all the heat in, which creates a sauna-effect on my head. Not pleasant.

I do not tend to sweat profusely from anywhere else (except if I'm really hot or exerting myself like a challenging doubles game at noon). It makes me wonder, are there other head-sweaters out there? Are you the bandana or sweat-band wearing among us? Do we have our own support group? Does someone out there understand why I can be completely dry everywhere else, but my head will be raining sweat down like I was hanging out on deck with Noah on day 20?

I can go about my business, then suddenly I feel the tell-tale trickle along my hairline before even registering that I may be hot. Perhaps I should carry a hankie around with me like the Southern Belles did (or do...I don't know much about Southern Belles). A perfumed handkerchief which I can use to delicately daub my glistening forehead, in the most demurest of fashions, of course! Yup, that's me. I'm not in the corner, but maybe if the spotlight is on me, you will see a hanky (or more likely my sleeve) lift gingerly to my temple to absorb my head sweat. Ahh...so lovely!

INFJ

Some friends and I were having a chat and the Myers-Briggs personality test came up. The real Myers-Briggs test is an extensive questionnaire, but there are shorter versions on the internet that you can take for free (http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes1.htm). I am not sure how accurate these tests are, but it’s fun to take them and read about one of my favorite subjects…me.

I do not think that I am alone in this. I mean, isn’t everyone interested in the inner workings of me? Yeah. Seriously though, everyone likes to read about themselves (except for famous people when they get bad press, and even in those cases, there are some from the no-press-is-bad-press school of thought, but I digress). I feel like I am pretty self-aware. I know myself well; and am committed to being honest with myself, even when it would be less painful or easier to believe a little white lie. Still, I enjoy taking these tests and seeing if I concur with the results.

The Myers-Briggs test measures you in 4 areas:
How you relate to others: (I)ntrovert vs. (E)xtrovert
How you take in information: I(N)tuitive vs. (S)ensing
How you make decisions: (T)hinking vs. (F)eeling
How you put your life in order: (J)udging vs. (P)erceiving

Taking a closer look at my score, I notice I am very close on the E/I line, which I think is accurate. It’s also accurate that I fall on the “I” side of that line, because I really do need to re-charge internally and not with a bunch of people. I get my energy from within and not from without. While my E/I score was close, I am definitely an “N.” I am way on the “N” side and very far from the “S.” My friend commented that I am the opposite of a lawyer’s profile. I guess that’s why I do not practice anymore, although there is still a small part of me that may want to practice again one day.

According to the on-line test, I register as an INFJ. Apparently, there are not too many of us INFJs around…only about 1% of the population. My immediate reaction? “A-ha! My Mom always said I was a unique and special child. This proves it!” Which was quickly followed by, “Geez, I hope that does not mean I have the propensity to be a serial killer or something awful like that.”

INFJs are labeled “Protectors” “Dreamers” “Mystics” “Healers” or “Idealists,” depending on which site you favor (http://www.geocities.com/lifexplore/infj.htm).

Of course, all the good stuff is right and all the bad stuff is rubbish! Ha! Seriously though, they mention something about desiring harmony above all, and that is something I have been working on…sacrificing a little bit of harmony to advocate or present another point of view. The cliché “a work in progress” is definitely apt!

Medusa's Got Nothing on Me

My hair is getting to the point where it is difficult to manage. It is almost to my waist and that is long enough. My cousin’s hair is to her knees! I cannot imagine having to take care of hair that long. I would constantly worry if my hair was going somewhere it should not…for example, in the toilet or in my food or hanging out in the next room and picking fights with lesser hair.

My hair is thick and has a little wave in it (thanks, Dad); therefore, when my hair gets long, it does not fall straight and silky down my back. Nope, it twists and turns whichever way it wants at the moment, not taking into consideration that some of its neighbors are going in a completely different direction. It looks quasi-bushy because of all the fly-aways (as if I were a repository for static electricity…not quite as bad as the Bride of Frankenstein, but you get the idea). And it does not matter how often I brush my hair, it looks the same…messy.

Once, a stylist flat-ironed my hair after cutting it. I am sure it was because she saw how unwieldy it was when it was long. While my newly perfectly straight hair felt great, (silky soft as I easily ran my fingers through it, as opposed to getting my fingers stuck in snarls every few inches); unfortunately, it was not a good look for me. I looked like Professor Snape from the Harry Potter movies. I remember the stylist asking the requisite question, “Well, how do you like it?” I believe I smiled and made all the right noises, then as I walked back to my car, I began frantically shaking my hair out…desperately trying to create some kind of body so my hair would not look like it was crazy glued to my scalp.

Anyway, I know it is time to cut my hair for three main reasons: it is getting noticeably heavy; I am frequently slamming it in the car door and other inconvenient places (like while capping my highlighter!); and it is becoming more difficult to sling my bag over my shoulder, because my hair gets awkwardly stuck. Plus (okay, four reasons), when it sheds (as it is wont to do) it seems like there is a huge amount of hair in the tub, on the carpet, etc., simply due to its length. Kinda yucky, even for someone with as high a tolerance for messiness as I possess.

Of course, when I actually cut my hair I will miss it. Not the messiness or the heaviness or the way it would get stuck in things and yank and hurt; but rather, the protection it gave (for blouses with food drips on them), the ease of putting it up in a twist (once it’s shoulder length it will be too short to put up with a chopstick), and the security it provided (like a blanket, but less obvious).

40 Year Old Christmas Tree

I finally did it. I took my Christmas tree down to the curb.

Now, this is a major accomplishment. I convinced myself (rather easily) that keeping my Christmas tree up past Christmas was whimsical as well as practical. I mean, it still smelled good…why shouldn’t I enjoy it past December 25? But it became more and more difficult to convince myself that keeping the tree up past January 25 was more whimsical than pathetic and downright lazy. So, on January 23, in the dead of night (so my fellow apartment dwellers wouldn’t see), I unscrewed my tree from its stand, awkwardly wrapped it up in an old bed sheet and winded and wielded my way down the hall, down the elevator, through the lobby, across the parking structure, then out to the curb.

Despite my efforts, those dry needles were everywhere. They provided a trail (better than breadcrumbs) of my midnight antics...right to my front door. I used the sheet in the lobby to “sweep” out as many needles as possible; however, I couldn’t run my vacuum at midnight. That would get my neighbors even more upset. Unfortunately, I had to leave home early the next day and was busy all day, so proof of my laziness languished there, mocking me of my laziness for at least 24-hours. Finally, on the following day I hauled out my vacuum and vacuumed the hallway and waiting area in front of the elevators as best as I could. I had to call the elevator three times in order to get the one I had used that night to come to my floor (we have two elevators in my building), so I could take a couple swipes inside with my vacuum.

If one cared to look carefully, one would find needles here and there. A prickly cluster in the corner of my kitchen, a bent one in my front doorjamb, and along the building hallway some crispy brown needles stick out irreverently where the wall meets the carpet. A reminder of my strength of procrastination…er, whimsy.

Well, the New Year is well underway and I feel like time is beginning to fly. I mean, seriously, can it be February already? While the days and weeks seem to inch along, why is it when I look at the calendar, I am so surprised to see the month of January is already gone? Perhaps one reason is because I turn 40 this year. Yikes. It’s such a mile-stone type of year. Forty is supposed to mean stability and accomplishment and strength in sense of self. Well, at least that’s what Oprah said. Or was it Hallmark? I forget. In any case, there is meaning in attaining your 40th year.

When did I start to get old? Last week, someone wanted to pass me on the sidewalk and he said, “excuse me, ma’am.” Ugh. In the last few years I have noticed that the number of salespeople and wait staff have been calling me “ma’am” have steadily increased. I have caught myself using terms such as, “…kids nowadays…” and “back in the day…” My oh my. I am thinking old as well as getting physically older. Bleh.

This is difficult to wrap my mind around, because I have always been the youngest. I am the youngest sibling in my family, by far (the next sibling is 11 years older). When I would hang out with them or their friends, I was always the youngest. I am born in October, so even amongst my schoolmates; I was one of the younger ones. One of the last to get my driver’s license or go to a “real” bar. Even in work, (except for my previous job) I have always been one of the younger staff. Currently, I am the youngest in my office of 5 people).

It is even worse to think of it as mid-life. For some reason, “forty” sounds better than “mid-life,” probably because mid-life intimates that you are in the second half of your life. The sun is no longer rising in your life; it is setting.

Age may just be a number, but numbers do hold some significance. I do not like to think of myself as almost 40, because “almost 40” sounds old. I do not think of myself as old. If anything, I very much have a child-like spirit. My inner child gets free reign, probably too much of the time. I guess I face 40 with some trepidation because of social convention. I will act as I normally do and people will say, “oh my gosh, isn’t she 40?” which would be fine if they said it in an admiring, amazed way rather than in a scandalized, she’s-old-enough-to-know-better kind of way. Oh well, I guess time shall tell…

Ready or Not...

After reading my previous entry, I am struck by how maudlin and self-indulgent it sounds. I felt somewhat embarrassed by it, but then I thought, where better to be maudlin and self-indulgent than in my own on-line journal? Better to write it down and get it “out of my system” than to subject friends, co-workers, family and others unlucky enough to be in my vicinity to all of that. The less-than-generous are piping up, saying “it’s too late!” Hmph.

Oh well…

I have not written in awhile because I have not felt compelled to do so. No impetus. No desire. But, one of the purposes of me doing an on-line journal was to force me write. There are actually a lot of things I would like to write about: my experiences working at a poll station for the primary and general elections, about some things I’ve been reading and watching about sustainability, about some of the awesome live performances I’ve attended lately…the list goes on.

So, why haven’t I written?

Lazy. Tired. Unmotivated. I feel a bit like I’m in neutral, just coasting along allowing gravity to work its will on me. And this is not a way I want to feel going into Christmas. This is supposed to be a magical time. Not magical as in abracadabra or mysticism, but magical as in having a sense of wonder and feeling a deep abiding joy and peace to celebrate the Savior’s earthly birth. Not the commercial hype of gift-buying, but the fun in gift-choosing and gift-giving.

I have begun with the outer trappings hoping it will trigger inner motivation. My Christmas tree is in its stand waiting to be decorated and smelling wonderful. I put a Christmas carol CD in my bedside clock radio. I have not gone to the mall to shop yet, but that might be counterproductive right now. Now, I would be grouchy looking for parking, impatient waiting in line, and getting outraged at other people’s rudeness, etc. I’m trying to get to the point where looking for parking is no big deal, because I can finish singing the Christmas carol on the radio as I drive around. When waiting in line gives me the opportunity to talk to others in line with me or contemplate how lucky I am that I can afford to purchase gifts. When I do not even notice that other people are being rude.

Yeah, I’m not there yet.

But I will be. Hope springs eternal, I guess.

I hope the beginning stirrings are occurring. I get teary eyed listening to some carols on the radio. Especially “Mary Did You Know?” I am totally digging that song right now. It speaks to me. There’s also a “Joy to the World” song that I love but have not heard yet this Christmas season. It’s a little boy singing and the chorus goes something like:

Joy to the World
Peace for every boy and girl.
Hope when life is hard
Light when everything seems dark...

Yeah…perhaps I may be able to go shopping this weekend after all…

Almost

Barak Obama is the President-Elect of the United States.

Wow.

Honestly though, it is not quite as great as, “Hillary Rodham Clinton is the President-Elect of the United States!” However, it is almost as great.

Listening to Obama’s galvanizing, gracious, and pragmatic acceptance speech, I can almost dismiss the ever-so-faint whiff of regret that America is not celebrating the election of its first female President. Almost. It remains, just a shadow of an aftertaste, but it remains. What if a woman had been elected President of the United States?

We came close…closer than we have ever come before and perhaps that is good enough…for now. Another rung placed on the top of the ladder…one step further. But it hurts, still, to have come so close; and yet that proverbial glass ceiling, for all its cracks, remains relatively intact. It functions as it always did: as a barrier.

Many people of color are thrilled with Obama’s win. They feel they can “really” tell their kids that in America, you can be anything you want to be. I am a person of color. I, too, feel a sense of pride and the hope that comes with newly open doors. But, then I think of the little girls. Will their eyes shine as bright? Will they inhale that confidence, the same way as little boys…so it becomes their truth? So intrinsic that it becomes part of their very being? Or will there be that tell-tale whiff (or did I just imagine it?) that intimates, “But maybe not you. You’re a girl.”

Why must I work harder, better and faster than my male counterparts to get to the same level they inhabit? Will it be all the sweeter to reach that level? To surpass it?

I realize these are not new questions. All minority groups have gone through and continue to go through this morass of questions. Women, people of color, people of a different religion, political party, of different abilities, that speak different languages, of different sexual orientation, people that hold on to a different value system than the majority of their neighbors.

Does the opening for one of us mean an opening for all? I wish…I yearn that this is true. That we can build on one another’s successes. The 15th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution gave black men the right to vote. The 19th Amendment gave women the right to vote. But then I see Proposition 8 passed in California, thus making it illegal for people of the same sex to be married. And I wonder, “Are we almost equal? One step forward, two steps back?” And it hurts my heart.

So this election victory of Barak Obama’s and the agents of change who envision a better world and have reached out to grab it with both hands…your victory…our victory…it is bittersweet to me.

And part of me wonders why I cannot enjoy the fruits of this victory? It means a great deal regarding how we see ourselves, how we identify ourselves as a nation. Why dwell on the negative? The “almost” of it all? Will there always be this sense of emptiness? This feeling that no matter how much is accomplished, that it is never enough? That does not sound healthy.

Then the other part of me argues that it is this part – the one that remains unsatisfied, that strives for more and for better, that will keep our nation and its people on the right track, moving forward. Progressing. So perhaps what is perceived as “negative” is not really negative at all. It is the refusal to rest, because we know we can do better. We can achieve more. It is the part that will ultimately crack that ceiling, made of glass but dense as concrete, into a million shards. And the daughters of the generations who follow will live as if it had never existed. But each will have her own shard, an heirloom reminder of what their grandmothers and great-grandmothers fought, sacrificed, and lived for.

Congratulations, Barak Obama. Congratulations, America.

We’re almost there.

Almost.

Writing Woes

What is it about writing that makes it so personal even when the content itself is not remotely personal?

I understand the feelings of ownership and protectiveness when writing something that involves some kind of intimate insight, experience or feeling, like poetry or a story, or the authorship of anything that took a lot of time, resources and creative effort. But what about writing something as impersonal and mundane as committee minutes, an audit report or policies and procedures?

I like to think of myself as an open-minded person, who welcomes, nay embraces, constructive criticism, and uses it to grow and improve. I do not like to think of myself as the kind of person who becomes protective when challenged, and automatically (i.e., unthinkingly) becomes defensive upon any hint of others correcting my writing.

Notice I said this is the way I would like to think of myself, rather than this is the way I actually am. Just when I am buying into the delusion that I am sincerely open to critical suggestions, something happens to remind me that I have yet to reach that pinnacle of self-actualization.

One example is a script I wrote for a church cantata. Some kind of narration was needed to tie the seven or eight chosen songs together and I was asked to do it. I spent some time writing a script to make the flow of songs cohesive and meaningful. While I did generate effort to write this script, it was not like this was my life’s work and that I sweat blood and poured all my artistic juices into crafting it. I probably wrote two or three hurried drafts before handing it over.

In most cases, I realize that once a script is “handed over,” the writer ceases to have even a modicum of control over it. Various people can change your words, your stage directions and your meaning without your consent, much less consulting you. I thought I was okay with that. I thought I would be fine even if there were massive changes to the script. I was fooling myself. When I actually saw the performance, I mentally noted every change. Some characters were lumped together; lines were deleted, modified or added; blocking, stage direction and other nuances were altered. I realized that for the most part, I did not like these changes.

Then, I realized I liked it even less when one of the people in charge of the cantata mentioned offhandedly to me, “I hope you don’t mind, but the Director made some changes to improve the flow of the skit.”

“Oh no,” I replied gritting my mental teeth, “as long as it makes a better performance.” What a big faker I am. I desperately wanted to mean those words as I felt them leave my mouth. Alas! Alack! I hope wishing to be a better person counts for something.

More recently, I was the lead writer for a Report at work. My co-workers contributed, but I did a significant amount of the writing. Today my boss wants one of my co-workers to “tighten up the language;” and the way he made it sound (and from his expression), I do not think these will be minute changes. I said that was fine, but I preferred the changes be made on the side (as comments) rather than to just change the text, so I would know what parts did not work for them. I may be paranoid, but from their furtive glances to one another, I think they want to do some major over-hauling.

The professional in me wants to be fine with all this, but rather I feel annoyed, irritated, somewhat insulted, and frankly, petty for feeling this way. Despite my best efforts to feel and be otherwise, I am taking this personally.

But why? Why am I taking this so personally? Maybe because this was the third draft and I really felt it was ready to go (albeit with some minor tweaking). I mean, if they wanted some major changes, then why did they not bring this up earlier? Or did they mention it and I failed to appropriately address it in the report?

Perhaps the root of this comes from my core belief that I am a good writer. I am self-aware enough to realize that I am a bad, even horrible speller, as well as a poor grammartarian and punctuationalist (I know they are not words, but I am taking some creative license here), but despite these handicaps, still a good writer. And when I say good writer, I know I am not great, but good, as in better than over half the population (which would be “average.”)

Now, an uncharitable (e.g., discriminating) reader may think at this point, “nothing I have read thus far convinces me that this person is as good a writer as she thinks she is.” Ahhh, therein lies the problem. Maybe that is where I have gone wrong. I have an inflated view of my abilities.

Well, some time has passed and the Report for work was finalized and distributed. The overhaul was as minor as an overhaul can be. I mean, by its very nature, an overhaul means to change much. All in all, it was not as bad as I had envisioned. To be honest, it still chafes a bit, though. Like thick thighs encased in corduroy. It chafes.

Day of (Almost In)Action

Who knew it would be so difficult to find an opportunity to do some good?

Saturday, September 27, 2008 was the national Day of Action. It is a day to highlight community service and volunteerism as change agents in our nation (legislatively as well as on the community level). A friend mentioned that his church helps paint over graffiti in the Kalihi area. I thought this would be a great project for a few friends – get together in the morning and paint over graffiti.

Well, we arrive somewhat bright-eyed and quasi bushy-tailed, ready to paint our little hearts out. But what do we find? Actually it is what we did not find that was the problem. No graffiti! It would have taken longer to open the paint than to cover the small patch of graffiti. Now please, do not get me wrong. It is wonderful that there was very little graffiti there. It’s just that now we had to think of something else to do.

As we stood around and forced our brains to find another idea, it was suggested that we go deep into Kalihi Valley (Kokua Kalihi Valley) where they plant and care for native species. We drove up there and I must say, I had an attack of the girly-girl attitude and winced at the ankle-deep mud and plethora of thirsty mosquitoes that were immediately attracted to me. My friend looked at me, one eyebrow raised in silent question. I wrinkled my nose and answered, “I think they have enough people to help here. Let’s do something else.”

But what would that something else be?

Then, two other friends unexpectedly join us and we prove that four brains are better than one as we finally decide to pick up rubbish at a nearby park. We drive there only to find a bustling Farmer’s Market, no parking and a clean park. At this point, I am beginning to feel a bit thwarted and my earlier enthusiasm begins to flag after facing no graffiti, mud, mosquitoes and a clean park. My friend half-jokingly suggests we shop at the Farmer’s market to support our local growers. I think that’s a great idea, but we determinedly trudge on (as well as one can “determinedly trudge” while in a car) to find another park that may need our services.

We drive to Lanakila Park . . . and there is a softball game being played. I am about to cry to the Heavens when my friend says there is a park above the softball field and a school. The four of us grab our industrial-sized trash bags and set off in search of unsightly garbage. At first there is very little garbage, which gives us an opportunity to talk and catch up with one another. Then, as we get to the elementary school, there is a fence. The stopper and catcher of all blowing garbage. At last, some real work to be done!

As we fill our trash bags, I tell myself that I should have brought some gloves (because rubbish can be icky) and I definitely should have tied my hair back, as it kept blowing in my face, impeding my ability to spot more garbage as well as holes in the ground I tried to avoid stepping in. I begin to notice how the gentle warmth of the sun has slowly become a laser beam of intense heat as my brow literally sweats. I am a bit ashamed to realize that I would not have survived a generation ago in the plantation fields, as the repetitive bending to pick up rubbish causes some twinges in my back. I am a weak, soft product of the couch potato generation. Yet, my compatriots seem fine and I realize that it is just me who is having difficulty.

We cross the street to the Lanakila Health Center where free TB tests and other services are provided by the Department of Health. The parking lot and surrounding area is a cornucopia of garbage. Our trash bags runneth over. Well, not quite. But they did get quite heavy.

There is immediate satisfaction in picking up rubbish. An area that looked disheveled, messy and neglected is suddenly “clean” and free of debris. Just looking at the expanse of grass or parking lot clear of garbage lets you know that you accomplished something.

In addition, a nice woman walking by thanked us for picking up rubbish in her neighborhood. She said that sometimes the area looks terrible and that she appreciated our efforts. I looked up, wiped the sweat falling into my eyes, and smiled at her in thanks. We did not do this for acknowledgement, but it was nice just the same.

So, was it really so difficult to find something good to do? Not really. If we actively look for opportunities, they will “suddenly appear.” If we pay attention to the needs around us…the needs of our environment, the needs of our family and friends, the needs of our neighbors…there are so many opportunities for us to serve. In small ways and large ways and in-between ways. We just need to open our eyes and see with our hearts. I realize I am channeling a little Dr. Seuss here, but who better to illustrate that child-like wonder and experience those warm, fuzzy feelings?

Day of Action. I like that. Not only realizing that there is a need and that we may have the resources to address (at least a part) of that need, but taking the next step. Action. To recognize a need is insufficient in itself. It’s a first step, and first steps are important. But we need to go beyond that. To act. In love, in humility and wholeheartedly. I have a modest proposal: how about a Life of Action? How truly transforming and wonderful that would be!

“Of course, this means I would have to start with me,” she thought warily and not without some apprehension. *Sigh* “I guess my couch potato days are numbered.”

Enslaved by Blackberry (with apologies to Bob Tarte)

I just finished a great book by freelance writer and author Bob Tarte. “Enslaved by Ducks” documents Tarte’s adventurous journey into pet ownership, which winds up in his pets owning him. He was a city dude. Footloose and fancy-free. No pets. Then he got married and moved to the country. And what seminal event caused him to begin down this astonishingly slippery slope? Binky the bunny.

My downfall began similarly with Blackberry, the bunny of my co-worker’s daughter. You see, I once was Queen of my Universe…Mistress of all I surveyed. My apartment was my personal queendom and my sanctuary. I lived my life beholden to no one and I liked it. Then one day, one I would look back upon as dark and ominous although I had no idea at the time, somehow, through some kind of Jedi mind trick on my co-worker’s part combined with my own naiveté, she convinced me that a bunny would be a wonderful addition to my household.

That was the day my life changed…forever.

I have this half-baked theory about people generally being comfortable with animals or comfortable with babies. Since my siblings are sooooooo much older than I, I did a lot of free babysitting of my nieces and nephews growing up. Holding a newborn, changing dirty diapers, getting thrown-up or peed upon are all par for the course as far as I am concerned. But picking up and holding an animal? How does one do that? Correction: how does one do that without getting bitten? Or without hurting the animal. At least babies wear diapers and they don’t have teeth…the worst they could do to you is try to “gum” you to death. They won’t break skin and make you bleed. They won’t scratch you and leave huge welts on your tender skin.

Anyway, if it is not already obvious, I am much more comfortable around babies than animals, because I did not really grow up amongst animals (a dog I was too young to take care of and fish when I was older do not really count). And as mentioned above, I, much like the intrepid author, “fell into” pet ownership…with a bunny.

It always starts with the bunny. Cherchez le lapin.

A cute, adorable, furry, continuously pooping, ever digging and chewer-without-ceasing-of-everything-you-do-not-want-him-to-chew bunny. What those people (and by those people I mean the ones that encourage the unsuspecting to become bunny owners) fail to tell you is that bunnies are more like Bugs Bunny…sly, naughty and destructive.

Even in my novice fog, I knew it was important to set the tone early. I am the owner. I’m the human. I’m in charge. One way bunnies “mark” their territory is by rubbing their chins on things (males also spray, which is that funny scent you smell when you enter my apartment). Apparently there is some kind of gland there that leaves a scent, declaring: “Property of Blackberry the Bunny.” So what do I do? In order to establish my dominance in this relationship, I rub my gland-less chin on him, look deeply into his eyes and seriously and authoritatively intone, “I am the alpha bunny. I am the alpha bunny. I AM the alpha bunny!”

This has made as much difference as a lone raindrop in the Pacific, which is to say none. Blackberry still has run of the apartment, and if I do not pay attention he will: chew electrical cords down to the copper wire, hop onto my dining room table and eat whatever is on there or knock it off the table (one particularly bad incident starred a vase of flowers and some stagnant water I kept forgetting to freshen), or will dig and chew his way through my carpet or through the couch. When I use the preposition “through” I mean it literally. Blackberry can run in one end of my couch and out the other due to his toothy biting and incomparable scratching.

All this being said (as well as being true), I cannot imagine my life without the little bugger. I love him. Even though when he deigns to let me pet and quasi-cuddle him on the floor (he hates to be picked up and will start kicking and wiggling to leave the warm comfort of my hug), he will ruin the almost-tender moment by running away into a corner and grooming himself. I try to console myself that he just has OCD, but he always seems to suspiciously be licking only the places where I touched him. As if I had cooties or something. Very disheartening.

This is the mystery of pet ownership. Even when the animal shows little or no affection (and sometimes aggression…I’m only sticking my hand in your precious cage to get your bowl out to feed you. So stop growling and charging and pawing me with those wicked nails that I’ve let grow overlong because I am too scared of cutting them and hurting you and because you won’t sit still long enough for me to cut them anyway…oops, sorry, just a tiny tangential rant).

What was I saying? Something about the joys of pet ownership?

Seriously, though, even when the animal shows little or no affection for you, the provider of food, shelter and unrequited love, there is some (one-way) bond there. Those weird quirks like running away from you become endearing. The chewed up books on the bookcase are marks of affection. I think owning a pet does something mushy to your brain. It’s the only way I can explain an intelligent, independent individual who did not want to be a pet owner in the first place (me, in case it was not already obvious), continuing to make loving overtures to an arrogant, naughty, disdainful, rebuffing bunny.

Wanna snuggle, Blackberry?

Gen X: Dare to Do Urban Acupuncture

I recently read “X Saves the World: How Generation X Got the Shaft but Can Still Keep Everything from Sucking,” by Jeff Gordinier.

This is not a book for everyone, and obviously it will probably help if you are an Xer, as I am. We are a bit of a niche market in that according to Gordinier, the Baby Boomers and Generation Y "both swell past the 70 million mark, whereas Generation X is usually pegged at around 46 million." We are the forgotten step-child of the generations by marketers as well as historians. We're cynical, ironic and fringe. Slackers, low-key and the opposite of whatever self-aggrandizement may be. Gordinier created what he calls the GXAT (Generation X Aptitude Test) to determine if you belong to Generation X.

Question #1: Do you want to change the world?
A. Yes, and I'm proud to say we did it, man. We changed the world. Just look around you.
B. Yes, absolutely, and I promise I will get back to doing that just as soon as interest rates return to where they're supposed to be.
C. Omigod, omigod, changing the world and helping people is, like totally important to me! I worked in a soup kitchen once and it was so sad but the poor people there had so much dignity!
D. The way you phrase that question is so f***ing cheesy and absurd that I am not even sure I want to continue with this pointless exercise.

Question #1 is the only question on the GXAT. Guess which answer means you're the Xer?

Things coalesced for me reading this book. Snippets and scraps that were floating around in my head arranged themselves and formed a quilt. Something with a shape and purpose. A-ha! That’s me!

While reading this book I saw some old episodes of MadTV. They had a sketch called X News. It was like Gordinier wrote those scenes – same language, flavor and attitude. Not unlike The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and The Colbert Report. When interviewed, both Stewart and Stephen Colbert insist they are comedians, not subversive leaders daring to undermine the repressive social-political environment suffocating free thought. They do fake news. This is Generation X. No illusions of grandeur.

Gordinier discusses how Barak Obama is one of the first Generation Xers to break-out in the political arena. It is one of the reasons Obama seems so free of the old political discord of Republican vs. Democrat, feminist vs. traditionalist, white vs. black, etc. And so it is believable when he talks about change. His language, his perspective is different from the Boomers who have been running the country these past decades. Gordinier writes, “Scan his [Obama’s] first book, Dreams from My Father, and you’ll see that Obama’s way of thinking developed amid the backwash of skepticism that followed the grand march of the sixties and seventies. He’s allergic to anything that smacks of movementism.”

One of the things I liked most about this book is that Gordinier shares what Xers are doing around the planet...and it is amazing. Majora Carter organized Sustainable South Bronx in order to lobby and fight to “green the ghetto.” There is Fritz Haeg teaching others how to create edible gardens and opening his home to conversation and the sharing of ideas. Dave Eggers opened a non-profit writing center for students housed in a pirate supply store (and similar centers have opened around the country). Cameron Sinclair and Kate Stohr created “Architecture for Humanity” an organization that creates homes and buildings of beauty and function for those who may have lost theirs in a natural disaster, or where a building is needed. One of their projects is building an HIV/AIDS clinic in Mozambique. Their philosophy is that if you create something beautiful, people will take care and value it.

Sinclair calls it “urban acupuncture.” A small-batch solution that can be spread around like a virus (a la You Tube style), hopefully creating a ripple effect beyond the small act itself. Where the underlying belief is that there are a hundred million solutions, not one solution to the problems we face. This is one of the cores of the Xer mentality. No grandiose “greatest generation,” no worshipping of consumerism or emo ego-centrism and no rose-colored glasses…even when viewing our own reflection. Feeling that uniformity is toxic and that just doing a small thing…your thing is enough. Change comes from the fringe; we are in the margins, so who better than us to instigate such change? We have always been on the outside looking in.

It is not unlike what Kanu Hawaii is trying to do. When I think about it, it is very Generation X. Not surprising, since it is a bunch of Xers who created it. Embrace tradition without being sappy or idealistic about it, but look forward in a dynamic way. Not searching for THE answer (in fact not even believing there is only one answer), but utilizing community to discover the many answers. “Join” groups if you wish, but maintain your individual ideas, ideals and commitments.

The last chapter of the book is entitled “I Will Dare.” This is the way Generation X will keep everything from sucking…we dare. Dare to dream, dare to fail, dare to do.

Friendship Stew

Making friends.

How does one go about making friends? And I’m talking about real people, not the imaginary, inflatable or cyber types.

I guess the first step would be to put yourself in a position where you would encounter people. But this alone is insufficient. You can be friendly with many, many people, but still not consider them your “friends.”

I remember not knowing anyone in Kindergarten. The friends I had made in pre-school were in other classes or at different schools. I remember being out on the playground during recess and taking my turn on the sliding board. Once I slid down a few times, I stood at the bottom of the slide and watched other kids slide down. I saw a girl with a smiling round face and two pigtails on either side of her head that were braided and tied at the bottom with ribbons that matched her blouse. She looked nice. Once she slid down the slide, I said, “Hi! My name is SweetlyDemure. Do you want to be my friend?” She smiled and said, “Okay!” and we were best friends until 5th grade when she and her family moved away.

I guess that technique could still work today…in Kindergarten, but what about something that will work amongst adults?

Looking at my current pool of friends, I notice that with many of them are long-time friendships. I still occasionally hang out with people I went to elementary school with. I had a tight group of friends in high school, but we drifted apart in college. Funnily, friends that I keep in touch with today from my high school years belonged to a different clique. Also, I still see a couple of people from college and a handful from law school, tennis (I have played adult7 league tennis since college) and church (until recently I attended the same church since elementary school).

Another group of friends actually started out as friends-in-law. A friend-in-law is a friend of your friend. Somewhere down the road we all went out together and eventually the relationships morphed and I ended up seeing the friend of my friend more than my original friend. Then at some unknown point a little farther along, my friends-in-law have become my friends.

A few friendships were built out of the workplace, but the core of my social circle has never emerged from the people with whom I work. We do lunches or dinners and go over to each other’s homes every once in awhile, but while I would consider some of them good friends, they are good friends on my periphery, as I am on their periphery. It would not be strange to call them for a favor, but they are not even buddies I see once every two months.

Friendships develop in different ways. Perhaps my way is the crockpot method, whereby for whatever reason we find we are in each other’s vicinity and realize at some later point that hey, we meld pretty well together. A friendship stew, if you will. I’d like to think of myself as more of a potato, being able to get along with almost any meat or veggie, no matter how exotic. This, as many things in my life has come back to food. Introspection makes me hungry. Well, truth be told, almost everything makes me hungry. Beef stew, anyone?

It's Alive!

There is just something about a live performance. Whether it be music, a play, or a poetry slam, there is something about seeing it live. And it is not the “tightrope” feeling that something may go wrong at any moment. That’s unsettling to me. Rather, I think it may be the palpable energy, the interaction between performer(s) and audience and the audience with each other that raises the bar.

This weekend I saw Carlos Barbosa-Lima in concert at the Honolulu Art Academy. He was amazing. He has an interesting style that I would not have known about if I had just heard a recording of his work. His right hand looks stubby, because he really curls his fingers in when he strums and picks. You can only see up to the middle knuckle. Yet his left hand looks like a long-legged spider traveling up and down a fret board web. Sometimes dancing joyously and unfettered, other times picking its way daintily.

The last number he performed (not including several encores) was called “One Note Samba.” There was such a pure innocence and vitality about they way he interpreted the music. A joyful, unselfconscious exuberance that immediately had me picturing children playing, running across a meadow, laughing with faces shining. Another song he played was called “Conchichando.” In my program, I just made a one-word notation next to the title: “Wow!”

Something happens when art is performed live in front of me. It could be the result of hundreds of rehearsal hours or an impromptu session. Either way, why does it seem so good for my well-being? Why do I miss it . . . feel that something is lacking? Why does my “creative side” (whatever may be clinging to life there) get fired up when someone shares their art with me?

Part of the reason I love live music is it gets me to think abstractly . . . in colors, scents and movement, something that does not convey itself as easily when I’m listening to a CD. It’s like my creativity suffers from narcolepsy, and once it goes to sleep, it can slip into hibernation for long periods if nothing wakes it up and I end up sort of just drifting along. I’m afraid one day it will just never wake up. Definitely time to wakey, wakey!

Parents are People, Too

I am not sure when in time I had this epiphany, but the moment itself is clear. One day I realized that my parents were more than just my parents, they were individuals apart from me. I am embarrassed that this realization came rather late in life (I believe I was in my mid-twenties and out of college). It was one of those defining moments for me where my world paradigm shifted, never again to revert.

In some ways my Dad is your typical Asian patriarch. King of his castle, he communicates in grunts and facial expressions. “Taisho,” as my Mom calls him. But there is another side to my Dad. He can be a talker, a teller of stories. It is a source of amusement in our family. At a family gathering, we’ll see him talking to one of my uncles or a cousin and say to each other, “Okay, I guess we’re not leaving for another half an hour!” Or we’ll commiserate, “Oh, poor uncle/cousin, cornered by Dad!”

So I grew up hearing his stories, and as a typical child, was bored when he started (in my mind), droning on and on about the old days. Since he grew up in Hawai’i, he did not have the “I walked 5 miles in the snow to get to school” story, but every other “typical” old-time story was told. I heard about working in the plantation on the Big Island. Learning to swim by getting thrown into the stream by the older boys. How his friend “Udon” got that nickname (which is a hilarious story).

My Mom is more reticent. She is more of a listener than a talker (a lesson I have been trying to adopt from her all my life), but even she will get nostalgic and talk about her past. About how she and her six siblings walked barefoot everywhere (no shoes). How she pretended to be asleep so she would not have to go work in the family farm early in the morning. That her friends got her English name put on her birth certificate one day when she was absent from school.

Now that I am older (and thankfully a bit wiser), I have grown to cherish these stories of my parents’ lives. Not just their stories as children growing up in the Territory of Hawai’i (pre-statehood), but when they first met and how they struggled to purchase their first house. How difficult it was to find a white-collar job as an Asian man and what life was like before Unionization.

But there is one story in particular that really turned a light on for me and made me fully realize that my parents are individuals. Individuals with dreams, hopes, disappointments and struggles all their own, apart from me, apart from our family, and even apart from each other. I do not know why this story among all the others particularly resonated with me, but it did…it still does.

One day my Mom and I were talking and she mentioned (almost off-handedly) that when my Dad was younger, he had wanted to become a teacher. What?!? It amazed me that my Dad had wanted to be something other than what he was. Didn’t he always want to be in insurance? Didn’t he want to be in sales? I mean, it seemed to fit with the gabby, bon vivant side of him.

My Mom went on to tell me that he did not become a teacher because he had to quit school (which I knew, because his father died before my Dad was in high school, so as the oldest boy, he had to quit school and earn money to support the family). What I learned that day was that my Dad came to O’ahu to find better opportunities to earn a living and to support his siblings. Even after his siblings were off on their own, he and my Mom had already married and he had a family to support.

My parents raised me to believe that I could be anything I wanted to be; do anything I wanted to do if I worked hard enough and put in enough effort. Yet my Dad, because of how seriously he took his responsibility to his family, was not able to be what he wanted to be. He had to give up his dream of being a teacher. Part of the reason he worked so hard was to ensure that I (and the rest of his kids) would have that choice that he did not have. It is something I have always known (I mean, everyone knows most parents work and sacrifice to give their children a better life), but now it was personal and real to me.

It humbled me to learn this. I have always loved and respected my parents, and except for a few rocky years in my teens, I knew I was lucky to belong to my family. And I know that my parents deserve a lot of credit for whatever is good in me. But for some reason, still beyond my comprehension, learning about the dream my Dad decided to forego just made everything sharper, more intense, more real. Maybe it is because it seems so seminal…what one does for a living. Maybe it is the Gen X belief in the importance to find meaning in your work and that the ultimate is to do what you love. Whatever it is, it made me look at my parents in a completely different light.

It made me understand that parents are people, too. And once that becomes real to you, you can never look at your parents in the same way again.