IRONY'S ugly cousin

Irony’s ugly cousin….

You’re 100 yards from the entrance of Starbucks when you spot a tall, masculine, seemingly gorgeous man reading a newspaper. Even though he is turned away from you, you notice a baseball hat and what appear to be glasses, which screams Wall Street Journal. All near-sighted people are geniuses. Even from this distance you recognize that laid-back look, sporting a button-down polo and khakis that frame a perfectly chiseled ass. Yes, you know the man I’m talking about… he is sans a wedding ring, and his smile illuminates sparkling white choppers. Now only fifty yards away, you silently squeal with delight because he hasn’t moved… A small thought, barely a thought at all…a mere possibility begins to bubble, maybe from the corner of one of his sparkling blue eyes he has spotted you and is gearing up for your arrival (he watched you climb out of your car). You’re checking your ponytail for stray wisps, applying lip glass and wrapping up your cell phone call, so you’ll be hands free when you ask for directions, even though you have the newest GPS system. For where? Hmm. You haven’t exactly decided… "May I have directions to your heart, or even better… can I mapquest your home?”

In less than a few seconds the fantasies include long embraces on the beach, your back is arched, (yoga classes have paid off), there is moonlight, there are waves crashing, oh yeah… there is the faint music of the orchestra from afar. He is whispering sweet nothings in a husky voice; no better… sweet something’s. into the nape of your neck, which double as soft kisses. You’ve forgone your insecurities in your ratty sweatpants because suddenly a few seconds of mystery has concocted an abstract, yet entirely plausible reality… people meet and fall in love all the time, all over the globe. Maybe it’s your turn to taste that succulent fate Hollywood and happy couples boast about... As you round the corner with anticipation, blushing about this soon-to-be salacious encounter.

And before you can gasp… this man, this undiscovered gem of a male specimen who you were so convinced was utterly perfect in every delectable way…is a freaking, lifeless, faceless, mannequin.

Yep. It’s the kind compliment you hear secondhand, that you soon discover was about the “other” Jennifer in the office.

Your boyfriend is watching you apply your makeup with admiration and focus… then you see ESPN in the mirror’s reflection.

The $1000 check on your desk with your name printed in large letters is actually an HR mistake.

After twelve concerts your heartthrob finally recognizes you and is staring into your eyes over his guitar strings. His girlfriend is standing directly behind you.

A beautiful pair of Calvin Klein pants easily zip around your waist, and when you check the tag, you notice it is a size 4, which is a sign from GOD you should own them. Then the saleswoman "happens" to mention it was mistagged and is really a size 6.


Three things happen:
1. You jump for joy.
2. Fall into a pit of rejected despair.
3. YOU FORGET that pre-mannequin, HR idiot and foggy mirror… not of the above mattered, because you didn’t know it existed.


So in a world where international news arrives in twitter updates, we gather local news from our friend’s facebook wall posts, and the Internet adult playground “2nd world” is causing real-world divorces, why the hell should we stop a few fantastical seconds from enhancing our life? Hell… in world driven by over stimulated and immediately validated populous, relish the moment when you believed the above were true, because I’m going to let you in on a little secret…

John Mayer sings, “There is no substitute for time.” And trust me…. Even my hard drive is collecting dust from photographs circa 2004. I’m not worried about the time we can’t get back… the seconds, the hours, and the years that calendars devour with a voracious appetite…. It isn’t that stuff that worries me… it is the emotions we cannot relive. For every sad moment, is a happy moment lost?

Chances, odds and every other indicator suggests that no, you will not win the lotto, but once in awhile your significant other will admire you while you’re not watching, or you’ll be given a bonus or meet your hubby at a coffee shop… don’t sell yourself short, enjoy the maybes…. But more importantly let them go. Don’t gauge your happiness on a letdown that wasn’t ever supposed to be. Am I suggesting you lie to yourself? Hell no… I’m just saying, live a little… enjoy the ride… and just because it isn’t true, in a moment or in a year… I mean let’s face it. Today your lover is alive, but tomorrow he could die in a motorcycle accident, doesn’t mean today doesn’t exist. Are you following my thinking here? For the pure moment you believed something to be real, your brain registered it as real. Now you know that you can’t cash that check, nor can you buy the same pants in a different color, but you can revel in the moment that it, however fleeting did exist.

Because this life belongs to only one person. That is you. These moments, the thoughts, the agonies, the blunders that shake us, delete perfect people who while have the best or worst of intentions shared in on “our” time… don’t let what ended up happening ruin what already has. I struggle with this, but I know that deep down this postulate holds true. I was at the gym and noticed this guy from my office who always manages to make me feel dumb. A few machines away I decided to show him who was boss... I pushed myself really hard… I know I’m shallow and competitive. An hour and 1000 calories later I turn around beet red, to prove something. But of course, it wasn't him. It was some poor stranger who was confused as to why he was getting my weird stares. But had I know that.... my workout wouldn’t have been as good….

I’m just saying those little triggers in life explain a lot about ourselves, so pay attention. And now… damn my calves look good. Sometimes it’s the mannequins, the placebos, and the leap years…

Dodging Destiny

I struggle to understand why the children, with their tattered clothes beg us to take pictures of them, with them… Sure, their innocent smiles warm even the most frigid of travelers, and similar to the American 7-year-olds, they have few missing teeth, but no tooth fairy in El Crucero, there aren't even pillows. Maybe they assumed we needed photographs to prove of our benevolent efforts; parade around our experience to get the kudos from Americans back home. But why would the innocent children jump for joy when pointing a lens their way. Another poster child of poverty perhaps. Maybe they subconsciously were aware that we were slowly collecting data, proof of their malnourishment, or maybe they just wanted to be remembered.

They knew if we, brought photos of them back home, posted to the internet and maybe to print for a hardcopy handout, that their faces wouldn't be forgotten, their existence not lost in the shuffle of the Nicaraguans who never see inside the outskirts of Managua.

But as their small fingers point in delight at their own image on the screen of the small digital camera, I realize it isn't about capturing a memory, it isn't even about their relationship with Americans. It is quite simple…. These children haven't seen their reflection before, they're seeing themselves for the first time. The children don't squabble, they share and play together peacefully. They don't have the luxury of crying or wanting or needing.

Inside the clinic I stand in the doorway watching the heavy rain pound the already muddy ground. Steam rises and the faint outline of the ocean is breathtaking. I'm holding a little girl about six-months old, rocking her back and forth, she flutters her chocolate brown eyes and I cannot help but kiss her soft jet-black hair. Her pink outfit is dirty and her feet are bare and my heart is breaking as I become gravely aware of the journey ahead of her. Until she is five or six she will play with the little boys, the other children, she will be hungry and sometimes sick, but she won't be cognizant of this hell. A few years later she might see a television with Dentine commercials and kids playing with brand-new toys. Hopefully she'll dodge incest, but she'll most likely become pregnant out of wedlock. She'll live on welfare, the welfare of a corrupt and crumbling government. She probably won't know how to read, and if so… it will be just enough to get by.

The genetic makeup of this little girl contains so many stories… is she the product of lovers or from abuse? Poor farmers or criminals maybe? The odds will work hard against her, and the chance of choice is one and a million, but until the vicious cycle generations before her, in this exact country, in this exact place begins again, she is pure, she is just another baby born into a confusing, chaotic, but often beautiful world. The rain has slowed and the butterflies dance in the fields not so far away. The little girl has woken up in the arms of a stranger, she coos, she is unafraid… I feel goosebumps because as a capable American I feel powerless, helpless… so I hold her tighter, knowing for at least a moment, I can protect her from her future.

When your eyes lock with another's for the first time… you absorb infinite amounts of information. The adults whose eyes reach my own all tell different stories. Some full of shame, others abundant of joy, some have found Jesus, others' haven't. It scares me to think that if I lived amongst this poverty if I could believe in a God. How can God exist in this pain, this hunger for the right to live. I was told this antecdote about a cabdriver. His wife who was eight months pregnant with his first child had an inoperable tumor in her left breast. It was malignant. She was going to die soon. They didn't know if it would be before or after the baby was born. This is normal here. THe pain and anguish is normal. And just as the children's feet harden against the jagged gravel, and their skin thick to the mosquitoes and their stomachs no longer growl, even when empty… Do their hearts harden after they've been worn thin since they were children?

The teenage girls are giggling and whispering in Spanish. We're tearing the rappers off of the hard candy and sitting on a large rock together. One is wearing leftover sneakers from the 90s, the second a ripped sundress and the third a jean skirt with a dirty Laker's shirt. They don't feel embarrassed. They don't look at my new khakis with jealousy, however they do take turns trying on my sunglasses and holding onto my hand, as though I were a blind person taking turns leading me around the grassed area. They point out cousins or friends and explain in foreign tongue, the El Crucero dialect, that even with my semi-impressive Latin background I fail to comprehend. They're not unhappy, but I cannot understand their minds…. their world is so small, it is comprised of fifty or so people they've known since birth, beautiful landscape and four walls covered by a tin roof.

All the thoughts that pass through my brain… the To Do lists, the worries, the angst, the memories of a perfect date, a delicious conversation with a parent, a lecture I attended that stimulated my braincells, and the thoughts comprised of all the education, travels and eccentric friends alike - media, literature, opinions…. my brain could never be emptied of rich and vibrant streams of various forms of consciousness. I'm not assuming their minds are blank, or their thoughts trivial, or they're unequipped since the day they were born.

At church later that night a Spanish pastor all of twenty-four utilized a theory on Space and somehow, metaphorically tied it back to God's love for us. It was so interesting because I had just purchased the latest "Science Today" monthly publication… the feature talked about how the galaxy could be potentially losing energy, something about light pigmentation and its transformation is none like we've seen. Sure I've memorized the order of the planets and have a rough understanding how the whole "star" thing works, but this pastor, who from this village and yes, by the will of God found some nice people to take him in, to help him out, to give him the confidence required to go after dreams….

He basically talked about what is important to us…. Ak: our values, problems, likes and dislikes… then showed us how big we are in compared to the 300,000,000 star galaxy that the milky way is puzzled into… and then used that to explain the unbounded love that God has for us, and then Sarah jumped in to finish up his message. An American from Kansas, she arrived with the Peace Corps to teach Spanish several years ago. She fell in love with a native and since they live in a home and between teaching and schooling and feeding the poor, she tutors people like this pastor. She explained relativity, and even though we might feel insignificant in comparison to Saturn's suns, our problems and the size of our problems never change… and that stuck with me, and all of the attendees from El Crucero. Seated around me were people who had never walked fifty miles beyond this place, and yet they synthesized and understood that they are small compared to the stars, but their problems are still big to them. And even though my problems and my worries are so different from theirs, and maybe insignificant in comparison, they're still my own and I cannot change that.

And then I didn't feel so bad.














7/4/2010 ...

July 3rd, 7pm.
The sun has just set and the haze from the volcanic ashes make the few stars that much more enchanting. There are eight American children standing in a makeshift church in the outskirts of Managua, Nicagura; surrounding them are several dozen children from the small town of El Crucero. An observer can easily separate these children into two groups by the color of skin, the language they sing and their quality of their clothing, albeit these differences, there is something that all of these children share in common, a dedication to make the streets of El Crucero safer, healthier and a more promising place. That, and their love for the Lord.

This isn't the type of church that includes a Sunday school and a choir, there is no crowded parking lot and brunch at the Pancake House afterwards. A small dirt road will carry you thirty minutes into the mountainous terrain of El Crucero, the lush hillsides are misleading, with a population of only several thousand people, the poverty is fierce. A town running twenty kilometers long has less than a handful of homes with running water. This is the second poorest country on earth, and this is its poorest town. This is the stuff you find on the Discovery Channel.

The Trip:
Between the hurricane in Houston and a faulty engine at DIA, the fact we arrived last night is a miracle in itself. Two vans took Sean and Laura Tonner with kiddos Regan and Hunter in two, Then there is family number two; Sara and Jamie Hendren with kiddos Taylor, (along with her friend Jen), Abby, Jaelyn and Ellie… and cousin Ryan from Dallas. Then there are those from Phaseline, who have as much commitment to this project as the Tonners; Monica Owens, Liz Ryan, Jess Leyba and then there is a journalist, Ak: moi. For most on the trip, this is a familiar airport, they hug the van drivers hello, and for several on the trip this country, and the people are foreign… We lug the duffel bags into the motel, with its simple layout and picnic tables outside, we're eager to crawl into a bed, hopefully not an infested one. However, two of the girls (age 10) discovered a worm in their bunk… again, this is no first class accommodation. We're here as a group to provide medical care and hopefully some infrastructure in a struggling community. That said, these kids know that their idea of work is a few hours during a summer vacation, the kids that we'll see tomorrow morning live in an unending summer where school isn't an option and while some work for a meager penance, many go to sleep in dirty beds, unfed, some with fevers, and many don't know their parents and many will become parents far too soon from when they're ready.

While the photographs depict paradise, I've realized this is anything but….

So, I'm a journalist. I was brought on this trip after editing an article about The Project in El Crucero last summer for Denver Magazine, and since I've been intrigued, albeit the tragedy in Haiti, the sores in Nicaragua didn't occur over night, but have worn through the corruption, the poverty has withheld a civil war and the Red Cross handouts, but for some reason this village doesn't seem hopeless. So not in an attempt to save the world, but rather to quench some curiosity I packed my bags and my bug spray and prepared myself for the unknown.

The Day:
At The Clinic: Inside the small square building there is exposed brick and cement, and not the type people pay half a million for lofts in Lower Downtown…. and there were holes in the ceiling, a toilet that needed to be replaced, measurements and moldy dry wall to be torn down. But Sean, Jamie, Ryan, Taylor, Abby and Regan went after it and accomplished more than they planned. With some of the children of El Crucero helping carry the bits and pieces out to the trash, today they're rebuilding one of the walls.

At the Feeding Center: It took no time at all for Hunter to find his friends, many of the children whom stare at us, the white Americans with confusion… but when they see Hunter's open arms and kind eyes, they rush to him to play soccer and to have fun. The small children, the little girls and boys, those who needed laps to sit on, and hair to be played with, took quite a liking to Monica, Liz and Jess. I hung back with the teenage girls who took turns trying on my sunglasses. They devoured the rice and beans with hungry tummies and packed away more in plastic baggies to bring back to mothers and fathers.

Back At Church: After showering and putting on fresh clothes we all made our way back to the small town of El Crucero where we were greeted with Spanish music, a kid on a keyboard and another on the drums made harmonious music that yes, was quite Christian, but I'd be a liar to say it didn't entice me to dance some salsa. The elders held our hands and greeted us with the most grateful gestures as we left the small building, a square building put together by bricks I don't think we've felt closer to God.

As the day closed and we put the last of the cheese and pepperoni pizzas in our mouth there was a sense of peace and serenity. Far away from the bustle and stress of our day-to-day To Do lists, the highways and the car pools, the conference calls and deadlines, we're glad. But never for a moment are we not grateful that we can return to the chaos and the safety that is the United States. So as we embark on a 4th of July in the poorest country in Central America, and nearly the world…. we're never prouder to be Americans.

Is falling in love an American luxury?

In America we're blessed with deodorant and toothpaste, regular showers, and time to lollygag, and tenderly stare into each others eyes… Generally we're not worried if we'll be stopped at gunpoint, or a harmless influenza strain will kill us…. In America we fight over the remote control, and when it comes to food should get Mexican or Indian, or takeout… Generally, our lifestyles afford us the luxury to flirt, to tempt to allure, and ultimately manufacture the dream. The 2.7 children and homemade dinners and years of memories created inside a safe, white picket fence. Is this a product of necessity, no? But rather, amour? No…. we get to enjoy the luxury of choice.

It's 2:23 PM. I'm on a plane. I'm flying six-hours south of Denver, beyond the American boundaries, cell phone service, and entering a country where my tax dollars don't help anyone… Chances are that the couple my age in El Crucero is mid-twenties is trying to feed five kids… they're both undereducated and malnourished, they live in one-bedroom and have rotting teeth? Can they afford to fall in love?

I'm seated in the exit row, so I have plenty of foot room. It's a full flight. There are teachers, school teachers, engineers, mostly caucasians sipping on Coca Cola and eating muffins, I'm surrounded by the typical Americans. Most of them speak English, most of them have ridden on airplane before, I assume they've all seen Larry King Live… I can't help but ask, who will be the people to cross my path tonight.

I've been told as soon as I step off the plane to remove my jewelry and makeup. It will 100 degrees plus, it will be dusty and the streets smell like urine. I'm unprepared for the parentless children, there are those who are really sick, too sick to be saved. Those who steal, those who without choice, thanks to an unfair upbringing, are soulless.

But I'm most afraid, when I look into the eyes of a child who has never known her father, an old man who has never experienced hope, or a mother who has bore the children; from a rape…. Sure, there are the exceptions, those who slipped through the poverty and while still starving, survived. When I look into the eyes of these people, I'm terrified. Who will I see?

The Discovery Channel, the stories on Dateline, the anecdotes church goers bring back to dinner tables… I guess this is a "mission" trip, but what exactly is the mission? To bring America to Nicaragua, or bring some Nicaragua reality back home? Sure, i guess i've had a little experience. There was the summer spent in Brazil when I was sixteen. There were monkeys, ironically our long-lost cousins? Ha. The snakes and the cheerful songs of toucans that float amid the plush canopies of rain forest; foliage that supplied ample photographs…. vibrant flowers, the petals large and fragrant. And sure, there was poverty, but it was veiled under the mysticism of the tropics, the tribal traditions, and so…. it wasn't as tragic as I could fathom.

Demographics cut us into neatly organized boxes, where we can via identify hair color, religion and socioeconomic bracket. And somehow we calculate how much a person deserves. Whether that be from a fiscal standpoint or reverse discrimination. A chunk of America survives on our tax dollars and our empathy. But today i'm reaching outside consumerism and general hospitals, shopping malls and fast food, embarking outside the definable lines where my salary no longer gets to help people. The people in the poorest rural areas of Central America subsist on trash and handouts, the Christians and NGOs can offer… these people aren't even aware of pop culture and MTV and all the desires that catapult American's into that "dream", but we shouldn't be in denial that it is often these same things that are to blame for the eating disorders and the phobias and occasionally endorse the antidepressants. In an American spectrum where consumerism and comparison and competitiveness are capitalistic verbs, the drivers of our lives, what have we gained? But more importantly, when it comes to capitalism, what have we lost?

The ability to be human, perhaps?

Sure… they're helpless in many senses, but the photographs of the barefoot children depict something I don't notice when I flip through the Facebook photos, where my friends are shining in bright dressing, sharing steak and vacations to Europe. In America, we pull our children away from video games and TV in hopes they'll learn the required arithmetic; it is inarguable that children in third world countries are eager to learn, albeit an existence beyond the chains of poverty, is and that will always be a mirage. But, beyond the crime an the senseless acts of violence, you can find an unfamiliar life, one where the women have to support each other, the men spend days in the fields providing for their families….they don't have access to Advil, let alone antidepressants. Maybe survival levels the playing field, an existence void of standard and expectations, maybe it's simply simplicity.

Is this a first class guilt trip in which I've volunteered?

It is 4:30 PM. The plane is in a holding pattern because of the hurricane in South Texas. The pilot over the loudspeaker has alerted us that we will be late. The travelers are grumbling, without access to cell phone and email, they cannot reach their family and friends; some are annoyed that they'll now face the monster of holiday traffic, or the nuisance of rerouting flights. I get it. Spending an extra hour squished next to a bunch of strangers isn't my idea of a desirable Friday afternoon. But as I sip out of my Aquefina bottle and my manicured hand reaches for the valve to twist open the air conditioning, I immediately feel the stream of cold air. A small pleasure in the midst of designer clothes and new shoes…. my body is still human.

I don't look down at these fellow Americans whose feathers are ruffled because our Continental flight is taking longer than expected. The pilot cannot change the weather, the flight attendants can't appease every crying baby. Are we spoiled in our lavish lives, or are we deserving of our hard-earned efforts? I don't have any answers. Only many questions. What equalizes human? Is it the five senses… taste buds met with spices? Our bodies touched delicately, or maybe hearing the sound of enchanting music? Our bodies experience pain, heat, frighteningly cold air. I know some bodies are built for different conditions, but are all of hearts built the same?

As I shut down my new Apple laptop, I close my eyes… and I whisper a very selfish prayer. Not that I can help these starving kids, or sick babies, or orphans… Not even that I can offer them a helping hand or a glimmer of hope. I already know there isn't much hope. They're destitute and ill and uneducated and I don't know what a few days and a few Americans can do to change that, at least for the long term anyway.

These people don't have passports, they don't get to runaway… I get to go back to my world with healthcare and limitless opportunity, safe streets and delicious food and intellectual banter, and yes…. choice. And I guess I pray that I don't feel too guilty afterwards.

Happy Hour

A waitress in a cocktail dress sets a steaming pepperoni pizza in front of three women, two are wearing sneakers and sweatpants, and the third is touting a dainty black dress with three inch nude heels. Retelling escapes from the workday, they’re clinking glasses; watching the rain through the large glass windows. Twenty-something and thirty-something’s are perched flirtatiously, the restaurant is crowded with that desired chaos; suits and sundresses are recovering from a hectic workweek…. The three think they're alone....

Until a familiar button down waltzes by..... Watching this man carefully, they expect him to join the group of routy guys shouting at the TV, but he walks past the men, snaking through the mess of people, he makes his way to a blond women. She is wearing straw sandals and not much makeup.

And before I can turn to my friend, my own heart sinks… but before she can force a smile, she closes her eyes for a brief moment. I reach for her hand, but she recoils; her entire body is in a freeze frame, because a nightmare just came true. She stares at the scene unfolding, straight from a 90210 episode with awe…. Almost as if she had been waiting for the moment it would all unravel… for the moment she could prove it was all wrong.

The man who walked by the three of us, the man whose eyes are locked with a complete stranger is the same man who was whispering sweet nothings not but 72 hours before. To her. In his bed. His back is turned toward us; he has no clue that we’ve has spotted him. The blond woman’s body is leaning toward him, she tilts her head back in laughter, and her recently conditioned locks sway in perfect feminity. And I’m pretty sure all three of us are going to vomit.

Why? I could go on and on, rehashing stories similar to this with vivid detail, the untold and still secret stories that could rip apart colorfully designed futures packed full of diapers and engagement rings. And yes, do I like the fact that men and women go around crushing each other’s hearts without second thought? Heavens No… but I’m no idiot to matters of the heart. And for once I ask myself… why can’t we just go around the world and be honest with each other… about our intentions, our objectives, agendas, whatever motivates us in life… but it hit me last week, before we can be honest with each other, we must overcome the challenge of being honest with ourselves. Often I see people with baggage – oh all sorts, designer, second hand, some light and others’ in desperate need of therapy running all over town into the arms of somebody new every night. They justify this romping with the hope of locating, “the one”. With great confusion and utter despair they believe unearthing the ying to their yang will solve all their problems. But it isn’t two halves that make a perfect pair… people need to be whole before they can give half of themselves (and their baggage) to anyone else.

But oh, it is so much easier said then done… to saunter into a first date with blown dry hair and a sexy grin and a few witty lines? Then, it’s easy to imagine perfection. Whenever a student walks into a class - they all have A’s, but we’re tested. Then arrives the trials and tribulations – accept or deny, pick up the phone or hit ignore, and finally arrives the “vulnerable”. The discovering of the messy vehicle, whistling in the shower, an addiction to ice cream. Oh.. The months that you tiptoe into the bathroom and tinkle quietly because God forbid he find out you’re human.

Let me tell you… there is nothing worse than standing at Nordstrom, in front of a full-length mirror, the kind with bright overhead lights, completely naked… why? It exposed every detail, flaw, scar or scratch…. And isn’t it so much more fun to dress in body-friendly threads? So often, I think that I’d prefer to hide under the covers, but wouldn’t it be sooo liberating to be completely accepted? Ass and all?

And not that my dear friend failed to accept…. we all knew a nasty secret…. She did something far worse… far more fatal than not risking it all for what appears to have lasting potential…. She knew, deep down that he wasn’t right to begin with – sure he was about 90% okay…. He was attractive, successful, considerate, and funny… but he was missing that 10% critical ingredient, the ache. That ache when you want someone so much that you don’t want anyone else.

She always left one eye open for another male specimen.. Could it have worked out? Maybe… Should she have left him alone without barraging him with interrogating questions? Should there have inherently been more trust? Or rather, was the 10% missing the breach of trust to begin with? When we know something is wrong, or more importantly not right, do we go out of our way to locate the 10% in no man’s land… do we try to conjure it up? So we bridge the missing ache with babies and prenumps?

I don’t have any answers…. Only a suggestion. This is coming from a woman who is a hopeless pragmatic and a diehard romantic…. Wrapped up in a commitment phobe’s frame of mind. Try to ditch the to do lists and resumes prerequisites and be honest with yourself. And most often you’ll realize that this next date, the next dinner, the next whatever isn’t’ going to suddenly mold into amazing… the rule of holes, stop digging. People need to give up when they want to be in something so badly… and it simply, won’t fit.

But then there are the times that you push it away… too afraid that maybe; there isn’t a real reason to fake it. And maybe sometimes if you’re honest with yourself, and honest with the other person, after you’ve endured the ice cream and the messy vehicles, the late night banter and the confusing details of our pasts that really make no difference at all, You realize that you’re not fighting for something to suddenly happen, waiting for the moment to trip across them at a bar, flirting with someone else, and make you feel like dirt… you’re not spending months making that 10% “right”…

You realize that you’ve been waiting to make sure that that 10% was never wrong after all.

You Write?

Like drool. Vowels and consonants slip off my tongue splattering on the page. I love it.

His blue eyes are glistening like polished glass, reflecting a youthful energy. A small man with a hunchback and a khaki beret is sitting at a corner table. He can’t be younger than 75. Sipping on his coffee, he is devouring the sophisticated dialogue around him with a blue felt pen and a black leather notebook. He blends into the Tuesday afternoon, he is invisible.

A romance writer in a wheel chair, or a war veteran scripting anthologies about peace, we’re telepathic. Unassuming, we tuck our vernacular in our back pocket and hide behind laptops and headphones. Just another nobody flittering away on a keyboard. But any real writer will recognize when they’ve crossed paths with another.

I watch his wrinkled hand dance across the lined paper, and without hesitation he flips the page. For a moment he lifts his brow and glances at me, acknowledging my presence, before he quickly returns to his scribbling.

Sure, some say that photographs capture a moment, and they do. But words seize emotions and detail, time is imprisoned in a snow globe. Words can be carried across oceans and centuries and languages. From a parent to a child, a leader to his country, a lover to a lover…

Chances are his words will be found in a dusty cardboard box by a nephew and tossed in a garbage bin. But maybe in a hundred years, his journals will be discovered by an aspiring poet and studied in high school English classes.

That is the beauty of words leftover, they allow strangers to climb inside of the pages and experience life from the eyes of Anne Frank’s attic, or a psychologist’s study on biometrics, or the dungeons of Harry Potter. Sometimes great stories can manipulate us into believing our boring lives are boring. Sometimes they inspire us to do great things.

I hate to stereotype (okay, I don’t hate it so much), but TV personalities, musical artists, chefs, whomever… those creative personalities tend to be predictable. But writers, this is why I love to meet writers, they arrive in all shapes and sizes and demographics. Writers are unpredictable.

What is that single quality, which has united writers? Is it narcissism perhaps? The joy we experience when rereading a perfectly constructed sentence? I once assumed it a curiosity; a need to contemplate or analyze, obsessed with solutions and enigmas. But throughout my contemplation I haven’t an answer…. While all writers succumb to the universal, unequivocal, equalizing sport, and our identity is veiled behind semi-colons and imprints. There are no real rules and all is fair game.

I used to believe that I wrote purely for the intent of my content being read. MY content was specifically designed to cater to the woman running on a treadmill with Attention Deficit Disorder. I’d consolidate quotes and minimize statistics; I abandoned color, leaving stories lifeless.

Staring at the hardcover books collecting dust on my bookshelf, I attach a feeling to each title… Even though these books haven’t been touched in years, their guts still make me shudder… I close the pages disturbed or enlightened.

The Internet and blogs are riddled with political dribble; it’s temporary, so transient. Sure, stamp a date on history. But do all these opinions (which I’m equally guilty of imploding) tug on our emotions like tweezers to a stubborn hair follicle? No, we extract a decent catch phrase, but we’re still unaffected. We forget.

Good books don’t condemn or congratulate humanity, but rather examine it carefully. Writing that ignores the brain and instead penetrates the heart is an endangered species. Amazon is bleeding paperbacks with authorial entitlement, outlined with clear and concise arguments – handpicked to coincide with movie releases. But the litanies that trump movies and songs and other art forms aren’t written in a hope to change the world.

These books are simple. They’re just stories about life.

Alone: Joan Didion picks apart the meaning of her husband’s death, and life with honesty.
Denial: F. Scott Fitzgerald reveals the power of denial through pitiful and heartless characters.
Exploitation: Truman Capote investigates his own experiences and destroys relationships to give the world disturbing and exciting stories.
Forgiveness: William Styron created Sophie’s Choice, explicating describes how a mother could logically face her most terrifying fear.
Acceptance: Jean-Dominique Bauby built the The Diving Bell and The Butterfly one blink at a time. He left the world with the thoughts he no longer could say.

I know… I’m selfish. I’m not a super hero, or a starving orphan. What about the tale tailored for the American girl, who is faced with normalcy? Trust me: I'm plagued by safety and education.... I'm spoiled with pop culture's reassurance that I'm executing that "twenty-something" dream.

But, when all is said and done, after my flu shots and vacations and I’ve fallen exhausted into my duvet, I cannot hear quiet…

I’m ravenous, still starving for more. And then I'm reminded that I'm just one of millions... When in the middle of the night I'm stirring and restless and cannot locate stillness with an ambien and a red glass of wine, I put pen to paper and empty the blank pages until my hand aches and I can think of nothing more...

Unlike real estate or accounting or artistry, I realize there is something all writers share.

Writers are hunters. The world is a forest and a plot is the prey and the bullet is our final sentence.

Throughout the centuries and countries and languages I understand that writers are nothing more than nomads. We struggle through unnecessary terrain and question things that have long since been answered. We're stubborn and prideful. But we love, and we love hard.

The old man slowly stands up and tucks his leather journal under his arm. With his watercolor eyes he glances my way, and tips the brim of his hat. I do not know where it is he is from, or where he is going, as I watch him wander away.