A College Campus Without Eyes....

A college campus without eyes is a photo and audio essay that explores the lives of those whose personal experiences with the blind community can open the eyes of sighted students. Blindness is often associated with a walking cane, or a seeing-eye dog, however it isn’t often one will trip across a blind college student reviewing a calculus book sans brail. However in the 21^st century, technology is enabling the physically handicap to compete head-to-head with their peer set.

Because this was such a fascinating topic that deserved further investigation, a second group focused on a more documentary-type version to learn more. However, I chose to use this photo essay as an opportunity to ask the provocative questions about how it feels to be blind in a sighted community. My personal philosophy is that a documentary provides more factual insight and less wiggle room for interpretation, so can easily convey objective data. What I’ve learned through watching many photo essays, is they are truly a medium that can capture the depth and essence of emotion, emotion drawn out from experiences, facial expressions, and how long a viewer has to rest his or her eyes on a photograph.

While news writing is an incredibly difficult endeavor, the art of capturing emotion in a conversation, translating that to photography, editing sentences and minutes into digestible sound bites is a tenuous, but rewarding process. Clipping the sound, adding the photos, then choosing music to emphasize the combination of words and photos, and finally choose the transitional details that would bring life to my photo essay was a journey I hope to take again and again.

The three people who offered to speak with me about life as a blind person on a college campus, or someone on a college campus whose career has been focused with students whose disabilities included Michele McCandless, the Director of Disability Services Program, Dave Thomas, an Academic Counselor for the Learning Effectiveness Program, and Jesse Workman, who is a PhD candidate for the Theology/Philosophy program at Iliff School of Theology. Michele McCandless, who you’ll meet in this video expressed her frustration with the typical student body who “parts like the red sea” when navigating their way around a blind person. She also discusses college programs that try to simulate the challenges a blind person faces by blindfolding students or putting cotton balls in their ears fails miserably to help students connect with their peers. She unapologetically explains that students only feel more negatively saying, “Thank God I don’t have disabilities, or else I’d kill myself.”

The hour I spent with Dave Thomas was special primarily because of his gentle and calming demeanor, but also because he spoke openly about his life as a blind man. Dave lost his vision when he was 20 years-old. Before then, he was just like the rest of us. He tells us about his life, love for his job and his seeing eye-dog, Hatchet.

Jesse Workman, a candidate for the PhD Theology/Philosophy program at llif was born blind and has lived inside the academic world for more than several decades. He candidly tells me about what it feels like to be different and how even though he cannot see people staring at him, the awkwardness he intuits is just as painful.

All in all, the interviews for this article did in fact dive into the technological growth of tools and learning aids for the hearing and seeing impaired, however during our talks occasionally someone revealed a stark truth, imploring a stereotypic or touching a topic many feel so uncomfortable to investigate, my photo and audio essay needed to expose those hidden moments.

It is my belief that before someone can appreciate a technology, or read a fact-based article full of statistics and first-hand accounts of how technology or a service or even a nonprofit is bettering the lives of those affected, one must see and experience the struggles of a person actually involved in those efforts. Through this photo essay my goal is to put you in the place of a blind person, a blind student whose goal is to graduate just like you, but must do so without seeing a thing.

WAKE UP AMERICA: Newt Gingrich? SERIOUSLY?

Last time I checked Jesus wasn’t an advocate of infidelity?

Warning: The following contains curse words, unadulterated opinions, and direct insults to the majority of the male species. So if you will be offended by any of the above, I recommend you stop reading now.

It is snowing outside this window and the traffic passes slowly. Two men are bantering about the presidential primaries. Their vernacular doesn’t suck, they have a general understanding of top issues, but it’s disconcerting how they sound like forty-something puppets, narrating what TV editorialists said on television last night. One of them is rambling about Newt Gingrich and his amazing qualifications for presidency. I agree, the resume reads well, the problem is that it is rotting with narcissism, rampant infidelity and oh right, hypocritical faith-based excuses.

I felt the need to inject my opinion, “Excuse me… just thought I’d let you know that he had an affair with two of his former wives. “ The guy responds, “That stuff is in the past, he is the only candidate who can beat Obama.”

My response, “Dude, it’s January and skeletons are climbing out of Newt’s closet in full force. I can’t fathom how much money is thrown to dangerous mouths… and eventually the blackmail cash will run out and the really fishy, creepy secrets will be exposed and I guarantee, Republicans won’t stand a chance. A man capable of that is capable of more. Oh and, his third wife? The aerosol from her bleached helmet is probably a health hazard. Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt you guys.” I smiled sweetly and put back on my headphones.

They sat pensively. Are Americans, the literate, innovative country that all other countries aspire to be no longer capable of thinking about moral? Are we so decisive that professional and personal ethics share no common ground at all? So I put my school assignment away for a minute to begin this tirade, this questionnaire to anyone who can offer a solution? We operate in this beautiful, territorial, glorified commercialized bubble, where our international sparkle comes from celebrities and how entertained other countries are by our politician circus acts. There are lions, tigers and bears, and Newt Gingrich. It appears that those who are the people who should run this country, take a stake in our future, are smart enough not to involve themselves in such shenanigans.

Writing is comprised of several elements. Unless you’re disseminating information and reconfiguring it for an essay, anything worth reading generally requires emotion, perspective and a taste of the raw truth. So here we go.

For the last year I’ve devoured the “spiritual” and “learning to live happily” section of Barnes & Noble, I’m madly smitten and post-magazine have returned to a life of academic normalcy. I was recently treated at Mayo Clinic, and experienced a litany of other life-altering experiences, all of which challenged me to be grateful for my blessed life. I’m an official Jesus-lover. However, I’m scribing this quasi-negative diatribe not as a whimpering citizen, but rather as a self-respecting female who is desperate to encourage women to rethink their votes, their men and our consumption of culture. My goal is to indict the idiocies of Newt Gingrich. (Let me mention a few more: Clinton, Kennedy, Eliot, Edwards, McCain, Hart, Roosevelt, Schwarzenegger, Trump, Woods, oh the list goes on and on.)

Who does this man think he is? Well, a typical, American-prescribed presidential candidate/celebrity/athlete. He makes Mormon, ethical, financer Romney look like a virgin, assaulting Romney’s “so-so” leadership with voracious grin, entertained by his own insults. However, has Romney snubbed Gingrich’s pious extra-marital affairs, No. Why? He isn’t a douche bag. Gingrich cheated on his first wife, who was enduring chemotherapy, and the second with whom he requested an open relationship. Nice. And sure, he whimpered a half-ass apology to his evangelical continuants, but come on? The Lord is forgiving, he promises us forgiveness, and while it isn’t the right of democrats, Christians, or Americans to judge Newt on his betrayal, the big guy can take on that way… Newt hasn’t hit the golden gates’ verdict, so in the meantime, might it be prudent to say sorry to the ex-wives, the children, and the public who were indirectly screwed as a byproduct of his screwing?

Newt Gingrich is eating caucuses alive and the crowds of South Carolina and Iowa slurp down his saccharine, grotesque speeches like ice cream. So these populations, who in great masses pontificate their evangelical morals to the rest of the sinning world, I have to scream from the Rocky Mountaintops, “hypocrites”. Last time I checked Jesus was not an advocate of infidelity. As a Christian, as a most-of-the-time Republican, I urge you, I beg you to not vote for the lesser of two evils, but eradicate evil all together.

Give me a single reason why we are supposed to respect the international diplomacy of a man who doesn’t have enough respect for his children and his wife to keep his pants zipped. Apologies for my blunt and rather curse descriptions of the realities haunting our country, but maybe for the first time in the history of the world, we as American women (who make up 51% of people) can put a stop to the disturbing, growing epidemic. I get that testosterone = smarts, or whatever biological excuse there is, but what happened to sheer maturity and self-discipline?

There has been the long-held adage “boys will be boys,” and forgive me for my feministic tendencies, but check your watch: Women in the media, women at home, WOMEN EVERYWHERE please start treating the genre of cheating men as what they are, little boys incapable of keeping a simple vow, “thou shall not cheat”? And I get it, this isn’t a new trend, for centuries women have dealt with men, submissively forgiven, or ignored adulterous affairs. These men, some politicians, others business tycoons, or popular athletes, are stripping women of years of life, women sacrifice earning power, hours and hours of their twenties and thirties and forties nurturing healthy, happy children; children only to be tarnished by the gaffe of their daddies. Talk about a ROI.

Most say that cheating was worse in the 1950s. This is not a fallacy; mistresses have been rampant since BC. The difference is that these affairs weren’t plastered on the front of magazines, web pages, and dominating dinner talk, where children are present and incredibly vulnerable. Sure, Marilyn Monroe and playboy had their place in society, but strip clubs have grown by the dozens, movies revel in topless scenes, and pornography can be located on my cell phone. WAKE UP AMERICA: women are choosing to spend more in breast augmentation than health insurance. Women, both teens to fifties suffer from more eating disorders than ever-in history. In 2010 nearly a third of all babies were born to single moms. Even if men were hiding mistresses in hotel rooms, mistresses now come out with fake body parts and embrace the role of wife, round two! I’m not stating opinions; these are facts. Decide what you want to make of this reality, but how fair is it to toddlers to witness their fathers cheat on Mommy with a bunch of prostitutes. However, this has become the new norm.

My solution: If all smart, self-respecting women could stand up to the inappropriate power-riddled men and leave them, pack their bags and kiss the past goodbye, it could help generations of women to come, and then maybe men would have a reality check. And if the male species were abandoned by smart chicks and stuck with dumb chicks who relish being treated like doormats, and walk around on stilettos excited to be physical objects, maybe they'll think twice. It confuses me how women who marry cheating men don't understand wearing that ring might as well be a hand grenade tied to their futures. A note to the women who pride themselves on being the third wife; your new man will probably die in thirty years and then you’ll passed up the opportunity to have a family, albeit step-kids. Sorry to shirk the courtesies, I don’t care enough to acknowledge women who cheat children out of families. IF we can do this as a gender, then maybe we, as a nation who prides ourselves on equality, on rights, on gauging a women’s worth far more than the functionality of her ovaries, can have a revolution. The Old Testament, Afghanistan has polygamy, with the number of affairs men have these days, America might as well be knocking on that disgusting door.

Women have been burning bras, fighting against dozens of men in the workplace; we’ve battled for voting rights, for the right to open our own checking accounts. Etc. And just to add to the icky paradigm are the recent books upon books written about generation X men, the MBA guys who are sprinting from the word matrimony; they still have one foot in fraternity-life and the other is exploiting bachelorhood. They figure they’ll settle down with a woman ten years younger, in ten or so years. SO we have a bunch of awesome women now stuck with population of thirty-something little boys, and childbearing years might as well be a ticking time bomb. Why? Women surrender so much for our children, for our children’s children, so where is the fight for HONEST relationships? Why have we allowed, hell, endorsed strip clubs, pornography, open marriages, and leaders with proof of extramarital affairs? Where does it start and how does it end. How can we restore the hope that our children can one day experience a respectable marriage, when people like Newt Gingrich can run for office?

Why you should write something too.

Writing is nothing more than tossing experiences onto a page, with the solitary hope that those words will help one person feel a little bit more understood. I urge you to toss vulnerability to the wind and share your days with the world. I promise, they will not fall on deaf ears.


It is still dark outside. Surgery was scheduled for early that morning. We were told that surgery could last from three to twelve hours. I stare at the hands on the clock hanging above the sink. Next to the sink are different types of tubes and red see-through toxic containers.

The door opens. The surgeon is tall with an understanding gaze and a calm demeanor. He walks into the small room, he presses the hand sanitizer on the wall with the dexterity only years of practice can produce. Last week he was wearing dress pants and a white jacket; today he is wearing blue scrubs head to toe. Several nurses and a fellow follow with clipboards, there are in scrubs and clogs as well. One of the nurses hands me two small white pills and a cup of water. I relish the cold. The small waiting room is getting smaller. My parents and Andrew sit in the chairs across from me. I sit cross-legged in sweatpants waiting until they hand me the forbidden hospital gown.

He shakes hands with all of them. And then he pats my back before sitting on the classic swivel chair and says, “You all get enough sleep last night?”

We respond, “yes” in unison. He then asks if we have any last questions. We had four appointments and numerous emails and telephone calls with him in the last seven days. The biopsy was nineteen days ago. The diagnosis was seventeen days ago. The MRI was thirteen days ago. We flew to Mayo for the first time eight days ago. There were the catscans, more MRIs, blood work, and PET scans. There were no more questions.

His hands are large. I imagine him with knitting needles, or mending a button. I’m curious if that is a prerequisite before he could start sewing on humans. I look down to my chest and imagine that it will never look the same again.

The thoughts are cloudy. They’re not coherent. The medications were moving through my blood stream. The nurses usher my parents and Andrew away. My Dad stands up first and kisses the top of my head. And then Andrew lightly kisses my forehead. They walk out together. I know they’ll find the chilly waiting room and read the WSJ on their ipads. I watch my mom hesitate. She bends down, so we are level with each other. She holds my chin softly and looks into eyes in the same way I imagine she has since the day I was born. She says, “Sweet Angel, I promise this will be over soon. I love you so much.”

I hear the door click behind them. The nurses help me into the thin hospital gown, the kind that opened in the front. They reach to cover my naked feet in ugly socks with white rubber soles on the bottom. I’m led into the clean sterile room, which doesn’t register as the operating room.

I vaguely remember the nurses tucking my braids behind my head and laying the white chair back, pulling the gown down and across my shoulder. I remember the chill of having my breast exposed, the texture of the cold washcloth gently rinsing off the area. Then there was the sting of needles, which broke the pain into seconds and then into hours.

The bright lights and voices had long since faded, when I felt intense pressure on my chest. Deep in my conscious I knew that the incisions were being made.

The first segment of the surgery lasted two hours. The first round was to remove the tumor. And then they would take it to the pathologist, they would stain the slides, they would “bread loaf” the cells, the hope would be he would return to the waiting room with good news.

Two hours later, he explained to my parents and to Andrew that they the results were still positive. He would need to remove more.

He cut deep into the muscle. Physically detaching the roots of the tumor, which had begun to wrap around my clavicle. The cells were stained and sent back to the lab. It took another two hours.

It was early afternoon by then. The nurse was slowly putting a straw in my mouth. The juice drenched my thirst. My head throbbed. I waited falling in and out of darkness.

It is all fuzzy. I hear the surgeon talking, he sounds so far away, “Auna. Auna can you hear me?”

I mumble through the ice melting on my tongue. I’m not sure I can hear him.

“Auna, the margins tested clear of cancer. It's over now. It’s time to sew you up.“

It’s foggy. They’re explaining why I need to stay awake. Then I feel needles, pain is searing through consciousness, and suddenly I’m sobbing. He is giving directions to the nurses, “the local is wearing off, we need to wash the wound and set the internal antibiotics.”

He says softly, “This might hurt a little bit, but we’re going to do our best to keep you comfortable.”

My body doesn’t want to move, the needles enter my body, I know the syringes are going deep. My body convulses in pain. These thoughts aren’t registering on the surface, but deep in my subconscious, what they’re doing, I envision them sewing my muscle together, the innocent muscle, the skin that did no wrong. I fall asleep again, but the pain doesn’t end. It stings.

An hour later… A female voice is in the room. I know it isn’t one of the nurses. She is talking to me. I want to see her, but I'm caught in the dark. Then I hear my Dad talking, and then I hear Andrew, he is asking someone when I will wake up.

Then my mom’s voice feels closer; I can sense her, “Honey?”

The light bleeds into the dark room. I squint. I expect a sunny room, but the windows are dark, dusk had since left us, and the room was lit with the cool tones of ambient medical lights. I try to sit up, but I hear my own scream before I can register my pain. It shoots through my chest, I am afraid to look down.

There is gauze. There is tape and white taped from my breast up to my neck. I cannot see anything. I don’t want to see anything.

We all sit in silence for a while. We’re not in a rush anymore. There is no hurry to see a doctor. To find specialists. There are no more scary Google searches. No more biopsies. They’re waiting for me to say something.

“It’s gone.”

Décolletagé

At 3:10pm I was a healthy, carefree 26-year-old. And around 4:10pm I wasn’t.

One week ago…
“Do you see lines, or at least that one line? Can’t we Botox that?” I lift my chin and point to my throat and say with excitement!
“The imaginary lines, right?” She laughs. “You’re not getting old, I promise.”

The large mirror is reflecting a woman with green eyes staring out from a thick, white, gooey facial mask. Ahem, me. I’ve seen the same eyes behind various masks for the last ten years, but the woman hiding underneath has changed drastically. From where I call home, to where I work, to my beau, to my weight, to my friendships, and even to my goals and desires. I love how even when our ages chance numbers, our noses and ears grow, our skin sags and smile lines frame our face, our eyes stay the same.

Tanisha has been the skin-care solution, a savior to every woman’s blemish or sunburn in my family. I began visiting her warm office that always smells of sweet citrus when I was thirteen and teenage acne was galvanizing my face. Pre-emptive was my motivator. Tanning beds were for quitters. I was determined to be the hot and sexy chica, well forever. I was frustrated because I spotted some freckles under my clavicle bone and sunspots on a twenty-something were gross. I was a fan of micro-derm… eye crèmes, latisse.

She places cool cucumber slices over my eyes. She asks, “So what are you doing for Christmas?”

“We’re actually going to the Caribbean. Maybe go scuba diving; my family hasn’t done a vacation in years. I’m excited for the ocean breeze and dolphin watching. I’m headed to go swimsuit shopping tomorrow.” I said with a grin.

I was counting down the days until we could abandon reality as the five of us and disappear into the British Islands. It had been a hell of a few years and I was ready to laugh and play monopoly with my mom, dad, little brother and sister. Adulthood hasn’t turned into strangers, but communication now consisted of phone calls and organized dinners. I missed wholesome spontaneity of the nuclear family.

Last week my biggest problems included finding a swimsuit and finishing a term paper. And I thought my life was over when I noticed a solitary crinkle above my nose. This week I’m trying to find specialists at Mayo. And I’d give anything for a few wrinkles.

Now….
It’s 7:41pm in Denver. It’s 9:41pm in New York. I’m in the first row of a plane and we’re flying somewhere over Kansas, but the clouds block any signs of life below. I know there are Moms and Dads, young couples, friends pushing shopping carts through the grocery store picking out that special Turkey. There are kids doing homework, dogs being brushed, people falling in love. However the signs of life inside of the airplane are prevalent and very loud. There is a woman knitting a blanket with the red yarn with silver threads woven in. There is a woman feeding twin babies, switching breasts every thirty or so minutes. A man eating some sort of chicken salad. And Andrew is sitting next to me engrossed in his Travel & Leisure. And I sit here with my headphones keeping me company, trying to figure out how to describe the event that unfolded a few hours ago.

After we got the phone call on Friday I walked into his office armed with optimism. In theory I relished the image of me smiling and beaming, embracing the idea of surgery. I’d be a rock star. But once I felt the cold chill and heard the hum of the air conditioners, and then saw the man in a white jacket holding a clipboard, the image of me being a badass disappeared.
I’m shivering. Why do doctors always keep their offices so freaking chilly? I guess it’s a more conducive environment to misery. There is no possible chance of feeling cozy on metal chairs with plastic cushions.

Andrew then turned to me and kissed my nose softly, “You know I’m not going anywhere, right?”
“I hope you’re not going anywhere.” I say quietly.

The surgeon walks back into the room handing us several sheets of papers, they’re typed with complicated terms and directions. There are orders and names of specialists. Titles under the specialists include “limb preservation”. His white jacket giving him the feeling of authority, I’m safer when he is near me. I always feel safer in churches and hospitals.

He turns to me and then turns to Andrew and then turns back to me, “This isn’t something that is an emergency, but let’s get this taken care of in the next week or two.” He says sincerely.

“So it’s like a really bad cyst?” I say. Trying to better understand what’s going on.
“No, actually this is a tumor.” He says.
“But it’s benign, right?”
“I don’t want to call it that. These quickly can become malignant, so I think it’s best to operate sooner rather than later. The specialists can better answer that specific question.”

Andrew interjects my lame questions with, “Can you explain the surgery to us?” he asks.

I squirm.

“Do you see the biopsy area?” He lightly touches the bandage under my clavicle, where there are ugly black stitches and gauze. It’s difficult to miss.

“We’ll remove the skin around that entire area and then we’ll cut out the tissue up until the fascia, and then we’ll scrape the fascia for any remaining cells. And then we’ll also cut a 3-5cenimeter margin around the affected area.”

“And then will they put her skin back on that area?” He asks.
I’m silently pleading for the conversation to stop. I need a break. I need a soda. I need a week. “Actually, no. It is important that her skin is permanently removed in that area; that’s why we’ll do skin-graphing.”
“What skin will you use?” He asks.
The surgeon pats his own thigh. “The donor skin will come from her leg.”
“And then that is sewn into the area?”
“Precisely. And we’ll actually sew in a protective layer for two weeks while we wait to see if the body accepts the graph. The patch will be around 4x4 inches in total and then there will be about a ¼ indention. And obviously there will be discoloration.”

I pipe up, “Isn’t there a way that they can do a filler or something to even the skin out?”

He looks at me with gentle eyes, “I’m afraid not. The skin will be very thin and fragile area and they’ll need to be paying very close attention to the area to make sure the tumor doesn’t come back.”

Andrew interrupts, clearly not concerned with the aesthetic issues, “What will be the time in the hospital, the recovery, etc…”

Their voices become fuzzy and I’m caught in a hazy realization that what they’re talking about isn’t skin, it’s her skin, and her is me. This isn’t just a conversation. They’re talking about a procedure. And there isn’t an option. I like my choices. It’s one of the reasons I dig being American.

I walked into this office several weeks ago with a bump on my chest. It’s a bump that a million doctors have always said, “it’s a fluid-filled cyst. It’s nothing to worry about.” Every single dermatologist, family practice, nurse said, “leave it alone.”

But whenever I put lotion on and felt the raised area I would shudder. I didn’t like it. So I visited a plastic surgeon, “Do you see this bump?”
“Yes.”
“I want it out. I know that it isn’t necessary and insurance won’t cover it, but I think it’s just, I just want it out.”
“It’s going to leave a very visible scar. Are you okay with that?”

I went home and slept on it. I figured a scar was worth the peace of mind. I called the next morning to schedule the appointment. When I arrived at the office several days ago to get prickled with local and a few milliliters lighter, the surgeon said, “I think it’s a good idea for us to send this to a pathologist, just in case.”

“Sure.” His suggestion didn’t even register.

He started off by numbing my chest with reassuring comments about how it would only take a few minutes. But fifteen or twenty minutes into the procedure his eyes were incredibly focused, and his voice wasn’t one of reassurance, in fact he was silent until he asked his nurse to, “We are actually taking two samples. Can you label the second sample? And then let’s sew her up.”

The word sample is when I realized this wasn’t a stubborn pore, or scar tissue.
“Okay Auna, well this is much larger than I suspected, however we got enough of a biopsy for the pathologist.”

And then on Friday night we were packing for Vail and received a phone call that the made the insomnia come back. It made the stupid stuff in life more stupid.

They both turned to me. What am I supposed to say? It’s requiring every iota of effort to keep the dam in place, to prevent the landslide of tears that will submerge my mascara if I’m not careful.

So I fake the biggest, toothiest smile I can muster, “Sounds great. Thank you for all this information. I will start making these phone calls right away.”

Their expressions are startled. But they don’t understand why I need out. I need fresh air. The cold office that smells of sterile gloves and iv’s are all too familiar. I’ve been here before. I had staph infection that nearly stole my life and my leg five years ago. I got it. I was an expert in things not normal.

I feel shallow now. When a woman is standing in line at Nordstrom and there is something weird or wrong with her face or neck, I notice. Who doesn’t? We’re all used to seeing the norm and so when something atypical arrives it takes a few seconds to adjust, to calculate; to observe.

I used to feel bad for myself because I had a massive dent in my hip, but now I’d take a dent in the other hip than an indention in my chest. It will be ugly and it won’t go away, or get better. This is one of those forever things. I don’t want to be ugly; I don’t want to be abnormal. I want to be pretty when I dress up and get fancy. I don’t want to be the one girl who people can’t figure out what’s wrong with her chest.

But the second thing is more… there is a tumor growing next to my heart. It sits under my skin, slowly snaking around the muscle tissue, creeping near my arms and my throat. It’s foreign, it’s uninvited and yet, it stays. I don’t know how or why this tumor found residence in my chest, but for some reason it did. I want to run away from it, I want it to disappear, but tumors don’t work like that. They get comfortable, they’re bossy, they’re insensitive; they cause pain and anguish and scar people’s lives.

And I guess I’m no exception.

I’m supposed to be enjoying a week with my boyfriend’s family. Tomorrow I’m supposed to be spending the night in Manhattan catching up with my dearest friends. And now, we’re trying to schedule an MRI over Thanksgiving. I can kiss the Caribbean goodbye, no working out, golf, skiing, etc.. For a while.

And so final question is… I so desperately want to be the optimistic person shielding shallow fears with a grateful attitude, but I can’t shake it. The bible says that God hands us troubles because he loves us. In so many ways, I have to agree. Usually our success stories impress others, we leverage ourselves farther in the great ladder of life, but success doesn’t teach us to love ourselves, it’s survival that puts up that test.

It’s when we have no choice, but to endure. And then I get grateful. It could be so much worse, I could be so much sicker, less fortunate, without insurance and so on… So maybe this will give me a different reason to look in the mirror and smile, not because my eyes are green or I can’t find any lines, but because there will be a reminder that I endured.

Green, Green Grass

You know it’s going to be an awesome night when your surgeon leaves his cell phone number on your voice mail.

It’s hard to call yourself a writer, if you don’t write anymore. At some point, I’ve sold myself to magazine articles and then to term papers. Somewhere in the process I’ve forgotten about creative grammar, spelling errors so ridiculous they can only be made past 3am, and the words spilled across the pages solely for the purpose of being said. Pure writing is for the soul, however antiquated and cliché it sounds.

It’s late. My significant other is slumbering in the room over. Ambien seems to be broken and my mind is on fire. This white couch is comfortable, cozy, it has years of stories, naps, kisses, long conversations huddled over apple spice decaffeinated tea. The periwinkle and silk blanket covering me was a gift several Christmas’ ago. My tortoise shell glasses perch on my nose, and fingertips glide over the keyboard as effortlessly as a classical pianist finds her notes.

Thank GOD for plastic surgeons. This scar won’t be too bad. I’m stubborn as hell and so insist on local anesthetic. All those stories of patients who wakeup mid-surgery make me shudder. I don’t want to be interviewed by the Channel 9 guy on with a microphone shoved in my face, “So, what type of conversations did you over hear? Did you feel anything? Did you have an out-of-body-experience?”

I say no to all of the above. So instead I voluntarily clench every muscle as he injects the painful poison past my epidermal layer. To numb me. He leans over so closely the scent of altoid fumes fill my nostrils. I assume his hands are cold, but the skin on my chest is anesthetized, so I’m not sure. I insist upon bringing my iPod with me. Everywhere. Dentist included. Jim Brickman strikes his final thunderous cords and the harmonious meditation soundtrack is about to quench my nerves and send me into a relaxed state of mind. I’m undergoing a minor surgery to get a cyst removed from my chest. I know, gross. Usually when you trip across my blog I’ll feed you stories about dating or democrats, but today is a happy story about feeling positive when shit hits the fan. Or not. I was told the results from the pathologist would be back by Tuesday or Wednesday.

It’s Friday night. I’m not sad or angry. In fact, the Christian and optimist in me is thrilled! Yay! But, the realist in me and the aesthetic fashionista who likes her scoop neck tees is scowling in the corner. Andrew and I are supposed to be in Vail with our friends right now. We’re supposed to be hitting the man-made snow-slopes in several hours. However due to the lovely phone call we received several hours ago, our plans have been rerouted to the couch and pizza boxes and we’re staying in tonight. I’m jealous that my friends aren’t enduring this. The grass, or I guess the snow on the other side of i-70 always seems a bit more beautiful.

Message from Said Doctor: “Auna, Hi. I just received the results and had a long (emphasize long) conversation with the pathologist, well. I want to talk to you. So the good news is that it isn’t malignant, but I have some other news. So the other news (clarifying there is more news) is that the cyst has the potential to become malignant. (I’m praying he can stop using the M-word). We need to take the rest out, as you know I was not able to do before. (I’m now staring at the huge patchwork piece of Frankenstein skin on my chest from two days ago.) Which is a more invasive surgery and will probably require skin graphing. (Yay!) I want to get you in on Monday so we can begin calling specialists. Here is my cell phone. (He repeats the number.) I’ll be available all night.”

Click.

My first reaction is to jump on the “wah wah wah” bus. News is funny, ironic, whatever. Here I was, expecting to hear option A: “Benign” B: “Malignant”… but instead I got option A with some additional insight. Nobody said, “Auna, you should get this cyst removed.” In fact, every single doctor has said, “Watch it. See if it grows.” But something deep inside my psyche told me to get it out. And that’s when I learned the power of trusting oneself. Which freaks me out even more. Western medicine, my arse…

Reaction B: I turn to my boyfriend, who not only threw me a surprise birthday party at a country western concert, he engulfs food I attempt to prepare, and also has told me I look beautiful at 2am with eyeliner spewing from my tear ducts, and a runny nose… and I cry, “You will love me with a dent in my chest, right?”

He responds, “Of course. I would love you if you had three eyes.”

I'm lucky to have such a romantic. I’ll go into the doctor on Monday and then I’ll go one step at a time. I cannot go any faster. I’m a bit bummed about not going scuba-diving over vacation, but I’m also not starving in Africa, so I’m sure I can get over it. Scars are the reliable reminders that you’re durable. Scars are the souvenirs of life. They’re like photographs and stories you can tuck in your back pocket, so if you’re bummed, alone, frustrated, you have proof there you’ve survived hardship, and you can do it again.

Life is great. And while it took a little (big) pep-talk to remind myself of the obvious; I have the most amazing, healthy and supportive family and friends and lover. (He loves it when I call him that.) Albeit the warm and fuzzy stuff just mentioned, I’d be a liar to say there isn’t something unsettling about the phone call I received earlier tonight. I guess it boils down to making peace without having to make peace about something. I'm aware that sleep is a distant activity far, far away, so I thought I’d do what I do best; type about myself.

I intend to write more. I’ll be raunchier, risqué, whatever you want next time. But in the meantime, I wish something for you.

I wish for you blue skies, true love, a long life and the kind of grass that only grows greener with time.

The Climb

4:27:01
My body is sucking lactic acid like it’s water. It’s scorching and muggy, late August afternoon. The tendons, the muscles are screaming out in agony. I’m thirsty, I’m angry; I’m out of shape. My right foot pushes the pedal; my left knee pulls the pedal. They work in unison. They hate each other. My back, which is drenched in sweat stretches over the gears. I ascend. My ass hurts. I refuse to be defeated.

I dramatize the situation, I say to myself, “Auna, If you were to die at the end of this battle wouldn’t you have wanted to enjoy yourself.”

My response to myself is, “Bugger off.”

4:28:54
The salty liquid is pouring from every pore. I taste the bitterness. The numbers won’t change. I breathe. They don’t change. I beg and plead with God.

4:29:21
They are moving slowly. I try to motivate myself, “Enjoy the moment Auna. Love the moment. Love it. Embrace the pain. Use it as fuel. Fuel damnit. The carbs I enjoyed last night, along with that red wine don’t seem to want to be fuel.” So instead I turn the music louder. I turn to Britney. Help Britney. Give me rhythm. Make me love torture, loosely coined for cardio.

4:29:52
The red seconds flirt with my lungs. Britney encourages me from my iPod and every ounce of purpose in me envisions a sexy pair of jeans. My jeans. On me.

My mantra: “Me in jeans.” “Me in jeans”

I choke. Then gasp.

4:30:00.

The end. It’s over. My heart rate slowly dips into the 150s. I growl, I pant, I gulp. I glance at the woman on the elliptical glider next to me; she is lazily reading a magazine. I judge.… “Why bother if you don’t exhaust your heart rate. I see my own magazine thrown to the floor and reconsider. She is probably nice and not in the mood for self-mutilation today. The man behind me is wearing too short of shorts. He is checking out the woman reading the magazine. He is bench-pressing 280.” I forget that I’m miserable and my heart is pounding too loudly for my rib cage and I’m embarrassing myself.

My clock reveals 4:30:43

How did forty-three seconds just pass? I only glanced around the room.

The cool down goes so fast. I’m not hurting; I’m not begging the clock to change. There is no personal friction: Me against time. I’m instead just going, rolling, and being part of the clock that dictates our lives. It’s different when you’re not watching it end.

4:31:11

Where do the seconds go?

They, those philosopher types say that youth is wasted on the young. And as my birthday is quickly approaching I don’t happen to disagree with them. The more we have, the less it means? Does the more time equate to the more, value we can create? Not the material kind, but rather the intellectual, the experiential, the beautiful memories that require depth and certitude; the relationships that are delicately woven together through years and seasons and holidays and sadness. The adventures where strangers rescue you, and you in turn find yourself. I sound esoteric; work with me. Can we ever find enough time to have fun? To pound our chest like Tarzan and throw worry to the wind?

If there is one characteristic I would permenty remove from my plethora of characteristics (you know my whole balance sheet theory) it’d be pride. Well pride + stubborn = waste of time.

How could we prevent ourselves from wasting the precious moments that eat up our nights, the days in which we can never return? The Chinese food gone gross, and the compliments gone unheard. The conversations left in the closet, and the text messages waiting as drafts on phones lost in a cab somewhere in New York City. (Clearly I’m speaking in first person.) We operate in a microcosm where we’re so tightly knit, so closely connected and moving so fast. We jet around in small cars, communicate via internet and fly to the other ends of the earth and help starving infants as means to “get away” from our gluttonous, American lives.

Why is that? Should we change? Should we adopt Vegan characteristics and roam with the animal herds before we outsource more innovation to India and China? Not to sound like a Debbie Downer, but when I think of time I often wonder, is time relative. Or rather are we too busy accepting time, ignoring the moments and finally too lazy to fight the calendar. What if we pushed time – worked so hard and sweated so much that every second counted for something, assigned to a success, donated to a cause. Each second would become a building block; hours became the info structure of our lives. And the late nights turned into dawns, and the sleepy Sundays so relished, become the strength that ultimately defines us? Let us not be afraid to live our lives with passion and hunger.

And then, maybe, we can understand the importance of fighting time. We have already mastered the art of maximizing oxygen every time we inhale, especially when standing in a rose garden.

Now our job is to linger as long as possible, to make the scent last forever. It isn't that we must remember every moment; it’s only to remember not to waste it.

The Pillow

“You’re going to wake up the girls.” I squeal.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t be so loud.” His fingers tickle me relentlessly.
Ducking under his arms, I point to the other side of the room, “Hannah? Sweetie. I’m sorry. Did we wake you up?”
He turns toward the staircase.
The penalty of arousing slumbering toddlers would be more bedtime stories, and they preferred that he narrate the fairy princess voice. And by his terrified expression I’d guess he’d rather be playing footsie on the couch then playing babysitters’ assistant.
But nobody was standing there.
“Oh, no you didn’t.” He grinned, reaching for my waist.
“Oh yes, I just did.” I say mischievously. Standing up from the couch I kiss the top of his curly brown hair.
“Hey, come back here. I thought we were watching a movie.”
“We are. I’m just grabbing some water. Do you want some orange juice.”?
“No, I’d prefer some of those lips.”
“Oh don’t you worry… they’ll be right back.”
The kitchen was dark and as I reach for the light switch I hear the click of the front door, “Hey babe. I’m running out to my car I’ll be back in a flash.”

The room lit up a large photo of the family. The two girls are wearing matching dresses and sitting on the laps of the beautiful mother and father. I had babysat them for years; the poster family for the American dream. Which made me wonder where would I live in ten years? Would I be married, would I have kids? Would I even live in Colorado?
Getting comfortable on the couch, he walks back into the living room Instead of sitting next to me, he pulls a large bag from behind his back. “Do you want a surprise?”
“Umm. Yes.” I say, surprised.
Pulling out tissue paper I feel an unfamiliar fabric. I pull out a bright pink pillow. It was so soft, the type you take on an airplane. “I thought since you’d be traveling to Boston a lot to visit me that you might need something to help you sleep on the airplane.”
His eyes searched my face to find any reaction.
“It’s wonderful.” I swoon.
“Oh good. Oh here I forgot the card.” He added.

Goosebumps crawl up my arm as I read the sweetest words, “Falling in love with you has been amazing.”
I set the card on the coffee table and stare into his chocolate eyes, wishing tonight would never end. “I love you too.”

It’s a sweaty July afternoon and I’m trying to locate sunscreen. I cannot stop sneezing because of the dust. Ripping tape off the random cardboard box, I hope to find sweaters and avoid spiders, but my fingers brush against an all-too familiar fabric. I don’t have to see the color to know exactly the texture, to taste this exact memory. That was the first night anyone ever told me they loved me. And while it felt so many centuries, cities, so many relationships ago, however much has changed since that night, perfect moments are never far from reach.

It was one of those things I’d forgotten about entirely. It was still in pretty decent condition.
“Hey Auna, here is the Boston goodwill bag.” My friend said. We were both hot from hours cleaning out the storage unit.
“Yep, one more thing.”

It had been eight years since that Valentines and now as an adult madly in love with the man who wasn’t my first love, but knew would be my last. The one now would be next to me in the family portraits, I had no need for this anymore, so I hugged the weathered pillow to my chest and closed my eyes for just a second, and then added it to the clothes and shoes and random knick knacks headed to the homeless shelter. Hopefully someone could enjoy the pink heart shaped pillow just as I had once.

Hello Beautiful...

“When you have big eyes, you shouldn’t roll them so much.” He says.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because it makes people feel stupid. You make me feel dumb Auna.”

“How am I supposed to respond to that? Thanks for the advice?” I laugh.

“You’re welcome.” He smirks.

“I wasn’t actually thanking you; it was hypothetical gratitude.”

“One day when you’re talking to an important person with a low IQ, you’ll thank me.” His dark eyes sparkle with wisdom, or so he thinks.

He leans over the bar, “So beautiful, tell me about this new man. Are you happy?” He is genuinely curious. He has this way of calling women beautiful so platonically, it’s as innocent as a grandmother complimenting your prom dress, but yet, not ingenuous in the slightest.

“I don’t know Raj. It’s sort of an odd sensation, a tingling all over when I see his number light up on my phone. I can’t quite explain.”

“Odd, eh? Like heroine or more like herpes?” He retorts.

“Like neither. Get your head out of the gutter.” I try to smack his arm.

“But why…. It belongs there.” His vowels slowly drool over consonants, his voice sing-songy in a masculine way.

“Like butterflies. Like lemonade on a hot summer day. Wholesome. It’s effortless. You should try nice on for size. It might fit. Are you still dating, that woman?” I pry.

“Of course not.” He pauses, and then continues. “Okay, maybe. But back to you. Whatcha been writing doll face?”

He knew my soft spot… my favorite topic, and he was an avid reader of my articles and blog, but I couldn’t veer of course, “She isn’t healthy for you. Is she still pushing for more?”

“Oh boy is she. Screw her research on stem cells she is the new expert on diamonds. She even took up fly-fishing. Can’t she hold out the baby talk for awhile?” He whines.

“How old is she? I ask, pushing his buttons.

He counts on his fingers like a kindergartner, then stares at his feet in shame, “She turned 33 a few weeks ago.”

“Well, duh. Her clock is ticking and is only getting louder. Dude, if you don’t want to be in this, then gets out.” I say.

“What’s so wrong with playing it by ear.” He answers honestly, visibly exhausted in his batman sweatshirt.

“Playing it by ear doesn’t have ovaries.”

“Ha. You’re a funny one.” He says.

“I’m serious Raj, you should consider ending it. If not for her sake, then for his own.”

“It just sucks, the whole alone thing,” He says in complete vulnerability.

“I know, but it’s better than staying miserable.” I reply.

He face reverts from sullen to excited instantaneously, “So, I want to meet this nice man of yours.”

I know at this point he already knows his answer in regards to his love life. It just took some courage, and I could tell right now he couldn’t find any.

So I talked about some cool articles and my big authorial dreams, because for the last three years we’ve been friends, I’ve learned that he cares. He is one of the few who actually give a damn. Maybe it’s the Gemini in him, maybe it’s the way he was born. So I give him permission to change the subject so he can listen to the details of my budding relationship, my woes around work and pretty much anything else I felt the need to share with my loyal, free therapist. Our interactions always ended with, “You know I love you, right?”

And I’d respond, “Yeah dude, love you too.”

And that was that.

A brilliant investment banker from New York, he wears flip-flops in December. He has two pet cats and randomly inserts quotes from Shakespeare or statistics from the Economist into elevator conversation.

Eccentric, they all are.

April 17.

Slung over various limbs I’m balancing three bags, they’re overstuffed with clothes, shoes, books, a bottle of vino and lord knows what else. I’ve reached floor 25 and cursing whatever reason the buildings electricity went out. The stairwells are empty and the echo of my heavy breathing is reminding me I need to visit the gym. My guess is that this is a screwed up fire drill and all 600 residents must be in Vail or the Rockies’ game.

And I’m so irritated because for the first time, in a long time, I was actually going to be on time to dinner. I’m notoriously late. And now karma had her plan and insisted I trek down 28 floors. Grrr.

When I’ve finally pushed open the last door on the ground floor I’m greeted with dozens of worried faces. John, the guy who works our front desk is breathing through oxygen tubes and firefighters with intense black masks are whispering things of gasses being found in an apartment. John finding a dead body. I’ve entered the twilight zone and unfortunately I don’t really have enough minutes to figure it out. Running out to 16th street there are cameras from TV stations and orange cones blocking off the corners, my car is in the middle of all the drama. My only option is find a cab two blocks over. Sweating through my cute top and running mascara, I book it to 17th.



It was Tuesday and quite possibly already one of the worst days of my existence. My life at the magazine had reached its end. It was a shocker. And I was trying to identify my new existence; a student, a writer. Who knows? Climbing into my car, late to a birthday dinner, I run into a dear friend from the building. Sitting on the bench waiting I tell her how much I adore her jacket. Then she sits down next to me for no apparent reason.

“Isn’t it sad.” She says.
“Yeah, totally sad.” I glance at my watch, not in the mood to recount our building’s newest drama.
“My boyfriend is really upset. We saw him earlier that day and were going to meet up for beers.” She has tears in her eyes.
“What are you talking about?”
“You know who it was, right?” Surprised I’m so nonchalant.
“No, who?” I figured it was one of the older workaholics, who commuted and gave up their families, one of the people I’d never met. So it didn’t really affect me.
“It was Raj.”

Silence. Then face fell into my hands.
“What? No.”

“Yes, they found him that afternoon. He was such a troubled soul.”

“What?” I repeat.

“Yeah, we’re all really bummed.”

I started crying. Raj had sat up on my leather couch so many nights, complimenting my orchids, toasting Pellegrino; we explored the innards of our lives; our decisions, our futures. I knew he was depressed and I often asked him about it. He would shush me and say he was fine.

I weep and through my tears tell her, “I saw him on Friday and I was on the elliptical glider. I brushed him off. I was busy. Then he emailed me to hang out. Oh my god he emailed me, and I never responded.”

“An email wasn’t going to save him. There’s nothing you could have done.” She says.

“I know an email wasn’t going to save him, but maybe I’d get another beer or another talk, or a hug or something. I’d get a few more minutes of him. Now there’s nothing.” Then it wasn’t just silent tears, I was sobbing.

“It’s going to be okay.” She comforted me, I know she meant well, but each of us had a special relationship with Raj. During my darkest hours he always picked up the phone. I could knock on his door at 2am, an insomniac like me, he never yawned at my bailiwick, he’d give advice, and he’d tell me stories of his childhood and his family back home.

I started missing him Tuesday night, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop.

People always say that suicide is selfish. Religiously, I want to agree. But something deep inside holds me back from being angry. Sure, there is that plea I could tried to save him.

But, life isn’t simple. And while it sounds crazy, death is very simple. A person just leaves. Everyone loved being his friend, but at the end I don’t know if he had any. He mastered the art of loving people, because maybe for some reason he never felt loved. I’m convinced wherever he is, he knows love now; he is hanging out up there watching out for the rest of us.

He wanted out, someplace new… a mood antidepressants won’t fix, a place where planes can’t fly.

He wanted out and so he left us. I wish I could hug him again and at least say goodbye.

The Intangible Asset: Hollywood

The Intangible Asset: Hollywood

While the world is running to our movie stars, they’re running away from our financial systems. What gives?

“Inside Job” narrated by Matt Damon was a film I saw several weeks ago at an Arts theatre on Broadway. I found it surprising that Matt Damon would take the time and energy to create and produce a documentary, abundant with facts and interviews exposing the Wall Street crash in 2008 and its global implications, but more so a documentary with such a political bias.

He marketed the film on the Internet and through interviews by claiming it as a “historical documentary” which truly broadcasts the global financial crisis… But never infers there is an obvious political agenda woven throughout the film’s seemingly benign credentials. The first scene is a beautiful landscape of Iceland, where simplicity equates to happiness and those who habituate the small country take pride in the culture and work ethic. Then, the capitalistic conglomerate banks appear on the scene and financial chaos ignites. But before the rabid bankers hungry for unrealistic returns, the audience sees how the banks literally manipulate academics into supporting these false reporting systems.

While their still remains arguments in Washington on how to approach large financial institutions, there is no doubt in any international mind that bankers took total advantage of the flexibility the free market system has embraced. That said, many believe that the debt DC has undertaken, and endorsed, whereas a happy-lending China can easily buy has thrown us into a spiral far more injurious than the economic collapse.

What Damon disregards in the documentary targeting and exploiting Wall Street is that the same argument could be turned around on Hollywood. He blames the loopholes, the middle class for buying into what Wall Street is selling, and the result? Job losses across the globe, utter chaos and some would say anarchy. Albeit the circumstances, which are transparent and easily calculated, Damon doesn’t dare look in the mirror at his own paycheck, or the “art” that this free market, first amendment country has provided to him and his fellow filmmakers. There is a convergence of government rights… the right to make films, the right to produce media.

So while Hollywood is capitalizing on the Adam Smith ideology that has shown proven failure in the banking world, the rest of the world is waiting to see the returns of many decades of bullets, cursing and sex…. Drama. Scientists at the same universities (Harvard, Stanford, Columbia) Damon condemns argue that his work in Hollywood has indeed exploited the minds of innocent civilians, suggesting through media something that the American dream is not.

Americans have bought into the Simpsons and US weekly, the reality shows and trash television that takes up hours and hours of time… Indian, China, Africa, South America… many nations which are fighting us for international market share, not only in exports, but pure intellectual property aren’t wasting their time eliciting in a fantasy land. Matt Damon makes $20 million a movie, if not more…. While by and large creating things that are in no way feasible? He fights for the second amendment to be removed, but readily uses guns in his action packed movies. Who are the predators? Which is worse, selling a house to someone who can’t afford it? Or influencing the minds of young children? Why bother pouring money into the education system, when Hollywood has already figured out how to capture the attention of American’s future generations.

While sure Damon donates a large percentage to charities, he still reaps those tax deductions… is he really someone who can jump up on a pedestal and tell America where NOT to put their money, but more importantly… their minds.

When wrong makes right?

Until a restless leaf flutters to the ground, it’s quiet. Instead of luscious green with lively veins exhaling oxygen into a suffocating world, it’s now cracked and dry. Yet even at its death, the burnt orange and raspberry color is stunning. Then my eye catches something else. I sit on the concrete bench at the Botanic Gardens. Today is my birthday.

Gravity beckons the fallen leaves, but like a salmon trying to span, I notice a monarch lifting herself up into the warm air. I wonder where she will go now the visitors hours have changed, the soil goes into hibernation and the once budding lilacs are crumpled and shriveled… I ache to throw the pitiful flowers into a garbage bag, or a gardener to haul them away.

A crisp breeze reminds me that the seventy degrees of perfect weather is a façade…. Soon the sun will set and the chill of any October past will awaken goose bumps that are Colorado. The bipolar state where ugly weather doesn’t just disappear; instantaneously, it becomes glorious. A morning thunderstorm of lightening and hail will flip into a cloudless afternoon where cocktails can be toasted on the patio swing.

And like all birthdays, this too shall pass and the reality of autumn; snowfall and frigid holidays are watching me sit here. And once the first snowflakes fall from the fluffy clouds, then too, the last leaves hanging onto the bare branches, with some dignity remaining, will turn to slush, and people will dust off ski gear.

Driving over here I received a phone call from someone I was very close with on my birthday last year. Oh to waddle twelve months ago and take stock of life. The portfolio of mistakes you paid the premium, and the luck you found dirt-cheap.

Most chapters, the years never have the luxury of completed endings, sure… there are photos glazed with smiling faces, some strangers, some close friends who’ve somehow over the years turned strangers again. There are the farewell fetes and the amicable breakups, the career paths which go rerouted, and the farewells to grandparents… the final kind of goodbye where you don’t get to hear anymore stories of your parents growing up, or advice from eight decades of mistakes and good decisions.

The butterfly lands next to me. I wonder if she knows I’m sitting here. I’d prefer to think that she does. That she has human thoughts, she is excited to unearth a human friend at the Botanic Gardens, because only the birds and the grasshoppers appear visit here nowadays. She sits with me, ready and eager to go down the long stretch ahead dubbed, “memory lane.”

Selling Heartbreak on Ebay!

How starving kids in Guantanamo can benefit from your heartbreak.

Two weeks ago in Dallas.

“Just throw it. Pretend it is a football. It was cheaper than a football anyway.” I encourage my Emma, my dearest childhood friend, who is clutching a cheap porcelain figurine like it’s the crown royal.

“Auna, that is harsh. It’s just so, so, I don’t know….” She stammers, racking her brain for any excuse not to heave the reminder off her balcony. Unearthing nothing…. She sighs exasperated by my persistence. So in order to get me to shut up, she arches her back, winds her arm… and from her third floor condo, hurls the colorful representation of a union-gone-wrong into the parking lot.

We both stare in disbelief as the ceramic pieces fly into the dark night. The sound of smashing startling us both…. She turns to me for reassurance that she wasn’t going to hell of this 90210-type activity. The silence of the broken memento below is purifying and my words are worthless. Her face had transformed from traumatized to empowered. The simple act of destroying something into smithereens reignited vigor, a first step toward dismantling the pain her ex heaved on her two weeks ago. There is something so liberating when something is so busted, that there is no way you can glue or tape it back together. So instead, you pick the broken pieces up off the tarmac and throw them in a garbage bin, knowing they’ll be hauled off to some compound far far away.

Wet mascara is smudged and her nose is runny, but we walk back inside where a large cardboard box packed few of stuff is staring at us, mocking us, daring us to do something totally crazy with its contents. There is a gold necklace, a pair of diamond earrings…. A bracelet from Tiffany’s, and then the books, movies and ticket stubs that occupied Saturday nights. And finally our eyes fall on the framed sketch of her beloved asshole displayed prominently on the table…. But I remind her that luckily that “stuff” doesn’t include mortgages and children and a lawyer.

“I have an idea.” I say, thrilled that my physics has taught me Newton’s principle of energy; it cannot be created or destroyed, but simply converted.

She holds up a ‘Learn Hindi’ DVD in one hand and the diamond earrings in the other, “Seriously, what am I supposed to do? It’d be bad juju to hand this stuff off to my friends. Who’d want it anyway? I feel bad, it was all so, so expensive.” She explains, staring longingly at a pink silk nightie on the on the chair.

“Where are you scissors?” I demand.
“In the top drawer in the kitchen.” She replies, confused.
I grab the pink nightie, “Cut it.”
“What?” She shrieks! “Are you crazy.”
“Clearly. Come on. You know it’s good for you.” Sometimes tough love is necessary.

With a newfound sense of confidence, she begins at the delicate lace, until all that is left is tattered, unrecognizable silk with a la perla label hanging limp. She gropes the leftovers to her chest like it’s some meowing kitten.”

“Garbage bin.” I point.

Next, the jewelry, pulling out my digital camera I hold up the weighty Tiffany’s bracelet, “Do you still have the box for this? It is always better to have it look as new as possible.”

Tears begin rolling down her tender freckled cheeks. I wasn’t being very sensitive. The reality of removing each memory piece-by-piece from her apartment was slowly hitting her. The “getting over” a relationship is sometimes more painful than the breakup itself.

Hell, I hadn’t fallen in love is so many years; I forgot how impossible it is to try and climb out.

I hand her a tissue and pat the space next to me on her white leather couch, “Okay, let’s take a break.”

Weeping, she sniffles “Sometimes I don’t know how I didn’t see it coming. But all the romantic dinners, the flowers, bringing my family champagne, it was blinding. And now a year of my life is gone.” She snaps her fingers, “Signora.”

I’m at a loss. Mostly because I agree with her, I’m baffled how she didn’t detect, or foresee this nightmare from unfolding? She is an engineer. She is logical and doesn’t hurt people. So how someone could cheat on such a kindred soul is beyond me. But this guy managed to not only cheat on her, but he led her to believe that he wouldn’t do it again. Then, did it again. This isn’t something about male bashing, but more about analyzing cheaters and their behavior in general. Are we genetically wired to be either the “good” or the “bad” guy, or can good people do bad things?

But what about the good people who just get screwed over? Are they at fault because they fell victim to something they believed was perfect? I just can’t reconcile it – I mean Emma, she defies innocent and has been abandoned, baffled as to what she did wrong and emotionally crippled. I wanted to rip his head off. But since I didn’t have access to a rifle, nor had access to his address, I decided the best way to retaliate would be to auction off the “loot”.

I begin explaining, “We’re going upload the photos of the jewelry on ebay. And then we’ll sell it to the highest bidders.”
“Wait, wait.” She starts to interrupt me.

I hold up my hand, “I know what you’re thinking. You feel guilty selling this stuff, plus you think the money has nasty karma attached to it.”

She nods.

I continue, “So that’s why you’re going to a choose a charity and we’ll donate the proceeds. For instance, those diamond earrings, easily a caret each, well those will go for at least $1000. Some woman in Detroit will be ecstatic for the deal she scored, and some starving kids in Africa will eat for the next few months.”

Starting to understand the methodology, she is mentally calculating how much she could accrue from the jewelry, but her eyes rest on the earrings a little too longingly for her to be 100% game for this exercise.

She needed more convincing, “And even more important than the malnourished children and the stranger in Idaho, you’ll be free of this stuff. You don’t want his dirty energy collecting dust in your jewelry box! I’m warning you: If you don’t throw the old stuff out, how will you have room for the new stuff that someone fabulous, someone even better, the next person will bring you? Let’s think of your jewelry box like your heart.”

I got serious, “How will you ever have space for the future, if you can’t let go of the past?”

“You can get too metaphorical.” She laughs.

“Yeah, but it’s the metaphors, all that esoteric BS that actually dictates our choices, our decisions, if we’re not emotionally engaged, invested in something bigger than that moment, than why should we care if someone cheats on us, or we made a mistake, or love anyone at all? If eventually hearts will get ripped out of chests. Then why bother?” I frame the rather hypothetically, curious as to what my little nerdy engineer will say.

“Because I don’t know…. I guess I want to believe that the right guy is out there and he hasn’t found me yet?” Smiling, clearly proud of her astute response, she whispered, “You haven’t seen the worst of it yet… he bought me this ridiculous dress. It’s heinous with sequins, some weird French designer, but guess what? The tag is still attached. Watch… we’ll make a fortune.”

Wonder Woman for the night?

“If death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character...Would you slow down? Or speed up?" -Chuck Palahniuk

IDENTIFY THEFT

I’m jealous. Wow. It has taken me twenty-plus years to finally admit that I wish I had the guts, creativity, chutzpah to pull off that flawless, “no you didn’t” “that must have cost a fortune” Halloween thing, but I’m lazy. And I need to go to the gym. The days of leotard and spray-painted bras aren’t gone, but currently in hibernation along with anything smaller than a size 27.

The wooden bowl sitting by the door is empty except for a lone Reses’ Peanut butter cup, which I unwrap carefully and then nibble, the familiar taste that has quenched my sweet tooth for two plus decades melts on my tongue. Chocolate, like a Dave Matthews song, or a new poinsettia is this unyielding time capsule throwing me years away from this quiet moment.

Maybe I will opt for a sparkly mask with feathers and tell everyone my name is Zena, I’m from Ohio and I play professional Billiards for a living. Oh how fun it’d be to take Halloween to a new HBO or a reality TV level. I would reinvent myself. Lately, I’ve been listening to Kelly Howell meditation cds at night… she does manifestation visualizations of being calm, it is the non-narcotic approach to curb UOA (ak: under-organized over-achievers)… who systematically suffer the most with to do lists, mostly because we forget to write them. But why I bring her up: Her distinctly tantric (I say in a calm/mellow/yogi meaning) aids people into climbing into the “subconscious” layer of our cerebral craziness. Only to discover… hidden meanings, lost desires, secrets beyond… that might be the name of one of her audio cds actually.

Not to get too Freudian, but what about the costumes we’ve chosen? Or why we’ve chosen them? Are we fulfilling some childhood fantasy by pulling on an NBA jersey, or covering up those ten pounds we gained over autumn by cutting a pretend snowflake out of mom’s sheets?

I digress.

If so, what would I change? Like beyond Oct. 31…. Who would I want to come back as? Would I turn into a socially inept nerd, who subsisted in a sphere of dusty library books? Maybe a gym rat with the abs of granite, the skin tone of a tangerine. Or maybe a different version of me? A goblin, hamster, princess… shark? Halloween is this weird invention us, Americans, consumer driven and creative bunch we are…. As little kids we consider what we want when we grow up… simple costumes. Doctors, Firefighters, astronauts, you know the occasional golden retriever or witch here or there. But as we grow older we choose themes, or even situations (ak: A guy attacked by a shark), cultural inside jokes (____ in the box), or icons Marilyn Row or Jack the Reaper. And I got to ask myself, have I lived up to those 4th grade Gypsy expectations of myself or rather, have I exceeded them in some unidentifiable (and frankly immeasurable way).

Dying my hair brown was a weird in cognito act out of complete rebellion, but doesn’t quite cut it in terms of the overall renovations (albeit the common boob job) in which I’m referring a la moment.

The sky has gone from chilly to deserted… other than a few stars separating the blackness, I sit in silence on the porch swing at my parent’s home. My condo building downtown doesn’t entice the typical trick-or-treaters… more the normal homeless guys on the side of the road, looking for change instead of Snickers bars. Quasi-political incorrect, I know.

Tonight, there was no snow, so the little ballerinas needn’t need their parkas and snow boots. Children from two-years old to the adults who are staggering home awaiting Monday morning hangovers…. Halloween is this odd holiday, paving way for the real holidays… the days in which deserve calories and days off of work. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years and Valentines… I include Valentines because let’s frankly say it, who doesn’t?

While it is easy to recollect your past through birthdays and trips, it is easy to identify through a space suit, or a “jack in the box” or a Steelers’ fan, or TV, or whatever you were that one Halloween where you happened to be the designated driver, or your costume fell apart, or you got stuck in a storm, or met the man of your dreams…. Or the night your best friend was arrested (yes, try Vegas ’07) or when you plain ol’ looked in the mirror and liked what you saw…. And honey, if you were impersonating a pinup girl circa 1950s then that is fabulous…. But I ask you to look in the mirror this Halloween and see who it is staring back? It’s surprising how much someone can learn about themselves through some face paint and Lycra, but to see us through the mask is rather revealing….

The bottom line. Halloween is a special holiday that allows us to draw upon situations and take stock of our lives. Birthdays, sure… but you can’t identify a year by a number, when it is so much easier to say, “the year of the gorilla suit.”

DEVIL's advocate....

God, Politics, Sports teams….

Those “American” things that either rip us apart, or bind us forever… but in reality, albeit Sunday morning church, Sunday afternoon football and what percentage of taxes come out of your paycheck, what gives?

Oh the internal struggle? Prayer, which plays in an integral part everyday for some. Does how we celebrate our GOD, recognize that omnipresent, omnipotent chunk of our decision making really even make a big different in the big scheme of things, or a difference at all? These are questions that ruminate, during the days compromised of phone calls and research, running errands and picking up food. When time is broken apart by being rear-ended or an unanticipated argument. Dissected by the unexpected departure of someone dear to our hearts, or the entry of new friend who haphazardly showed up, or a new baby. You can’t help but ask yourself. What are the prerequisites for a GOD to exist?

What has to happen in my life to believe that in all actuality it never really has belonged to me?

Do people change? Do they ever come to believing in something bigger than themselves? I asked a Christian why they’re so blatantly against atheists and his response was, “they believe in themselves, and that is just selfish.” But is it entirely selfish to believe that we control our own control fate, destiny, that is our individual responsibility to execute this life either with a robust appetite for color and travels, for deep and sentimental relationships, for emotions…. Without God can we fully experience sadness? I only wonder because if we’re truly a product of random molecules and our tear ducts manufacture those wet drops that are associated with emotion, and if emotion is simply a figment of our imagination, a visceral reaction to an emptiness, or some Freudian excuse?

Is there something worth being sad about if the afterlife is comprised of dirt and decomposition? And all that stuff referred to miracles are merely gibberish, coincidence at most, frivolity that is a waste of effort and ambition, and frankly, time?

There is something inherently liberating about living your life only believing yourself... that we're not all "one source of energy" we're "all brothers of Adam and Eve." That actually, what you see is what you get? What you understand is YOUR truth. You’re floating in this present moment, in the now, it is tangible and simple. There aren’t the Ten Commandments to untangle; there isn’t the spiritual journey to somehow aid us in the being unafraid of the “beyond”. To an atheist the end, is very simply game over. There is no judgment, no golden gates and with the possibility of heaven, also arrives the possibility you’ll spend eternity with Sisyphus …. Seems rather monotonous, miserable? And completely illogical.

And what is there to do with the obvious sinners… those who commit abhorrent, devastating and insane crimes, the schizophrenic sinners, who are 100% convinced that their kamikaze ways are in fact sacrificial, an appeasement to their higher being, then what? Then you’ve got the evangelicals, the crusades, and the holocaust. And then the countless periods in history, some so horrific they’re left out of social studies textbooks when religion screwed many of a minority.

There is nature, intricate and delicate flowers…. The weather, powerful hurricanes and tornadoes, you’ve got cancer survivors and innocent children who’ve been ruthlessly murdered. There are the ways of the pagan, the “spiritual seeker”… all the hybrids, the in-betweens who while legitimate still cannot answer the one-answer humans have questioned:

IF you strip GOD of the Koran, Bible, the Torah and every other religious text that is the acclaimed guidebook for the future of humanity beyond planet earth…. You can’t help but wonder what’s left?

Redeye: Denver to Boston...

Month seven on crutches, two months out of the hospital. I was finally allowed to travel.

I apologized to the blond, balding security officer for my overstuffed bag; he was unfazed by the magazines, un-capped lipstick and sticky receipts. But his jaw dropped when he reached the clear zipper bag. This was where I kept my orange bottles of prescriptions, fourteen in total.

Each night I’d brush my teeth, standing like a flamingo on my one leg, since the other leg was defective. With a large glass of water I’d start left to right, slowly swallowing each pill. The color and texture and the after taste reminding me exactly what was wrong. I’d try to distract myself by reading the directions on my mouthwash, but the red pill never failed to remind me of my stomach problems or the white that my blood platelets weren’t high enough, or the yellow that I had premature arthritis.

Crutches are great, but the real hookups were when I was in a wheelchair. My friends took me to a Dave Matthews concert and we were led to the front row. We relished the sweat and the spit of his guitarists. There are the bonuses, like parking in a handicap spot and not feeling guilty. But that’s where they ended.

After getting off the train and making my way to the gate, I had forgotten that handicap people board last. There is a woman quietly sitting in a wheel chair a few feet away from me. Around fifty, her chair was beaten up, with a fanny pack slung around her waist. I collapsed next to her. She said hello and we chatted for a few minutes before the flight attendant waved to both of us, signaling that it was our turn to board.

I took a deep breath prepared to grin and bear the wrath of the punctual travelers, as I was the habitually late, always the last to board. But when my eyes met those belonging to the passengers around me, there was no irritation; instead I was greeted with sympathy.

I had the entire first row to myself, so quickly fell into a deep, vicodin-induced slumber. Until Mr. Charisma showed up.

Mr. Charisma nodded, then took the remaining gulp of his cocktail. “Born in 1981 with two older siblings and Republican parents. They’re decent folks, I promise. They bought me GI-Joe. The boys would rip off their head and slingshot the figurines at the girls during recess. I preferred to dress GI-Joe in my sister’s Barbie clothes.

Pausing to catch his breath, he continued. “Football season in 7th grade, I was the quarterback, great hand-eye coordination, but when Blake Mainer hiked the ball, it hit me in the face. I was too busy staring at his delectable ass. So I had to quit. Imagine facing sexy boys in the locker room everyday? But it wasn’t until my second year in college that I officially came out of the closet. My parents called it a phase, a stage, an act of rebellion; my father was ashamed that I was his son. So I packed up a U-Haul and moved to Colorado, where nobody could remember me as straight.”

“So you’re gay and your parents won’t accept it?” Spilled out of my mouth before I could suck it back in.

“100% tried and true. It’s been several years since I relocated to Colorado. Since then my father has learned to accept and embrace me, sexual preference and all.”

“So what’s so terrible about going home?” I asked.

“Well, I have some news, and it isn’t the type of news you break over the phone.”

But before he could tell me the news, the woman across the aisle, the same woman waiting at the gate with me, who’d been snoring the whole flight, was stirring.

“Oops. We were too loud.” I said.

“Wonder why she got a special ‘handicap seat’. Bitch.” He said.

I pointed to where her left leg should have been. In its place, nothing.

“Whoa. We’ve got a paraplegic on the plane.”

“It gets worse. She lost her leg when she was 24-years old. She was a
swimmer.”

We both stared. It’s impossible to envision her swimming. I estimated she weighed at least 200 pounds. Her hair is mouse brown, an ageless man-cut, perfected at Great Clips. Her apparel consisted of leggings and a sweatshirt that read, “Best Aunt in the World.” I wondered how this woman could let herself go like that? Did she own a comb? But, who was I to judge?

She resembled Roseanne.

“She fell back asleep.” He pointed.

“Phew. So guess how she lost her leg?” I whispered.

He scooted closer.

“Staph infection.” I said.

“Shut up. How do you know?” He said.

“We were waiting at the gate together. Thank God the flight attendants interrupted our conversation before she could ask why I was on crutches. Imagine how’d she feel if she knew I had staph infection too. Only I didn’t need my leg amputated.”

“So what’s your news?” I asked.

He took a deep breath.... he gave me a once over and decided to trust me. “It was the 4th of July. I was visiting some friends in Los Angeles. We were at a posh club. Instead of normally crawling into a corner with my cocktail, insecure and envious of those carefree people on the dance floor, trying to dissect the gay from the straight. I took the opportunity to be extroverted. It was so fun. It was also a mistake.”

“How is that a mistake?” I asked.

“Honey, be patient okay. This is the premise. I’ll get to juicy stuff in a moment.”

“Oh I’m sorry.”

“So there were velvet ropes, bouncers, and exclusive VIP lists. Inside was even better. Plush leather couches, chandeliers, and more exquisite bodies than a summer Vogue issue. The women were all panthers. And the men, oh the men were glorious. Each man a variation of Adonis, this was a heaven of sexual erotica. And I got drunk.”

I nodded.

“Being curious and somewhat confident in my new Versace jeans, I followed a particular group into one of the private VIP rooms. Before I realize what is happening, a tall woman, a glamorous model, a gazelle is introducing me to her “gay” friend. So giddy that there is another, and even more excited because I could tell he was giddy too. Freed from all the straights, we chatted and danced and kissed. He made me feel so warm and welcome and, accepted.”

“Why do I think that this doesn’t have a good ending?” I said.

“Oh Peach, the ending has happened yet. But it will. And soon.”

He made no sense.

“When he invited back to his loft, I couldn’t refuse. I had kissed men before, but I was always too nervous to go beyond. It was an opportunity to finally lose my “homo” virginity. Kissing led to other things. And that is when the night got fuzzy.”

I bit my lip, “Then what?”

“And then I woke up in foreign bed, with a pounding headache and not a soul in sight. It was my first one stand and I didn’t even know the name of the guy. The house was empty, he had left with no phone number, no note, nothing. I grabbed my wallet embarrassed, feeling dirty, and walked to the nearest street corner.”

“Everyone has had a one-night stand. It’s okay.” I reassured him from second-hand knowledge.

“The irony is not that that it was the first one night stand; the irony is that it was also my last. I was diagnosed with HIV about three months ago.”

Through his thick glasses I stared into his eyes. The sparkle wasn’t a natural high. It was desperation to connect, to unearth anyone who could extract value from his disease. He had to somehow logically make sense of the terminal illness, the kind that doesn’t give you a second chance.

“You see darling, you’re not the only one infected on this plane.”

Unsure whether to laugh or to cry, I instead reached across the armrest and patted his arm, “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh Peach. It’s okay. Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid because you’re scared. Do stuff because it makes you strong.” He said.

“Deal.” I couldn’t hide the tears I was shedding for this sweet man sitting next to me.

We both heard rustling from across the aisle. The woman was definitely awake. We huddled watching her; coddling our alcoholic beverages.

It was obvious by her large eyes she didn’t want to cause any trouble. She glanced up at the glowing “call” button, but decided not to push it, which would wake everyone up. Déjà vu hit me like a freight train. The constant pride I had to swallow when requesting that my peers or professors or the janitors help carry my book bag or hold my hand in the stairwell. Or at home I would beg, needing assistance with everything, from shaving my legs to putting on socks.

Watching her try to balance her 200-pound body on her one functional leg, I cringed. I assumed her artificial leg was in the overhead bin; she was trying to get to the lavatory. My legs didn’t work either, so I nudged new friend. He jumped out of his seat to rescue the paraplegic.

Instead of being stubborn, she was gracious. He lifted her arm around his shoulders, so he could play the role of her missing leg. It took several minutes to cross the ten feet separating her seat from the toilet. With every second that passed, I experienced less pity, they don’t need it, what surfaced, was admiration.

He stood by the lavatory, protecting her. The few passengers who had woken up by the commotion glanced at him, assuming they were together; he was her son. But the truth; they were only strangers.

Their bodies are so fragile and their spirits so durable. And this indiscernible thing called life hung in the balance.

My new friend plopped back in his seat, “So, back to my story.”

“Yes.” I said. It was 4am and I was exhausted, but I didn’t care.