It's a beautiful morning (Es una mañana hermosa)

What’s not to love about this? Sitting in the morning sun, with The New York Times, Peet’s coffee, absorbing the loving messages that sometimes arrive from those I love, and who love me back.

There is also the sweet softness of my tiny companion, watching a Mickey Mouse cartoon while I write this. Every now and then Mickey and his friends seem to break into some sort of dance. When this happens, she pops up, marching in place, twirling around, shaking her booty…if I snapped her picture it might make her self-conscious.

In the wake of a painful loss, we sometimes become dangerously self-absorbed, even selfish. It can suddenly be hard to see beyond our shadows. This is becoming a vast nation of single people, more living alone than in couples or families.

Many times, in this blog, I fear I’ve become overly self-absorbed, but I hope that is only a stage. My wish is to transform myself and my writing into that of a person more engaged in giving back whatever I can to those who have accompanied me on this journey by reading my words, and sometimes reflecting them back to me.

In the rest of the world, many cluster as extended families in large compounds, where the rhythms of life operate in a continue cycle of birth, death, and new birth. The sounds of children laughing are complimented by the lower voices of old women gossiping as they prepare the food.

My house has been a bit like that this summer, with so many people coming and going, courtesy of my own large extended family. The other night, I asked my new neighbor whether all the chaos here has bothered her at all. She said no, she’s enjoyed it actually, and explained to me she has recently returned from a long stay in Third World villages, where people were flabbergasted that she had no husband, no children, not even a companion with her. They imagined she must be sad.

She wasn’t.

I’ve been considering why it is that so many of us live alone now, much of our lives. Is it because we have to, or we want to, or because we can? At the same time, we spend a lot of effort trying to connect, too.

My sweet J, down in Biloxi, chose to be alone, as opposed to staying here with me. But she doesn’t live alone. She’s in a large communal space with more than a hundred other volunteers, with few chances for privacy. The sweet oppressiveness of male sweat hangs in the air, from all the young men working there to help rebuild the Gulf Coast.

She’s a very independent woman in her 40s, among all of these 20-somethings. Maybe she’s sort of adopted them as the children she has never had. (She’d kick me for saying that.) If so, I hope they listen to her.

Because what is going on with these volunteers is not, in the immediate instance, about the Self. It’s about giving support to people whose lives have been devastated. Mass depression is such that is was not an isolated incident this week when a New Orleans photographer was stopped police for erratic driving and then begged police to shoot him, and put him out of his misery.

Young volunteers get confused, however, by MTV coverage that makes their time there appear to be Spring Break Plus. There’s a time and a place to party, and a way to party, but right now, along the Gulf Coast, partying is not a reason for being there. It’s not the time to get drunk, sneak off to the Water Tower, adding your trash to an already thoroughly trashed community.

The irony for these volunteers is, in the end, it will change them, hopefully in profound ways, to have devoted even a small amount of their time to others in need.

The nature of parties in the U.S. all too often is a celebration of nihilism, devoid of meaning. Possibly in response, many of us have learned all too well to have a party of one, behind locked doors, isolated but momentarily happy that way.

There’s another kind of party. It happens after we’ve engaged in our communities, helped in all the ways we can, and connect with a new awareness of how interdependent we all actually are. We are not islands but bridges. Those parties can be the best ones of all.

***

¿Cuál no es amar sobre esto? Sentándose en el sol de la mañana, con los tiempos de Nueva York, café de Peet, absorbiendo los mensajes cariñosos que llegan a veces de ésos amor de I, y que me aman detrás.

Hay también la suavidad dulce de mi compañero minúsculo, mirando una historieta del ratón de Mickey mientras que escribo esto. Cada ahora y entonces Mickey y sus amigos se parecen romperse en una cierta clase de danza. Cuando sucede esto, ella hace estallar para arriba, marchando en el lugar, girando alrededor, sacudariendo su booty… si encajé a presión su cuadro que puede ser que la haga tímida.

Como consecuencia de una pérdida dolorosa, hacemos a veces peligroso de auto-absorción, incluso egoísta. Puede repentinamente ser duro ver más allá de nuestras sombras. Ésta se está convirtiendo en una nación extensa de la sola gente, de más vida solamente que en pares o de familias.

Muchas veces, en este blog, temo que haya hecho excesivamente de auto-absorción, pero espero que es solamente una etapa. Mi deseo es transformarse y mi escritura en la de una persona contratada más a dar detrás lo que yo poder a los que me han acompañado en este viaje leyendo mis palabras, y a veces reflejándolas de nuevo a mí.

En el resto del mundo, muchos arraciman como familias extendidas en los compuestos grandes, donde los ritmos de la vida funcionan en un ciclo de la continuación del nacimiento, de la muerte, y del nuevo nacimiento. Los sonidos de reír de los niños son felicitados por las voces más bajas de las viejas mujeres que chismean mientras que preparan el alimento.

Mi casa ha sido un pedacito como ese este verano, con tan mucha gente que venía y yendo, cortesía de mi propia familia extendida grande. La otra noche, pregunté a mi nuevo vecino si todo el caos aquí la ha incomodado en todos. Ella no dicho, ella ha gozado de él realmente, y explicado a mí ella ha vuelto recientemente de una estancia larga en aldeas del tercer mundo, donde estaba la gente flabbergasted que ella no tenía ningún marido, ningunos niños, para no igualar a un compañero con ella. Se imaginaban que ella debe ser triste.

Ella no era.

He estado considerando porqué es que tan muchos de nosotros solo vivo ahora, mucha de nuestras vidas. ¿Es porque nosotros tienen que, o deseamos a, o porque podemos? Al mismo tiempo, pasamos los muchos de esfuerzo que intentan conectar, también.

Mi J dulce, abajo en Biloxi, eligió estar solo, en comparación con permanecer aquí con mí. Pero ella no vive solamente. Ella está en un espacio comunal grande con más que cientos otros voluntarios, con pocas ocasiones para la aislamiento. La opresión dulce del sudor del varón cuelga en el aire, de todos los hombres jóvenes que trabajan allí para ayudar a reconstruir la costa del golfo.

Ella es una mujer muy independiente en su 40s, entre todos estos 20 somethings. Ella es quizá clase de adoptado os como los niños que ella nunca ha tenido. (Ella me golpearía con el pie para decir eso.) si es así espero escuchan ella.

Porque qué se está encendiendo con estos voluntarios no está, en el caso inmediato, sobre el uno mismo. Está sobre dar la ayuda a la gente que se han devastado vidas. La depresión total es tal que no estaba es un incidente aislado esta semana cuando un fotógrafo de New Orleans era policía parado para conducir errático y policía entonces pedido para tirarte, y ponerlo de su miseria.

Los voluntarios jóvenes consiguen confusos, sin embargo, por la cobertura de MTV más la cual hace que su tiempo allí aparece ser rotura del resorte. Hay una época y un lugar al partido, y una manera al partido, pero ahora, a lo largo de la costa del golfo, el partying no es una razón de estar allí. No es la época de bajar borracho, chivato a la torre del agua, agregando tu basura a trashed ya a fondo a comunidad.

La ironía para éstos se ofrece voluntariamente es, en el extremo, él los cambiará, esperanzadamente de maneras profundas, para haber dedicado incluso una cantidad pequeña de su tiempo a otras en necesidad.

La naturaleza de partidos en los E.E.U.U. toda es demasiado a menudo una celebración del nihilism, desprovista del significado. Posiblemente en respuesta, muchos de nosotros han aprendido todos demasiado bien para tener un partido de uno, detrás de las puertas bloqueadas, aisladas pero momentáneamente felices esa manera.

Hay otra clase de partido. Sucede después de que hayamos enganchado a nuestras comunidades, ayudadas de todas las maneras nos poder, y conectemos con un nuevo conocimiento de cómo es interdependiente todos estamos realmente. Somos no islas sino puentes. Esos partidos pueden ser los mejores de todos.

Pity the poor commuter (Pity a viajero pobre)

Driving along Valencia Street this morning, I saw one of my favorite signs in a storefront: "Unique Weddings." I remember proposing to J one time that we go in and ask whether they could help us stage an "Unwedding," since that is the only type she was up for.

Tooling down the highway, I passed a Mini with one of the best bumper stickers ever: "Actual Size." If you are an every-day commuter, you have to grab whatever visual pleasure you can from the grim surroundings of Highway 101.

Each morning I look forward to finding out which vectors the jumbo jets flying in and out of SFO are taking. There are certain cars I seem to see day after day, like the orange mini driven by a pretty Asian girl. She gets on 101 South at the same exit I do and gets off to park in the same lot as I do. We've never met, and perhaps never will, but I find her presence in the traffic flow oddly comforting, maybe because it feels like proof I really am there.

This is an issue because sometimes I have been so distracted that I arrive at work with a scary realization I have no idea how I've gotten there. Every move I made was on autopilot.

Commuting is addictively harmful.

A friend from Japan told me that some people hate their jobs so much that they get on the commute train and travel in the opposite direction from where their office is located. She said she had a boss like this once, a very nice man, who hated his job and just couldn't force himself to get off the train at his proper exit. He'd either keep going, or get off and ride back in the other direction, for hours, before finally giving in, like iron shavings to a magnet, and allowing himself to be drawn into the office.

She said she then started doing the same thing as her boss. Getting off the train at her office stop, climbing back into a train going the other direction. She said she would take it all the way to the sea.

Commuters are like prisoners. We tend to follow the unwritten rules of the road after a while. We never do "road rage." Motorcyclists are another breed. Twice in the past few months, I've seen motorcycle riders duel their way through slow traffic, flailing their arms at each other, engaging in some sort of angry dispute.

There is no traveling involved in your commute. It is all done by rote. Travel is a different experience. I met a woman who quit her job, broke up with her husband, and traveled for a year -- six months in Central and South America, and six months in India. As I listened to her stories, I noticed how her eyes sparkled and her hands danced through the air with excitement.

By contrast, when I asked her about being back in the States, pulling her old life together in new ways, she slumped a bit in her chair, her eyes became worried, her hands returned to the glass she was sipping red wine from. The migration between moods touched me deeply. I wanted to hug her and assure her everything would be okay.

But she presents herself as a very funny person, easy-going and open, and she pretended she was as carefree about living in America again as she was backpacking around southern India.

I don't think so, though. People's vulnerabilities only come out when they trust you. She probably doesn't know me well enough yet to be vulnerable.

Talking with her, I remembered how much I love to travel. Right now my restlessness is at a peak. it's summer and everyone is traveling here and there, including all of my kids. I face some periods of being entirely alone for a change. For all the right and wrong reasons both, I haven't taken a vacation in over a year. I haven't even known where to go or what to do. I stopped dreaming about that.

One of my friends at work told me today she hopes I take a break soon. I didn't realize it was that obvious, the shape I am in. I thought I could hide it better.

Maybe the week after next I will take a break, just for a few days, and drive somewhere out on the open road. I don't know yet; I'm waiting for the right signals. But at least I've started dreaming again.

-30-

Pity a viajero pobre

Conduciendo a lo largo de la calle de Valencia esta mañana, vi una de mis muestras preferidas en un storefront: “Bodas únicas.” Recuerdo proponer a J una vez que entramos y preguntamos si podrían ayudarnos a efectuar un “Unwedding,” desde entonces que sea el único tipo que ella estaba para arriba para.

Fileteando abajo de la carretera, pasé un mini con una de las mejores etiquetas engomadas de parachoques siempre: “Tamaño real.” Si eres un viajero diario, tienes que asir cualquier placer visual puedes de los alrededores severos de la carretera 101.

Cada mañana miro adelante a descubrir que vectors los Jumbos que vuelan dentro y fuera de SFO esté tomando. Hay ciertos coches que me parezco ver día tras día, como el mini anaranjado conducida por una muchacha asiática bonita. Ella consigue en 101 del sur en la misma salida que hago y baja parquear en la misma porción que lo hago. Nunca quizás nunca hemos satisfecho, y voluntad, pero encuentro su presencia en la circulación que conforta extrañamente, quizá porque me siente como prueba realmente allí.

Esto es una edición porque he estado a veces así que distraído que llego el trabajo con una realización asustadiza que no tengo ninguna idea cómo he conseguido allí. Cada movimiento que hice estaba en el piloto automático.

El conmutar es addictively dañoso.

Un amigo de Japón me dijo que alguna gente odie sus trabajos tanto que ella consigue en el tren y el recorrido del conmutar en la dirección opuesta de donde se localiza su oficina. Ella dijo que ella tenía un jefe como esto una vez, un hombre muy agradable, que odió su trabajo y apenas no podría forzarse para conseguir del tren en su salida apropiada. Él o guardaría el ir, o bajar y montar detrás en la otra dirección, por horas, antes finalmente de dar adentro, como virutas del hierro a un imán, y a permitirse que sea dibujado dentro de la oficina.

Ella dijo que ella entonces comenzó a hacer la misma cosa que su jefe. Consiguiendo del tren en su parada de la oficina, subiendo nuevamente dentro de un tren que va la otra dirección. Ella dijo que ella la llevaría hasta el final el mar.

Los viajeros son como presos. Tendemos para seguir las reglas no escritas del camino un poco después. Nunca “rabia del camino.” Los motoristas son otra casta. Dos veces en el pasado pocos meses, he visto duelo de los jinetes de la motocicleta su manera con tráfico lento, flailing sus brazos en uno a, enganchando a una cierta clase de conflicto enojado.

No hay el viajar implicado en tu conmuta. Se hace todo de memoria. El recorrido es una diversa experiencia. Satisfice a mujer que paró su trabajo, se rompió para arriba con su marido, y viajó por un año -- seis meses en central y Suramérica, y seis meses en la India. Mientras que escuché sus historias, noté cómo ella los ojos chispeó y ella las manos bailadas a través del aire con el entusiasmo.

Por el contrario, cuando te pregunté acerca de ser trasero en los estados, tirando de su vieja vida junta de nuevas maneras, ella cayó un pedacito en su silla, que ella los ojos se preocuparon, ella las manos vueltas al cristal ella sipping el vino rojo de. La migración entre los humores me tocó profundamente. Deseé abrazarla y asegurar su todo sería aceptable.

Pero ella se presenta pues una persona muy divertida, tolerante y se abre, y ella la fingió era tan despreocupada sobre vivir en América otra vez como ella backpacking alrededor de la India meridional.

No pienso así pues, sin embargo. Las vulnerabilidades de la gente salen solamente cuando te confían en. Ella no me conoce bastante bien con todo es probablemente vulnerable.

Hablando con ella, recordé cuánto amo viajar. Ahora mi restlessness está en un pico. es verano y cada uno está viajando aquí y allí, incluyendo todos mis cabritos. Hago frente a algunos períodos de estar enteramente solo para un cambio. Por todas las razones derechas e incorrectas ambas, no he tomado vacaciones adentro sobre un año. Incluso no he sabido adónde ir o lo que a hacer. Paré el soñar sobre eso.

Uno de mis amigos en el trabajo me dijo ella espere hoy que tome una rotura pronto. No realicé que era ésa obvia, la forma que soy pulg. Pensé que podría ocultarlo mejor.

Quizá la semana después de que tome después una rotura, apenas por algunos días, y conduzca en alguna parte hacia fuera en el camino abierto. No sé todavía; Estoy esperando las señales derechas. Pero por lo menos he comenzado soñar otra vez.

Ambiguities (Ambigüedades)

The problem as well as the potential of blogging day after night and night after day in this manner is I am working out my feelings in real time. And the danger is I may say things that feel true one moment, only to discover that they no longer are in the moment that follows.

What is certain is that I remain out of control, emotionally. All too vulnerable to wild mood swings. I find myself apologizing to people over and over -- is no one else like this?

Suddenly, I get scared. I make bold pronoucements, only to realize they don't represent how I actually feel. On this blog, that yields a 1.1 correction.

It doesn't help matters that I have an over-active imagination. But that's my fate.

Have you tried Google Earth yet? An amazing piece of software, where you feel like you are flying over a valley in Lebanon or Afghanistan or Japan -- or along the Gulf Coast of Mississippi. As you zoom in on a site, courtesy of satellite photography, you suddenly see so many details, like tents out back of a church, and cars in a parking lot, including a small white car with a black roof...

How strange is this new age where technology presents us with just enough information to help us feel connected when in reality we are apparently quite badly disconnected?

Or is that just my frustration speaking?

Tonight, I am very confused. I fear I have over spoken in many ways lately; even worse, I may have over acted, as I confessed in a phone call earlier tonight. I'm not at all sure what is going on with me. My behavior day to day and night to night is erratic enough as to require many corrections, it seems.

Enough about me. Here are the results of a national poll about attitudes re: the state of Katrina recovery efforts:

National Katrina Poll
The Kaiser Family Foundation conducted a national poll that was released today on the nation's attitudes towards Hurricane Katrina, the aftermath and the status of New Orleans in general.

The full PDF can be viewed by following this link, otherwise here are some of the results:

• How often do you think about Hurricane Katrina and the aftermath?

* Very often: 20%
* Somewhat Often: 40%
* Not Too Often: 29%
* Not At All: 11%
* Don't Know: 1%

• Do you think that by now, most people affected by Hurricane Katrina have gotten the help they need with housing, health care, and restoring their lives, or do you think that most people affected by the hurricane have NOT gotten the help they need?

* Most have NOT gotten the help that they need: 70%
* Most have gotten the help that they need: 23%
* Don't know: 7%

• Do you think that the state and local governments in the areas affected by Hurricane Katrina have gotten the help they need from the federal government to restore services and infrastructure, or do you think the federal government has NOT done enough to help state and local governments in the affected areas?

* The Federal Government has NOT done enough to help: 56%
* State & Local Governments have gotten the help they need: 30%
* Don't know: 15%

• Now thinking specifically about New Orleans, which of the following do you think best describes the situation in New Orleans today?

* The city is still in crisis and not functioning well: 30%
* There is still major work to be done to get the city up and running: 52%
* There is some work to be done, but most people are back to their normal lives: 11%
* Things are back to normal: 2%
* Don't know: 5%

***

I don't know about you, but I find these numbers comforting. Most Americans seem to understand that government officials are dissembling when they pose for photo ops somewhere along the ruined Southern coast.

-30-


Viernes 11 de agosto de 2006
Ambigüedades

El problema así como el potencial de blogging día después de la noche y noche después del día de este modo es yo está resolviendo mis sensaciones en tiempo real. Y el peligro es yo puede decir las cosas que sienten el un momento verdadero, sólo descubrir que son no más en el momento que sigue.

Cuál está seguro es que permanezco fuera de control, emocionalmente. Todos demasiado vulnerables a los oscilaciones salvajes del humor. Yo encontrarme a mí mismo que se disculpa a la gente repetidamente -- ¿es ninguno otro como esto?

Repentinamente, consigo asustado. Hago pronoucements en negrilla, sólo para realizarlos no representar cómo me siento realmente. En este blog, ese rinde una corrección 1.1.

No ayuda a materias que tengo una imaginación sobre-activa. Pero ése es mi sino.

¿Has intentado la tierra de Google todavía? Un pedazo asombroso del software, donde te sientes como ti está volando sobre un valle en Líbano o Afganistán o Japón -- o a lo largo de la costa del golfo de Mississippi. Mientras que enfocas adentro en un sitio, cortesía de la fotografía basada en los satélites, ves repentinamente tan muchos detalles, como las tiendas hacia fuera detrás de una iglesia, y los coches en una porción del estacionamiento, incluyendo un coche blanco pequeño con una azotea negra…

¿Cómo extraña es esta nueva edad donde la tecnología nos presenta con la información bastante para ayudarnos a sentirnos conectados cuando en realidad nos al parecer desconectan absolutamente gravemente?

¿O ese justo mi frustración está hablando?

Esta noche, soy muy confuso. Temo que haga el excedente hablar en muchas maneras últimamente; incluso peor, puedo tener excedente actuaba, como confesé en una llamada telefónica anterior esta noche. Soy en absoluto seguro qué se está encendiendo con mí. Mi comportamiento cotidiano y la noche a la noche es bastante erráticos en cuanto a requieren muchas correcciones, él se parece.

Bastantes sobre mí. Aquí están los resultados de una encuesta nacional sobre actitudes re: el estado de los esfuerzos de la recuperación de Katrina:

Encuesta nacional de Katrina
La fundación de la familia de Kaiser condujo una encuesta nacional que fue lanzada hoy en las actitudes de la nación hacia el huracán Katrina, las consecuencias y el estado de New Orleans en general.

El pdf lleno se puede ver siguiendo este acoplamiento, si no aquí es algunos de los resultados:

¿• Cuantas veces piensas del huracán Katrina y de las consecuencias?

* Muy a menudo: el 20%
* Algo a menudo: el 40%
* No demasiado a menudo: el 29%
* En absoluto: el 11%
* No saber: el 1%

¿• Piensas ese ahora, la mayoría de la gente afectada por Hurricane Katrina has conseguido la ayuda que necesitan con la cubierta, el cuidado médico, y la restauración de sus vidas, o tú piensas que la mayoría de la gente afectada por el huracán no haber conseguido la ayuda necesitan?

* La mayoría no han conseguido la ayuda que necesitan: el 70%
* La mayoría han conseguido la ayuda que necesitan: el 23%
* No saber: el 7%

¿• Piensas que el estado y los gobiernos locales en las áreas afectadas por Hurricane Katrina has conseguido la ayuda que necesitan del gobierno federal restaurar servicios y la infraestructura, o piensas el gobierno federal no has hecho bastantes para ayudar a indicar y gobiernos locales en las áreas afectadas?

* El gobierno federal no ha hecho bastantes para ayudar: el 56%
* El estado y los gobiernos locales han conseguido la ayuda que necesitan: el 30%
* No saber: el 15%

¿• Ahora que piensa específicamente de New Orleans, que del siguiente lo hacen tú pensaron lo más mejor posible describe la situación en New Orleans hoy?

* La ciudad todavía consiste en crisis y el funcionamiento bien: el 30%
* Todavía hay trabajo importante que se hará para conseguir la ciudad en servicio: el 52%
* Hay un cierto trabajo que se hará, pero la mayoría de la gente está de nuevo a sus vidas normales: el 11%
* Las cosas están de nuevo a normal: el 2%
* No saber: el 5%

***

No sé sobre ti, sino que encuentro confortar de estos números. La mayoría de los americanos se parecen entender que los oficiales del gobierno están desmontando cuando se presentan para los ops de la foto en alguna parte a lo largo de la costa meridional arruinada.

Sweet Love Stories ( Historias dulces del amor )

Last night was hot in the city. You could sit out on your back balcony in a t-shirt, talking and laughing into the night. It felt magical.

Today's New York Times contains a lovely story, very romantic, that makes you believe some couples are meant to be together...

[SUSANNAH GORA loves movies, and some would say she has also been living one of her favorite John Hughes films, such as “Pretty in Pink” or “Sixteen Candles,” the kind of movie where gawky teenagers miss signals but find each other in the end.]
Link to NYT story

To me, finding love always feels like magic. I never expect it. When it happens, the world stops turning while I start spinning out of control. We stay up all night; we can't get enough of each other. Just looking at the other brings a smile to each person's face.

At the same time, it is often so difficult you start to feel physically sick. It upsets your balance, another way you feel out of control.

I like that feeling. Everything is intensified, agitated, hyper-sensitive.

There's a lovely soft water color painting posted at the top of this blog. It's called "Fluffy cats." These soft, simple brush strokes -- to me -- capture the feel of new love...

***

Historias dulces del amor

El ayer por la noche era caliente en la ciudad. Podrías sentarse hacia fuera en tu balcón trasero en una camiseta, hablando y riendo en la noche. Se sentía mágica.

Los tiempos de hoy de Nueva York contienen una historia encantadora, muy romántica, que las marcas tú creen que algunos pares están significados para ser juntos…

[SUSANNAH GORA ama películas, y algo diría que ella también ha estado el vivir de sus películas preferidas de Juan Hughes, tales como “bastante en color de rosa” o “dieciséis velas,” la clase de película donde gawky las señales de la falta de los adolescentes pero que se encuentra en el extremo.]
Acoplamiento a la historia de NYT

A mí, encontrar amor se siente siempre como magia. Nunca lo cuento con. Cuando sucede, el mundo para el dar vuelta mientras que comienzo a hacer girar de control. Permanecemos encima de toda la noche; no podemos conseguir a bastante de uno a. Apenas mirar el otro trae una sonrisa a la cara de cada persona.

Al mismo tiempo, está a menudo así que difícil comienzas a sentirse físicamente enfermo. Trastorna tu equilibrio, otra manera que te sientes fuera de control.

Tengo gusto de esa sensación. Todo es intensificado, agitado, extremadamente sensible.

Hay una pintura suave encantadora del color del agua fijada en la tapa de este blog. Ha llamado “gatos mullidos.” Estos movimientos suaves, simples del cepillo -- a mí -- capturar la sensación del nuevo amor…

fijado por los comentarios de David Weir @ 2:53 P.M. 0 se liga a este poste

Background Readings: Terrorism

August 10, 2006 - in light of today's news that the British government has foiled a plot to blow up multiple airplanes headed from London to the United States, here is a timeline of threats and attacks on American and British soil since September 11, 2001.

August 2006

British bomb plot causes worldwide airline chaos, AFP.

July 2006

U.S. touts terror arrests, but accusations questioned, Pioneer Press.
American men arrested in Florida.

July 2006

Terror plot against N.Y. disrupted, Lexington Herald.
Plot to blow up tunnels into Manhattan.

June 2006

Canada's al-Qaeda franchise?, USA Today.
Canadian officials arrest citizens allegedly plotting to attack targets in Canada.

January 2006

Bin Laden offers truce, but hints of attacks, Mercury News.
Bin Laden tries to strike a deal with the U.S.

July 2005

Blasts rock Olympic hosts London as G8 leaders meet in Scotland, AFP.
Attack on London's Underground and Buses in 2005.

June 2002

From Chicago to bin Laden's tent, U.S.News & World Report.
Jose Padilla's plan to detonate a dirty bomb in Chicago.

January 2002

The Shoe's Tracks, Newsweek.
Initial report that Richard Reid had connections to Moussaoui.

January 2002

Bush gives new details of foiled plot, Philadelphia Inquirer.
Thwarted plot to crash airplane into tallest building in LA.

September 2001

'It Was Like Swimming Through Black Smoke', Newsweek.
Reports from Ground Zero

February 1999
Greetings, America. My Name is Osama bin Laden. Now That I Have Your Attention..., Esquire.
A profile of Osama bin Laden from before 9/11.

You also can access this collection on the following page: Editor's Pick

Dating v Parenting (Fechar v Parenting) 1.1

When I get down about my situation it involves the impossibility of it all. A wise therapist friend said that I cannot be happy without an intimate partner, no matter how rich my family life may be, nor how intellectually engaged I may be at work.

Another wise therapist friend said I need to be held and I need to be touched.

The problem, simply put is this: I have to work very hard almost all the time just to pay the bills. No one has ever partnered with me financially in a way that would take the primary pressure off me. One reason men die before women, I suspect, is how much blood pressure we expend worrying about finances. Year over year, it's been one miracle after another how I, as primarily a writer, have succeeded in keeping my two families afloat. But, now, as I get older, I wonder how much longer I'll be able to do that.

Married with kids represents one set of pressures. Divorced with kids is another matter. The good thing is you ideally can have an arrangement where each parent only has kids part of the week. That leaves the other part free to try and build new relationships.

But it's hard. Somebody has to be either willing to see you part-time, without the kids, or integrate herself into your household. There are myriad complexities hiding under those choices. Since relationships are about power, and in an equal relationship, power would be shared equally; I can't help feeling one down whenever I meet someone new.

Of course, they have reservations about the kids, precious though mine may be. It's a huge decision for a single woman with or without kids of her own to take on even a modest amount of responsibility for somebody else's children. Especially when she is seeking her own fulfillment via working, volunteering, traveling, etc.

I understand all of this.

I also am exclusively attracted to women of a certain sensibility, which rarely includes mothering as a major piece of their identity. I like writers and artists, people on the margins of society, and people from other countries and cultures. It is attractive to me to be able to learn from a partner -- customs, languages, religions, and cultural beliefs -- whatever she has to offer. The more different from me on the surface she is the better.

What is rare -- extremely rare -- is to meet someone with these external factors who is also similar on the inside to me.

When I do, I want to connect in every way possible. There has to be a sense of urgency, if only because so little time ever seems to be available to get to know someone new. I don't feel I have the luxury of getting to know, say, two people at the same time, only one. Opportunities are limited. Luck is involved. Once I find her, I want to know her better quickly.

Otherwise, being one down might work like this, at least it has in the past:

I'm sitting alone at night. The children are sleeping. It may be a night that I find myself in an uncomfortable position, waiting for a phone call that may not come in time to satisfy my hopes for how that night might have gone. My hopes die. I start consoling myself with a mantra, one that contains an undertone of anger:

I will wait for you once.

I will wait for you twice.

The third time, I will not answer, because I will have moved on.

This, finally, is how I let J go. I waited for her so many lonely nights, but her calls and messages never came. When you love someone, or you think you do, you hold yourself back from others while you await their touch.

Eventually, however, you wilt from the lack of attention.

In the wake of my recent relationship disasters, I may be hypersensitive, but silence has always been the fatal mistake anyone can make with me.

Silence, for me, feels like not caring. And that is how I finally let J go. Her silence was so consistently deafening I gave up.

I still miss her. And, to be honest, which is my only goal here, night after night; she might be able to reignite our love if she truly wanted to. She might.

But I doubt it. I think it now is too late. What we had has faded away. Many moons have risen and fell, with no sign of her. I no longer fantasize she will suddenly drive up in her Mini, open my creaky gate, use her key and enter my flat.

I have given up that fantasy, because it will never come true. She remains far, far away, by choice, and she seems fairly happy there. Despite many obstacles that would defeat a lesser person, she persists and perseveres. I admire her.

But she is no longer my girlfriend. She labors in the heat. I hope she is happy. Here, our nights are warm and sexy. This city is a great city for love. And I know how to give love. But unless it is mutual, it will be short-lived, in all cases. I also know how to move on.

Love's a bit like one of those annual benefits employers offer you.

Use it or lose it.

*********


Miércoles 9 de agosto de 2006
Fechar v Parenting



Cuando consigo abajo sobre de mi situación implica la imposibilidad de ella toda. Un amigo sabio del therapist dijo que no puedo ser feliz sin un socio íntimo, no importa cómo los ricos mi vida de familia pueden ser, ni cómo está enganchado intelectual puedo estar en el trabajo.

Otro amigo sabio del therapist dijo que necesito ser sostenido y necesito ser tocado.

El problema, puso simplemente es éste: Tengo que trabajar muy difícilmente casi todo el tiempo apenas para pagar las cuentas. Nadie tiene partnered siempre con mí financieramente de una manera que tomaría la presión primaria de mí. Los hombres de una razón mueren antes de mujeres, yo sospechan, son cuánto expende la presión arterial nosotros la preocupación de finanzas. Año excesivo del año, ha sido un milagro después de otro cómo I, como sobre todo escritor, ha tenido éxito en guardar a mis dos familias a flote. Pero, ahora, como consigo más viejo, me pregunto cuánto más largo podré hacer eso.

Casado con los cabritos representa un sistema de presiones. Se divorcia con los cabritos otra materia. La buena cosa es tú idealmente puede tener un arreglo donde cada padre tiene solamente pieza de los cabritos de la semana. Ese deja la otra parte libre intentar y construir nuevas relaciones.

Pero es duro. Alguien tiene que ser el cualquier querer verte por horas, sin los cabritos, o integrarte en tu casa. Hay las complejidades innumerables que ocultan bajo esas opciones. Puesto que las relaciones están sobre energía, y en una relación igual, la energía sería compartida igualmente; No puedo dejar de sentir uno abajo siempre que satisfaga a alguien nuevo.

Por supuesto, tienen reservas sobre los cabritos, preciosos aunque la mina puede ser. Es una decisión enorme para una sola mujer con o sin los cabritos sus el propios para tomar en uniforme una cantidad modesta de responsabilidad de los niños del alguien diferente. Especialmente cuando ella está buscando su propio cumplimiento vía el trabajo, el ofrecerse voluntariamente, viajando, etc.

Entiendo todo el esto.

También atraje exclusivamente a las mujeres de cierta sensibilidad, que incluye raramente servir de madre como pedazo importante de su identidad. Tengo gusto de escritores y los artistas, gente en los márgenes de la sociedad, y gente de otros países y culturas. Es atractiva a mí poder aprender de un socio -- costumbres, idiomas, religiones, y creencia cultural -- lo que ella tiene que ofrecer. El más diferente de mí en la superficie ella es la mejor.

Cuál es raro -- extremadamente raro -- es satisfacer a alguien con estos factores externos que sea también similar en el interior a mí.

Cuando lo hago, deseo conectar de cada manera posible. Tiene que haber un sentido de la urgencia, si solamente porque tan poca hora se parece siempre estar disponible para familiarizarse con alguien nuevo. No me siento que tengo el lujo de familiarización con, por ejemplo, dos personas al mismo tiempo, solamente una. Las oportunidades son limitadas. La suerte está implicada. Una vez que la encuentre, deseo saber su mejor rápidamente.

Si no, el ser uno abajo pudo trabajar como esto, por lo menos él tiene en el pasado:

Me estoy sentando solamente en la noche. Los niños están durmiendo. Puede ser una noche que yo encontrarme a mí mismo en una posición incómoda, esperando una llamada telefónica que puede no venir a tiempo satisfacer mis esperanzas de cómo esa noche pudo haber ido. Mi dado de las esperanzas. Comienzo a consolarme con un mantra, uno que contenga un undertone de la cólera:

Te esperaré una vez.

Te esperaré dos veces.

La tercera vez que, no contestaré, porque me habr3e movido encendido.

Éste, finalmente, es cómo dejo J ir. Esperé la así que muchas noches solas, pero ella las llamadas y los mensajes nunca vino. Cuando amas a alguien, o piensas que lo haces, te sostienes detrás de otros mientras que aguardas su tacto.

Eventual, sin embargo, te marchitas de la carencia de la atención.

Como consecuencia de mis desastres recientes de la relación, puedo ser extremadamente sensible, pero el silencio ha sido siempre la equivocación fatal que cualquier persona puede incurrir en con mí.

Silenciar, para mí, traduce directamente a no cuidar. Y ése es cómo tengo finalmente dejo J ir. Su silencio tiene sido tan constantemente deafening yo ha perdido mi capacidad de oír que ella aun cuando que ella habla, yo teme. Yo no más est en todos en amor con ella.

La falto. Y, ser honesto, que es mi solamente meta aquí, noche después de la noche; ella puede ser que pueda al reignite nuestro amor si ella deseó verdad a. Ella pudo. Quizá.

Pero lo dudo. Pienso que es demasiado atrasado ahora. Qué teníamos se ha descolorado lejos. Muchas lunas se han levantado y cayeron, sin la muestra de ella. Fantasize no más la conduciré repentinamente para arriba en su mini, abriré mi puerta chirriante, utilizaré su llave y entraré en mi plano.

He dado encima de esa fantasía, porque nunca vendrá verdad. Ella permanece lejos, lejano, por la opción, y ella se parece bastante feliz allí. A pesar de muchos obstáculos que derrotarían a poca persona, ella persiste y persevera. La admiro.

Pero ella es no más mi novia. Ella trabaja en el calor. Espero que ella sea feliz. Aquí, nuestras noches son calientes y atractivas. Esta ciudad es una gran ciudad para el amor. Y sé dar amor. Pero a menos que sea mutuo, será de breve duración, en todos los casos. También sé moverse encendido, resolviendo otros, tomando el cuidado de me.

El pedacito del A. del amor. como uno de esos patrones de las ventajas de la publicación anual te ofrece.

Utilizarlo o perderlo.

fijado por los comentarios de David Weir @ 6:36 P.M. 0 se liga a este poste

Long Distance Depression (Depresión interurbana)

(Note: I am now experimenting with including Spanish translations on this blog, following the English version, to better serve Spanish-speaking visitors.)

The after-effects of Hurricane Katrina included this sad article today about a newspaper photographer so depressed that he tried to get the police to shoot him.

Times Picayune Story:

"John McCusker was depressed after he found out he didn't have enough insurance money to rebuild his Katrina-ravaged New Orleans home, say police. After being stopped for erratic driving, McCusker said several times, "Just kill me, get it over with, kill me."

McCusker said he had essentially become "nonfunctional," and though he had given up cigarettes 20 years ago, he now was smoking two packs a day.

I've posted from time to time about the dangerous post-traumatic stress among hurricane survivors and the volunteers who help them down on the Gulf Coast. To this group, we must add the journalists in the region who cover the story. The enormity of this disaster still has not sunk in up north or out west. People think of Katrina as last year's story, not realizing it is a story that will last at least the next 12 years (based on estimates of how long the rebuilding process will take.)

There's increased drinking, smoking, drug addiction, and violence in the region, even though the local population in devastated regions is significantly smaller than it was pre-storm.

This is an entire section of the country where people are depressed. Both the locals and the thousands of volunteers who try to help, but easily get overwhelmed by the scope of the effort needed. I continue to worry about one special volunteer and keep her in my heart. Today for the first time in a long time I sent her a Care package.

Meanwhile, where is the political leadership -- in either party -- that could keep the ravaged southern coastal region where it belongs, front and central among the problems this country urgently needs to deal with?

I'll tell you where it is: Asleep at the wheel.

***

(en espanol)


Miércoles 9 de agosto de 2006


Los efectos secundarios del huracán Katrina incluyeron este artículo triste hoy acerca de un fotógrafo del periódico así que lo presionaron que él intentó conseguir al policía tirarte. Historia de Picayune de las épocas:

Presionaron a “Juan McCusker después de que él lo encontrara hacia fuera no tuviera bastante dinero del seguro para reconstruir su hogar de Katrina-ravaged New Orleans, policía de la opinión. Después de ser parado para conducir errático, McCusker dicho varias veces, “justo me mata, lo consigue encima con, me mata.”

McCusker dijo que él esencialmente había hecho “no funcional,” y aunque él había dado encima de los cigarrillos hace 20 años, él ahora fumaba dos paquetes al día.

He fijado de vez en cuando sobre la tensión poste-traumática peligrosa entre los sobrevivientes del huracán y los voluntarios que os ayudan abajo en la costa del golfo. A este grupo, debemos agregar a los periodistas en la región que cubren la historia. La enormidad de este desastre todavía no se ha hundido en el norte ascendente o hacia fuera al oeste. La gente piensa en Katrina como historia del año pasado, no realizando que es una historia que durará por lo menos los 12 años próximos (basados en estimaciones de cuánto tiempo el proceso de reconstrucción tomará.)

Hay el beber creciente, fumando, apego de droga, y la violencia en la región, aun cuando la población local en regiones devastadas es perceptiblemente más pequeña que era pre-tormenta.

Ésta es una sección entera del país en donde presionan a la gente. Los locals y los millares de voluntarios que intenten ayudar, pero consiguen fácilmente abrumados por el alcance del esfuerzo necesitado. Continúo preocupándose a cerca de un voluntario especial y manteniéndola mi corazón. Hoy por primera vez en un de largo plazo te envié un paquete de cuidado.

Mientras tanto, donde está la dirección política -- en cualquier parte -- ¿eso podría mantener ravaged la región costera meridional donde pertenece, delantero y la central entre los problemas las necesidades de este país urgente de tratar de?

Te diré donde está: Dormido en la rueda.

Seizing random moments

Outside my front door tonight, this is what I saw: the moon, round and bright far beyond a streetlight shaped like an eye. I have no idea what this juxtaposition was trying to tell me. The night has eyes? If so, as a veteran investigative reporter, I already knew that. Someone is always watching. Nothing goes unrecorded. There can be no secrets.

Today, I heard a report of how Oakland police had infiltrated an anti-war group a couple years ago. Deja vu all over again. Welcome to the Sixties. Back to the future.

Political change when it comes from below always is threatening to the elites. But if it is social upheaval they are worried about, my advice to the entrenched interests is to ignore the anti-war protesters, who are simply exercising their Constitutional rights. Rather than infiltrating them, study the Bill of Rights.

Your time would be much better spent this way, and you may feel a new comfort as well. Anyway, it is not the anti-war movement that will challenge the existing political economy in this country; it is the emerging immigrant's rights movement. I remember an image one day last spring in Manhattan, as J and I walked under the Brooklyn Bridge. Thousands of people, mainly Latino, marching for freedom.

They, too, will overcome. It is only a matter of time.

***

So much for the political. And tonight I have nothing to say about the professional other than if you ever find yourself less than completely engaged intellectually in what you are doing, you are seriously under-utilizing your brain. Don't do that, gentle reader. Whatever other career errors I may make, I only stay in jobs that allow me to pursue my interests, that stimulate my curiosities. Life is way too short for anything else.

***

Almost every woman I have ever fallen in love with is either a writer or an artist. The few who weren't should have been, but for various reasons buried their lights under the bush. I urged each of them to write or paint or create through whatever mode attracted them, but some retreated to safer zones, more practical places.

I could not sustain my love for those who did not remain committed to developing their intrinsic capacity to be creative. I am as practical as the next person; we all need to generate enough resources to keep our families safe and warm. But to retreat from the scary prospect of pushing ourselves to the ultimate limits of what we might be?

To me, this is a fate worse than death.

Little Women

"The ballet, in which half-naked women make voluptuous movements, twisting themselves into various sensual wreathings, is simply a lewd performance."

What is Art?
Leo N. Tolstoy
***

Leo, Leo, Leo. As I recall your argument, (from when I read your book 17 years ago) such art forms must be evaluated in terms of who is being served, i.e., who can be pleased by such performances. Last time I checked, more Americans were going to see the ballet on an annual basis than were going to baseball games.

So to the answer to your question about who likes ballet, we must answer, "pretty much anyone." On the other hand, a case can be (and has been) made Off Balance, by my old friend Suzanne Gordon, that too often ballet companies have encouraged anorexia, and otherwise exploited young dancers who can end up with occupational health issues and no real careers by the time they hit 30.

***

In a roundabout way, this brings me back to that odd coffee house conversation the other morning between a silly man and a beautiful woman. (Obviously, it was not the man who caught my eye.) In my highly agitated state, I pick fragments of conversations out of the air around me, much as my small camera snatches scenes from the sidewalks to spill out onto one of my other blogs, Photo Blog.

I'm sure our male hero in this drama did not want to have his tiny woman as a pet for any sexual purpose. After all, this is not a Bukowski story, with a six-inch man and an opportunistic woman. Our fellow's desire for a robot is understandable -- how many of us couldn't use an automated helper that would handle some of those oppressive daily tasks that wear us out?

As a single Dad, I can attest to how constantly I have to work sometimes, for hours straight, between the kitchen and the laundry room and the bathtub and the bunk beds, until there finally is a space, such as now, when I can lie exhausted over my bed and tap out my thoughts onto my computer screen.

The sweet dog was the real answer to the lovely woman's question.

Something else from Tolstoy seems more relevant: "If only the spectators ... are infected by the feelings which the author has felt, it is art." To this, I can agree. We try to connect with each other through various channels.

When you try to connect with me, by phone, email, letter, commenting on this blog, in person, or by sending your feelings out into space, hoping I will sense them, you are an artist. In this way art is contagious.

Really tonight my main concern is baseball. Our beloved Giants are on a two-game roll. Maybe their season isn't over, after all. Come to think of it, I'm not sure what this post is about. Except that I wish I were not alone, night after night, so much of my life -- not alone alone, in that my children are here (all six) for the last night for a long time -- but so alone as a man, not knowing whether anything will ever again work out for me with one woman, one life partner, one soul mate.

Writing may provide comfort of sorts, but it doesn't keep me warm at night.

Freeing the inner artist...

...in all of us requires some unstructured time in our busy lives. This project is Dylan's idea. He's the artist in the Russian Cossack Army hat. He told the others: "Just express your ideas. There are no bad drawings here..."

More answers

Besides his wish for a miniature woman dancer, the guy in the cafe actually gave two other answers to the question, "What kind of pet would you like to have, and why?"

A #2: "A robot that I could send out to do errands and help me manage all the details of my life."

A #3: "A dog. (Finally, I thought to myself, we are getting somewhere.) Not a purebred dog, I'm suspicious that they may not be as intelligent or as emotionally connected. I want a mongrel -- an interracial dog. A female, very sweet and very smart, strong enough emotionally to tune into my moods, and not be put off by them."

His lovely companion, a tall, slender woman with long, dark hair and sensitive eyes, could hardly stop laughing about the tiny woman, but when she finally did, after asking a few questions about the size and nature of the robot, and the size and nature of the dog, revealed the purpose of her question about pets in the first
place:

"Of course, it tells what you are seeking in a partner."

They finished their coffees and strolled off into the warmth of summer morning, holding hands...

Story without end

So, you know that guy at the cafe who said he wanted to have a tiny little woman (sort of Tinkerbell's size) to keep him company? I couldn't tell whether he was being facetious. Yet, there is no other physical creature that can please us visually simply by existing -- by moving with grace, her hair swaying, her hips swaying, her long legs ever so gracefully moving over the same earth that we hairy brutish simians stomp and stumble, gouging out marks as we go, lifting our legs to pee here and there, marking our territory.

How pathetic is a male? Today I watched a dog, straining against his leash, come to a stop by a light pole so he could spray his mark. I suppose the smell from that must have meant a lot to all the other sniffing canines as they passed by that same light pole today.

Males in most warm-blooded species of mammals have certain undeniable advantages. We are bigger, stronger, and more aggressive, generally, than females. In many of our societies, we have established gender hegemony. I'm thinking of the U.S. of my youth, when it was hard for an educated woman to do anything more than work as a teacher, nurse, or secretary.

I'm also thinking of the Muslim world, especially Afghanistan, where I used to live. There, women were covered head to toe by the chadori, with only a tiny triangular set of viewing and breathing holes over their faces to help them see where they were going without fainting in the desert heat.

And then we have Japan, where traditionally women end up so subservient to men that they artificially raise their voices an octave, tap their feet together and bow obsequiously, and emit the word "hai!" repeatedly.

So, yes, over my life I've seen how it is for women. In addition I have three daughters. I have many women friends. I've had a number of partners who shared their experiences and perceptions with me.

From the first moment I heard about it, I instinctively supported what was then called the "women's lib" movement, i.e., feminism. There was never any doubt that the oppression my sisters faced paralleled what blacks, homosexuals, and other minorities encountered in this culture dominated by white men.

However, I am, for better or worse, a white man, though admittedly a screwed up one, whose only societal identity has always been that of an outsider. Nevertheless, although I've supported every progressive civil rights effort I've encountered by attending marches, giving speeches, writing articles, and adjusting my own behavior when indicated, I would never call myself a feminist.

I recall a marriage counselor, one of many I met during my doomed second marriage, who proudly proclaimed that he was a "feminist." I said I was not. I also thought he was a hypocritical fool for saying that, and that he was probably trying to curry favor with my wife by doing so.

How can any honest man declare himself to be a feminist? Feminism has brought men nothing but pain. That doesn't mean that it isn't right or just or that we should not endorse its goals and do our best to help it achieve its goals. But, any honest man knows what this is about is the loss of power we once had, in real time, must as the fabled British Empire lost its India, its Malaysia, its Middles East and Africa and America, the Caribbean, and pretty much everything else except Canada and Australia, insofar as their currency still carries a photo of Britain's Queen.

I'm quite excited. Later this month I may have the opportunity to visit Vancouver, B.C., for my first time ever. My family has history there, Aunt Helen and her son Alan, lived there when I was raising my first three kids in the Haight. They visited us once. That was right about the time a distant cousin of mine, a beautiful Scottish woman named Cheryl Kennedy, arrived in town with a lead part in a major theatrical performance.

Another old friend lives in Vancouver. We have not seen each other in over two decades.

The reason I may go there, if I do, is to help another friend extract herself from a rather talkative companion for a night or two. If this sounds like a flimsy excuse for a trip, I'll cop to that. I probably have other objectives in mind.

But even if I didn't, what could be better proof that we are still alive and curious about how it will all turn out than our impetuous choice to visit a city we've always heard was wonderful, but never have visited?

Any excuse can be fine. After all, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.

Rodin's caress

Two people are sitting in the sunshine outside of a coffee shop. The man is asking the woman a question.

Q: If you could have a pet, what would it be and what would it be like?

A: A giraffe, because they are very tall, and have exotic coloring, but they are very gentle, they don't eat other animals. I think their coat must be very smooth and it would be fun to snuggle with them.

The heat has returned to San Francisco. Our nights are cool, but warm enough the women can wear skirts and light sweaters. The days are hot.

The Giants lost again, that's 11 times in 12 games and their fans have to endure this lurid spectacle, old men, their bodies breaking down, very tired, trying to play the game of young men. They just can't quite pull it off any more.

Better to be a writer than a player. Better to aspire to be like winegrapes than like the dried plums wilting on my parched backyard soil. Prunes, as it were. Water gathers gently around the edges of our pumpkin plant today; we again inspected it at dawn, before most neighbors awoke. Many yellow blooms now appear along its thick, corded shaft.

Yellow has always been my favorite color, although several others have come along to compete with this preference -- orange, purple and black. But as a child, I insisted my room be painted bright yellow. I suspect I knew even then that the dark side of my nature would need lots of outside nurturing if I were thrive in life. As a child, I held onto the most profound sense of loneliness.

A bottomless pit of loneliness.

As always my experience of life is of people coming and going; at the end, it is always me, alone on my perch, balancing this machine, pecking at the keyboard. Will anyone ever be able to truly handle my intensity?

My last three partners, each in her own way, told me she couldn't. After a while, I simply was too much, and they felt overwhelmed. One by one, they drifted away from me. Now, this writing has overtaken me to the point, I'm not sure any woman will want to become a main character in my narrative. Its intensity, the narrative's, may drive them all away. Consider my poor ex, down in Biloxi, being so moaned over, missed, adored, honored, yet ultimately reconstructed by me, never representing her own self in her own eyes.

Rodin sculpted models by repeatedly running his hands over their naked bodies, a constant caress that helped him transfer the essence of the human form to some of the most astonishing representative art on the planet.

***

I want to create as much distance here from Rodin as I can, consciously, because I will in no way try to compare myself to a great artist. I'm a simple, lonely blogger trying desperately to find his voice. Rather, it is Rodin's methodology I admire and also that I copy. When I love a woman, I run my hands over every part of her body over and over and over, slowly, establishing a memory map.

It is that behavior -- not photographs or letters or objects -- that allows the visual imagery inside my brain that later triggers the need to write about her when she is gone. I have touched her in every way possible and with an attention to the detail. By doing so, I have trained myself, palpably, to recreate her when she leaves me to be alone again.

"You're silly. Every woman has a soft arm like that," I have been told, after stroking the long, soft limb of my partner. Every woman.

A common view expressed by many of my female friends is that, to most men, any woman is really what they want. Any woman. "They just want to get laid." I hear these things over and over, and I hear the bitterness from women after men leave them.

Then, sometimes, I meet women who sense something inside me and respond to it. We have what we have for as long as we can. Then, inevitably, they leave me, but when they do, they tell me they love me and I can feel that it is true.

When she drove away the last time at the very end of April, J hugged me and kissed me and her eyes filled with tears. I now see that is the right way for every relationship to reach its ending, with love, not anger. It is so sad when people are left only with bitterness and anger.

I much prefer the pain of a long lasting longing for lost love. It is more painful, it is a much slower way to let somebody go, and it retains much more ambiguity. But it allows a sweetness to linger in my heart. I continue to love everyone I have ever loved.

***

The kids danced down the sidewalks to a sleepover last night, mesmerized by the prospect of an overnight with older kids, young teens -- just enough older that they are objects of the greatest possible value to my little ones. For they represent the immediate future.

I, by contrast, represent an unimaginable stage; to those in the very early spring of their lives, I am late in autumn, when all the colors change, a chill is in the air, and the four seasons of life finally achieve their terrible clarity. Times feels so short to me, and so long to them.

***

Two people sit in the sun outside a coffee shop. The woman asks the man a question.

Q: Describe your vision of the perfect pet.
A: It might sound weird.
Q: Go ahead. Do it.
A: Okay. Mine would be a tiny little woman I could carry around in my pocket. Whenever I was lonely I could take her out and she would dance in the palm of my hand. I would always have somebody to touch.