This week my mother turns the same age as her mother was when she passed away.
I have been cognizant of that number for many years and never gave it more than a passing thought. This year, it is different and it hit me like a ton of bricks last week. I was speaking with some people and a woman I know is that age. When I jokingly said she could be my own mother the thought of mortality invaded my mind. Nearly breaking down, I left the room calmly as I could manage without bursting into tears. I made it to a hallway close by and tried not to hyperventilate. Ever since that episode, I am afraid of running out of time; never saying the right things; not making up for any past unkindness. For never saying “I’m sorry” when I should have or “I love you” enough.
I spoke to her today on the phone. She is far away on a long planned, well deserved holiday. I miss her and want to hug and tell her these things.
It was just over nineteen years ago that we lost ________.
That is also the difference in age between me and my mom.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Remembrance of 09.11
My first inkling that anything might be wrong was an early morning phone call. You know the kind, they are never filled with good news and you hoped that you did not lose anyone close to death.
This was obviously different. Terrible. A nightmare.
I was living in the Bay Area with my now ex-girlfriend. We had a small one bedroom apartment that was big enough to be quaint yet small enough to be claustrophobic at times. The phone was in our bedroom. I don’t know if I answered or not, but the message was quick and adamant:
Turn on the television!
I staggered out of bed and down the hall- my feet numbed with coldness by the time I got to the living room. When I hit the power button I could see the devastation.
_____, I shouted! Get out here! You won’t believe what is happening!
When she got to the couch a few moments later I was numb with disbelief.
We did not move for the next hour or so- both of clinging to each other in desperation, sadness and slight fear. Neither of us wanted to go to work, but being the good worker bees we were, we did.
I begged her not to go. She worked near the financial district and already we had heard the Transamerica building was a possible target (crazy five years later to think about it, but shockingly realistic at the time). Time after time she told me it was ok and if I was going to work, she was going to work. My mother had begged us not to take the Bart or Muni.
Getting to work for me was always fun. I could walk to work in 30 minutes or take the bus. Sometimes, I walked and then caught the bus. That day I was at the hands of the oft maligned SF mass transit system. The trip reminded me of the times when I had some strict bus drivers when I was in grade school-- silent. Hardly anyone spoke the entire time. Also, the bus was only a third full on a route that was usually overflowing during the morning rush hour. The streets were empty as well. It was a spooky and surreal atmosphere. Even the transients were missing from the always entertaining/heartbreaking 16th and Mission intersection.
By the time I stepped off the 22-Fillmore, I was thinking of the things I should do as soon as I stepped into the building. I worked for the Bay Area’s PBS/NPR station. As you can imagine, it was a beehive of activity. In my department, my boss was one of the major point people (the biggest in my opinion) for station travel arrangements. Already, I was trying to think of who might be on a trip today and were they on the East coast for any reason. ______ was never in before me (but always stayed much later than I did), so it was up to me to look at our travel log and report it to the people who might need it most. ______ had beaten me to it if I can remember correctly(phoning in all the appropriate information). When I rushed around the building looking for the CEO and COO, they already knew it and even gave me information about travelers I was not aware of. Luckily for all of us there, we did not have anyone on those ill-fated flights.
Now I could slow down my actions. I did what I thought was the most important thing. Everyone else in the building that was not devoted to news coverage or keeping us on the air was rooted to a television somewhere; and at that point, I found myself looking at a large monitor that had been rolled out into the atrium.
I remember standing in front of the screen.
I watched a replay of one of the towers coming down.
My god.
I didn't know one of the towers had fallen. It must have happened on the way to work. I was deaf to all sound. I think tears were streaming down my face. ____ came over to me and put his hand on my shoulder and asked if I was all right. I replied that I didn’t know. He told me to sit down.
I was going into shock.
Again and again the tower fell and you could not take your eyes off of the screen.
I have no memory of the other tower coming down. I just know that it did.
(to be continued)
This was obviously different. Terrible. A nightmare.
I was living in the Bay Area with my now ex-girlfriend. We had a small one bedroom apartment that was big enough to be quaint yet small enough to be claustrophobic at times. The phone was in our bedroom. I don’t know if I answered or not, but the message was quick and adamant:
Turn on the television!
I staggered out of bed and down the hall- my feet numbed with coldness by the time I got to the living room. When I hit the power button I could see the devastation.
_____, I shouted! Get out here! You won’t believe what is happening!
When she got to the couch a few moments later I was numb with disbelief.
We did not move for the next hour or so- both of clinging to each other in desperation, sadness and slight fear. Neither of us wanted to go to work, but being the good worker bees we were, we did.
I begged her not to go. She worked near the financial district and already we had heard the Transamerica building was a possible target (crazy five years later to think about it, but shockingly realistic at the time). Time after time she told me it was ok and if I was going to work, she was going to work. My mother had begged us not to take the Bart or Muni.
Getting to work for me was always fun. I could walk to work in 30 minutes or take the bus. Sometimes, I walked and then caught the bus. That day I was at the hands of the oft maligned SF mass transit system. The trip reminded me of the times when I had some strict bus drivers when I was in grade school-- silent. Hardly anyone spoke the entire time. Also, the bus was only a third full on a route that was usually overflowing during the morning rush hour. The streets were empty as well. It was a spooky and surreal atmosphere. Even the transients were missing from the always entertaining/heartbreaking 16th and Mission intersection.
By the time I stepped off the 22-Fillmore, I was thinking of the things I should do as soon as I stepped into the building. I worked for the Bay Area’s PBS/NPR station. As you can imagine, it was a beehive of activity. In my department, my boss was one of the major point people (the biggest in my opinion) for station travel arrangements. Already, I was trying to think of who might be on a trip today and were they on the East coast for any reason. ______ was never in before me (but always stayed much later than I did), so it was up to me to look at our travel log and report it to the people who might need it most. ______ had beaten me to it if I can remember correctly(phoning in all the appropriate information). When I rushed around the building looking for the CEO and COO, they already knew it and even gave me information about travelers I was not aware of. Luckily for all of us there, we did not have anyone on those ill-fated flights.
Now I could slow down my actions. I did what I thought was the most important thing. Everyone else in the building that was not devoted to news coverage or keeping us on the air was rooted to a television somewhere; and at that point, I found myself looking at a large monitor that had been rolled out into the atrium.
I remember standing in front of the screen.
I watched a replay of one of the towers coming down.
My god.
I didn't know one of the towers had fallen. It must have happened on the way to work. I was deaf to all sound. I think tears were streaming down my face. ____ came over to me and put his hand on my shoulder and asked if I was all right. I replied that I didn’t know. He told me to sit down.
I was going into shock.
Again and again the tower fell and you could not take your eyes off of the screen.
I have no memory of the other tower coming down. I just know that it did.
(to be continued)
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Rain
It rained yesterday.
Actually, it was the summer monsoon.
Where I live it does not rain much during the year. When it does, a majority of the time it is a few drops and then nothing. Most of the rain comes in the late summer and for a few weeks in the middle months of winter.
Last night, I sat on the back porch and watched the rain pour from the sky. I could see our small mountain in the distance and smell earth in the air. I could feel the rain mist upon my legs as the wind blew towards me. Water started to pool on the concrete and I swished my feet happily in the coolness.
I saw a television show a while back on water. If my memory serves me correctly, wetness is nothing but temperature & pressure. A man had specialized gloves placed on his hands. After a few tests to show him what water felt like with the gloves on, he was blindfolded. Other tests were run and he could not tell the difference between having the gloved hands in water versus the pressure/temperature portion of the experiment. I wish I could remember how everything was set up. It was amazing.
I thought of that show last night as I sat comfortably on the edge of the storm.
Most of my life, I’ve lived where the rain is a normality. Here, it is an anomaly.
Sometime soon, I will leave this arid desert and hopefully move to a place that is greener, wetter & ultimately more palatable to my liking.
I miss the rain.
Actually, it was the summer monsoon.
Where I live it does not rain much during the year. When it does, a majority of the time it is a few drops and then nothing. Most of the rain comes in the late summer and for a few weeks in the middle months of winter.
Last night, I sat on the back porch and watched the rain pour from the sky. I could see our small mountain in the distance and smell earth in the air. I could feel the rain mist upon my legs as the wind blew towards me. Water started to pool on the concrete and I swished my feet happily in the coolness.
I saw a television show a while back on water. If my memory serves me correctly, wetness is nothing but temperature & pressure. A man had specialized gloves placed on his hands. After a few tests to show him what water felt like with the gloves on, he was blindfolded. Other tests were run and he could not tell the difference between having the gloved hands in water versus the pressure/temperature portion of the experiment. I wish I could remember how everything was set up. It was amazing.
I thought of that show last night as I sat comfortably on the edge of the storm.
Most of my life, I’ve lived where the rain is a normality. Here, it is an anomaly.
Sometime soon, I will leave this arid desert and hopefully move to a place that is greener, wetter & ultimately more palatable to my liking.
I miss the rain.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Arrivals / Departures
Arrivals / Departures
Do you know of any better feeling than when you meet an old friend or loved one after a period of non-contact?
I picked up my step-father last night at _________ Airport. By mistake, I got there an hour earlier than I needed to be. I also arrived unprepared for that extra time as I usually bring a book or magazine to read- both of which I have plenty of. With 45 minutes to kill, I decided to participate in what my step-father says is one of his favorite things to do: people watch.
I had situated myself at the arrivals section of Terminal number Four- right between the domestic and international gates. Lots of people as you would imagine… coming from numerous departing points & time zones. I counted three saris, four languages and at least 115 black suitcases of various shapes and sizes. Why travelers buy black suitcases is beyond comprehension. They all look alike and are easily confused with someone else’s luggage. Next time you go to a luggage carousel, watch for the black luggage that the machine vomits out of its metal mouth. If you own a piece of this dark travel gear, count how many times other people pick it up only to throw it back like a 3rd prize trout- unworthy of the end of the day weigh in.
So as I sit there waiting for the minutes to drone by, I start to observe arriving passengers stream into my space a little at a time. The smiles that erupt on peoples faces are a sight to behold. Luggage is thrown around like the paperboy delivering the daily rag. Hugs, handshakes and kisses are doled out like its Christmas morning and you just got that new ________ you wanted. But it is the smiles that you are drawn back to.
Did you ever see the movie Batman? You know the one where Jack Nicholson plays the Joker. The smiles that people have at the arrivals gate are like his was in the movie- unmovable. For a second there, I had to stifle a laugh because I wondered if airline flight crews had started giving Botox injections during flights with durations over one hour.
I was happy. Going to the airport made me happy. It was like going to therapy except I did not have to talk and it only cost three bucks an hour for parking!
A simple fact dawned on me as I started to notice other people who were waiting: most of them already had that look of anticipation. It was a good look. As I tried to astral project myself out of my body, I could sense a feeling of electricity in the air. This might have been one of the happiest places I had ever been to.
There is of course, a downside to these little facts: Departures.
I saw a few of those as well. Three out of five of them were tear-filled. Hugs were clutch-like, notes & cards were passed and parting gifts given. I sat next to a set of grandparents and their granddaughter. The grandmother was happily chatting away with her departing relative while her husband kept to himself- shielding his thoughts they way men of that generation seem to be able to do. I did catch his eye for a moment, and I knew this was very painful… this departure of a granddaughter. I could feel in his eyes, that sadness of “What if I don’t live to see her again?” I understood it from the other end because I have left grandparents and not seem them again- except at a funeral.
But those faces! You just had to see those faces. My face.
Now as I wrap this up, I have to confess that I am sure this little bit of writing contains little original thought (and lots of marginal writing I might add). Travel writing is common enough now and this arrival / departure thing has had to have been written about somewhere (likely some smart ass New Yorker… Damn you for thinking of it before me!). But I have to tell you, if you are having a bad day… just need a boost… or think your life really sucks- pull three or four dollars out of your change can and spend thirty minutes at the arrivals / departures section of your local airport.
You won’t be sorry.
Do you know of any better feeling than when you meet an old friend or loved one after a period of non-contact?
I picked up my step-father last night at _________ Airport. By mistake, I got there an hour earlier than I needed to be. I also arrived unprepared for that extra time as I usually bring a book or magazine to read- both of which I have plenty of. With 45 minutes to kill, I decided to participate in what my step-father says is one of his favorite things to do: people watch.
I had situated myself at the arrivals section of Terminal number Four- right between the domestic and international gates. Lots of people as you would imagine… coming from numerous departing points & time zones. I counted three saris, four languages and at least 115 black suitcases of various shapes and sizes. Why travelers buy black suitcases is beyond comprehension. They all look alike and are easily confused with someone else’s luggage. Next time you go to a luggage carousel, watch for the black luggage that the machine vomits out of its metal mouth. If you own a piece of this dark travel gear, count how many times other people pick it up only to throw it back like a 3rd prize trout- unworthy of the end of the day weigh in.
So as I sit there waiting for the minutes to drone by, I start to observe arriving passengers stream into my space a little at a time. The smiles that erupt on peoples faces are a sight to behold. Luggage is thrown around like the paperboy delivering the daily rag. Hugs, handshakes and kisses are doled out like its Christmas morning and you just got that new ________ you wanted. But it is the smiles that you are drawn back to.
Did you ever see the movie Batman? You know the one where Jack Nicholson plays the Joker. The smiles that people have at the arrivals gate are like his was in the movie- unmovable. For a second there, I had to stifle a laugh because I wondered if airline flight crews had started giving Botox injections during flights with durations over one hour.
I was happy. Going to the airport made me happy. It was like going to therapy except I did not have to talk and it only cost three bucks an hour for parking!
A simple fact dawned on me as I started to notice other people who were waiting: most of them already had that look of anticipation. It was a good look. As I tried to astral project myself out of my body, I could sense a feeling of electricity in the air. This might have been one of the happiest places I had ever been to.
There is of course, a downside to these little facts: Departures.
I saw a few of those as well. Three out of five of them were tear-filled. Hugs were clutch-like, notes & cards were passed and parting gifts given. I sat next to a set of grandparents and their granddaughter. The grandmother was happily chatting away with her departing relative while her husband kept to himself- shielding his thoughts they way men of that generation seem to be able to do. I did catch his eye for a moment, and I knew this was very painful… this departure of a granddaughter. I could feel in his eyes, that sadness of “What if I don’t live to see her again?” I understood it from the other end because I have left grandparents and not seem them again- except at a funeral.
But those faces! You just had to see those faces. My face.
Now as I wrap this up, I have to confess that I am sure this little bit of writing contains little original thought (and lots of marginal writing I might add). Travel writing is common enough now and this arrival / departure thing has had to have been written about somewhere (likely some smart ass New Yorker… Damn you for thinking of it before me!). But I have to tell you, if you are having a bad day… just need a boost… or think your life really sucks- pull three or four dollars out of your change can and spend thirty minutes at the arrivals / departures section of your local airport.
You won’t be sorry.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Sensory Overload of the Spirit
Taken from Wired 12.09 article titled: The Anime Giants Are Coming
"A few years ago," the director explains, "I had a shock when my cat Nene died. There was a hole in my heart, a hole that could not be filled, even though a new cat, Mina, came along. I started to wonder why. Why can't one cat replace another? And I started to think that the "I" is not just one person, but the sum of everything you love-- your dog, your wife, your child, your computer, your doll. This led me to the conclusion that the self is empty. What is essential is this network of connections."
I’ve had this passage saved for nearly two years. Every so often, I stumble upon it again and realize that there is some truth in what was written.
It speaks of the isolation that we’ve imposed upon ourselves. We’ve become afraid to be who we were as children and now fear as adults. In larger cities, it is even worse because everyone on the street wears the ever ubiquitous I-pod or worse, is on a cell phone-- hell, a co-worker of mine, sits next to me wearing headphones most of the day.
We walk down the sidewalk, hallway or street and fail to look people in the eye. We’ve become so isolated in our so called oneness with self that we’ve shut off contact with people around us. Sure, we interact at work or at the check out counter but that cannot count for much because there is not any kind of communication going on. Where I grew up as a child, it was rude if you did not waive at people in passing cars; whether you were in a car going the other direction, walking down the street or sitting on your front porch. Years later when I visit, it is still the same.
Are these actions we see every day part of the reason that the self is empty as the director from the article said?
I think he is going on a slightly different path that I am taking here, but what I have realized and am trying to explain is that all this technology we have has made us forget how to listen, how to focus, how to breathe even.
Sensory overload of the spirit might be applicable here.
So, I say turn off those mp-3 players. Ditch those cell phones for a day. Stopping checking your email for a while. Meet your neighbors-- I bet half of the people who might read this don’t know both people living on either side of their house. Better yet, go to the park and have a picnic. Listen to the world around you.
You will be glad you did.
"A few years ago," the director explains, "I had a shock when my cat Nene died. There was a hole in my heart, a hole that could not be filled, even though a new cat, Mina, came along. I started to wonder why. Why can't one cat replace another? And I started to think that the "I" is not just one person, but the sum of everything you love-- your dog, your wife, your child, your computer, your doll. This led me to the conclusion that the self is empty. What is essential is this network of connections."
I’ve had this passage saved for nearly two years. Every so often, I stumble upon it again and realize that there is some truth in what was written.
It speaks of the isolation that we’ve imposed upon ourselves. We’ve become afraid to be who we were as children and now fear as adults. In larger cities, it is even worse because everyone on the street wears the ever ubiquitous I-pod or worse, is on a cell phone-- hell, a co-worker of mine, sits next to me wearing headphones most of the day.
We walk down the sidewalk, hallway or street and fail to look people in the eye. We’ve become so isolated in our so called oneness with self that we’ve shut off contact with people around us. Sure, we interact at work or at the check out counter but that cannot count for much because there is not any kind of communication going on. Where I grew up as a child, it was rude if you did not waive at people in passing cars; whether you were in a car going the other direction, walking down the street or sitting on your front porch. Years later when I visit, it is still the same.
Are these actions we see every day part of the reason that the self is empty as the director from the article said?
I think he is going on a slightly different path that I am taking here, but what I have realized and am trying to explain is that all this technology we have has made us forget how to listen, how to focus, how to breathe even.
Sensory overload of the spirit might be applicable here.
So, I say turn off those mp-3 players. Ditch those cell phones for a day. Stopping checking your email for a while. Meet your neighbors-- I bet half of the people who might read this don’t know both people living on either side of their house. Better yet, go to the park and have a picnic. Listen to the world around you.
You will be glad you did.
Monday, August 07, 2006
The Monday Tirade
Why is it that men persist in sitting in office restroom stalls reading the paper? Do they think that they can make themselves at home on some recently warmed toilet seat and spend their leisure time while dropping it like its hot? I really don’t get it. It is one thing to spend 30 minutes at home doing it, but come on! Sometimes, I would like to post rules of office rest room etiquette in every stall, mirror & door. Here are a few that come to mind:
1) If you’ve got to go #2, get in and get out!
2) If you have to strain while going #2, eat more fiber because we are tired of hearing your grunts.
3) If you are going #2 and it smells like a used diaper filled with Indian food, how ‘bout a courtesy flush.
4) If you use the toilet or urinal, flush the d*mn thing--even if you have to use your foot!
5) Wash your hands!
6) For those dopes that don’t wash their hands, make sure you open the door with your recently used paper towels. Do you want to open the door handle with someone else’s creepy crawly germs on it?
7) No eye contact at the urinal!
8) No talking at the urinal! (If someone says “nice watch” while you are handling your business, you might have a problem- not that there is anything wrong with that!)
I’ve come to the conclusion that the only people who should use the restroom while I am working is… ME!
The rest of you boneheads should just go outside and take care of it like the filthy animals you are.
1) If you’ve got to go #2, get in and get out!
2) If you have to strain while going #2, eat more fiber because we are tired of hearing your grunts.
3) If you are going #2 and it smells like a used diaper filled with Indian food, how ‘bout a courtesy flush.
4) If you use the toilet or urinal, flush the d*mn thing--even if you have to use your foot!
5) Wash your hands!
6) For those dopes that don’t wash their hands, make sure you open the door with your recently used paper towels. Do you want to open the door handle with someone else’s creepy crawly germs on it?
7) No eye contact at the urinal!
8) No talking at the urinal! (If someone says “nice watch” while you are handling your business, you might have a problem- not that there is anything wrong with that!)
I’ve come to the conclusion that the only people who should use the restroom while I am working is… ME!
The rest of you boneheads should just go outside and take care of it like the filthy animals you are.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
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