goose bumps in the heart of my life.

ko i shi ra zu
omo e ba
ki mi no
ko ko ro ko so.

na ze na ra ba
itsu mo ya ai fu ka shi
ki mi no ko e

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: Velma

Fifteen minutes and still no sign of Velma. I'm her escort for the evening.

I had come across her in a place in Manhattan two weeks prior. I was alone nursing my second drink at the Campbell Apartment. I was feeling horrible. Just plain tired. I was fiddling with the obligatory bowl of nuts placed in front of me. I reach out for a cashew only to find another finger hunting feverishly in the bowl, as if looking for lost treasure.

“Brazil nuts are my favorite,”.

I look up and see this striking women. Not entirely beautiful, but striking in a sensual, soft way that only an Asian women can be.

“Hi. My name is Velma.”

“And you have this thing for Brazil nuts.” I add.

She smiled and replied something about how she’ll dump a can of mixed nuts upside-down and hunt for Brazil nuts. I told her we’d be a good couple as I detest the stuff but will pick out the almonds and cashews. We both agree that peanut really don't have a place in the nut world. Unless of course it's the really good kind you get from the South...the boiled, crunchy stuff.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: West

I’ll call you right back says West. Now in the beginning I took this literally. Little did I know that this was West’s way of saying, “OK, that’s it for now, bye”. So in the beginning I was always puzzled as I waited for the return call. The call that never materialized. The puzzlement turned into anger then into a mild depression then back into anger again. And so on.

But I came to a realization that this was just the way West was. She was just scattered. And I don’t say that in a mean way. She has a bazillion things going on and always going in ten different directions. I also suppose when you’re that adorable and cute, you also can get away with it.

I recall this one time when we agreed to meet in Sacramento. I’m in Fresno and the idea was for me to drive up in the afternoon in time to get together for the evening. I was never able to confirm, but that’s just how it was with West. I was getting a bit frustrated when I was unable to reach her. Fatigue was setting in as I had gotten up at 3:30 am or so to catch the early flight from LAX. The cell rings and its West. She informs me that she has to drive down to Fresno as there’s something going on. Maybe we can meet there and join her and her “friend”. I inform her that that won’t work as I’m now halfway between Sacramento and Fresno. Maybe a drink somewhere around the Sacramento/Delta turnoff she suggests. Long story short I ask her for a rain check. I fib and tell her I’m probably too tired to be fun company anyway. She softly apologizes. The way only West can.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: Velma

I was Velma's escort to a floral arragement exhibit a the Waldorf. It was a society thing sponsored the Japan Society. She asked me if I would be interested as she knew of my background and interest in Ikebana. It also turns out that similarly to my Mom, Velma's mother was a floral arrangement teacher.

I agree to accompany her as something gives me the feeling that she feels alone and vulnerable. She can be a very softspoken girl who does express her feelings in depth. Another similarity we share in common. I often wonder what she thinks or feels.

We arrive at the Waldorf, she's looking extremely attractive. Very understated but incredibly sensual. She puts her arm through mine and clings slightly. We walk into the hall and am greeted by a swarming crowd of Asians. I'm surprised to see the amount of women clad in Kimonos, most likely wives of the Senior Officials of the Society. One elderly Japanese women greets Velma, comments on how beautiful her arrangement has turned out and praises her. Velma thanks her and they chat a bit. I take this as my cue to wander over to the bar to fetch some drinks. As I walk to the bar, I look into the crowd. The room goes into slow motion as the Kimono ladies slowly cross the room against the austere backdrop of the stunning arrangements.

I catch Velma's glance as I walk back with the drinks. She moves towards me and nestles next to me. A small smile. I brush her forehead with mine. She's embarressed that I did that in a room full of Japanese, but at the same time I sense that she feels safe. Odd how we can feel completely alone in the midst of the crowd.

I once asked Velma some time later why she was alone at the Campbell Apartment when we first met. She told me that she was coaxed by her friend, the hostess. Apparently she had not gone out for a while and didn't want to deal with the annoyances of someone engaging with her but figured if she was tucked away in a corner stool always with earshot of her friend, she'd be sheltered from crowds. Of course it didn't preclude her from meeting me.

I asked her why she was feeling lonely. She mentioned that she had broken off with someone recently and was feeling an emptiness. A few weeks prior, she had met someone through Craigslist. They corressponded a bit and realized that had similar professional backgrounds. It was decided to meet for a casual drink at Eli's in the Upper East Side. It turned out to be a great choice as it was a nice, quiet location. She arrived early and waited for the date to arrive. He arrive a few minutes late, dripping wet from head to toe. He was caught in a sudden rainstorm and was completely soaked as he ran from the 77th Street Subway exit to Eli's at 80th and 3rd. He walked in. Flashed a big smile and a hello, excused himself and disappeared with a couple of bar towels the barkeep handed him as he made the corner into the washroom. He emerged a few minutes later, slightly presentable and his white shirt not quite soaken through.

Velma mentioned that he turned out to be a funny charming man and took a liking to him. She felt comfort in his stories and anecdotes. At one point he drew her close and kissed her lightly. She responded. They lingered for awhile and the kisses became more intense. The small crowd left them alone and in the dimly lit section of the bar they were in their own universe. They left Eli's and made their way back to his place. It had stopped raining and a gorgeous New York evening emerged.

So what happened I asked Velma. Slightly embarressed she mentioned that she spent the night with him and the episode blossomed into a few more nights of romance together. But she added that in the end, it was nothing more than a feeling of wanting to be held. To be in the arms of someone. And she knew it wouldn't be anything more than that.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: Diary

Shortly before I met Velma I started writing down a few notes. Not exactly a diary but more of what I call miscellaneous ramblings. I just wrote what came into my mind at that moment. It seemed to help ease my bout with depression and I enjoyed the calming effect. The writing came in spurts. I sometimes wrote in Japanese, drew when the moment presented itself and also examined events from my childhood. The writings were contained in a small black spiral bound notebook and my last entry was the day I spoke with Sayuri for the first time. It seemed an appropriate time as much of the writings had been about my feelings about West and the highs and lows I was experiencing. Sayuri represented a new beginning and perhaps a significant new chapter.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: West

I had a strong, immediate connection with West. Not only was she beautiful, but engaging, personable and an immediate friend. We met in the conference room and we ended up talking about our entire life in an one hour period. The world stopped for us and went around us. West told me about her father's illness and how that became a life altering event. It took her away from Los Angeles and into a path she hadn't considered. It's ironic now, two years later how she despises the institution which she credits to saving her father's life.

We talked again later that night. This time about my marriage, the breakup and why I find myself alone in Los Angeles. I was attracted to her, but at the same time felt this kinship. It was the rediscovery of a long lost friend. And I think West felt similarly.

West's life story is patchy. I know chunks of certain vertical time periods but not what connects each space in time. She tells me that she's had several long term relationships, which, I didn't doubt for a second. But what puzzeled me was why such a beautiful, eligible creature had never been married. From what she tells me there were countless proposals. Timing never seemed to be right for her. When he was ready, she wasn't. When she was ready to marry, he wasn't. Hard to believe some man would turn her down or even begin to imagine that they weren't ready to take West's hand. But as I have come to know her, there is something about West which put a damper on a relationship: if you were a possessive soul, West would be a problem. West belongs to the world. And the world belongs to her. She's a tireless soul. A caring person who will go beyond for others. And I don't know if a person who only wants to care for her would be enough for her. Although in the end, that is the affection she craves.

West tells me she's searching for the soul mate. How would she know if she met one? She remarked to me once that she had no problems letting him know. She's not afraid to tell hem. I still wonder though if she'll recognize him even when he presents himself. Of course I'm thinking about myself. And no, West hasn't spoken up to me.

What I do know about West is that she will end up with someone out of familiarity or convenience. "I know him. I can anticipate his actions. I know he cares for me." I suppose it's a form of giving in or "dakyo" as it's more appropriately called in Japanese. I hope she feels comfort in this. I'm still battling the idea. Perhaps because I have this fear that if I give in to "dakyo" at this point, my entire past would have meant a meaningless struggle. Although conversely this stubborness may be at the core of my problems. Maybe there is no significant being outside of yourself and your selfishness mares your vision. Is that why in order to clearly see, you have to detach?

I recently heard that West is engaged with that fellow. What happened? Was the blur which made her unable to see come into focus? Or did she give in to "dakyo" so that a sense a being might finally materialize? I'm sure I'll never learn why.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: Pravda

Velma has a small dog named Pravda. It's one of those brown furry pushed in the face kind of dogs. She's told me the name of the breed countless times but I never make an effort to memorize it. He's a cute on though. Big eyes and he looks like he's wearing black boots as the fur around his feet go from brownish to black. I always tell people it's the same dog that was in the movie, "As Good as It Gets."

I also love his name: Pravda. I asked Velma why she chose that name and she told me she heard it mentioned in some Asian movie she rented. There was some comment that it would be a good name for a dog, and she apparently concurred. Made sense to me too.

Pravda was the one thing which brought calm and solace to Velma. He would keep her company at her flower shop all day and watch her tirelessly with those big oversized eyes. I liked him as he wasn't a yapper. I told Velma he was really a big dog that got zapped by one of those "Honey I Shrank the Kids" kind of machines. Velma always wondered where I got my sense of humor. Most people did.

I would sometimes relieve Velma and take Pravda for a walk when she was busy with her store. Pravda wasn't a sissy dog so I didn't mind. I also didn't mind the o-h-h-ing and a-h-h-ing he would get fromm New York's most beautiful women. Velma had a name for this: Stargazing. She told me that it was the same look I got whenever I would stare at my favorite flower, the Stargazer. She explained that I get this intense look with a touch of curiosity--like a boy who couldn't believe that these buds unveil into this unimaginable blossom of beauty. Later in life I will discover my true favorite, the Asian Stargazer. A smaller, more delicate version with a orange and yellow hue. I especially like it as it doesn't produce the overwhelming perfume. Subtle, just like Velma.

In the Arms of Your Significant Being: Sayuri

I had an immediate deep attraction to Sayuri. I had not felt so intensely about another person for quite some time. Well perhaps since West. I met Sayuri quite coincidentally. She answered a post from Craigslist. We chatted a few times and then over the phone. She seemed intelligent and interesting. Books seemed to be our common interest. I was happy to find someone potentially interesting as I was still reeling from my experience with West. I met Sayuri at her house. I was a little taken aback at her appearance. She wasn’t quite as attractive as her photo and she was dressed, well not quite what you would expect on a date. Black tights and Ughs. She seemed friendly enough though.

There is something interesting about Sayuri. She is never what she seems to be. She has a face that changes constantly. Throughout the night I saw her face transcend from a non-descript oval Asian face to a rich, translucent beauty. Every angle made her face transform. Especially in the candlelight, did her beauty become ever so clear. By the end of the night I was taken by her. Her intelligence consumed me. Her openness dumbfounded me. And of course her sensuality completely enveloped me.

We embraced and kissed on the second date. And by the third, we were lovers. She was apprehensive at the pace we were progressive. I didn’t care. If anything I wanted to accelerate our relationship. Sayuri expressed numerous times that she had gotten hurt before when such a whirlwind relationship ensued. Again, I didn’t care. Not care in the sense that I only imagined the perfect world where we were meant to be and that I was embraced my significant love.

The night we made love we had kissed for hours. We caressed each other and hugged and whispered. My hands were hungry to explore her. She introduced me to her small but firm breasts. Her ears, nose, eyes, all of which I kissed. I eagerly found my way to her sanctuary and opened her to me. I was met with a desire and want that I have never felt. Later as I consumed Sayuri I experienced the absence of any neither taste nor scent. It was the closest sensation to perfection. I feel asleep wrapped in the wetness of our desire, in tight embrace.

Sayuri occupied every waking moment of my day. I only wanted to be near and with her. I would hold and kiss her for hours. Alas in the end that wasn’t enough. She had sensed it all along. I had felt it, but deliberately ignored it. We didn’t have too many things in common. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to understand why having common points of view were important. Why? It was overrated, I thought. Again, the stubbornness of my not wanting to see things as they were.

Sadly, as quickly as our romance ignited, our time together came to an abrupt halt. I was hurt. The emptiness that I felt, which I long tried to rid of, made its appearance again.

An attempt at reconciliation was tried and it failed miserably. I did what I could to put Sayuri in the past. I found some solace in the company of others, but it was never the same. I mentioned the episode in some detail to West. She was infuriated at how she perceived Sayuri treated me. There was also a bit of irony. After all, it was my unrequited love for West, which drove me intensely to Sayuri. Little did West know, nor understand this.

It still comforted me to have West console me. But I also defended Sayuri when West went a bit too far. After all I was still in love with Sayuri, as I’m sure I will be for some time.

In the Arms of Your Significant Being: Evenings on First Avenue

Back in Manhattan I had this ritual. On evenings, especially Saturday evenings when I found myself alone, I would hand out at this coffee shop on First Avenue. Now, it wasn’t about drinking coffee. I would usually pour a bottle of wine into a Tupperware container, pack the CD player, headphones and a cigar. And should I not have a cigar, next to the coffee shop was a cigar shop.

I would then buy a large coffee and ask for a double cup. I didn’t care about the coffee as you can guess; it was the extra cup that I was after. I’d empty the wine into the cup and sip away, CD a blast, cigar in hand, people watching.

On particular Saturday was especially memorable. It was a balmy May night. Slight breezy but perfect. The tall trees were lit up and moving gaily with the breeze. It was about 10 o’clock at night, and people were still milling about. That’s what I love best about Manhattan. I’ve finished three-quarters of the wine and feeling no pain. Great cigar and something decent on the CD. Out of nowhere appears this young woman, maybe late 30’s. She sits across from me and with her a large white dog. She’s quite attractive and I wonder, why such an attractive women is alone on a Saturday night. We’re essentially doing the same thing, her and I. Alone, out for a walk, as we’d rather not be inside the house alone. Could she want to share this moment alone or with perhaps someone? As much as I’m enjoying this moment, would it be the same with another person? Would it be possible to open the door and extend an invitation? Would they feel the same joy? And just what are the odds of meeting someone who would look upon this moment and feel the same exuberance? Of course it’s an answer I’ll never find out. As I come out of that reflective moment, I notice that her chair is empty and all I have of her memory is that faint sweet smell of spring. And the gentle breeze

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: Velma

Velma and I were not lovers. We had sex but never made love. And the one time that we had sex, it was forced. And I was the aggressor.

I had had a particularly bad day. Work was unrelenting and Wild was acting up with me. Velma and I had made plans together earlier in the week. We were to meet for drinks at Orsay and then dinner at her place. I was running late that day so I rang her and we decided to skip the drinks.

I made my way to Velma’s place, a cute Co-op in the 60’s between Lexington and Third. It had belonged to her mother and she inherited the place when her mother passed away a few years ago. I was still in a foul mood when I arrived at her place. I had actually thought of canceling but decided that her company might be just what I needed to calm me down. Unfortunately it was the wrong decision. Somehow the conversation turned into why she was never interested in being intimate with me. Sure, we would be close and hug but never as lovers.

I asked her point blank why she didn’t want to have sex with me. She was visibly bothered by the question. She stammered for an answer but it came out lopsided with a rendition of her not thinking of me in that way. I pressed her in what way she did think of me. Again, she was hedging for an answer. In retrospect I should have known that this wasn’t Velma’s thing…to be cornered into reacting in personal and intimate areas. It just wasn’t something she felt comfortable. I knew it. But I pressed on.

Velma finally tried to explain that she was afraid our friendship and closeness would be forever altered if we tried to be lovers. I countered by asking her how she was able to arrive at that conclusion. As she was searching for a response, I stood up and grabbed her. She was startled and she half stood up, at which point I drew her close to me and kissed her aggressively. She hesitated and tried to pull back but responded shortly. I pulled back away from her and looked at her, not knowing what to do next and already regretting what I had done.

Velma looked back at me and without saying anything led me out of the dining room into her bedroom. Still, without a sound, she started to undo her blouse. I didn’t know what to do and sensing this, she started to unbutton me. I started to mumble that we didn’t need to do this, however, she continued with a pause. She led me into bed and asked me to hold her. They were the only words she said for the rest of the night. It was the first and only time we were together. Although we remained close after that night, there was something I lost with Velma that night.

In the Arms of Your Significant Being: Santo Domingo

I think it was on the third day. I was feeling this groove. Something just clicked together as I roam the streets of Old Town. It was as if I had resolved to become a photographer. I had three or four rolls of film, nothing to do and not a care at that point in my life. I was alone. Truly alone. And with a couple of glasses of wine in me, I couldn’t give a shit about anything. If I wanted to “play” photographer, why the fuck not? So I started snapping.

I did have something in mind though. I had an image in my mind so I shot for it. I had the luxury of shooting multiple exposures of a single shot. Looking at things from all angles. No rush. Even the opportunity to go back and reshoot.

As I roamed through the cobblestone streets of the old colonial city, I notice a young boy with balloons. He was consumed with multicolored balloons and the brightness contrasted sharply with the whitewashed walls of the ancient city. I took a few fleeting shots of him. But unsatisfied, I decided to follow him in hopes of that one perfect shot. It was impromptu and felt great. After a dozen shots, I ended up at the plaza and decided to let it go. It was close to sunset and the light was getting just right. The shadows were coming out to play amongst the statues and the cathedral which dominated the the plaza.

I started shooting trying to get the shadows and angles. The iPod was blasting Caruso and I couldn’t have felt better. A sort of emotional orgasm. I noticed a young kid of 15 or 16 pestering me with CD’s. He was just one of the dozen of so vendors hawking meringue music. I keep brushing him away while he busily informed me how good the music was. His intrusion just pissed me off and without thinking I yanked the earphones out and handed it to him motioning to put it in the ear. He got an earful of Russell Watson’s rendition of Caruso. He smiled forcibly, not quite sure what my actions meant or what I was trying to get across. I myself wasn’t sure. But I think it had to do with trying to show him that there’s this other world. A world where I filled the space. My space. I was in it in all by myself. And I wanted neither him nor anybody else to occupy it. Not just right now.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: Sayuri

Two months after we broke up, I met Sayuri for dinner. We had written each other a few notes back and forth and upon my return from Santo Domingo, she wrote that she’d be happy to be there for me if I wanted to talk.

I talked to her about what I felt and experienced in Santo Domingo. The finality and how the entire ordeal was anti-climatic. I actually think Sayuri was surprised that I had actually gone through with it.

We caught up on what had been going through after our last time together. Sayuri mentioned that she had been with someone and it seemed a rather intense relationship. I caught her up on the dating I had done and my current status. I think she rather enjoyed the evening and was actually surprised when she admitted that I was the only individual she kept in touch with [so to speak] with whom she had a relationship. I didn’t ask, but couldn't help wondering what it was that was so special [if indeed that’s what it was] about me. Could it have been the time we spent together? I’m not sure.

Sayuri mentioned that she wasn’t aggressively pursuing a relationship as she had done in the past. She was more for just letting things happen. She was seeking someone with whom she could have a deep connection. I felt sad when she said this. I took it as admittance that she wouldn’t ever have those feelings for me. Perhaps she’s right, but it’s always sad to hear it. It was similar to the subtle hurt West evoked in me from time to time when she spoke of her search for a soul mate.

I value how Sayuri has come to be a part of my life. I think of her often and wish I could spend more time. I also feel sad every time I see her, as it’s a reminder of how she can exist without me being part of her life. Perhaps in the end that’s what she's seeking--to be in the arms of someone whom she could not exist without. And I, as with her, am on the same quest.

In the Arms of Your Significant Being: Mich

I was looking forward to meeting Mich. I had never met her before except through her pictures. And based on her photos she seemed to have that cute, innocent and adorable expression only a Japanese woman can have. As we talked on the phone and exchanged emails, I found her to be serious--much too serious and wondered if we were a fit. She rang me unexpectedly the night before I was planning to leave town. She asked me if I were free that night to meet for five minutes. Five minutes? Odd. But as it turns out the amount of time referenced was meaningless. It was really a question of whether we could meet. We met at a place I frequented--a quiet, nice comfortable place where you could talk without being bothered.

Coincidentally I met Mich at the valet parking. I could only catch a glimpse of her behind the wheel. I walked around her car and waited anxiously for her to disembark. As she got out of her car, she turn around slowly. My heart sank. She wasn’t what I expected. Where was the girl in the photo? The serious, sensitive girl? Instead, what I saw was a slightly raunchy and seemingly unsophisticated woman. I wasn’t thrilled and was actually displeased.

Nevertheless, I escorted her into the restaurant and we sat and started to converse. I still had mixed feelings but I managed to keep the conversation going. As it turned out she had a sad tale about her first marriage. I realized that underneath the bumpkin façade was a hard working woman who put others in front of her wishes and dreams. The outcome of her story was tragic and I saw tears well up as she unfolded her tale.

It seems her husband was a fishing and diving expert who dreamed of brokering sea urchins wholesale to the Japanese marketplace. Mich was a perfect fit as outside of their love and marriage, her background proved essential to the growth of their business. The entrepreneurial couple soon found a partner and saw opportunities to push their business on a large scale. Unfortunately expansion also meant that Mich and her husband would apart from one another for great lengths of time--her in Los Angeles, him in Santa Barbara. Plans for children would have to be put on hold as the partnership grew the business. The endeavor grew in tandem with the thriving Japanese economy--but conversely, impacted the business when the bubble burst. To make a long story short, the business partner, who had significant real estate investments, saw his net worth tank and did what numerous Japanese did during the post bubble era--he committed suicide. In this case, he hung himself. I could only see the pain and hurt in Mich’s eyes as she recounted the story. What hardship she and her husband must’ve experienced. The stigma. The guilt. And in the end, a resultant divorce.

I felt sorry for her and for some reason I felt as she had lost a part of her vivacious self forever having gone through the ordeal. I wondered if a part of her might have died forever and whether she was capable of ever being the way she was when she arrived into this country 15 years ago: eyes wide open and a bright-sized life ahead of her.

Single. Straight. Sagittarius.

Happened to come across my own home page on the MySpace blog site and noticed my profile proudly announcing that I was Single, Straight and Sagittarius. Sounds more like a headline. Actually similar to one of my all time favorite from a college copywriting class: Cool. Comfy. Cardin. A headline from a retail shoe ad hawking a pair of Pierre Cardin loafers.

Somehow, "Single. Straight. Sagittarius." doesn't paint a pretty picture. Sure it's accurate as I am single. straight and yes, born within a time span which places me in some astrological domain. But it doesn't quite cut it as a headline.

I also remember from that same copywriting class an assignment where you had to write a headline for an ad about yourself. It was one of those deceivingly simple assignments where it sounds like a piece of cake, but actually much tougher to actually do. I struggled and in the end plagerised the headline from Jerry Della Femina's signature ad biz book. The layout was a large photo of my sickly self with the headline, "From the folks who gave you Pearl Harbor."

It actually was a hit with the Prof...wasn't sure if he knew it was a deliberate rip-off or not, but he gave me a decent grade.

So why is it that it's so hard to look at yourself? Is single, straight and sagittarius the best I can do?

If you ask me, I'd rather be that cool, comfy pair of Cardin loafers.

The God of Serendipity

Do coincidences really exist?

Or do we just string together disparate incidents and occurrences and weave them into something which we can draw some meaning? Maybe we just subconciously search for items and acknowledge the occurences as concidences to rationalize to ourselves that some force is at work. Perhaps the God of Serendipity?

I'm not sure. But I will say that regardless of whether it was just a series of coincidences or whether I was unconciously directing myself, such a day happened on Thursday. It was as if the entire day was pointing to her. Someone who's no longer in my life, but within a 24 hour period, traces of her being was everywhere. It's as if she had just been there--her presence lingering--as if to say,"You just missed me."

It all started with a dream. Three dreams to be exact. In tandem. One after another. Each revolving around a strong feeling. Joy. Anger and Sorrow. And as the day progressed, it became signs of her became pronouced. I would walk into a store and I immediately in front of me would be an item which I associated with her. Not just one. But in abundance. Piled high as if to be sure I wouldn't miss it. In the bookstore it was as if the books called upon to me to retrieve them from the shelves. Much like singling out kernels from your memories. And if I by chance I obliged, I would open to a section which would contain her favorite author, passage or an unmistakenly significant rememberance.

Nevertheless, whether I was forcing these occurances, or whether all these items were merely just concidences, in the end it left me with a strong sense of elation, as if the memories were enveloping me in my journey ahead.

Creativity and Inspiration

I had an entire week of lackluster motivation. It what I call my period. The time of the month. When the muse is away. I know it's part of my process. Procrastination. Trying to my juices up. Battery charged. All while suffering the blues. But that's not what this post is about. It's more about, "so what snaps you out?" Numerous people have written about this. I recall Mike Wallace or Morley Schaffer{sp} talking about what he endures to deal with his depression. Again---"what snaps you out?" Well the key for me is tied into inspiration which leads to creativity.

I saw something which snapped me out of it. A mirror. Well actually not a mirror, but what I saw acted as a mirror. I saw myself. And what I saw wasn't an exactly a pretty picture. But after taking a second, I realized I saw myself. It was enough to snap me out of the funk. It's amazing how when you get at the deepest point, the snap pushes the pendulum on the upswing. A reverse Wu Wei, if you will. I'm also realizing the importance of routines. There is a specific rhythm I follow. And when I follow that rhythm, I tend to minimize the ups and lows. It balances to something tolerable. A flattening of the bell curve, so to speak. Only the difference in this case is that it's best to move the curve out to the third standard deviation. Why? As in reverse logic, you don't want your emphasis within one deviation. The bell curve becomes too steep, and you're putting yourself into a heck of a climb. As Joe Sasaki would say, "the better the high, the worse the low." I suppose that's what you get when you have addictive qualities.

The Porn King

When I was a kid, I had a buddy name Bobby. He and I were pretty good friends. Hung out together and got in trouble together. I’ve lost touch with him over the years but heard from him out of the blue yesterday. He called me to say that he’d become the Porn King.

One day when we were 16, Bobby and I were hanging out in his room. We were flipping through Penthouse magazines and talking about how we would take on this girl or that girl and other assorted remarks hormoned 16 year olds make. Suddently Bobby gets up and starts to comment about how the photo is artistically striking and the detail of the layout...the angle, the softness of the lens and how the photographer is truely capturing the essence of sexuality. He says he could do this. Only better. He can turn nudity into pure artistic expression. "It's not exploitation," he proclaimed, referring to the accusations hurled by the feminist groups of that era, "It's's art." Bobby maintained that he could go beyond Guccione and push porn into a pure art form. “I can be the King of Porn," he declared.

I’m not following this at all. All I know is I have a “woody” the size of Manhattan, and my buddy’s gone soft in the head. Excessive masturbating will do that to you I tell him. He grabs his Polaroid and tells me he’ll show me what he means. “Pose," he directs.

“What?”

“Pose, you asshole, I’ll show you what I mean”

To pacify him, I lay back and strike an exaggerated pose. He doesn't click the shutter and instead makes some lewd comments about what a waste of film it would be or something to that effect.

After that day, Bobby starts snapping. Pictures. Lots of pictures. He took pictures of girls extensively. He couldn’t get them to pose nude obviously so he settled for just rolls and rolls of girls striking a pose. Some of them were actually pretty good. Sexy even. Like the ones in fashion magazines.

Bobby was pretty serious about this. He pursued photography in college and apparently started hanging out with some noteworthy professionals in the fashion photography world. Not quite the roadmap to become a “Porn King”, but not a bad start for a photography career.

One day he's asked to do a freelance job for some news magazine. Apparently it involves some horrendous murder scene and victim photos and does a great job. So good he gets an offer to join the journalist on a few other assignments. After a few years, he’s a pretty sought after photojournalist. His trademark is his ability to capture and communicate the intensity of the moment. His fashion photography days are over. I saw him once during those days and asked him about the “Porn King” pursuit. We have a good laugh about it.

Years go by and I hear from him from time to time. He's doing well and I see his bylines in the news magazines. He talks passionately about journalism and the need to expose the true story and all that other stuff people in his trade lavish endlessly about. It was during one of those times that we somehow got onto the subject of the Vietnam War and one particularly vivid childhood memory.

We were probably eight years old and living in Japan at the time. Our fathers were in Government Service and our parents used to take us to the Officer’s Club at a large Army Hospital base called Kishine. We’d see the Officers there having a great time as if nothing was going on in the world. However, it was quite a different scene at the movie theatre across the street. There, we saw and sat among the casualties of war. Most of the guys were in their early twenties and hospital patients who were mobile enough to make it to the theatre. They were in wheel chairs or in crutches and all bandaged up. It was a ghastly site.

It was about that time when a particular issue of “MAD MAGAZINE” featured a 10 or 12 page pictorial about the Vietnam War. One particular photo was forever burnt in our memory. The photo showed heaps and heaps of corpses--similar to a scene from the movie, “The Killing Fields.” Under the photo was the caption, “War Is Hell.” It’s something we didn't expect from a comic book. It was beyond satire and it was the God’s honest truth. It still stirs a deep emotional feeling in me to this day.

So here we are in our mid-Thirties talking about this. Bobby’s pretty emotional as he explains to me how he tries to tell the “story” with his photography and how he has to “push” sometimes to get to the truth for the audience. I admired his passion and was proud for what he believed in.

It’s about ten years later. I get a call from Bobby. He’s very sullen and tells me how he’s in deep shit. How he’s done something beyond what he ever thought he would do. Seems he was after a fairly large story in the Middle East. It’s the summer of 2003 and the war between the United States and Iraq is still going on. The big search for Saddam Hussein is being reported nightly. Apparently Bobby’s crew is after some big story about the oppression that was rampant during Hussein’s regime. I’m still not clear about what happened but in the middle of reporting this story, Bobby just broke down. I guess he suffered some type of breakdown. It was a combination of fatigue, stress and seeing human suffering day in and day out. I guess it just fell apart for him one day when he gathered a group of teenage girls who lived in a village which suffered horrendous retribution from Hussein’s fleeing army which accused them of being pro-American. Needless to say, reports of rape and execution were a major part of the story.

Bobby was on the phone rambling aimlessly about how his team sought this opportunity to make a centerpiece story. They prodded and cajoled the kids to talk about what happened in detail, took extensive footage of the corpses, the family and close ups of the townsfolk.

Bobby’s commented how they were so engrossed in making this their Pulitzer piece, they forgot about the actual suffering experienced by the villagers. “You know, they weren’t even crying or sobbing. They were just plain numb. You could have told them to do anything. It only hit us when we were doing the editing. Here they were, positioned perfectly in the shot. The reportage was right on. We built the emotion into the story and it was just absolutely impacting. But you know what? We forgot all about the emotions of the victim. It was all about us trying to score with the story. You know, exploiting the circumstances. Here I am back in the US and they're still there. I started to think about about those young solders in Camp Kishine and all the residual effects of the Vietnam War we saw when we were kids. It’s still happening. Only now, I'm the one who’s taking advantage of the situation. I suppose, I’ve become, in some way, the King of Porn.

Mona, Queen of San Fernando

I’m curious. Well, not of just one or anything in particular, but of things in general. I’m curious as to why jets fly. I mean I kinda understand, but really I don’t. I’m curious about yeast. How does it really work? And how did someone really discover or understand how live cultured yeast will make your bread fluffy and light?

I’m also curious about women. What are they and how do they work? I mean they just defy logic and any sane reasonable explanation. Oh, in case you’re wondering what specifically I’m referring to about lacking a reasonable explanation? Everything. Let’s start from there first.

I understand dogs, but not cats. I’m curious as to why you can’t take cats out for a walk. Do we really know for a fact that they don’t enjoy a good walk? I mean tigers, lions, leopards and cheetahs roam around. Why not the household cat? Why is it that we are so sure that the only animal in the world that enjoys a stroll is a dog? Well, I take it back. Humans also enjoy walks. They only difference is we don’t have to curb Humans. Well for the most part.

Which brings us up to a story of someone I know. Ok you probably figured there was a story here somewhere. Let’s call her Mona. Mona…the Queen of San Fernando.

I met Mona over a dozen years ago. I say “more than a dozen” as I’m not sure when you’ll be reading this. Anyway, that’s got nothing to do with the story. Mona had a problem with the bathroom. For some reason, she couldn’t bear herself to use one. No, it’s not what you’re thinking; she wasn’t raised in the wild. She had a problem with using a public restroom as she thought it was just a filthy, germ-infested shithole (no pun intended) for the most part. And in general she was right. So she would go out of her way to use a public restroom. There were exceptions. Institutions, which would logically have sanitary facilities—such as hotels, nice restaurants and others, which fit in this category, were exceptions. It was the gas stations, the fast food joints and others of questionable hygiene, which were out of the question.

There were times when we were meandering about town when she would announce that she would have to go home, as she needed to use the bathroom. Not a problem when you’re only a couple of miles from home. But 10 to 15 miles? Enroute to an outing? Fascinating.

So going back to the curbing humans. There has been a few times…ok, more than a “few” times as it’s in the double digit realm now…where I’ve had to pull over in a secluded street or alley so she could, well, consummate her need. You know, pee.

Out in the open. In the raw. Back to nature. Commando. Yep, pull down the panties and let ‘er rip, kind of situation. Why there was that one time where we were on an incline where the car was tipped towards the driver’s side and as Mona was launching her version of Niagara Falls, I slowly witnessed the gradual formation of tributaries gushing out from under my car out into the wild open avenue.

Now, I have to say that I have never experienced her need to go number two (you know the “big” need) in an alley. This I think would be very interesting and would open a new set of questions to whet my appetite of curiosity. One of which would be, just who would be responsible for curbing Mona?

The Stargazer and Pravda

Weary from the night's drinking, Tadanobu woke up
startled. The director, you see, had proceeded to
negotiate the interview. "We had always wished to work
together, Tadanobu, Miieke and myself."
"We kept running into each other at these festivals,"
he explained in that nasal Thai twang, " And we always
said we should do a film together." He contemplates,
"You see people like us don't care if the work is good
or not, the script meaningful or not. We just want to
work together."
So what is the significance of the Stargazer, I ask.
"It's his signature" responds Miike. "Something about
his past. A girl. A wife. A mother. Not sure. Besides.
If he's not telling, why ask?"
So what about the writer I ask.
"Him? Well, his mother's a famous journalist. Father a
Dutch producer. I suppose it's an inside joke naming
him Pravada...well, actually, Pravda. The truth."
He adds, "If you ask me, it's a great name for a dog."

Are You Going With Me

I felt inspired to write. It started as I was watching the previews in the movie theatre. There was a bit of dialogue from the movie "Crash" which rang true with me. A comment about Los Angeles...something about how in any other city of millions of people, say New York, you bump, rub and brush against people. But in Los Angeles--a city of 12 million--you hardly if ever brush against another person. This longing for human contact, the movie hypothesizes--the pushing, shoving, the navigating around the waddling tourists--is experienced through cars, perhaps through crashing into one another. A rather impacting statement.

As I'm thinking about this, I drive through the empty Sunday streets of Los Angeles. There's patches of traffic within the vicinity of the malls and popular hang outs, but once past, the streets are empty. Wilshire. As well as La Cienega. These are just some of the streets that I love. Similar to when I used to criss cross through the Sunday streets of New York, there is a familiarity between the two cities. Almost identical. And in both cases, it's an experience I've never really shared with another person. It seems to be a part of me meant only for me.

While driving I happen to play a CD that included a track from Metheny's Off Ramp album, "Are You Going With Me". I was about to skip the track but decided otherwise. For some reason it felt right for today. Listening to the melancholy but striking melody brought memories of my days in Cleveland--which is another long forgotten chapter in itself. I recall listening to that song over and over with drink in hand in that apartment. Sixteen stories high. Feelings which I had buried somewhere faraway emerged quietly as I mused how 20 years later my life had somehow reverted as I roamed the empty streets of Los Angeles. I suddenly had this intense desire to crash.