Perfect Weather is Invisible

It’s 4:52 pm in California.

I’m typing in a restaurant booth, surrounded by ocean. The weather is roughly a perfect 70 degrees. All elements are undetectable, except for the occasional warm ray of sun, or soft cool breeze to remind me to be grateful that the weather has chosen to be flawless.

I refer to myself as the “retired seatmate” for obvious reasons… some of the people who’ve randomly sat next to me on airplanes have changed; no, they’ve rerouted my life…

This time zone has maybe an hour before the sun will abandon us. The rest of America has already been dark for hours. And with December dusk also arrives a chilly front. But that won’t prevent me from relishing the view. There is pale light shining through the thick, plush, creamy and rose-colored clouds, suggesting there indeed, are heavens above.

On airplanes, I’ve met a man who saved my life. I’ve sat next to a woman, who is now one of my dearest friends, another woman who lost her leg to the same disease that nearly killed me. There has been someone from my past and someone who paved way for my future. And several days ago I sat next to a person who was desperate, no deserved for somebody, anybody to care. And I was too tired.

The glowing ball of fire will cautiously dip into the waves, but as soon as you blink, the sun will have vanished. The pink and yellow and azure blur your vision. The pigments of the buildings, cars, trees and sailboats weaken; the gravity of the ocean beckons the sky. The two will be enveloped by darkness for the next twelve hours and cannot be pulled apart until tomorrow morning.

December 6, 2009 will disappear forever and everything that happened with it. All those who have been born, all those who have passed away, the laughter, the tears, the firsts and the lasts, the choices and actions that dissect our lives, some more pivotal than others. Canonized and captured in photographs, facial expressions turned shadows, voices turned whispers. Just memories.

And before you realize today is over. It has past.

Empathy is a virtue- it is. It is much easier to be kind to strangers, because the assumption is that you’ll never see them again. In my aisle seat I am stressed and exhausted and frustrated. This man asks me how I am and my response is a single syllable “fine.” I’m chugging my then-cold Starbucks.

He asked why I am traveling. I spit out an effortless response, “a hybrid of travel and pleasure.”

Then out of guilt, I mumble, “you?”

Quietly, he says the word I hoped I wouldn’t hear, “family.” He stares at the seat in front of him with sad and empty eyes. He wasn’t waiting, but I could sense that he invited conversation. Myself, pop culture, business, bullshit, chatter, worthless nothingness… anything that wasn’t related to whatever misfortune required booking a plane ticket eight hours ago. But I voluntarily chose not to care. It wasn’t my problem. And so I put on my headphones and then fell asleep.

Now protected by large, gray… molecules of condensation packed tightly, the sun’s fever cannot reach me. Dusk is heavy with a freezing, angst. I’m shivering and my fingers are slow, taking longer to type, and this does not surprise me.

When the flight attendant walked by with the beverage cart I woke up. Completely forgetting our quick exchange I glance over to see if he wants anything to drink. But he is sound asleep. I understood. I’m an insomniac, and the only restful sleep tends to be on any mode of transportation, a car, a plane, and a boat, train. Any vehicle transporting me from then to now… I then wonder if he is dreaming. There are only two dreams for me – they consist of two plots – my family is in harm and it is my responsibility to save them. Or the other dream where I’m flying and the closer and closer I am to landing, the farther away the ground becomes. Maybe he has no dreams, no fantastical thoughts, playing in his head, I wasn’t sure.

He must be around fifty-five or sixty years-old? He seems like a nice, hardworking, family man. A father probably. His hands are intertwined and resting on his lap. He is wearing a wedding ring, it is worn, and I could tell hadn’t been removed in years.

The sun has long since left California. The goose bumps crawling on my arm are begging me to move inside, but this air, this fresh pacific oxygen is far more exhilarating than the electric heaters inside. So I will sit here freezing, calmed by the cadence of waves, and remember what this man said to me only 72 hours ago.

We landed in Los Angeles on time. The man was awake and quiet next to me. I didn’t desire to know where he was going and why. I didn’t have the emotional space, the empathetic room to take on the pain, the anguish of some stranger, it wasn’t my job.

“I hope you have a great trip. California is a lot of fun.” He said genuinely. Vicariously, maybe, maybe just polite. Not too sure.

“Thanks. Good luck with, wherever you’re going.” I said, the comment racing out of my mouth,
“I’ll need it.” He said. He played with the gold band.
“What happened?” And then the journalist in me got the best of me.
“My wife was in a car accident, a semi-truck hit her Volvo.” He paused searching my face to see if I wanted more. I revealed nothing.

“She was on her way to Arizona to pick up our son up from college. Anyway, she died last night. I couldn’t get there in time.” He choked. The truth, his nasty, cruel reality got caught in his esophagus.

“I’m so sorry.” Was all I could muster.

I wandered to baggage claim in a daze. The question screams, “Why do all these stories land next to me on airplanes?” For once, can’t a boring, silent stranger share my armrest, someone unaffected?

But airplanes are never that simple.

He walks ahead of me, carrying a small hunter green duffel bag, to his connecting flight, a steel tube to fly him to a nightmare beyond comprehension. A brutal kick of reality, and I was about to sit on a beach and write and share cocktails with friends. I was off to parties and glitzy experiences.

Life isn’t just unfair, it is bitter, unforgiving, a visceral uncertainty we cannot predict. Each moment encapsulated by the illogical, however pleasurable or painful. We endure. There is no choice.

It’s 5:53 pm and my pupils are wide. They are subconsciously searching for light in the black that has flooded the vibrant, rich sunset the coast was tasting moments ago. The moon has begun its crawl across the veiled horizon and the stars are starting to glisten. I can faintly make out the slices of silver touching the rolling current, illuminating the sound, as they crash onto the beach.

I cannot see the undertow.... the strength of moon's pull.... It is hiding underneath the waters surface. But I know once the wave hits the shore and the foam dissipates on the wet sand, it will be violently sucked back into the depths of the ocean.

It’s invisible. But nonetheless it’s there, waiting.

Him or Her? He or She?

Before the world is split into multi-dimensional matrix – we begin with a simple pronoun.

Him or Her? He or She?

Are you a man or a woman? Can you imagine fitting into both, or fitting into neither? Or the very worst- being trapped inside the wrong body?

This following confession might sound wrong, but I pride myself on my collection of friends – my best friend is a mirror image of myself, family/background/etc, however she reeks of Type-A/Responsible, whereas I’m guilty of type Late/Laidback… One of my oldest amigos is gay, there is the wonderful woman who is a compassionate shoulder, and she is a lesbian, I have plethora of African-American, Chinese, Hispanic, black, you name the race- you’ll find it. Jewish, Christian, Muslim… Wheel chair bound and the most successful writer, I have the most loyal friend who has Asperser’s and he is a genius, a deaf friend whose photography is drop-dead gorgeous. A blind guy who’ll become a politician… A sensitive woman who opened my eyes up to autism, there are the young, the insane, artistic, logical, vagabonds, recovering drunks, overachievers, philanthropic and some a bit selfish – the accountants, the writers, the entrepreneurs, sports-nuts, or scholars. Each character plays a pivotal role in my life – they have challenged me to believe two things:

1. At inception we’re all the same – it’s after that the changes begin to determine who we will become.
2. There is nothing fabulous about not being special.

But in my life, and in my entire repertoire of relationships, I’m yet to trip across a transvestite.

Okay, and that term, well let’s stop beating around the obvious… is painfully an enigma, the three syllables are difficult to say, only because I’ve never been able to tie a personality, a character, a photograph or a friend to the title. It’s beyond my normal comfort zone, Friday nights and editorial meetings, classes and travels… I’m yet to meet someone who has the obstacle, nearly debilitating obstacle – reconcile your body with your brain.

But then again, each of us have methods in which to blend in with the masses, become one in a homogeneous sea of humanity.

And Michelle has done that with such grace. A thick mane of curly red hair, tall with a pink shirt and jeans- her puppy is calm and not annoying and nuts like the majority of the yappy dogs. Michelle tells me that her dog likes me, which is unusual since he doesn’t like most strangers, which is flattering, since I have an affinity for all things canine.

She moved to Denver on a whim two weeks ago after an explosive epiphany in Miami. A right-hand-man for Madonna, Paula Abdul and others, in LA…Michael moved to Miami where he decided to undergo irreversible procedures- invasive, a one-time choice, a decision forever. Michelle has been featured in documentaries, interviewed for features chronicling the lives of “transvestite.” And you’d never know by looking at her -

A man who decided to reconcile his body and brain – is now a woman, a happy, content, fulfilled and driven woman.

Poignant and empathetic, compassionate and kind, my heart reaches out to her – and my respect. I pray that she finds someone who sees her for exactly who she is –a durable, courageous, beautiful and accepting human.

Aside from giving me permission to write about her – she left me with a thought: “I love to hike… Life is one big mountain, we can all take various routes, different trails, see different things on the way up, but at the end, it’s the same view.”

Starbucks - Random

Starbucks offers more than a triple venti latte with soy, half a scoop of cinnamon, and finally a dollop of whip crème. Oh, it’s a hub of business meetings, writers, students and girlfriends catching up, a prime location for first dates, and a desirable neutral/safe zone to hand off kids. Sounds dismal. I spy on a mom with two toddlers - clearly handing them off to a father .He is so excited to hug them and has saved a table in the corner. Two chocolate donuts are waiting on two napkins. She’s giving him a disproving glare. I could stipulate that their normal form of communication involves email and two cc’d lawyers. But that’s just my guess.

There is a homeless guy playing the accordion outside, there are two women dazzling in jewels and then two guys, maybe eighteen or nineteen with calculators and chewing on erasers. The social environment which appears to appeal to all walks of life - you’ll locate familiarity in all of the thousands monopolistic cafes; the same mahogany tables, the calming hunter green and the same vanilla scones- well it’s a classier McDonalds model - the same dependable taste whether I’m in Hong Kong or Sydney, New York, or Plainville, Texas. This is a brilliant conglomerate in which I wholeheartedly support.

A weird thing happened recently: Serendipity, happenstance, however you want to phrase the absurd conversations that leave me a bit unhinged and more weirded out than say, the average “hola” to my neighbor.

Two Saturday’s ago I ventured into Starbucks on Colo. Blvd. – it was 11pm and I was desperate to see proof of humanity. I’d spent the majority of the blizzard day working in my apartment. Thanks to the Denver population (roughly 17 people) I climbed into my car with sweats to drive through the snow to locate the only 24-hour Starbucks. There is a one almost-empty table, an older man with a leathered briefcase with small circular glasses, dark skin with very short black hair. He is packing his bag, sipping the last of his coffee and brushing the crumbs off the table. I make a run for it.

All I want is to turn on my computer, shut the world out (such an oxymoron, since I’m at Starbucks to see other humans blaring miscellaneous music and pounding out whatever on Apple keyboards, or lost in textbooks), blare my music and continue my love affair with Microsoft Word.

“So why does a woman like you come to Starbucks at 11pm at night?” He probed. He had a thick accent, pausing at the vowels.

I jumped, expecting him to take his briefcase and give me his table... not trying to start talking at this ungodly hour.

“I need some energy.” Was all my brain could rummage up at the moment as I was wiping the whip creme off my chin.

His eyes were skeptical. He questioned my answer, “Like what kind of energy?”

“You know, like I just needed to get out of the house.” I explained, annoyed. He wasn’t leaving the table.

“Sure, I understand.” He said without a clue as to what I was explaining.

I glance at the papers on the table and see foreign formulas in various colors, equations of sorts.

He noticed I was staring, “Oh those are formulas - I’m a physics professor and I was just helping some students better understand Einsten’s Zero-point Energy theory. It’s why I was a bit fascinated when you said you were seeking out energy tonight. Essentially it explains the transmission of energy.

Not only did I get what I was seeking, but I got a full blown explantion of why and how I was receiving exactly what I’d asked the world for, literally. This man and I sat down and talked for an hour. This sixty-something fatherly figured was so eager to explain the law of gravity, how to create magnetic force from mere metal, how the law of relativity is flawed, light-years, space-ships, you name it - this guy could explain it, and I was actually, truly enjoying learning such interesting, scientific theory.

I’m now a believer in the blind law of attraction. Sometimes you get what you want - and sometimes you're given exactly what you've requested, but weren't expecting at all.

Love Will Save Us (and our GDP)... A look at America's most Prized Invention...

Esquire tossed a journalist under an MRI to scan his brain, trying to figure out, scientifically– if there is such a thing as amour?

“I love thee with serotonin produced by my raphe Nuclei. I love thee with testosterone receptors deep in my hypothalamus. I love thee with dopamine that floods my primitive lizard brain.” Says A.J. Jacobs. See link below.

Dave Matthews nailed it for the umpteenth time. He has lured in radio stations and listeners with his comforting, soothing melodic sound, but with every new album arrives even “hippier” lyrics.

Funny the way it is, right or Wrong
Someone’s broken heart,
Becomes your favorite song…

While the irony is unmistakably obvious, Matthews uses his musical manse as a catalyst, challenging listeners to ponder the trenches of our consumer-hungry hearts, eventually breaking down, having a come-to-Jesus, Boulder/Agnostic style. And that is supposed to solve our problems.

But it wasn’t his husky voice that commanded the cult more than a decade ago – it was his distinct ability to have the whole world fall in love with his lyrics.

The way I used to laugh with you was loud and hard
Sweet like Candy to my soul…

Come now- he reeks of a heterosexual version of Whitman - and several half-paragraphs later you wonder what direction is this rambling taking you?

What percentage of our day is haunted by variations, revelations, advice columns, colognes, books, films, movies and therapists all dedicated to making this paramount part of your life livable. And it doesn’t come cheap. Whether you’re single, married, divorced, or independently independent, you can relate to melancholy lyrics, flirty flicks with zero resemblance to reality, and get lost in blogs contemplating which gender is to blame. And what do I think? Well as a capitalist, I say “go you,” as a single woman I say, “let’s get on with it.”

Americans have idealized this notion that this chemical reaction will trip across you at Starbucks, or at the grocery store and there won’t be a thing you can do to stop it.

“It”, being this utopian umbrella that protects all problems, which consequently has been the cause for most of them as well. Wouldn't arranged marriage alleviate all that pressure to constantly make someone else feel obsessed with? And yet, as hundreds of cultures in the last several centuries couldn’t give an iota of energy to this profound invisible existence, it seems to drive, shove, direct American consumerism. But is it love, or lust for something that doesn’t really exist. Is it a deep sentimental recognition of another soul?

Is it simply an attachment to someone who will bear witness to your life?

The best part: There is such an oxymoron. We FLOURISH in the idea that LOVE is out of our control - leave it up to fate, the big guy upstairs - chemistry? But then once we have it, or when we've decided to look for it - we rush out to buy, analyze or redo - to somehow let love manifest itself? So... America and our chick flicks, our self-help books, and our sappy love sagas have indeed entertained the world, while I'm not sure if we've convinced the rest of the world that "amour" is within our reach - it's certainly helped our gdp (how many international tours has Justin Timberlake done, or books Danielle Steel has sold?) Here is a toast to inventing the unstoppable, unpenetratable addiction to amour.

http://www.esquire.com/features/mri-of-love-0609

24 Hours

Our entire day can be remembered in a few seconds. It is funny how a day is comprised of twenty-four hours, but when we reflect on our day; filtering through the wakeup, the commute to work, the trivial conversations, eating, ordering Starbucks, the walk to the car, the traffic, the phone calls and text messages, the gym, the cocktail party, watching the news, or reading a book, it can be remembered in a few seconds. Which makes sense when people die. It is said, “your entire life flashes in front of you.” Apologies for being morbid. But it makes sense, right?

Maybe that is why movies and books appear chronologically logical. They only highlight the significant, life-altering moments, the choices that shift the direction of where we assume we’re going, the conversations paramount to our existence, the fears overcome, the connections made. The stories lure us in, tempting us to turn the page, hungry for a benevolent or happy outcome… but always the outcome, the ending. But we shouldn’t hurry to get there, because once we reach the end, it’s over.

But no, life isn’t that perfect, reality is what happens between the lines of a book, the scenes in a movie. We can’t cut, rewind, pause or erase. We must move forward…. And when we look back, we can barely remember anything at all. Words sometimes flow and other times they get stuck in my throat. I want to get as much out as possible, because my memory will quickly forget the details.

I found this little missive (circa 2005) and thought it was worth sharing.....



October, 2005

The weekend in New York was a blur, staring at the photographs of my friends and me laughing while throwing our scarves into the air, hit me as though that blond girl, FYI- me, decked out in a Burberry rain coat was somebody else. Puffing the cigar belonging between my girlfriend’s fingers; skimming the crowds for celebrities, pretending to be cool in a world so far away from childhood.

Recovering from our deliciously fun Friday night, rendezvousing with old friends and drinking champagne into the wee hours, we were having dinner at a restaurant. I neglected to bring my purse in the stall with me. I left it on the counter where my girlfriend was standing and talking on her cell phone. Washing my hands, and grabbing my satchel my eyes scanned the crowd outside the restroom where she had left to finish her phone call. Scampering to catch a taxi, my watch reminding and that if I didn’t hurry I would miss the Amtrak train to Boston.

The first car that pulled over was a regular sedan, the man hunched over the worn leather of the steering wheel demanding where to drive in a bulky Arabic accent.

“Penn Station, please sir.” I stammered. The Beatles starting belting “yesterday” from my cell phone, my sister had downloaded the new ring, when the music hit the drivers ears the cab nearly collided with a bus next to us, as the bus driver shot us the finger with one hand, and pounded the horn with the other.

A profanity or two escaped the mouth of the Arabic man in the front seat. Catching my apologetic expression in the review mirror for my boisterous phone ring, he softened.

“ So, why are you visiting New York?” He questioned.

“Just visiting some girlfriends.” I explained.

He nodded. Probably not the first time he’d heard that answer.

The traffic from Chelsea was a nightmare; twenty minutes later pulled up to the train station. Rummaging through my bag for my wallet, I frantically discovered an empty space. My wallet was missing. How was I going to pay for this cab, get on my flight home without my id? The innards of my stomach began to turn inside out; nausea hit me as the vision of me laughing in the stall, and abandoning my purse by the soap dispenser with my friend, who had walked outside. There were a dozen girls in that restroom, the vision quickly entered my brain, and sobs began to exit my mouth. I quickly called information and then the restaurant; the manager said that no wallet had been turned in.

Gulping loudly, I began to cry, “Sir, my wallet was stolen. I’m so sorry I don’t know what to do, I need to catch my train to Boston.”

An angry, thunderous voice responded, “Are you sure, do you want to look again.” He thought I was lying. I wasn’t telling some counterfeit excuse to avoid the fee, how was I supposed to get on the airplane if I didn’t even have a license. Sweat mixed with tears stung my cheeks, and I pleaded. “Sir, I’m just going over to that policeman over on that corner to explain the situation.”

Fuming with frustration at my inability to pay the forty-seven dollar cab fee, I was freaking out… My two girlfriends were already en route to Connecticut and I didn’t know of any banks that would get wired money on a Saturday night. I sprinted in my three inch boots, not conducive to running, toward the uniformed officer. Bewildered by my construed appearance, he patiently listened. “I don’t know what to do, my wallet was stolen, I have to pay the cab fee, I have no credit cards or cash, I just have a train ticket waiting for me at will call.” The police officer was trying to piece together my story with the minimal information I had spat at through my mangled sobs.

A cumbersome figure dressed in a turban appeared next to me, towering over the police officer. “This girl has tried to rip me off, she thinks she does not have to pay for her fee over here.”

Blubbering into my cell phone to my mother, who was trying to hear me over the loud voices of the policeman, cab driver, and the sirens and street merchants, the line suddenly went dead. The demise of my battery had just ended any hope of wiring cash. Besides offering my earrings or watch to this beastly driver, who wouldn’t accept my offer to send him a payment the next day, I felt a tap on my left shoulder.

Through the dark night, the streetlights illuminated gentle eyes. A guy in his twenties stepped into the Bermuda triangle of confusion (the police officer, driver and myself). Me, lugging my red valise, watching the Good Samaritan quietly slice the tension.

“I’ve been listening to the situation from over there,” pointing only a few feet away, where a few people stood, clearly interested in the scene I had caused. “It sounds as though this girl, uh woman, needs to catch her train to Boston, how much is the fee for the cab?” He then looked toward me for approval.

Unsure if we heard correctly, the three of us collectively responded, “huh?”

“Well, it appears this girl will miss her train, so I would like to pay for her cab since she had her wallet stolen, is that correct?”

“Yes, Yes, I left my purse sitting on the counter, where I thought my friend was standing, and wallet with my credit cards, cash, and ID was stolen.” I confessed, wishing anybody would believe me.

His kind face nodded with understanding; he reached into his overall pocket. Wait overall, yes overall. This twenty-something stranger was wearing overalls, even in the midst of crisis; I noticed his out-of-the-ordinary appearance.

The large Arabic man turned to the young savior, “It was forty-seven dollars, without the tip,” in a flat, nonchalant voice.

“Without hesitation, he pulled out two twenties and a ten, placing the cash in the palm of the angry man.”

Speechless and still sobbing, I threw my body into the arms of overalls, proclaiming, “I don’t know how to thank you, oh my gosh, thank you, thank you. I’m so embarrassed, I don’t know what to do, give me your number and address, wait what is your name?”

Watching the drama unravel, the police officer ushered the pulsating crowd aside, gave the guy a pat on the back.

“My name is Matt. You’d better hurry if you want to make your train.” The guy in pinstripes said.
Not having any paper with me, I handed him the book I had been reading; begged him to write his address in the back, so I could compensate properly.”

As he scribbled his information on the last page, I gathered my belongings. I looked up at this man in pinstripes, so curious as to what persuaded him to do such a nice gesture?

Giving him one last, uninvited hug, I ran off into the autumn night. To the train terminal, I was determined to make it to Boston.

Settling into a warm booth in the economy section of the train, the man checking tickets began to wink at me, until he noticed my smudged eyes and tear-stained cheeks. He asked if I was okay. I nodded. I was desperate to crawl into a happy dream that didn’t include an angry taxi driver.

Before my sleepy brain could succumb to the gentle cadence; the hum of the train on the train tracks, I remembered Matt had written his information down. I fumbled to find my book; my puffy eyes fell onto the last page.

The words scrawled in black ink read, “It’s Karma. Good luck with your travels.”

Goosebumps quietly crawled against my shoulder and every hair on my arms stood erect. I had no way to reach this man, to thank him. A soft smile spread across my face realizing that Karma was in my hands. A situation would soon arise, a scene would soon unfold where I could hand it off to somebody else....