The first friend to introduce me to the pleasures of IM also hooked up webcams to each of our computers before she left the country, so we could see each other -- me here, she halfway around the world -- while we chatted. It was odd to see her pixelated face drifting in and out of motion, sometimes frozen, sometimes expressive, as we talked.
More recently, at the office where I work, my colleagues and I conduct a regular series of dilaogues via IM, as we schedule meetings, share work, and alert one another to stories, websites, or other resources that can help us do our jobs better.
Inside gmail, the email offering from Google that I switched to once I realized I would be leaving the familiar .edu domain at Stanford last year, a number of disconcerting but riveting features have recently become visible. First, gmail scans the words in your messages and dynamically offers links (which companies have purchased) to sites that might have products or services you might be presumed to be attracted to.
In my case, I seem to attract gmail's entire resource list of sites with links titled: "Breaking up?" or "Nursing a broken heart?" or, more bluntly, "Need couples counseling?"
The much more powerful feature gmail provides is the green/orange/gray dot that appears next to the name of other gmail people you are in frequent communication with. When the dot is gray, your friend is offline; when it is orange, (s)he has been online but is inactive; when it is green (s)he is there right now, online and available.
Google has also added a line to the bottom of each email message as you compose it suggesting you can chat with this person just by clicking on this link.
Now, all of this is fine with our normal networks of friends and colleagues and family members; it's nice to see who may be around, and sometimes it makes sense to start a chat, rather than the somewhat slower and less intimate option of regular email.
So, back to the green dot. I have so far invited only one person to join gmail (that's how it works, you have to be invited to get an account.) As she got ready to leave here, and move to Biloxi, she opened up her gmail account, I think in response to my invitation.
Once she got her gmail account, we both unwittingly suddenly had the ability to "see" each other whenever we became available online. At first, I found this disconcerting. In my work, I have to be online most of the time, and gmail is one of the windows I normally keep open on my laptop. Seeing her suddenly appear made my heart flutter, and my hopes rise. If she was online, maybe she would contact me?
The answer, usually, was no. So watching the green dot was not a very satisfying experience for me, though at least I knew she was alive.
Sometimes, however, one of us would prompt the other, and a "chat" would begin. These were chances for us to talk less instantaneously than on the phone but more intimately than on email. It is therefore a new channel, one where the possibility for misunderstanding is high, but also one where each party has at least the chance to use her writing voice, instead of his talking voice. Both people have to be willing to connect in new ways.
We have had some meaningful chats, where we discussed subjects that for whatever reason did not emerge in our face to face talks or in regular email, like jealousy and possessiveness. And she expressed her enduring love directly for me in ways that I never heard from her in person. So from this experience alone, I can attest that chat represents a powerful new way for lovers to connect, disconnect, or possibly reconnect.
I hope her green dot always flickers on, out there in cyberspace; and hope still for the day that our two dots might merge, metaphorically at least. My proposal remains on the table, until one of us tells the other that someone new has administered our relationship its death blow. In that case, our dots will have no choice but to turn permanently gray, spinning away from each other in the vast emptiness of space, never to connect again.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Friday, June 02, 2006
Listen to your heart
People who write for a living, as well as others who want to write, often have asked me for advice. This is probably, like most of life's opportunities, best seen as a function of mathematics.
I just happened to have been born in the second year of the Baby Boom, near the leading edge of a generation that encountered a world in serious need of massive social change -- so we went about the process of forging that change the best we could.
When we are fortunate enough to live in revolutionary times, artists and writers gain influence that, in more somber periods of history, confine us to the margins of society. Maybe a better way to put this, is we are always confined to the margins, for good reason, because whatever it is we have to say, if we are being honest and true to ourselves, is likely to upset the status quo.
So I know that the reason people ask me how to find their writing voice is that I am older than they are, but still of this specific demographic herd born between 1946-1964, and therefore not of the former culture -- the one we collectively rebelled against and rejected.
Meanwhile, whether you are the one asking for help or giving it, any exchange has elements of mutuality, of course. The bigger joy, I believe is giving, but receiving has its moment as well, and learning to receive good advice is an art form of its own.
The same things I am saying about creative efforts can be said of love. I have only fully loved within the confines of my generation, the Baby Boom, as my three great loves differed in age from me by a mathematically pure formula-- 0.8,16. The pattern will be obnoxious to some, as a confirmation of gender inequality, but I bet my mates would beg to differ.
Now, there have been other lovers, as well, and in order to calculate how they fit into this formula I would need a more sophisticated algorithm than is ever going to be employed here. But this piece is not about me, nor my history, it is about the connection between art and love for all of us.
Listen to your heart -- easy to say, hard to do. Also the title of a cheesy popular song. But all too often we live in a strictly cerebral or a strictly physical way. Think about it. We use our brains to make logical decisions, and our bodies to get into all kinds of trouble. But, our hearts, home to the emotions, may be the truest guide to the next step we ought to take.
I don't want to get silly here, but before you say goodbye to someone, listen to your heart. Before you try to tell your story anywhere, in any form, listen to your heart. Write from the heart, from what you feel, and you will never be mistaken.
Living that way, however, carries risks. Living from your heart exposes you to terrible pain, and it is not always possible to recover. In this way, life is like a story, but one without a happy ending.
Romantic stories, my favorites, rely on the narratives of our hearts and their entanglements, and are therefore generally recognized in literature for what they are -- tragedies, not fairy tales. Fairy tales end happily ever after. Love does not necessarily turn out that way. Love can more often end in loneliness, alienation, sadness, anger, confusion, silence.
The saddest of all outcomes,I say, is when your lover tells you that you have taught her that "love is not a fairy tale" just as she is choosing to leave you, therefore taking this lesson away with her, and leaving in its place her lesson for you -- that love is a terrible tragedy, one that ends utterly without hope or any reason to go on at all.
I just happened to have been born in the second year of the Baby Boom, near the leading edge of a generation that encountered a world in serious need of massive social change -- so we went about the process of forging that change the best we could.
When we are fortunate enough to live in revolutionary times, artists and writers gain influence that, in more somber periods of history, confine us to the margins of society. Maybe a better way to put this, is we are always confined to the margins, for good reason, because whatever it is we have to say, if we are being honest and true to ourselves, is likely to upset the status quo.
So I know that the reason people ask me how to find their writing voice is that I am older than they are, but still of this specific demographic herd born between 1946-1964, and therefore not of the former culture -- the one we collectively rebelled against and rejected.
Meanwhile, whether you are the one asking for help or giving it, any exchange has elements of mutuality, of course. The bigger joy, I believe is giving, but receiving has its moment as well, and learning to receive good advice is an art form of its own.
The same things I am saying about creative efforts can be said of love. I have only fully loved within the confines of my generation, the Baby Boom, as my three great loves differed in age from me by a mathematically pure formula-- 0.8,16. The pattern will be obnoxious to some, as a confirmation of gender inequality, but I bet my mates would beg to differ.
Now, there have been other lovers, as well, and in order to calculate how they fit into this formula I would need a more sophisticated algorithm than is ever going to be employed here. But this piece is not about me, nor my history, it is about the connection between art and love for all of us.
Listen to your heart -- easy to say, hard to do. Also the title of a cheesy popular song. But all too often we live in a strictly cerebral or a strictly physical way. Think about it. We use our brains to make logical decisions, and our bodies to get into all kinds of trouble. But, our hearts, home to the emotions, may be the truest guide to the next step we ought to take.
I don't want to get silly here, but before you say goodbye to someone, listen to your heart. Before you try to tell your story anywhere, in any form, listen to your heart. Write from the heart, from what you feel, and you will never be mistaken.
Living that way, however, carries risks. Living from your heart exposes you to terrible pain, and it is not always possible to recover. In this way, life is like a story, but one without a happy ending.
Romantic stories, my favorites, rely on the narratives of our hearts and their entanglements, and are therefore generally recognized in literature for what they are -- tragedies, not fairy tales. Fairy tales end happily ever after. Love does not necessarily turn out that way. Love can more often end in loneliness, alienation, sadness, anger, confusion, silence.
The saddest of all outcomes,I say, is when your lover tells you that you have taught her that "love is not a fairy tale" just as she is choosing to leave you, therefore taking this lesson away with her, and leaving in its place her lesson for you -- that love is a terrible tragedy, one that ends utterly without hope or any reason to go on at all.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Love on Warm Nights, or Cold
So, I grew up in Michigan, near the shores of the Great Lakes, where fierce winter winds whip down across the Great Canadian Steppe, pushing the falling snow sideways until it hits an obstacle -- a fence, a line of trees, a car, a house. More than once in my childhood, we woke up to find a snow drift so high it blocked our door to get outside, so my Dad and I had to hack our way through the snow until we could tunnel our way free, then knock enough of the white mountain down so we might rejoin the world, as it were, i.e., go to school/work.
No wonder my fantasies have always and only been about the tropics.
But, given my place of origin, my first experiences of love were about the warmth two people can generate together against the cold that surrounds them, just outside their car or apartment window. It's cozy and very nice.
On the other hand, I have traveled all around the world, including to tropical and semi-tropical venues on many continents. Making love in the tropics is an entirely different feeling than it is way up north. Fans and ice and air conditioning cool down the sweat that forms all over your body when you join forces with nature to drive your local temperature higher than would otherwise be tolerable.
Outside love-making, not an option in a snowstorm, is exciting in the warm regions, except for mosquitos, sand flies and the like. Still, the comfortably warm waters of the nearby sea, and a cool night breeze, welcome lovers on empty beaches wherever the equator is near enough to give them the opportunity to mate under the moon (or the sun).
Tonight, I am thinking about the many warm regions and all of the love I have known there. One of life's pleasures, for a man, is seeing women where clothes become thinner, smaller, sexier, and much more revealing. There is no denying that hot places create conditions where hot women become hot sights for horny men.
After all, it's much harder to get turned on by someone wrapped in 10 layers of fur and bent against a fiendishly cutting wind -- or maybe I underestimate the visual imagination of Eskimoes. If so, sorry.
I'm not sure where I am going with this. Oh yes. I love helping women shop for clothes, and always have. But not winter clothes. Summer clothes. In this way, like many men, I am excited at seeing what we really want to see from the women around us.
That's it. Watching and appreciating and imagining.
Except, when you remember that, in reality, it is not you now, but other men, who are having these visual gifts presented to them. Then, an inconsolable sadness sets in. They see what you cannot see. They can do what you cannot do -- make the approach, utter the compliment, begin the seduction.
Maybe you have to have grown up in Michigan or a similar place to fully appreciate what I am saying. There is a pain that only those far away, in the cold, or far away in any climate from the one we truly love, feel. Other men may watch her, the way she moves, the way her clothes sway, the way her hair swings, the way the air around her parts to let an Angel pass. These men have what you do not have: the opportunity to tell her just how beautiful she is -- what every woman (and every man) who has ever lived needs to hear. She, of course, will respond, as she must, given the natural order of things.
I know all that.
But I also believe that no one can utter the words of magic that I would say if I were there, as her witness, making warm nights much hotter than they otherwise ever could be with her new loves.Yet, lost as I am, only to imagine the view of others, leaves me as a blind man, groping in the dark for a touch that never will come, at least not from there.
All is silent again tonight, as it is every night, from the southern coast. Here, however, it is a warm San Francisco night. The streets are crowded with men and women, not needing our usual jackets or coats at all. So here, for once, the visual landscape is rich with beauty.
I think I will go out for my nightly walk.
No wonder my fantasies have always and only been about the tropics.
But, given my place of origin, my first experiences of love were about the warmth two people can generate together against the cold that surrounds them, just outside their car or apartment window. It's cozy and very nice.
On the other hand, I have traveled all around the world, including to tropical and semi-tropical venues on many continents. Making love in the tropics is an entirely different feeling than it is way up north. Fans and ice and air conditioning cool down the sweat that forms all over your body when you join forces with nature to drive your local temperature higher than would otherwise be tolerable.
Outside love-making, not an option in a snowstorm, is exciting in the warm regions, except for mosquitos, sand flies and the like. Still, the comfortably warm waters of the nearby sea, and a cool night breeze, welcome lovers on empty beaches wherever the equator is near enough to give them the opportunity to mate under the moon (or the sun).
Tonight, I am thinking about the many warm regions and all of the love I have known there. One of life's pleasures, for a man, is seeing women where clothes become thinner, smaller, sexier, and much more revealing. There is no denying that hot places create conditions where hot women become hot sights for horny men.
After all, it's much harder to get turned on by someone wrapped in 10 layers of fur and bent against a fiendishly cutting wind -- or maybe I underestimate the visual imagination of Eskimoes. If so, sorry.
I'm not sure where I am going with this. Oh yes. I love helping women shop for clothes, and always have. But not winter clothes. Summer clothes. In this way, like many men, I am excited at seeing what we really want to see from the women around us.
That's it. Watching and appreciating and imagining.
Except, when you remember that, in reality, it is not you now, but other men, who are having these visual gifts presented to them. Then, an inconsolable sadness sets in. They see what you cannot see. They can do what you cannot do -- make the approach, utter the compliment, begin the seduction.
Maybe you have to have grown up in Michigan or a similar place to fully appreciate what I am saying. There is a pain that only those far away, in the cold, or far away in any climate from the one we truly love, feel. Other men may watch her, the way she moves, the way her clothes sway, the way her hair swings, the way the air around her parts to let an Angel pass. These men have what you do not have: the opportunity to tell her just how beautiful she is -- what every woman (and every man) who has ever lived needs to hear. She, of course, will respond, as she must, given the natural order of things.
I know all that.
But I also believe that no one can utter the words of magic that I would say if I were there, as her witness, making warm nights much hotter than they otherwise ever could be with her new loves.Yet, lost as I am, only to imagine the view of others, leaves me as a blind man, groping in the dark for a touch that never will come, at least not from there.
All is silent again tonight, as it is every night, from the southern coast. Here, however, it is a warm San Francisco night. The streets are crowded with men and women, not needing our usual jackets or coats at all. So here, for once, the visual landscape is rich with beauty.
I think I will go out for my nightly walk.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
If Friendship Should Die
I'm not sure what the definition of friendship should be in this era of constant change and confusion. There seems to be a certain churn of people in our lives; they come and go, people break up and move away, change jobs, disappear, stop calling. Companies fail. The relentless economic pressures most people face keep us feeling like we are running on a treadmill, from which there may be no escape. The faster we run, we see that we are only further behind where we think we need to be.
Loneliness and alienation are the common disease of modern urban American life. Most of us have enough resources to stay within the walls of our private spaces, listen to our own music, imbibe our chosen poisons, and isolate from our neighbors and the many strangers living nearby. Our families are often widely dispersed, barely available to us most of the time.
Into this odd lifestyle, and it is odd, given human history, comes the modern concept of friendship. I want to talk about only one flavor of friendship here -- the male-female variety.
I know many people who do not believe men and women can be friends. They think they can only be lovers or have no real relationship at all. I realize that for decades I have fought against this restriction, trying to create friendships with many women, and many of these relationships remain, despite all of the entropy referenced above.
Yet, it's also true that sexual tension has undermined some of these friendships. Sometimes we confronted the line and pulled back; sometimes we crossed it, and fell apart. There appears to be no difference now in who has remained a friend and who has disappeared from me, however.
If friendship means anything at all, it has to be based on trust. That probably has always been true, reaching way back to our origins. You have to feel safe to be friends. Most of us work hard to earn the trust of those we want to be friends with. We try not to hurt them or do anything to betray their trust. When we make mistakes, we try to repair the damage.
At your very lowest moments in this life, when you really need someone to turn to, whom do you call? Maybe that is the truest test of who your friends are. If they are of the opposite sex, given all the cultural baggage (and likely biological baggage as well), you may well have an exceptionally special friend, right?
Or maybe you have a potential lover or a love lost, where somehow you've both accepted that the time was not right, is not right, or may never be right.
The saddest aspect of all of this, in my view, is when the "perfect storm" of friendship and love engulf two people (and here, same-sex couples are as vulnerable as heterosexuals), yet for reasons of timing and where they are in life they have to separate and try to "move on."
Moving on. I don't know it is possible, really. Everybody says time helps. I doubt that. Time may mask the pain, change the circumstances, introduce new factors into the equation. Often as not, new people arrive, which may be nice all the way around, if you are of the opinion that all change is good.
But to deny that something uniquely special has been lost in the process is to ignore that every relationship is uniquely special. Couples confide their true histories to each other and in this way they become custodians of each other's story. Somehow we have to learn to grieve when a couple goes down, partly because two more stories may well end up lost to our common history. Yes, there may be a new day, at least for the more resilent one in that couple, but this is also a time of certain death for what they had collectively. There also is the possibility that one or both of them will not recover. I don't think when a death of this type occurs any celebration is in order -- in this way I object to the modern notion of a funeral or any other kind of ceremony faking happiness when none in fact is to be found.
When my relationships die I always cry. Always alone.
Today I sat alone in my car and cried.
Loneliness and alienation are the common disease of modern urban American life. Most of us have enough resources to stay within the walls of our private spaces, listen to our own music, imbibe our chosen poisons, and isolate from our neighbors and the many strangers living nearby. Our families are often widely dispersed, barely available to us most of the time.
Into this odd lifestyle, and it is odd, given human history, comes the modern concept of friendship. I want to talk about only one flavor of friendship here -- the male-female variety.
I know many people who do not believe men and women can be friends. They think they can only be lovers or have no real relationship at all. I realize that for decades I have fought against this restriction, trying to create friendships with many women, and many of these relationships remain, despite all of the entropy referenced above.
Yet, it's also true that sexual tension has undermined some of these friendships. Sometimes we confronted the line and pulled back; sometimes we crossed it, and fell apart. There appears to be no difference now in who has remained a friend and who has disappeared from me, however.
If friendship means anything at all, it has to be based on trust. That probably has always been true, reaching way back to our origins. You have to feel safe to be friends. Most of us work hard to earn the trust of those we want to be friends with. We try not to hurt them or do anything to betray their trust. When we make mistakes, we try to repair the damage.
At your very lowest moments in this life, when you really need someone to turn to, whom do you call? Maybe that is the truest test of who your friends are. If they are of the opposite sex, given all the cultural baggage (and likely biological baggage as well), you may well have an exceptionally special friend, right?
Or maybe you have a potential lover or a love lost, where somehow you've both accepted that the time was not right, is not right, or may never be right.
The saddest aspect of all of this, in my view, is when the "perfect storm" of friendship and love engulf two people (and here, same-sex couples are as vulnerable as heterosexuals), yet for reasons of timing and where they are in life they have to separate and try to "move on."
Moving on. I don't know it is possible, really. Everybody says time helps. I doubt that. Time may mask the pain, change the circumstances, introduce new factors into the equation. Often as not, new people arrive, which may be nice all the way around, if you are of the opinion that all change is good.
But to deny that something uniquely special has been lost in the process is to ignore that every relationship is uniquely special. Couples confide their true histories to each other and in this way they become custodians of each other's story. Somehow we have to learn to grieve when a couple goes down, partly because two more stories may well end up lost to our common history. Yes, there may be a new day, at least for the more resilent one in that couple, but this is also a time of certain death for what they had collectively. There also is the possibility that one or both of them will not recover. I don't think when a death of this type occurs any celebration is in order -- in this way I object to the modern notion of a funeral or any other kind of ceremony faking happiness when none in fact is to be found.
When my relationships die I always cry. Always alone.
Today I sat alone in my car and cried.
Gulf Coast Update
Two of the people in East Biloxi who suffered huge losses in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, as described in Salon last December, "Everything is Broken," -- http://www.salon.com/news/feature/2005/12/13/biloxi/print.html -- were named Cora Reddix and Lee Smith.
Today, I found out the good news that they are both reportedly in line to have their homes rebuilt. Apparently, an anonymous donor has given money to help rebuild the houses of some of those the system (FEMA, the insurance companies, local authorities) has forgotten.
These stories might never have been told, except for the efforts of an angel described earlier in this blog. Now, another angel, has given money to help them and others in similar straits.
There is a lot wrong with America, especially when it comes to questions of class and race. But one thing that is very right is the generous spirit of those willing to help others in desperate need -- like the volunteers and donors who have come to the rescue of this small Mississippi community that lies in ruins.
Today, I found out the good news that they are both reportedly in line to have their homes rebuilt. Apparently, an anonymous donor has given money to help rebuild the houses of some of those the system (FEMA, the insurance companies, local authorities) has forgotten.
These stories might never have been told, except for the efforts of an angel described earlier in this blog. Now, another angel, has given money to help them and others in similar straits.
There is a lot wrong with America, especially when it comes to questions of class and race. But one thing that is very right is the generous spirit of those willing to help others in desperate need -- like the volunteers and donors who have come to the rescue of this small Mississippi community that lies in ruins.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Moving On
I remember my father's advice about women from many years ago in the form of a cliche: "There are many fish in the sea." He loved cliches, but since I never listened to either of my parents about my choices for mates; nor for that matter to anyone else, any wisdom he may have had to offer fell on deaf ears (this apple can still fall close to its tree.)
Women, as we all know, are nurturing, sensitive, and emotionally giving. Men, by contrast, are selfish, ego-driven, and mainly interested in sex and power, not to mention cars, guns, beer, sports, gambling, and other sordid stuff. Women love clothes, gossip, intimacy, family, home, cooking and children. They are loyal and trusting, rarely betray their partners, and often are the last to know when they have been betrayed.
Men, however, tend to be domineering, controlling, secretive, and easily convinced to stray. A certain field of science holds says men are driven biologically to spread their seed widely, while women seek the comfort and stability of a mate with sufficient resources to raise their children in this still hazardous world.
Women are exhibitionists; men are voyeurs.
When you start to think about it, the cliches are endless; the conventional wisdom suffocating. I don't know that my life experiences have anything at all to add to the pile of crap that we have inherited from our culture, but I have questions. What good are all these lovely fish, and I do see that they are lovely, to the broken-hearted? Are you supposed to wait and see what the tide brings in?
That's called treading water. If you do that, try not to drown in the process...
Women, as we all know, are nurturing, sensitive, and emotionally giving. Men, by contrast, are selfish, ego-driven, and mainly interested in sex and power, not to mention cars, guns, beer, sports, gambling, and other sordid stuff. Women love clothes, gossip, intimacy, family, home, cooking and children. They are loyal and trusting, rarely betray their partners, and often are the last to know when they have been betrayed.
Men, however, tend to be domineering, controlling, secretive, and easily convinced to stray. A certain field of science holds says men are driven biologically to spread their seed widely, while women seek the comfort and stability of a mate with sufficient resources to raise their children in this still hazardous world.
Women are exhibitionists; men are voyeurs.
When you start to think about it, the cliches are endless; the conventional wisdom suffocating. I don't know that my life experiences have anything at all to add to the pile of crap that we have inherited from our culture, but I have questions. What good are all these lovely fish, and I do see that they are lovely, to the broken-hearted? Are you supposed to wait and see what the tide brings in?
That's called treading water. If you do that, try not to drown in the process...
Monday, May 29, 2006
The best part of life
This blog has been a long, mournful search for meaning in the wake of a painful breakup. I'm sorry that no resolution is in sight. The pain remains, but I must now move on to other subjects.
Today, in the sunshine that bathed San Francisco, I played with three of my children. They are beautiful beyond belief. Every moment with them in special, as it has always been with my older three, as well.
The outcome of two of my loves are these six special people. My eldest turns 30 tomorrow and is a talented writer. Her sister, 27, has a degree in cognitive science and is an activist. My oldest son, now 24, is entering Cal Tech in neuroscience this September.
The three with me today are my 11-year-old athlete who says he wants to be a doctor; my ten-year-old with curly red hair who says he will be a movie director; and my seven-year-old daughter who says she will be an artist or a writer, she's not quite sure.
The youngest felt she was slow at reading last fall, but no longer. She read me a number of books today, including sounding out vocabulary words that not long ago were far beyond her. She and I love cooking meals together and planting flowers. Last night, we went to a movie, "Over the Hedge."
The little boys and their friend played baseball today with me in the sun, and then basketball, lots of basketball. We finished our last game of the day with a tie, 19-19.
I am alone, without love from any adult partner, nor is anyone even interested in me on that level, as far as I know. But I have six people whose love for me is reliable, unlike that from the former partners who vanish on the wind, leaving only pain and loss in their wake.
Today, in the sunshine that bathed San Francisco, I played with three of my children. They are beautiful beyond belief. Every moment with them in special, as it has always been with my older three, as well.
The outcome of two of my loves are these six special people. My eldest turns 30 tomorrow and is a talented writer. Her sister, 27, has a degree in cognitive science and is an activist. My oldest son, now 24, is entering Cal Tech in neuroscience this September.
The three with me today are my 11-year-old athlete who says he wants to be a doctor; my ten-year-old with curly red hair who says he will be a movie director; and my seven-year-old daughter who says she will be an artist or a writer, she's not quite sure.
The youngest felt she was slow at reading last fall, but no longer. She read me a number of books today, including sounding out vocabulary words that not long ago were far beyond her. She and I love cooking meals together and planting flowers. Last night, we went to a movie, "Over the Hedge."
The little boys and their friend played baseball today with me in the sun, and then basketball, lots of basketball. We finished our last game of the day with a tie, 19-19.
I am alone, without love from any adult partner, nor is anyone even interested in me on that level, as far as I know. But I have six people whose love for me is reliable, unlike that from the former partners who vanish on the wind, leaving only pain and loss in their wake.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
All along the coast
The first time I visited the Gulf Coast, we drove over to Mobile, Alabama, and had some great seafood, including oysters, and stayed in the hotel where I drafted my article. The second visit, we stayed out in Pascagoula, Mississippi. And then, closer, in Gulfport. And, of course, our last night on my first visit we slept in Biloxi itself, inside her tent.
These, then, were the four towns where our southern nights were spent together. I went there to get her out of her daily routine. Her colleagues loved her, but worried about her, and said to me privately, "She's burned out, and really needs to get away and have some fun."
Not a problem. Because we definitely always knew how to have our fun. We also always were back, early the next day, so she could continue her work. I went out into East Biloxi with her. She sought out the most hopeless cases, people who did not have the necessary proof that they were bonafide residents when Katrina hit, the ones Fema, Red Cross, et. al., wouldn't authorize for aid.
These were the people she found and helped. Somehow, almost miraculously, she got them all trailers from Fema -- homes for them to start to rebuild their shattered lives.
An Angel, that is what they called her. And they blessed her over and over, not knowing she is a secular Jewish girl, cynical about religion and about God. But they were right -- she was an Angel.
***
I've always only fallen deeply in love with women who have a passion for political change. My first wife and I covered the Sanitation Worker's marches in Memphis, Tennessee, when we were still college students, and traveled on down through Mississippi to New Orleans, meeting with other activists and journalists along the way. We didn't even realize at the time we would be witnesses to the violent end of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s non-violent civil right movement, but we were.
My second wife and I covered the tragedy of banana workers in Central America who had been rendered sterile by a banned pesticide exported and applied there by American multinational companies. We were witnesses to one aspect of the great global environmental crisis that now, in various ways, threatens life on earth.
My sweet, now long lost, girlfriend and I covered the devastation of Biloxi together. It was really her story I wrote for Salon, though she never saw it that way. I told the place through her eyes, met her clients, unwrapped their stories. She had such a clear view of what had happened and what it all meant that my only real role was to be a scribe.
All three of these lovely women are activists and artists. I will never stop loving any of them, nor the passion they bring to their work in this world. The first two I married, and my children have resulted from those two loves.
The third does not believe in marriage, does not want children, and so rejected my proposal for just last month, though she does still wear my ring.
Others may well love her, and have her close to them, after me, and probably will. But I am the only and the first man to have proposed to her. As she well knows, my proposal remains open, on the table. It is not yet too late for us. True love only comes along every so often in this life.
But it may also be true that our nights together in Mobile, Pascagoula, Gulfport and Biloxi did not ultimately convince her that my love is great enough to follow her there, or anywhere, at any cost. We could be a couple, even so far apart, as we were indeed for three long months last winter. But, she has chosen to leave me this time, with no promises at all to return. In fact the opposite: As she said, confirming my fears, "after all, it's Mississippi," i.e., a place where romantic intrigue, post-Katrina, creates many options for a woman like her, so my only job now, according to her, is to let her go.
My other great loves also vanished, over time. They have moved on. This seems to be life's one immutable lesson -- live, love, and lose -- first love and then life itself. If you can just love enough to let go, do so. Because everything special eventually will be lost, anyway. You will be left only with your memories, your photos, your letters, your stories.
And, at the very end, only our stories. However you are able to tell them. Here, I struggle, holding on to a love story against all odds. Soon, I must let it go. Is this, truly, what she wants?
These, then, were the four towns where our southern nights were spent together. I went there to get her out of her daily routine. Her colleagues loved her, but worried about her, and said to me privately, "She's burned out, and really needs to get away and have some fun."
Not a problem. Because we definitely always knew how to have our fun. We also always were back, early the next day, so she could continue her work. I went out into East Biloxi with her. She sought out the most hopeless cases, people who did not have the necessary proof that they were bonafide residents when Katrina hit, the ones Fema, Red Cross, et. al., wouldn't authorize for aid.
These were the people she found and helped. Somehow, almost miraculously, she got them all trailers from Fema -- homes for them to start to rebuild their shattered lives.
An Angel, that is what they called her. And they blessed her over and over, not knowing she is a secular Jewish girl, cynical about religion and about God. But they were right -- she was an Angel.
***
I've always only fallen deeply in love with women who have a passion for political change. My first wife and I covered the Sanitation Worker's marches in Memphis, Tennessee, when we were still college students, and traveled on down through Mississippi to New Orleans, meeting with other activists and journalists along the way. We didn't even realize at the time we would be witnesses to the violent end of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s non-violent civil right movement, but we were.
My second wife and I covered the tragedy of banana workers in Central America who had been rendered sterile by a banned pesticide exported and applied there by American multinational companies. We were witnesses to one aspect of the great global environmental crisis that now, in various ways, threatens life on earth.
My sweet, now long lost, girlfriend and I covered the devastation of Biloxi together. It was really her story I wrote for Salon, though she never saw it that way. I told the place through her eyes, met her clients, unwrapped their stories. She had such a clear view of what had happened and what it all meant that my only real role was to be a scribe.
All three of these lovely women are activists and artists. I will never stop loving any of them, nor the passion they bring to their work in this world. The first two I married, and my children have resulted from those two loves.
The third does not believe in marriage, does not want children, and so rejected my proposal for just last month, though she does still wear my ring.
Others may well love her, and have her close to them, after me, and probably will. But I am the only and the first man to have proposed to her. As she well knows, my proposal remains open, on the table. It is not yet too late for us. True love only comes along every so often in this life.
But it may also be true that our nights together in Mobile, Pascagoula, Gulfport and Biloxi did not ultimately convince her that my love is great enough to follow her there, or anywhere, at any cost. We could be a couple, even so far apart, as we were indeed for three long months last winter. But, she has chosen to leave me this time, with no promises at all to return. In fact the opposite: As she said, confirming my fears, "after all, it's Mississippi," i.e., a place where romantic intrigue, post-Katrina, creates many options for a woman like her, so my only job now, according to her, is to let her go.
My other great loves also vanished, over time. They have moved on. This seems to be life's one immutable lesson -- live, love, and lose -- first love and then life itself. If you can just love enough to let go, do so. Because everything special eventually will be lost, anyway. You will be left only with your memories, your photos, your letters, your stories.
And, at the very end, only our stories. However you are able to tell them. Here, I struggle, holding on to a love story against all odds. Soon, I must let it go. Is this, truly, what she wants?
All is foolishness
I've spent a lifetime hearing songs that warn that "only fools fall in love," and so forth; but until recently I always said I hadn't regretted anything I had done in that department. Better having been a fool, I thought, than to not have taken the chance to love someone special. But, as my agony now increases to the point where I feel frozen in place, emotionally, slowly an anger is building inside me.
Who am I angry at? Myself. For being so very foolish, and ignoring all the evidence against pursuing a relationship when the other remained ambivalent. For not protecting myself (and my family) better at the impact losing her has had on my ability to be as strong in the world as I once was.
She pursues freedom and excitement, perhaps even happiness, fulfillment. I'm the one left behind, abandoned, betrayed, forgotten. My life often feels like it has been shattered. My voice, as I pour it out onto these pages, is completely ignored by the one it is most intended for.
Bitter treatment, but only what's due to a man who has been a fool one too many times.
Listen to the music.
Who am I angry at? Myself. For being so very foolish, and ignoring all the evidence against pursuing a relationship when the other remained ambivalent. For not protecting myself (and my family) better at the impact losing her has had on my ability to be as strong in the world as I once was.
She pursues freedom and excitement, perhaps even happiness, fulfillment. I'm the one left behind, abandoned, betrayed, forgotten. My life often feels like it has been shattered. My voice, as I pour it out onto these pages, is completely ignored by the one it is most intended for.
Bitter treatment, but only what's due to a man who has been a fool one too many times.
Listen to the music.
Baseball, continued
From behind home plate in the Giants' stadium today, I saw Barry Bonds pass Babe Ruth by hitting his 715th career homerun. As luck would have it, I was also present for #s 700, 660, and 600 in years past. I don't go to many games. Last year, I took a bunch of my kids and my girlfriend to a game the Giants won. I grew up a Detroit Tigers fan, but converted to the Giants as my kids grew up here in San Francisco. When my oldest daughter was 8, the Tigers went to the World Series, and she carefully drew me a scoresheet to use as I watched them play on TV. I hope I still have that somewhere. It's her 30th birthday in a couple days. This year, is the first time since 1984 that the Tigers may be serious contenders to return to the World Series. I'm not so sure about the Giants' chnaces; nor about Bonds' to catch Hank Aaron's career HR record (755).
Baseball, numbers, family, statistics, history, love. All mixed up. Here in the Mission District, the sounds of Carnival are winding down as night approaches. Everyone is staggering home, drinking and eating. The loudspeakers still echo over the rooftops. The smell of barbecue smoke hangs on the westerly breeze. It's hot today. Traffic is awful in this area.
I feel a strange calm. I can feel that my lovely shooting star is slipping further away from me. Silences. Distance. Changes. Gaps. Secrets. Leaving me behind, never to return. Forgotten, left to fend for myself. So it's baseball, numbers, family, and writing for me now.
The Giants lost that game today. Meanwhile, I'm losing something much bigger than any game -- my hope.
Baseball, numbers, family, statistics, history, love. All mixed up. Here in the Mission District, the sounds of Carnival are winding down as night approaches. Everyone is staggering home, drinking and eating. The loudspeakers still echo over the rooftops. The smell of barbecue smoke hangs on the westerly breeze. It's hot today. Traffic is awful in this area.
I feel a strange calm. I can feel that my lovely shooting star is slipping further away from me. Silences. Distance. Changes. Gaps. Secrets. Leaving me behind, never to return. Forgotten, left to fend for myself. So it's baseball, numbers, family, and writing for me now.
The Giants lost that game today. Meanwhile, I'm losing something much bigger than any game -- my hope.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)