In The Arms of Your Significant Being: Grey

I was in New York today. Well, at least it was a day which brought back memories from my days in the Big Apple.

I decided to knock off early today from work today and being that it was Friday and things seemed to settle down relatively early I thought maybe a movie was in order. I knew that the "The Namesake", an adaption of Jhumpa Lahiri's novel, was out and the previews looked great so I decided, "why not?" Making things more interesting, it was playing at the Arclight in Hollywood which I've never been so a quick hop onto the Metro and I'll be there in no time.

The movie was good--touching at times, but really didn't do the book justice. In the novel, Lahiri spends quite a bit of time on the emotional composition and development of each character. The movie glosses over the conflicts of the characters quite a bit, perhaps hoping that you may have read the book. But I enjoyed the movie for the most part as it did bring back the bits and pieces of the book. I also lingered over the scenes of the City--the apartments, SOHO, and all the what-nots associated with that city. It also occured to me that the memories of my experience in New York are mine only. It not as if I'd shared it with anyone as I was pretty much alone the entire time. And there really isn't anybody I can pull over and reminisce. The weekends that I roamed the city from sun up to sun down. The extended weekends which I always seemed to spend alone. How I longed for the weekend to be over. Monday through Friday were my weekends. I remember staying late at work til nine or so and walking home. It didn't seem to matter whether it was freezing cold or blistering hot, I still loved walking the 30 or so blocks home. Oddly it was similar tonight. Granted it was the streets of Hollywood, but the thoughts, emotions and the hurried pace were the same.

An odd thing happened after the movie ended. As I shuffled out of the theatre, I spotted Grey. For a split second I thought, "could it be her?" Of course it wasn't, but from behind, it was her...maybe not exactly, but the hair was just about identical. I always loved Grey's hair. It was so sensual, and uniquely hers. I walked past the girl and took a quick glance--mid 30's, similar facial shape to Grey's, not quite as attractive, but still, attractive in her own way. Chinese, rather than Korean, would be my guess, but her hair was just done in jsame manner as Grey's with luxurious, flowing curls.

I hadn't thought about Grey for a few hours as I was preoccupied with the movie. But the spigot turned itself on and thoughts of Grey start gushed into my consciousness.

As I walked towards Sunset, I thought to myself how odd--here I am in Los Angeles taking the subway to the movies. And of course, my audience, I find once again, is within the company of myself. Strange how things repeat. Yet this time there is one difference--Grey resides in me and that warmth is what will make me revisit this evening each time with fondness.

As Falls Wichita, So Falls Wichita Falls.

“I need to get out of the City,” I remarked to Ritchie.

“You mean for good?” deadpans Ritchie in a way only he can.

I’m having lunch with him today. It’s our first lunch since his Mum passed away. Kenji decides to join us. Between the two of them, I’ve known them since maybe the fourth or fifth grade. Odd how I haven’t really made friends since my grade and high school friends.

Well, maybe with two exceptions. Big Lick and Brucie would be the first exception and of course, West and Rider would be my second.

Back to Ritchie. He’s one of these silent guys. You know, the kind you have to draw out which at times can be exhausting. Plus at times he’s rather boring. But as he’s the “brains” of my group of friends, maybe that’s just him being tolerant of simple minded me. Odd how at times he reminds me of Grey and vice versa. Both are super smart and own wide-open hearts.

I felt bad for Ritchie when his Mum passed away. I could feel his pain. He loved his Mum and I felt this immense warmth and sadness at the same time. You see, I never felt the same about me Mum. His hurt touched me in a way where it made my heart ache. I felt so helpless—here was my friend feeling emotionally raped and I couldn’t do anything for him.

As things have a funny way of happening, Ritchie and I have since then had a series of conversations. At first it was awkward and strained, but in the end I felt connected with him. I appreciated his openness and felt a brotherly closeness to him.

He called me a last week to tell me he received “honorable mention” with a haiku he wrote. Apparently his Mum had submitted to some national contest. I was especially happy for him as his Mum was a haiku aficionado and it must have brought a special closure to Ritchie.

The call also came to me on a day where my relationship with Grey was crumbling. And thanks to him, Ritchie’s call was the one uplifting call during my dark days dealing with the hurt I had affected to Grey.

[The city where I had lived now remains only a shell of what once was.]

My Pop and Me.

It’s my Pop’s anniversary on Saturday. Unfortunately it’s the kind of anniversary that weighs heavily on me, as it’s the anniversary of his death. My Pop died last year. It’s been a year already. My. My. How time flies.

Well, it does, really.

It was only a moment ago that we hung out together on our drives to Zama and Yokosuka. For some reason I was his buddy and we just drifted around in the car going from base to base. It was on one of these occasions that I told him that I was going to be an archeologist.

“Why,” he asked.

“I want to dig up mummies,” I replied.

He smiled encouragingly. You see that’s what Pop did best. Nothing fazed him and I amused him. I was just some zany kid that had an odd imagination several times bigger than me. And he was my audience.

Decades later and now that he isn’t around, he’s still my audience. I still check in with him. Funny how I never sought his approval when I was younger, but as I matured [well, sort of] his was the only opinion which counted.

So now that I’m at the age where I shouldn't be doing things which may be deemed idiotic, shameful and downright stupid, I wish Pop was around to smack me a few times. I thought about this today. How easy was it back when he would be around to knock some sense into me. How I could’ve used that slap of awakening recently.

Pops, I’m really ashamed to say I’ve done it again. Another unforgivable, irreversible doosey of a, well shall we just say I pulled yet another Philip?

I’ll see you Saturday Pops. Ok. Ok. It's really Dad. He was never Pops.

Miss you all the same.

Love you.

Your son,

Philip

In the arms of your significant being: Grey Goose

The bottle has been sitting in the corner of my kitchen for over a month now. Funny how I greet it every morning as it reminds me of her. Something you need to know—I’m not a Vodka drinker. As a matter of fact I’ve only had it once where I actually appreciated it and it was probably because it was such a desirable setting: after a late breakfast, 40 degrees outside, a Sunday, cigars and a batch of Martinis with good friends. An impromptu session, but stuff you remember into the dark old days when the sharers of those memories are not longer around.

Ok, but this entry is about the Grey Goose. She brought such a smile to my face. I’ve never met anyone as precious as her. Words would never describe her.

I found myself tonight face to face with the bottle. Of course I knew it was never going to be opened nor enjoyed by her. It was a bottle that represented all of the good times I had hoped to have with her. It now sat quietly in the corner. When our eyes met a sad sensation arose in me. But just as quickly, I was greeted with warmth and a cherished sensation akin to a wonderful memory.

“She was the girl, wasn’t she” the bottle seemed to say.

“Yeah she was,” I replied. “In more ways than anyone would ever know. Besides, her memory is mine to keep and not meant to be shared with anyone.”

“Why?’” Wouldn’t sharing not ease that lump you have in you right now?”

“Grey” I replied, “as much as sharing eases your pain, there’s a thought I prescribe to. It’s where the more you share your memory fades. You see, it just becomes a well rehearsed story where details are altered, and events as well as moments of tenderness fade into the background. And while that in itself isn’t necessarily bad, there are memories where it needn’t be altered, nor shared. With her, I’d rather leave all the memories to myself—just the way it is, in the arms of my significant being.