The Wonderment of You: Afterglow

Somewhere on my journey from here to there, she changed my life forever.

I’ve often wondered how one person can so impact one’s life. Have I ever had that effect on another person? Funny how I never thought about that. I was always more preoccupied about how the other person changed mine.

Driving mindlessly I slipped in a CD. It was the CD she had made for me. As the first song played she came into my mind at full force. I pictured clearly how I held her the last day I saw her. I felt so close to her that night in my bedroom. Her standing, me sitting with my arms around her—my head burrowed between her chest as I inhaled her scent. What I wouldn’t do to relive that moment again.

I asked myself why the torture. At least stop it with the music. But as each song played, my four and a half hour journey became a recounting of the precious time I spent with her. As each song played I relished the lyrics, the choice and visualized her listening to the song as well. How much I had loved her. I told her often. She had that effect on me where I would be naked of all of my emotions.

She told me she loved me twice. Both times she would retract it. She also called me sweetheart twice. This she did not retract.

I’m so tired I thought. I wish I could just close my eyes and sleep a deep sleep. I spoke aloud and April joined in on the conversation. I saw her in the rear view mirror as she asked me why I was so tired. I told her that I was depleted of all energy. Yet I had to keep moving on. She was sympathetic. It was her nature to be. When I needed her most she would appear and her tender, soft, almost innocent temperament would soothe me.

Suddenly I woke up and was startled to see April at the foot of the bed. She was sitting there looking at me, smiling. I wasn’t sure if I were still dreaming. She asked me if I wanted some coffee. She said it in such a matter of fact way.

Still confused I couldn’t answer. Did I want some coffee she asked again. It was freshly brew she explained.

I stammered barely able to answer with a yes. My throat was parched. I felt as though I had been crying throughout the night. I felt exhausted.

I asked why she was here. She responded that she had a key. I couldn’t recall giving April a key. As if to read my mind she explained she had taken the spare the last time she was here. Again, it was all matter of fact.

April got up off the bed, confirmed that I took my coffee black and walked into the kitchen. Her voice trailed off as she mentioned how I knew she wasn’t much of a cook so I shouldn’t get my hopes up for breakfast.

Why was she here? But as I questioned, I was happy she was indeed here. I recalled we had agreed to go shopping, but I hadn’t really confirmed nor counted on it. Besides, I had a bad headache from being hung over. Funny, I hadn’t had any alcohol the prior evening. It just felt like a hangover.

April was quietly drinking her coffee. She had a demure quality to her. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of her. I had known her for a few years now. Attractive, smart, and she had a very upbeat part to her. I suppose those were the qualities that attracted me to her and kept us in touch over the years. Our relationship was more of a friendship, as our efforts to pursue anything further just didn’t happen. She was fun to be with and somehow I represented a safe haven to her when her emotions crumbled.

I met April through her brother while at Babson. We were both attending a two-year program for accelerated business practices through the company. It was a meant to be a tough curriculum and only one individual from each agency division was selected. I was the flunky that represented our agency; Hiro represented his firm’s Tokyo operations as the managing director. We hit it off immediately and when he learned of my background we become long lost friends.

During the first year’s session Hiro gave me April’s number and told me to call her when I got back. He explained how she could be a handful, but how I would like her and maybe we could go out to dinner sometime. Apparently she lived in West LA and owned a small, thriving boutique

What he didn’t explain was that April was an accomplished pianist by the time she was twelve. She had studied formally from the age of five and attended the Conservatoire National in Paris when her father was transferred from Osaka to Paris.

But somehow in her late 20’s her career derailed and she exited her music career and for some years wandering aimlessly. There was a short marriage to an American screenwriter, and after the divorce April settled in Los Angeles.

I’m not sure why our relationship didn’t flourish. It wasn’t so much that I couldn’t handle or deal with her emotional ups and downs, but she withdrew by writing her own tragedies and any momentum we had towards intimacy ceased to exist. While it was agonizing, I was fairly patient with her but at some point we both decided that we should just be friends.

I kept her brother informed sparingly but gave him the details whenever we got together. Her brother confided that April had always had issues with her emotions. It wasn’t depression, she overcompensated for what she was feeling and suddenly it consumed her. Whatever it is, I think it’s what kept her going with the piano. But one day, it just ended.

April’s brother once told me why he thought we would get along. He explained how we were both on the passive side and tended to overanalyze things and require clarification. I wasn’t sure if those were my good or bad traits. Not so much as an afterthought, he added that my easy-going demeanor would be a good match with his sister. He added how comfortable he would be knowing she was seeing a good guy that would care for her.

I was recalling that conversation with April’s brother as I quietly sipped my coffee. I asked her if she was serious about the shopping. She replied affirmative and was looking forward to spending the afternoon with me. Besides, she reminded me that the after Christmas sales were going on and I really could use a few new suits.

Besides April informed me, she was leaving for Osaka the next day.

Was there anything wrong I asked her? She replied that she just missed her family. It was almost New Year’s and she longed for spending time relaxing with loved ones. Besides, her brother would also be joining them and she hadn’t seen him in almost a year.

She also added how her brother was disappointed that I had turned down the job offer. She caught me by surprise. I had just turned it down the previous week. It was a good opportunity but it would have entailed a move.

April asked me why I turned it down. I explained how I had pursued it based on the fact that it was a Los Angeles based position. It turned out to be Chicago based. I explained to her that Chicago was out of the question. Besides, I couldn’t keep running away.

She asked me if I missed her. I wasn’t ready for this question. A lump formed in my throat. April saw my reaction and apologized. She did her best to change the subject. I couldn’t let go of the anger that was building inside of me. Why couldn’t she leave me alone I asked her. It was misdirected anger but I couldn’t help myself. The proverbial dam had broken.

The Wonderment of You: In My Life

What is your favorite?

I suppose it's a fairly innocent thing to ask a person. It's only natural to get a person talking about themselves. But it's something I rarely ask as it's a question I have a hard time answering myself.

Whether it's favorite cuisine, book, place to travel, it's a question I stumble to answer and hate to be asked because it's stifling to be cornered into one thing--imagine, of all the colors of this world, how can you choose one?

Oddly, there is one song that I can unequivocally call my favorite. It's not because it reminds me of any moment in my life or person but for some reason it's a song I can rarely listen without it striking an emotional cord. It's been several decades, cities, points of my life where this song has been with me.



There are places i'll remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends i still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life i've loved them all

But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When i think of love as something new
Though i know i'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know i'll often stop and think about them
In my life i love you more

Though i know i'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know i'll often stop and think about them
In my life i love you more
In my life i love you more

The Wonderment of You: Quadrifoglio

April brought a sweeping change to his heart. Though it was still of period of uncertainty, somehow it represented calm. It happened innocently with a passing remark he made about the CD she was examining. It was a John Coltrane collection he had happened to own and mentioned it was worth considering, especially as it featured a few Count Basie numbers. It was just a passing comment, nothing more.

They met later in the day by coincidence. He was in a store trying on sunglasses and heard her comment that the one he had just tried on wasn’t a good choice. She suggested a trying the one with the square lens, commenting that it better complemented his round facial features. She pointed a black frame version and indicated he should try those on.

Perfect.

He thanked her for the advice and she merely smiled and replied that she was just returning the favor. And by the way, she had sampled the CD in her car and thus far she was delighted.

He hated being asked what he did for a living. While on the surface, it was an easy enough occupation, however because of his specialization it took several minutes of explanation and usually most individuals just gave a glossed over look. In the end he generally changed the conversation and asked what they did. It was so much easier listening. This prevailing attitude somewhat ruled his life. He just wasn’t interested in much anymore. Besides, most individuals were so preoccupied with themselves; they would just go on for hours on end. He merely had to indicate interest and only half listen. He would be miles away the other half of his time, day dreaming how he wished he were elsewhere.

Another point of contention was the car he drove. A red 1967 Alfa Romeo GTV. Most viewed the car as some passing mid-life crises fancy. Especially the woman he dated. Even the testosterone filled gender who fancied themselves as a car enthusiast would make a passing favorable comment on his car and quickly start to talk about their preference—to which he only paid polite attention, but had no interest in hearing. In truth the car represented his childhood. He remembered clearly when he first saw the car. He was sitting in a window seat of this school bus when he spotted the car. Something about the color, the Guigiaro bodyline and the aggressive stance stirred something in him. He saw the walnut stick shift knob and steering wheel and instantly placed himself in the drivers’ seat. From that day on, the Quadrifoglio Verde, or the lucky four-leaf clover settled into a permanent place in his heart.

So given his emotions about the Alfa, he would respond poorly to those who questioned his vehicular choice. Granted it wasn’t the best choice as a reliable mode of transport, but he relied on his lease car for the everyday commute. It seemed the biggest source of conflict was when those around him questioned how he could sit in the car for hours.

“What do you think about,” they would ask.

In all honesty, he couldn’t answer, as he himself had no idea what he thought about during those hours. It was just a span of time when he would drift off to whatever thought entered his mind. Besides, his favorite sport was daydreaming.

When the car was running, he would take off to the Four Corners area of New Mexico and Arizona in search of the country Tony Hillerman wrote so passionately in his novels. His friends would question why he would his somewhat unreliable car to such a desolate place, only to circle back and return upon arrival. The mused about his temperamental heater, lack of air conditioning and the A.M. radio. He was accused on occasion by whomever he was dating at the time if his sojourns weren’t actually a romantic rendezvous—perhaps with a Navajo sweetheart he had met on the tribal grounds.

“Did you meet her on the Internet,” they would ask.

In truth the road trips were just road trips. It really served no purpose except it was just a way to get away. Sometimes he would get as far as Barstow and he would stop to eat, have a beer and return home. Perhaps it was just the notice of the road trip that appealed to him more so than the trip itself.

They walked out of the store together into the parking lot. They happened to approach his car first and he mentioned that this was where he was parked. The woman asked if the Alfa was his, and he acknowledged.

You must love the car she remarked. "My older brother had a GTV when he was in college. It always ran awful and he didn’t have the money to keep up on repairs, but he was completely married to it. Funny, he drives a SUV now, but he still talks about the car. It was his first love, I think."

“By the way, my name is April,” she said as she put out her hand.

The Wonderment of You: Starbucks

Sunday morning.

I wake up throughly drained around 5am. I've been at my Mom's house for a week and today I get to go home. A week's just too long and with all the running around, the early mornings, and my Mom's erratic behavior the last few days, I was exhausted. Especially unnerving were the two dreams I had. The first was one of those hard to understand, non-sensical types. The second was a bit more jarring and obviously had significant meanings.

The first dream was a short one and in living color. It took place in a field which had a one lone billboard. It was a sign announcing a real estate development for homes soon to be built. I was standing next to it looking out into the field. It seemed early morning. I had a photo in my hand and it was a photo of the billboard. Oddly, in the photo, there was a suction cup on the billboard--one of those clear ones you stick up in the bathtubs and showers--placed on the billboard for no apparent reason. I looked up from the photo and noticed there wasn't a suction cup on the actual billboard. But at that moment, I realized I had a suction cup in my left hand and understood immediately I was to place it on the billboard in the exact same spot. For some reason I knew that this was a critical act. I placed the suction cup carefully and a second later a woman appeared about 50 yards away. I stood staring at her as she started running towards me. There was an oddness to the scene--it seemed we were on two different planes or dimensions, our worlds slightly askew. I recognized her as she came closer, though I had no idea who she was. As she came closer, I ran towards her and we embraced for a moment in front of the billboard. I woke up right at that moment, wondered what that was all about and fell asleep again. The second dream seemed to start almost instantaneously.

I was late on a job interview at some network in Hollywood. I was driving from Santa Monica and was in a massive traffic jam. I had no clue where the interview was to be at, so I parked the car and resorted to a map. As I got out of the car to open the map and fish the address from my pocket, there was a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and it's some chunky kid. He handed me a phone and said it's for me. I look at the phone number on the display and while an area code wasn't present, I knew it was from the Sacramento office. There was an incident.

The next thing I know I'm in the office seated at a round table with some staff members. I'm not certain if they were actual staff members, but the individual in question which was at the center of this office disturbance was nobody I had met before. She was disgruntled and acting out. She had exaggerated curly hair similar to Shirley Temple, heavy black framed eyeglasses and wore a ridiculously short dress. I was repulsed by her appearance. She was yelling and screaming about some incident and turned around, threw something on the table and slammed doors as she ran towards the ladies room. Apparently this wasn't the first time. I ran after her and entered the ladies room. She stood in the middle of the room. I was furious with anger--so much so I couldn't speak at times. I reprimanded her about her behavior, terminated her employment and told her to leave. The anger was so real I woke up somewhat shaken. What was that all about? As I ran through the dream over and over again, it seemed it had something to do with my Mom and my conversations with her about her behavior.

I felt somewhat melancholy after thinking about the dreams. And I'm sure the guilt of leaving didn't help too much. After breakfast and a few hours of conversation, I bid farewell to my Aunt, Uncle and Mom. I was leaving to drive to Sam's house. The plan was to return his car and he would drive me to the airport.

I was early so I decided to stop at a Starbuck's near his house to check my emails. As I pulled into the parking lot, I realized I had been to this location before. Several years ago when my marriage was ending, I had met Sam at this Starbuck's to tell him what was going on. I think it may have been around Thanksgiving and it wasn't a particularly happy time for me. Absolutely nothing--work and personal life--was going well. The world seemed gray and drab. I told Sam what was going on and he replied that he had suspected as such. He asked how I was doing and I lied and told him I was fine.

I asked how he was doing and to my surprise he started talking at length about his marriage. Things were not going well and he had thought of divorce. He added that this sentiment may be mutual and even thought there was a possibility of an affair--and he had even contemplated one himself. In the end, both parties remained faithful and they are still together. And while there are still some issues, things, he said to me recently, things are better.

As I sat and started up the computer I recalled the incident. An emotion packed Starbuck's, I thought to myself. And while the nature of our conversation wasn't particularly enlightening, somehow we became closer since that day--more so than ever before. It was one of those key moments that you never forget and can put a finger as a turning point.

As I thought of this I noticed I had an email from Jenn. Apparently she had responded to the email notification from Blogger.

She responded to what was to be my last entry of my previous series. I read her note and was touched by what she wrote. I wrote back to her, tears welling up thanking her and explaining I was closing out the series. The last chapter I wrote was to be the title story. It was time to move ahead into a new series, I wrote her.

I got up to leave. I still felt drained--neither sad nor happy. But I was clear about two things: I couldn't wait to go home to be in the city where she lived.

The second?

It was unlikely I would ever step foot into this Starbuck's again.

The Wonderment of You: Philadelphia

"...but you'll never see the end of the road while you're traveling with me"*

The streets of Philadelphia were in cheer today as the Phillies paraded as World Series champs with the pride of besting the Devil Rays. It's definitely a Philadelphia day. I was musing about this later in the day while on a walk when Springsteen's, "Streets of Philadelphia" started to play on the iPod. It's the only Springsteen song I own as I'm not a huge fan. But somehow this song always resonated with me. It's a haunting song from the movie "Philadelphia". Maybe haunting isn't the right word, but the lyrics are very strong as it recounts in first person, the story of an AIDS patient.

I still recall the movie fairly vividly. Tom Hanks and Denzil Washington were wonderful as they played their roles with such exacting feeling. I felt as though I was just watching two individuals reacting as one might in real life. While the casting of Antonio Banderas as Hanks' lover is debatable as a good choice, his undying love as his partner drifts towards his last days was engagingly written. I suppose you can say they had traveled life together and that's what mattered.

I learned yesterday that Bruce, my boss' mother passed away sometime past midnight on Friday. She was 85, about the same age as my Mom. I've known Bruce now for over 20 years. With the passing of his father a few years ago, this now leaves him alone without any living parents. Given his Mom's age her death probably didn't come as a surprise and while there is tremendous sadness, I'm sure he and his family was prepared. But suppose it had been his wife? There would be no comparison. While he may mourn his loved one's death over time, the loneliness of having to travel through the rest of his life by oneself would be heartbreaking and incomprehensible for me.

I suppose it's human nature to ponder about the end of the road. But truly, if your travels are with someone you hold dear, would you ever see the end of the road? Would there even be one? I'd like to think not.

Two tickets to Philadelphia please.

---

*Neil Finn

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: Two Rivers

“Are you familiar with the recurring debate about Cinderella?” she asked poking around the small crystal bowl containing mixed nuts.

I didn’t know anything about any debate about Cinderella, much less a recurring one.

“No I’m not.” I answered.

“The debate centers around what would have happened if Cinderella’s carriage never arrived to pick her up at the ball before midnight. Without the magic spell, she would be left alone outside the palace gates in her tattered dress with one glass slipper.”

“What do you thing would have happened?”

I had no clue. So I took a shot, “Well, she’d be stranded and the Prince would have eventually run up to her with the other glass slipper. He’d recognize her and viola, end of story and they live happily ever after.”

Actually I liked this version. It eliminated the need for the Prince to run around town to find Cindy, much less come face to face with hundreds of barefooted matrons with bad feet. Besides, I always thought there was something fishy about this story. Would he not recognize her? After all she was a rather striking beauty and he’d already fallen hopelessly in love with her. Why would he have to make sure the slipper fit? It smelled of bourgeois nonsense.

As I finished my response I noticed her studying me with furrowed eyebrows--as if trying to conclude if I were being funny, irreverent, obnoxious, lame, or a combination of all four—with emphasis on the latter two.

After a few seconds, she said, “Well that’s a pretty typical male response, but ok, so here’s the argument: based on what you just said, was the fairy godmother making things too complicated with the whole ‘midnight’ deal? And in doing so, did she introduce unnecessary and reckless risk and obstacles for the two young lovers to consummate their love? You can see how there’s this big division of thought between the traditionalists and the contrarians.”

“Amazing.” I remarked completely astounded.

“You mean because you never thought about the story in this particular way?”

“No, that people would actually bother pondering about something so silly,” I replied.

She selected the lone Brazil nut out of the dish and fished it between her fingers. “I guess you’re right. I made up the whole story just now anyway,” she said she smiled shyly. “It is silly isn’t it? It’s about as silly this whole Brazilian nut thing I have.”

Puzzled I asked, “I thought you sought out Brazil nuts because you favor them over the other nuts.”

“Not especially. While I do like them, I find that I have this inclination toward it as it’s such an unpopular nut. Maybe unconsciously I’m hoping that I’ll meet someone with a similar fondness and it’ll be what he sees special in me. Now that’s really silly isn’t it?” she added. She smiled nervously looking down at her hands, examining the nut.

We’re sitting in the Oak Room having a drink. It’s a midweek evening and the place is fairly quiet. We’re sitting at my favorite table in the far left corner next to the huge windows overlooking Central Park. I’m due to leave New York in two weeks and in the process of bidding farewell to my favorite spots in the City. And I suppose if there were anyplace appropriate to have this evening’s conversation, this would be the place.

“Now you tell me a story,” she bantered.

I told her I didn’t know any stories, nor did I have an affinity for any particular nut. But she was relentless and I finally gave in.

“Have you heard of the tale of two rivers?” I asked.

“During the Age of Enlightenment, there was a Princess who as a young girl befriended the son of a commoner and the two became best of friends and inevitably fell in love.”

“As they lived in a caste society, their backgrounds would never allow for them to be together, but the young man was nevertheless deeply in love with her. Tragically one day the Princess was taken ill with a deadly ailment—one, which there was no known cure. Desperate to save his love, the commoner sought out the wisdom of a sage.

“The young man was told to go where two rivers met and should he find it, it was said that one would be whispered the secrets of the universe. And surely it would contain a cure to save his loved one. It was early September when he set out on his journey and fall was just awakening. The mornings were crisp and bright. The wind was just a bit stronger on the south side of the Sea of Okhotsk. After days of traveling, he found a small stream and followed it until he came to a place where the wind blew lightly amongst the fallen leaves and danced with the bright fall sunlight. As he reveled in the beauty—it felt as if the world was wishing to share with him, all the secrets of the universe. He had arrived. But where was the second river? Looking closely he located the second river but noticed that as close as it came to joining the first, the rivers never quite met.

“Undeterred, he outstretched his arms as he grabbed hold of the two rivers. Muscles tearing to shreds, he pulled the two forceful streams of water as they formed into one gentle flow of nature. As the secrets of the universe unfolded onto him, the Princess stirred, slowing gaining conscious. Arms torn, the young man kneeled to where the light danced and knew instinctively that the only knowledge he needed was his realization of his undying love for her. He felt the wind just a touch stronger. The sky slightly bluer. And the sun brighter and warmer than he had ever felt. As he felt his life slowly leave him, a sense of comfort came across him as he sensed being embraced in the arms of his significant being.”

As I finished the story, I noticed she had stopped fidgeting with the Brazil nut and it was now clutched in her hand.

I asked, “So what do you think of the story? Have you heard it before?”

“No,” she replied. “Was it a childhood story?”

“Actually no,” I replied. “While it’s based on some childhood tales, I just made it up as I was telling the story.”

I suddenly felt self-conscious and foolish. Something had come over me as I started telling the story--it took hold of me and left a feeling of longing over me.

A moment of awkward silence passed and I looked off into the park and remarked, as if it was my turn to admit, “Now that was a pretty silly story.”

“Yes.” she replied, adjusting her gaze from my general direction downward to her hand. She opened her hand revealing in her palm the Brazil nut she had been holding and returned it to the crystal bowl.

“Pretty silly.”

Outside the park light shone downward and in the light wind of the about to turn autumn evening, leaves, dusted with a touch of foliage, danced lightly.


--

The Sea of Okhotsk borders Hokkaido, the northern most island of Japan, Kamchatka and Sakalin both properties of Russia. To the west are the Kuril Islands—56 islands originally settled by the Ainu, the indigenous tribal race of northern Japan. Kuril, which derives from the Ainu [the indigenous tribal race of northern Japan] word for ‘man’ has a surprising amount of foliage on the islands closer to Japan—and the wind, more gentle and warmer in the fall. The Ainu, have long held these islands as sacred land. Central and most important to their pagan tales, is an island where it is said that two ancient streams meet to form a river that empties into the strait. Early fall brings a short cycle of sun bathed haven. The leaves, singed with autumn foliage and the gentle wind are awoken and dance uplifted in a circular fashion intermingling with the light. The Ainu have long claimed that this is the spirit of nature preparing for the long hard winter ahead. There are some however, that maintain it is the spirit of those who have been united with their true love and in merriment, are embracing. Whichever the case may be, both maintain it is a place where nature takes all of her wonderments and confides its secrets to you.

The Trip North

My mind is wandering. It's hard to describe the feeling. I feel as though I'm thinking about a million things while at the same time my mind feels blank. No doubt lack of sleep has something to do with it. I woke up again at 5:30 after maybe four hours of sleep.

I'm sitting at the Burbank airport staring at the CNBC news bookstore. Maybe I should just write something to get my mind elsewhere I think. At least it'll make me concentrate on something.

I'm not particularly looking forward to this trip. It'll be good I know and seeing my uncle and aunt along with my mom would be gratifying. It'll also give me a chance to talk with my mom about her eyes now that it seems there's something more serious than cataracts which is at the cause of her eye problems.

I guess what's lingering on my mind is Grey. While I know she'll be okay, it still pains me to be away knowing to some degree how she's feeling. And I'm sure I'm not making it easy on her by telling her about my feelings towards her. But I'm not sure how to hold back--I have to constantly remind myself to give her the space she needs and not crowd her thoughts needlessly. She knows how I feel and the rest is just time. And most importantly, what's at stake is her health, as that impacts all things surrounding her life right now, and future.

But it became even harder to hold back my feelings about Grey after our conversation about her numerous ailments. As I mentioned to her I was really taken aback. I knew somehow about the seriousness of her many afflictions. I'm not sure how, but maybe it was as simple of listening to her over the course of our conversations and seeing her in the course of the past few years--especially the last months.

As with her I've thought with quite a bit of detail as what this means in terms of a relationship. There will be many limitations--both physically and from the standpoint of even spending time together. Grey mentioned that it may not be fair. While I realize to what she's referring, it's not a matter of fairness to me. For me, being with her is all I want. It's not about the possible limitations we might have in our relationship--but the quality of what we might have being together. If she only knew the effect she has on me. Not just the amorous feelings she evokes but the fact that more so than anybody else I've ever met, she make me want to be a better person--both for her and also for myself.

The boarding call sounds in the background. People are shuffling to ready for their boarding. Writing these thoughts puts my mind at ease. I hope it does for Grey also.

The gates open and I need to join my line. As I stand up I think how I'm about to leave the city where my love resides. I start counting the days when I can see her again.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: Project October Update III

Finished.

Now all that needs to be done is arrange for delivery.

The Return of Fall

Something happened to me last night.

To be precise, over the course from when I fell asleep to when I awoke this morning. something in me had changed. I felt different and also sensed that the world was somehow not the same. I still had ten fingers and toes and the sun still rose as usual [or was about to]. There was stillness, but then again it was the weekend. What changed?

I dragged myself out of bed and was greeted by Haruki. That's right, I had fallen asleep reading his book. Making my way to the kitchen, it was chilly. I noticed that the plant had toppled over because of the wind and as I stepped out to the patio in my bare feet, I was greeted by the crisp wind. B-r-r-r. It occurred to me then that I had slept with the bedroom window closed for the first time in three or four months.

The house was still. This may be the first full weekend I'm home in quite a while. Somehow that thought didn't evoke loneliness, but more of a eagerness to enjoy the company of myself. A time to check in with oneself as some would say. Coffee in hand I was back in my bedroom. I was eager to finish my work, but I also had this desire to write. Again, why the sudden urge in writing? I pulled out some clothes from the closest and elected to wear an old pair of what was once a black pair of jeans which had chosen permanently to stay a grayish shade. I hadn't worn them in maybe eight months. It still fit. Glad some things haven't changed [phew]. I chose a light black cotton GAP sweater shirt, also faded from the few years of washes. Odd--only yesterday I was wearing khaki shorts and a light seersucker shirt.

Light classical solo piano music permeated throughout the house. Music usually reserved for Sunday mornings now seemed appropriate on a busy Saturday or for that matter, anytime.

I thought about Grey and wondered if she had gotten any sleep. I thought about her all night, wanting to be next to her. I suppose in a sense she was as I felt her in my thoughts and in my sleep. The sun is starting to shine through my bedroom window. Not the strong forceful sunlight of a few weeks ago, but more of the clean, white brightness just enough to bath my room with a gentle warmth. I notice my feet are cold and decide to wear socks. When was the last time I wore socks at home?

Could it be?

Of course.

Fall had arrived during the night. Not for a visit this time, but to stay.

Welcome back.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: Project October Update II

A couple of breakthrough days for the project.

I was able to find the media on Thursday which allowed me to finalized the format. It was just there waiting to be discovered. I still have some packaging issues to figure out, but that can come later.

Today was more of production day putting together the elements and deciding on the look and feel. Most of the words are done and just need to decide on how to present the images. I'll still have to play around with it a bit but it's starting to feel good and hopefully it'll come together further tomorrow.

With that sense of accomplishment, I set out tonight to pick up some packaging material. Driving towards the store I felt good. Not sure why, but just good. Better than I've felt in a while. Maybe it's because it's been a while since I've done a project. Maybe. Somehow I knew it was more than just that.

Driving down Moorpark towards Laurel Canyon, I decide to play one of CD's Grey gave me. The green case is for Country she had told me in a matter-of-fact manner as she handed me the CD case. I put in the disc and listened to the first tune. I had no idea who it was but it was nice. A listened to a few more tunes and somehow it sounded perfectly as I drove with the open sunroof, feeling the chill of the October night. It's a nice evening I thought to myself.

While driving, I was somehow reminded of a conversation I had a while ago--actually it had become a recurring conversation over the years. It had to do with the evening of your best day--the title of an album released by Rikki Lee Jones a few years back. The title always intrigued me and she explained it was very meaningful and had something to do with memories of how she spent the evening of the best day of her life. The part I always wondered was so which was the more memorable--the day or the evening? I guess it's intertwined one not being able to happen without the other.

So whenever I think about this, I always try to recall the best day of my life and how I spend that evening. I always have a hard time. I search back into childhood and adulthood and I yes, I did have some memorable days. But did I ever have a best day? I'm not sure. I can't seem to put my finger on it. Or maybe life is just a series of best days regardless of whether it's memorable or not--more to do with the moment? I'm not sure. Thankfully I arrived at the store and I can put a hold on the silly conversation I was having with myself and get on with the shopping.

As I was about to leave the packaging store and visit the bookstore next door, Grey called. She hadn't been feeling well and as we talked it was obvious that she had had a tough day at work. I wished there was something I could do for her and told her so. We talked for a while--me in my car, she in her bedroom. I wish I were able to reach through the phone and hold her. I felt bad not being able to help her. We said our goodbyes and I went back to the bookstore and ended up buying yet another Murakami novel--my eighth I think. It's getting to the point that I have to read the summary and a few pages to make sure I haven't read the book previously.

Driving back I thought about Grey and then about the day. It had been a good day. Maybe even one of those best days. And while I had nothing eventful planned for the evening except reading the book with a glass of wine, nor able to spend the evening with Grey, having her in my thoughts was enough.

Yes, it could very well be the evening of my best day.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: Project October Update I

It's not working. And I'm feeling disappointed.

I had these images in mind and for some reason my archives just weren't cooperating. I toyed with the idea of third-party images, but that just wouldn't be right. I had to use originals. I'm also having problems with the media. I realized that what I had in my wouldn't work in this case and I may have to make it myself--which isn't itself an issue, it's just that it would open up another set of variables to consider--formats, design, materials to name a few.

Things are in a state of flux so I do what's best in this case: instead of thinking about all the variables, start with the basics and start building and focus on the end product. I'm going through the archives and start selecting as many as I think would be appropriate. There's a few but I notice that it's not a perfect fit with the words. Something I hadn't thought through. I'm thinking if this is in the end going to make sense. And of course the images aren't uniform in shape. One more thing I hadn't factored. While frustrated, a voice urges me to keep going and I acquiesce.

I now have a pile of images and they seem like a mish-mash with no coherency. Feeling somewhat defeated I decide to turn to the words and start to focus on editing and formatting. I read and re-read what I have wrote and feel calmer. The voice comes back again reminding me it's the words that matter. I feel much better.

As I start to compose the words with the images it starts working somehow. I notice now that the images are playing a secondary role. Satisfied, I finish my glass of wine and decide to call it a night for the project.

I wonder how Grey's dinner with her mom went and decide to call her. I miss hearing her voice.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: Project October

I've been thinking off and on what to do for Project October.

While on one of my walks a few weeks ago I thought about the event fairly extensive and came to a conclusion that it had to be something meaningful. But what exactly? I recall it being mid-day, hot and a beautiful blue sky overhead. In the distance I saw the Hollywood sign. Odd how I never brought a camera.

Fast forward to this past Tuesday, the seventh of October.

I'm in the Bay Area and the idea starts to gel. Not quite sure how I'm going to do it but the idea seems right and in my mind it seems to work well. Of course, it's always like that isn't it? Ideas and concepts are the easy part, implementation is always the tougher part of the equation--though it's also the fun part.

I'm on the 7:30 pm flight back to Burbank and decide to layout the idea. Fairly simple and straightforward, but realize the layout isn't the key. It's the words. So I decide to start writing the words. I wasn't sure what to base it on so I wrote down what first came into my thoughts. It wasn't anything new--just something I always knew, felt and hoped for. As I wrote down those four words, the rest came flowing. Somewhat satisfied that I had taken the initial step, I put down my pad, closed my eyes and drifted into sleep with lingering thoughts hoping this will work.

Keep your fingers crossed.

Things I think about while I think while walking.

A car whizzes by and I hear, “Bad enough it’s a Porsche. It’s worse when it’s a guy driving a white Porsche convertible!” I’m walking along Lake Hollywood when Grey makes her inimitable observation.

It’s a warm sunny Sunday and Grey has joined me for a walk. It’s the first time we’ve done anything like this together and the change of venue is a nice new way to spend time with her. It’s also the first time I’ve brought anyone here to join me as I normally do my walks alone. Grey looks beautiful in her outfit—the only woman I know who could look so dazzling even when she’s working out.

As we walk down the path we’re talking about things in general when I realize that’s it’s also the first time I’m having a conversation while doing my routine. Normally I’m lost in my own thoughts, or in some type of void listening to music.

Things I think about while I think while walking. What? You say. It a not so good attempt at a play on words from the title of a book I’m reading. A couple of weeks ago I thought about what I think about while doing the hour-long walk. I remember doing this because it was a particularly mind-fleeting day and the book title kept rattling in my mind. It wasn’t as if I were looking for parallels, but for some reason I felt strangely attached to this book and the almost riddle-like title.

I hadn’t walked for a few days as I was away in the Bay Area and just returned. It’s a bright, beautiful afternoon at the reservoir—the sky blue and the course deserted. I’ve been walking around Lake Hollywood most recently now for about three years and it’s amazing how such an area can exist in the middle of Los Angeles and also be devoid of people.

With my iPod turned on I start my walk. I’m feeling pretty good but surprisingly I have a pretty blank mind. I can’t seem to concentrate and it almost feels as my mind is resisting all attempts to formulate any thoughts.

I’ve been walking now for about ten minutes and nothing comes floating through. So that’s when I decide to ask myself the question, ‘what do I think about when I’m walking?’ Usually it’s a smorgasbord of thoughts ranging from work issues, things which happen to be circulating about in my life at that moment, Grey, writing topics and just about everything else. But today, nothing seems to gel.

This was the question, which reminded me of the book I’m reading, Murakami’s “What I talk about when I talk about running.” It’s his memoir about the influence running has had on his life—the marathons, training and of course the intermingling of the sport on his writing pursuits. Of course it’s written in his usual irrelevant style—a style I immediately took familiarity and a strong attraction. It’s an immediacy I felt when I first read Calvino’s ‘If on a winter’s night a Traveler’ and in more recent years, Kleinzahler’s ‘Cutty, Two Rocks’. Leave it up to Murakami to write a book with such a kooky title. And ok, leave it up to me to get fixated on something kooky—this I say to myself as I make my way through the first half-mile.

My first thought drifts towards the past few days I spent with my mom. Nothing eventful, just the usual visit running errands and spending time with her. I did however on this occasion notice that for the last six months or so, whenever I visited her, the conversation at some point always turned to her experience and life during World War II. Usually it was about the hardship, hunger and working at the Toshiba factory and how she returned home after being told that the family home had been burned from the B-52 bombings. But this time, our conversation took a decidedly different turn. We were talking about where we should take my uncle and aunt when they arrived for their visit in late October. Monterey, the wine country and the Mendocino Coast were my suggestions. My mom, while agreeable to such an itinerary, wanted to talk about the possibility of taking a day trip to a nearby Japanese POW camp in Tracy, California. Apparently it was the WWII equivalent of Guantanamo where Japanese POW’s captured in Polynesian were brought to Tracy and interrogated. This expose was apparently on the Japanese television station recently in part to commemorate the anniversary of the Hiroshima/Nagasaki atomic bombings. We talked at length about the bombings and the residual and lingering effects to the survivors and of the resultant gruesome deaths. It was a rather unsettling conversation we were having and I’m sure not the type the other folks eating at the Red Lobster would normally have taken up as part of their dinner conversation. Oddly for us, through our tears and grilled shrimp, it seemed like a necessary conversation. Actually, necessary for my Mom, myself, I was just a listener.

I’m clearing the first mile as while recalling my conversation with Mom. The rest of the Bay Area trip was fairly uneventful. The work part of the trip to Sacramento was similar. My only annoyance was the constant need for reassurance or validation from my senior staff. It seemed that every minor detail of their decision-making process had to be confirmed or ‘passed by me’. I’m not a micro manager and tend to give my staff a lot of latitude. But unfortunately, I’ve recently come to view them as being overly needy and for some reason unable to make any of their own decisions. I can’t recall myself as ever being that way. Sure I’d go to my supervisor on occasion when I needed some guidance, but in general I was essentially self-sufficient. Asking for forgiveness seemed much more productive than asking for permission. I suppose growing up pretty much on my own conditioned me in this way. Indecisiveness makes me crazy—which may seem ironic as I can be indecisive and am oftentimes viewed as being aloof and wishy-washy. But it’s usually for those decisions where I really don’t have much of an opinion one way or another, nor do I see as being critical.

I’m probably at my mid-way point now as I walk hugging the perimeter of the lake below. It’s my first walk since Sunday, which of course is the day I met Grey for dinner. It had almost been a year since I saw her last and I was a bit anxious anticipating the evening. I remember telling myself that a walk would do me good—empty my mind and relax me. Well as it turns out I thought about Grey the entire hour. I couldn’t stop thinking about how she might look—not so much physically, but given her condition and the trying year she had, I wondered if she might really be up for this. At the same time I couldn’t wait to see her. Longed for her was more like it. I was dying to see her beautiful face and smile and experience her laugh once again. Just a few more hours…my pace quickened as these thoughts race through my mind, anticipating my evening with Grey.

A few minutes pass and I start thinking about Murakami again. I recently discovered that he was taking part of the New Yorker Festival. In addition to a lecture, he was also attending a signing. As soon as I read about his participation, I started toying with the idea of flying to New York. Wouldn’t it be fun? A nice October weekend in New York, listening to what he has to say and straddling up to his table for a book signing---joy! I’m playing with this idea as I walk and simultaneously try to come up with an excuse or reason to visit the Corporate office so I can write the trip off. However, I can’t think of any reason and am actually amazed at how things have changed. Only a few years ago there were a myriad of reasons [both real and imagined] to visit the home office. I’ve created a distance from them the last few years and too some degree still harbor feelings of anger over the clashes I had with the Corporate group which led to my departure and return to Los Angeles. Unpleasant thoughts. Forget it. Instead I turned my thoughts back to the book signing and mulling over which book I should have Murakami sign. I’m thinking maybe his latest as it’s fitting that his memoirs are about running and the title is giving me the basis for this entry. Maybe I could slip in an extra minute and anecdotally mention what led to my decision to come for the book signing. We might both have a chuckle—maybe invite him to dinner at the steakhouse he apparently frequents near his hotel. Would his wife care to join us? I always wonder what type of person she might be—I mean you have to wonder about someone who could tolerate such a nut case of a guy. Well I suppose the same could be said about me—more chuckles! Ok, enough with the delusion daydreaming. I decide in the end I’ll bring two books, the latest one and ‘Norwegian Wood’, my favorite and most touching I feel, of all his books. And as quickly as I’ve made my decision, my mind has already embarked on yet another topic.

I’ve been listening to the same iPod collection for about two weeks now and getting pretty tired. Even though it’s on the “shuffle” mode, it seems the titles are in some type of pseudo-random order. ‘Long Cool Woman’ started out the day’s set followed by ‘Yolele’ a South African tune and a few other odds and ends. My pace quickens appropriately with the beat and exponentially when a punched out song like ‘Thrill Me’ plays. A few high school era songs slip through and bring back wisps of faded memories. In between the beads of sweat and the gasps for air I think back to the first time I heard ‘Persephone’ or ‘Ramble On’. Tony’s rendition of ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ plays followed by his ‘My Favorite Things’. His music makes me remember his concert I saw recently. At 85 or so, the guy can still belt out the tunes.

My feet are on autopilot. ‘Hypnotized’ starts to play. How long have I been listening to this song? And is that Peter Green on guitar or was he already gone from the band at this point? I used to know all of those useless factoids at one time. Somehow it was important once. So does that mean what was important to me once and what is important to me now are two completely different things? No. I don’t think so. All I know is that what I think while I’m walking gives me an opportunity to check in with myself. And I suppose that’s why I look forward to spending this hour.

I turn the corner into the last stretch before the path dead ends. I step into the brightly lit passage. My mind is off wandering again, no doubt thinking about things I think about while walking. Off in the distance I hear La Belle Dame Sans Regrets. Funny, I could have sworn my iPod had run out of batteries.

In the arms of your significant being: The Music of Your Life

“I’ve been listening to Country a bit,” Grey informed me the other day. It was an odd choice, I thought, and told her so. She agreed and explained it was a recent discovery and it folded into her as the lyrics were of substance and resonated with her. Though I’m not a country fan myself and have a fairly limited familiarity, I have to agree that it is a much more human music stemming from personal experience and feelings, thereby touching you on a more personal level. And I’m sure given what Grey had gone through in the last year, it was fitting on many levels.

“What are you listening to these days?”

To my recollection my friend Vincent is the only person who ever asks me this question—especially on an ongoing basis. I maybe talk to him two, three times a year, but he makes a point to ask that question every now and then. I’ve known him since we were in third or fourth grade so when we talk there isn’t a lot of pretense. We catch up because we want to, and while we aren’t as close as we once were, we still are very mindful and caring of each other.

I suppose music was always at the core of our friendship—from Hendrix to Young; Weather Report to Tyner, our shared genre’s were always broad and we were always on the search for next aural challenge. Recently he sent me three CD’s—all were songs by the Beatles. The first were “B” sides of rarely heard songs from the mop heads and the other two CDs were Beatles’ songs performed first by a non-Beatle, and then performed by the Beatles—back to back.

When Vincent mentioned that he was going to send me these CDs, I thought, “Why bother?” But after listening to some of the songs, it was amazing to hear the diversity of the non-Beatles’ versions—they ranged from classical renditions to Robin Williams singing ‘Come Together’. My favorite? Sean Connery reciting “In My Life” in prose. While an undeniable favorite, I have a hard time listening to that song as it reminds me of our very good friend Louis that we lost shortly after he graduated from college. Connery’s unmistakable Welsh tenor made each word sink deep into me and moved me uncontrollably. Just writing about it right now brings tears to my eyes.

So in return for those crazy Beatles mix, I sent him four or five CDs I was listening at the time. I can’t remember exactly, which ones, but it included a CD by Eliana Elias and another by Houston Persons. The latter of course was a loaner from Grey, which had a delightful rendition of ‘In A Sentimental Mood’.

I called Vincent a few weeks later to thank him for the CDs. He returned his thanks, and added, “You’re listening to some really grown-up music, aren’t you? That’s good.” It was an odd comment, but for some reason I felt he was acknowledging my state of being at that moment without requiring any explanation. I suppose it’s the kind of thing only old friends can do.

Today, I’m sitting at Starbucks checking up on my emails. I’m in the Bay Area visiting my Mom and as there’s no Internet connection at her house, I’m using the T-Mobile connectivity at Starbucks. I feel guilty doing this, as I usually don’t buy anything while I’m occupying space at their store. Sure I buy an obligatory Americano, but just one—and I frequent the place at least three times when I’m visiting my Mom. Well, it’s supposed to be a social, community kind of place anyways, right?

Anyhow I’m checking my work e-mails, kind of lost in my own world and listening to whatever eclectic mix they’re playing at the coffee house. I’m sitting inside the store and the place is deserted. I’m the only customer [paying and non-paying included] except for a couple seated directly across from me through the window seated in one of the outdoor tables. I glance at them and they seem to be engaged in an intense conversation. I make a mental note of them—she in sunglasses with rather homely features, the guy in a tank top sporting a few tattoos…not the typical Starbucks crowd from around my neighborhood.

About 20 minutes later my ears catch a hold of the song playing in the store—a slow, nice, yet somehow sad sounding song. I’m listening somewhat intently trying to catch the lyrics. Is it a country song, I wonder? Yeah, I think it is. At the same time I notice the couple outside still talking rather intently. But this time I could sense that something had changed. Their facial expressions were strained and I could tell that something had upset them. I knew that at any moment the woman would start to cry. It was obvious and no sooner had I made this determination, tears streamed down her cheeks. I saw the man hold her hands, and raise it to his lips, gently kissing them., his eyes consoling her. It was obvious it wasn’t an argument, but a serious discussion. I felt badly watching them, intruding on their very private moment.

But at the same time, I had this feeling that there was a familiarity in what I was observing. Could it be that in the not too distant past I was the man sitting in that seat? As these thoughts passed, the tattoos disappeared and likewise for the homely features. They were real and what they were experiencing were real. I watched them fleetingly with the music in the background, filling in the melancholy, silent moments. And as quickly as the scene unfolded, it ended. The couple stood up to leave, the music fading into the next song.

I hurriedly went over to the flat screen which displayed the music title and jotted down the artist and song. It was indeed a country song—‘Down Low” song by Teddy Thompson. After jotting down the song title and artist name on a napkin, I reflected a little bit on what had just transpired. The entire experience seemed serendipitous with my recent evening with Grey…the conversation we had and comfort I felt with her and I hope she felt with me. Alone at Starbucks I stared out the window and let my thoughts wander—Elvis Costello now wailing in the background.

What I am listening these days? I think now more then ever I understand what Vincent is truly asking me. The music of my life is an ever-changing collection of the old and new. But just as important, it’s what I’m experiencing now through choices and happenstance. So what am I’m listening to? I’m not sure, but I’m hoping that it might be a discovery of something new, yet familiar and altogether heartwarming. I’m sure I’ll have an answer when he checks in with me next.

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[Postscript]

Imagine my surprise when I Googled Teddy Thompson. He’s not a country singer but a folk/singer songwriter of like, noteworthy parents. And get this, he’s a Brit with ‘Songs from Abbey Road’ being a recent song or album. Odd coincidence but it all seems to fit perfectly, right? But how did I mistake this young man for a Country virtuoso?

Simple.

The particular song I heard was from his album of a couple of years ago—a compilation of classic Country songs. The album name? Upfront and Down Low.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: The Backdrop of My Life

This is a work in progress. Something happened today which made me write. I'm in the Bay Area today having spent the weekend with my Mom. The Olympic weekend. Fascinating in all aspects of seeing a country poise itself once again. But what drew me towards a days' ending is the conflict in Georgia. I'm appalled and thrown into a flurry of tired spiral which makes me wonder--how can we walk in the avenues of lovers being in hand in hand, families reconciling, those struggling reaching and being held in place by those whom love them? This apparently is the background of my life.

I was rather willing to write a rather lofty piece today for you, my gentle reader. But I thought that writing what I felt today was of better significance. It's been a month of odd contrasts--The Olympics, the anniversary of the atomic bombings in Nagasaki and Hiroshima and of course the inpending doom of Georgia--all in the backdrop of the Olmpics.

I'm looking at my notes right now and I'm thinking what made me decide to write today was of one of general happiness. And truly this was a wonderful day. The summer wind blowing through. Warm and gentle...it's the kind of day where the world acknowledges you as being part of life and softly hands you off to your day. So this is also the day where I have a Martini and Oysters on a Half Shell. It's been the first time I've had a dozen Oysters since the time I had 'em at the Oyster Bar at Grand Central. Well I'm digressing here. And there's a few more things I want to add/edit to this post. But something compelled me to write tonight. And you know why?

Gentle reader--you're my world and I love you very, very much.

I wish the day when we're together.

P.

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.