Pleasure Notes

For the past few months, I’ve been back in an office job, the kind that comes with cubicles, florescent lighting and gossiping co-workers. Yes, it has been a fairly soul crushing experience.

If only money grew on trees.

Or came more frequently and fluidly from the activities I do which feed my soul.*

It’s the gossip that bothers me the most. The tense whispers. The snickers. The HOURS of inane conversation about this or that person. It isn’t all negative, per se. But it is just SO MUCH CLUTTER.

I already have PLENTY of clutter, folks!

Debating for 45 minutes the size of a belt buckle some dude wore on a reality show does NOT improve my life.

Pointing out the flaws of those with whom we sat in a meeting does NOT improve my life.

Clearly, it entertains many people. Perhaps, I am simply too self-centered to understand its merits. All I know is, it exhausts me to overhear it, it bores me to engage in it, and it has the stickiness of oil on a feather.

Now, if someone wants to talk about the tragedy of oil on feathers, I will gladly engage. Unfortunately, that does not seem to be a topic of interest for the office gossip girls.

What’s your take on a little gossip?

***

*Never fear. I am, indeed, working on this being more than an “if only,” with the help of Chris and Danielle and all of you. But it’s all happening at an annoyingly GLACIAL pace!

Los Angeles may be a fairly new city in the grand scheme, but it has its share of landmarks. I’ve lived here for fourteen years, and I’ve visiting an alarmingly small number of them. But I can now say I’ve been to Watts Towers, and it was well worth the trip.

Watts Towers

What is it about living in a city that makes one less curious to explore?

When I travel to other cities, whether in the U.S. or abroad, I wouldn’t dream of missing their highlights. But when it’s home, there’s always tomorrow, or a self-conscious “cheese” factor, or the comfort of routine that keeps me from pulling out my map and my camera.

I’d heard talk of Watts Towers from the very first day I arrived in L.A. It’s the story with which people juxtapose that of the Watts Riots, to illustrate how this town is complicated and surprising. The riots of 1965 were a violent manifestation of fear, a push-back against hatred, intolerance and injustice. The towers, constructed from 1921 through 1955, were an artistic expression of peace, possibility and beauty. Quite a contrast. One I wanted to see. Or so I kept telling myself. But I never got around to it.

patterns

Then, three things happened.

1. I created my Intentions list at the end of 2009 – a huge long list of random activities I dreamily professed to want to experience. Suddenly it was all on paper, in front of me.
2. Then, I made it public by posting it here – that made, and makes, me feel oh-so-much-more accountable than those thousand-and-one lists I’d always scrawled in random notebooks or the back pages of my journals. I’m no longer the only one who knows how much I sit on my ass and talk big. Still, though, it took an outside force to get me driving across town on a Sunday afternoon.
3. If the ever enthusiastic Dian hadn’t read my list, seen my intention to visit Watts Towers and spontaneously agreed to join me on my venture, I’d still probably have no idea how inspiring broken bottles can be.

Simon Rodia spent 34 years collecting broken things, the stuff others see as junk, to create a vision.

DO SOMETHING BIG.

That was his dream.

perspective

He didn’t become a millionaire. He didn’t cure polio. He didn’t advance technology.

He constructed beauty out of trash.

broken bits

He’d never trained as an artist. He was a construction worker.

He didn’t seek or gain fame (at least not in his lifetime). He had a failed marriage. His neighbors thought he was crazy, and that he was designing a hazardous blight on the landscape.

He had a day job.

vision in pieces

And every single day, for 34 years, he came home and built these towers. At night, after an exhausting day of physical labor. On the weekends, when others were going to BBQs or the beach. He hand-selected every single piece of broken bottle, chipped china, shattered glass, and discarded tile. He had no architectural drawings, sketches or plans to consult.

It was all in his head.

How’s that for commitment, for faith, for trust?

dreaming big

Do you have a dream that strong and clear?

To be honest, I’m not sure I do.

But I’m working on it. Are you?

Dear Jamie:

I saw a girl wearing a yellow coat today. It reminded me of you. Many things do.

It’s been a year since you left. I’ve just recently rediscovered my feet, that they belong under me, and that I can use them to stand and move forward. You’d probably say, it’s about damn time.

A lot has happened in the past 365 days. You’d be ecstatic about some developments, but I know you’d roll your eyes over much of it. Or maybe you would have accepted the humanity of it all with more diplomacy than I.

I wonder if you’d change your views about death it you had it to do over again, or if you’d still think it all ends point blank. I wonder what new secrets we would have shared in the past year, and which ones we would have continued to keep to ourselves. I wonder about a lot of what ifs. The wondering doesn’t stop me in my tracks as often today, though, as it has done.

Your mom, in the midst of her grief, told me that would happen:

Eventually the smiles transcend the tears.

She didn’t say it exactly like that, and let’s not even mention how strongly I wish our roles could have been reversed so that I was providing her comfort instead of seeking it, but I’m so grateful for the wisdom in her words.

I went camping this weekend. Yes, camping. You should have seen the night sky, Jamie. It was amazing. And it made me laugh.

There are no answers, chica. You already knew that. Like so many other things I’ve learned in the past few years, and particularly in the past 365 days, it took you to teach me this lesson too. I’d hold up a Whiskey and Ginger to you, but that’s not really me.

Another thing you’d have pointed out if you were around.

Instead, I’ll smile every time someone walks by vainly trying to pull off a yellow coat as well as you could, and my heart will crunch at odd moments when I hear a specific song or remember a particular event or see a convertible, and I’ll walk through the rest of my life with a little more light and a little more shadow to my soul than I had before I knew you.

I miss you, chica. And I thank you. And I honor you. And I love you.

Cheers. xo -em

p.s. Did I tell you I’ve stopped drinking coffee? Crazy, huh? But I’m eating chocolate again. For the moment. My feet are in desperate need of a pedicure. And I’m considering cutting my hair. See all the drama you’re missing? 

p.p.s. Yes, I will see the next Twilight saga. But, seriously, only for you.

by Sharons Web/flickr

An amazing event happened yesterday as I was waiting in line at the post office. A man in front of me started dancing. He had on headphones. He wasn’t shabbily dressed, at least not for Hollywood. But he wasn’t just nodding to the tunes. He was FULL OUT GROOVING. And everyone else in line immediately averted their eyes, glanced nervously at each other and took a step back, including me.

And then, I was struck by a thought.

Why are we all reacting with a combination of fear, embarrassment and pity? Why are we assuming he must be some homeless dude off his meds?

Why does this man’s joyful dancing terrify us so, and make us so uncomfortable?

WHY AREN’T WE ALL DANCING WHILE WAITING IN LINE? Seems like a damn good use of our time…

If there had been any kids under the age of 5 in that line, I’ll bet they would have joined that man.

***

In the moment, as I looked around at the group of “adults” in which I found myself, I felt a little sad for all of us, for the exuberance and self-confidence we’d lost, for the self-consciousness and inhibition we’d somehow acquired.

I wished for a camera, to capture this man’s freedom. But then I caught sight of a woman ahead of me who was slyly attempting to record the line dancer with her iPhone.

She had a smirk on her face.

I wondered where her little video would surface, and with what kind of commentary. I had a sinking feeling the sentiment attached to the image would not be one of celebration but rather one of ridicule.

The man caught sight of her as well. His face suddenly sagged. He appeared to visibly shrink. He stopped moving. The music continued in his headphones but he became one of us, one of the expressionless adults standing in line.

It made me want to cry, to scream, to apologize, to encourage him to dance again, to dance in defiance myself.

But I did nothing.

And then a postal worker called out, “Next!” and the line moved forward and we all lost a chance for… something.

But I’m adding DANCING IN LINE to my list of intentions.

Would you have the courage to dance in line?

It’s been 10 months, today, since Jamie died and I still feel every facet of the grief like a cloak that, no matter how hard I try, I just can’t seem to shed.

I was leaving a comment on someone’s blog yesterday and became curious to know more about some of the other commentors with whom I was unfamiliar. Upon clicking on their gravatars, windows opened up to reveal lists of other blogs using the same spam protection service that they frequent. I was curious to know what blogs would make up my list, so I clicked on my own gravatar and immediately was hit square between the eyes by Jamie’s Yellow Suitcase Tumblr blog, at the top of my list. Before I could stop myself, I clicked on the link. I hadn’t visited the site since before we took the trip.

I was assaulted by her – her image, her voice, her laugh, her memories, her predictions. I read how many times she flippantly mentioned dying or having a coronary, as we all do in dramatic fashion, and I could feel the synapses in my brain disconnect one by one. I listened to her recorded memories that are mine as well. I saw things I’d never seen before. The reality of her loss slammed into me with the force of a ballistic missile. I was shaky and near tears for the rest of the day. If I’m honest, I’ll say I am still.

by SwEeTie/flickr

It isn’t like this hasn’t happened before. I’m reminded of her every single goddamn day. I wish I wasn’t. I really don’t like the feelings the memories stir. But I don’t like the alternative either – that I’ll forget.

I’m reminded of her when I look at the table on which one of her favorite photos sat until it was too much for me to see. I’m reminded of her every time I open my TweetDeck and see certain people in my stream. I’m reminded of her every time I wear her boots with which her mom preferred to bequeath me rather than send to a thrift store. I’m reminded of her every time my chest tightens or I twist my ankle or I think about Ireland or traveling or curbs or books or friendship or bacon or…

Thank goddess I’m no longer in an environment in which I also get mistaken for her and called her name. That was a torture I cannot even begin to process, months later.

by photophilde/flickr

Sometimes I hate her. She made me see a brighter world only to abandon it without revealing her trick.

Sometimes I wish I’d never known her. Then I wouldn’t have to feel this debilitating sadness.

Sometimes I think it should have been me instead of her, because she appeared to do and be and live with so much more skill than I feel I possess.

Sometimes I think her death was my fault, because I’m the one who suggested turning that corner and stepping up on that curb over which she tripped.

Sometimes I think I no longer have any right to grieve, that still feeling so much after so many months makes me crazy. I certainly feel crazy when the overwhelming need to sob continues to take my breath away. After all, I wasn’t family. We hadn’t been friends for a lifetime. We’d known each other for two years. TWO YEARS. That’s all. That’s an Associates Degree.

by scarbody/flickr

How can I possibly still be trapped in the web of her?

I can still see her falling. I can still hear how we laughed about it, and how she admonished herself for her clumsiness and how I got irritated with her, but said nothing, for taking pictures of her ankle to post on her blog rather than taking the aspirin I gave her.

I haven’t gotten to the point where I can remember her, or our friendship, or our moments spent together and laugh. Ironic, since so much of our time was spent laughing.

by awfulsara/flickr

I don’t know what it will take to shed this second skin she passed off on me when she passed away. What I do know, however, is that I’m pissed as shit that I’m still wearing it. I’ve done everything I know to do to get it off. I desperately grabbed onto a job as my lifeboat and then almost drowned when it sprang a leak. I turned to sex, to food, to therapy, to writing, to my pillow, to the sun. Yet, the mantle hasn’t budged. Perhaps it will take leaving this city, as her husband did. But if I do that, I’ll be wearing her boots even more.

Someone wise would probably say, it just takes time. Fuck time.

Yesterday, Lindsey from A Design So Vast, highlighted an Isabel Allende quote:

“I didn’t know then that sadness is never entirely gone; it lives on forever just below the skin.”

I look forward, with hope, to the day this sadness sinks below the skin. It will feel like such a relief.