Memoirs of a Perfect Moment

A Ray of Light in a Darkened Room: Part I

Tue, 19 Dec 2006 06:36:34 GMT

A single flame in a darkened room, illuminated before a mirror. I picked up the candle and let it melt the wax around the wick of the second candle. "Baruch Atoh Adonai. . . "

A single ray of hope in a period of alienation. In my despair I was beyond the salvation of mere mind altering substances. Television had lost its edge to distract me, desperation grew into dreams, and I had turned to mysticism as a hope for career advice. It had been a week since I had decided to seek advice in dreams. Newspapers and friends and online sites had yielded nothing. Perhaps my subconscious mind would grant me illumination. The dreams were vivid, tsunamis hitting my car as I looked for work. Being rejected from an agency where I had to read the phonebook. Walking down empty, sunny streets, too distant from anyone to even wave hello. I'd wave to a family in the distance, seeking work as well. The wave would crash over them, and I would wake up feeling vaguely disturbed. Perhaps the dreams had meaning, but I found that I didn't care.

I lit the second candle before the mirror, its flame mingling with the candle in my hand, rising to the sky. A single wax drop condensed like morning dew, dripping onto the foil on my mantlepiece. My face shadowed in the mirror, one cheek turned yellow and orange with the light, a faint reflection in my eye as I stared into the light. "Elohainu Melech Ho'Olaam"

My cousin had suggested I seek work at a head shop. "Use those three sylable words. Stoners love that shit, and they'll be fascinated by your philosophy." It wasn't bad advice, I'd never worked in a head shop before and it would certainly make a difference in the lives of a certain group of people. There's no other experience in the world like working in a head shop, and no one more interesting than the people that shop there. Fabian said that I should go where the work was, drive inland if that's what it took. He seemed relaxed at the table, no flour had stained his shirt while we baked earlier in the day. He's the sort of man who can work in grease and labor, cook perfectly and walk through garbage, and still have perfect hair and clean clothes. It was hard to grow up arrogant around Fabian Valdez.

He was, and is to this day, a constant archetype standing proud in a life, attracting women with his sheer being, moving mountains with pure will. He walked like a panther, and smiled like a brother, and impossible to ignore. He cooked for his girlfriends, because he never thought any woman cooked as well as he did. He read voraciously, because he found everything interesting. He took ignorance as a personal insult, aloofness as a crime. After finding that life had dealt him cards that left him to care for himself, he reached out with pure will to make a life for himself. Growing from a poor background, he'd come through emancipation with a college education. He'd been my best friend since the day I met him, one of the few people in my childhood who ever made me feel like I belonged anywhere.

My cousin had a sly grin on his face, a boyish charm that belied a discomfort that he'd always wanted to surpass. He had always been placed in competition with me by those closest too him. He'd always found a way not to hate me for it, although he had every right to. No one should ever be forced to love the "good child" that they're compared to. To be able to overcome that upbringing so as to give advice and show love on that "good child" takes a strength of will that's almost miraculous. In his own way, my cousin was as strong willed as Fabian was. After finding that life had dealt him cards that meant he'd have to care for himself, he'd reached out with pure will and shaped the universe around him in the shape of a business and a life that any man could envy.

They compared stories over the dinner table. My cousin smiled as he said "Yeah, they beat the crap out of me in high school. Everyone got a horse their first year, and every morning, 6:00, we'd shovel shit. Didn't matter who you were, didn't matter who your parents were, how rich you were, where you came from.
We had a girl who was African Royalty. . . she shoveled shit. We had boys who were the heirs of land grants the size of a Subcontinent. . . they shoveled shit too. . .
"All the freshmen got beat up by everyone else, then we'd beat up on the freshmen in later years. Strengthen them up, some. Had a lot of injuries though. So much of the program was based on just strenghtening us up.
They'd take us out camping, in the woods. Broke my finger, had to hitchhike back to school with a couple of rednecks. . . good times."

Fabian stared into space as he nodded. He said "My memories of high school involve getting maced. I'd known something was going to go down few days before it happened. Friends told me that the blacks were angry with the mexicans, and the asians were planning something. . .
" When it started the teachers told us to stay in the room and not go outside. So of course, first thing we all did was leave the room. I remember my friend getting swept away from my hand into a mass of people. So I went in after him. . .
"I remember an officer was holding a dog on a leash. It was growling at a group of . . . ten of us. That dog wasn't the bad thing, it was the three other dogs that had no one holding their leash. We didn't move, cause we knew if we did, the dogs would just leap on us. . . well, the officer looked at us, and nodded that we could go, and we did. . . though I learned as I went out that mace burns anywhere it touches. It got all over my arm. . . on my face, and it hurt!
"After it was all done, I remember looking at my friend, and saying "that was FUN!" It was 1:30, we were out of class. We walked home, got donuts on the way."

I said nothing, thought about getting a job at a head shop while looking at the bread I'd made earlier in the day for gift baskets.

The third candle burned in front of me "Ashair Kid'Shanu Barmitzvahsov." Reflected in the mirror the room was slowly starting to light up. My face orange in the reflection while outside the waves crashed in the distance. I couldn't feel my feet anymore, they were numb from the cold. For some reason in San Diego, the nights feel colder than anywhere else I've been. In Flagstaff where the weather fell to freezing at night, I didn't feel cold. When I slept on a sofa in Oklahoma in winter, I felt positively cozy. The nights in San Diego feel colder, denying the lies of the thermometer, an elephant staring at the contrary reports of weathermen. "Vitzivanu Lahadlik Nehr.. . Shel Hannukah."

Defined in Love

Mon, 18 Dec 2006 07:38:51 GMT

There was a strange sort of silence that came over the two of us as we stared into space. The Christmas tree filled the room with a definate presence, plastic pine needles remaining never changing on the boughs of the lit tree. The ornaments that filled the room had an almost Catholic revenance attached to them as they covered every available surface. They sat around the television, over the tables, shelves, in behind cabinets, on sideboards, on mantlepieces.

The pictures that I looked at were familiar to me, mostly because I was featured prominently in several of them. Younger, they smiled at me with the intensity of another lifetime, nostalgia on paper; memories of better days. The silence was not uncomfortable, so charged with lost time that the unspoken words resonated clearly with every inch of our being.

I've never seen Bea as she really appeared. Any descriptions that could be made of her would be too strongly tempered by the emotions attached with a woman who raised me like a grandmother, who loved me unquestioningly and who saw me as part of her bloodline. When she cooked for me, it was the ideal of any food I had ever tasted. When she smiled at me, I understood my place in the universe. The fact we didn't speak the same language never really kept us from understanding one another. Language was never an issue with this woman who taught me my first words while my mother was away at work.

I had told her what I had done in the 20 years since we had last seen eachother. She was proud, and had Enchiladas ready in the oven for me when I showed up. I told her what I had done in Flagstaff over the previous year, and she was proud of that. I told her I had gone to seminary, and she was proud of that. I didn't mention the troubles I had since I'd come back to California. I hadn't told her of the hard nights when I wondered whether I had walked away from my life into insanity. I hadn't told her of the nightmares I had with my last job, nor the rejection after rejection as I tried to find something else. I didn't see the need to spoil the moment. She didn't mention her cancer either. I only assume it was for the same reason.

When Eddie Huete called on the phone, and told me that his grandmother had Cancer, there was no question in my mind whether I would see her. Eddie tried to cajole me into coming and offered to drive Beatriz to see me, but I had already decided that I would see her. In the moment her name was mentioned, I had already decided. The only question would be when.

"You have not changed at all." She had told me. "You still have the same face, and your pineapple hair." I smiled at that as she said "The same smile too." In a way that's the kindest compliment I recieved in a long time. "And God bless you." Beatriz had always been religious, a trait I had only come to learn of recently.

I had never really seen Beatriz, and I never will as long as I live. She was not defined by her words or her beliefs or her actions, but rather by the love that she had for all her children and grandchildren. When we sat in silence it was as close to honesty as we could get to eachother.

Communicating in the connections that sit beyond words, we sat silently. Our distant impressions of memories brought startlingly current as it seemed for a brief moment like no time had passed. That an old woman pushed a five year old child around a block, and pointed at trees with a smile.

The first crisis of childhood is one of trust. The first lesson in life is whether or not one can depend on others when totally helpless. The answer to this first quandry defines a lifetime. Those who grow up in love find that they are defined by love. They find they have a weapon of inner strength to fight against any traumas that arise in later years. Those who grow up in fear can only try to escape their past. When I am afraid, I know deep inside that I am only visiting fear. I can only imagine how hard the world is for those who must live in terror.

Substances in Shared Space

Fri, 15 Dec 2006 22:58:49 GMT

I was 20 minutes into the job interview and I hadn't spoken for 15 minutes. My entire focus at that moment was trying not to let my jaw grow slack, or my eyebrows furrough in confusion as Mark, my interviewer, talked. Slick back hair, no jacket, no tie. . . his shirt was shiny like immaculately tailored gunmetal armor. He seemed an amicable sort, though he had no last name. Perpetually smiling in the business world speaking with the clear confidence of a close companion who had never known dissapointment.

"We are heading into the future with a full head of steam. And, along with those opportunities come solid financial rewards, advancement opportunities and a benefits program that will help you to live your life to the fullest. After all our company is about communication, getting needs fulfilled in a variety of comprehensive and competitive ways that inspire deeper loyalty and future understanding." He'd gone on like this for quite some time, and I'd given up asking him what the company actually did after the second try.

The closest to an answer that I had gotten was that the company took part in "direct business sales of the products of other companies to different businesses." They had an extensive impressive portfolio of clients including Disney, Crayola, Fisher Price, Warner Brothers. I could see those companies' symbols pasted on the wall behind my interviewer. There was no talk of salary, nor benefits, simply that they existed in theory, and would be enough to catch my attention.

I got the call to come in for the interview three hours before, while in Victorville, driving back towards Oceanside. The Secretary on the phone was very polite, had a cheerful tone, asked personal sounding questions about whether I was in the San Diego area, and whether I was having a good day.

"Are you currently in the San Diego Area?" She'd asked on the phone earlier.

"I can be, I'm driving from Victorville." I'd replied.

"Okay then, you think you could get down here by 1?"

"Um, sure. . . I guess. If I just drive straight through."

"Great, I'm going to give you directions. . ." I'd written the instructions on a bit of scratch paper on my steering wheel. Around me the edges of the Mojave desert loomed like deserts always do. There's always a calm sense of eternity in the desert. Sunbaked and mummified, the wild cacophany of yellows and oranges that beg the term majestic, back before the term was rendered meaningless through overuse. The Mojave had all the time in the world to grow and move further on into the state. Victorville tried to push away at it as best as it could, clinging to life with a growing community. An Oasis with its own shopping mall, halfway from San Bernardino to Barstow.

The woman gave the directions clearly and with a kind tone. It was the last definate bit of information I would get that day from the company. I asked if I should bring anything, and she said I should bring a copy of my resume and "dress professionally." She gave no further advice as to what professional was. I looked next to me in the car and saw the suit I kept in the back. No tie, but a nice green sweater. Was that professional? Did professional mean suit and tie? I had a shirt and tie in the back seat, but the shirt was a little wrinkled. . . a wrinkled shirt is definately unprofessional. I stopped at a gas station an hour later, put on the sweater, ran a comb through my hair. Like an aspirant minute man, I'd learned to always be ready in case of job interviews. Like the second coming, interviews came like a theif in the night, without warning, requiring readyness for instant judgement.

I arrived at the office three hours later, found the name of the company on the door, and walked inside. The wall had a canvas on it with a silk screen of a photograph of oil being poured into water. The oil whirled and moved in pretty designs, stuck in that moment of first contact. The two substances encountering eachother, trying to mingle, before deciding that they could have nothing to do with eachother and separating. Substances a world apart mingling for a moment before separating again, affecting eachother for a moment before moving into different spaces once again.

The thai woman behind the counter was cute, dressed in denim business casual. I suddenly was glad I didn't put on the tie. She waved me to a seat as she was talking on the phone "And are you in the San Diego Area?" A moment passed as she listened on the phone "Okay, do you think you can get down here by 3?" Same tone, same charming quality, this woman was a professional. As she hung up, she handed me an application and asked if I could put my references on it. Two of the numbers and names I had from memory at this point.

"What is it that your company actually does? I read over your website earlier, and I don't think I understood that."

The woman smiled up at me and said "We like to actualize market shares for the greater diversity of our client companies to help promote awareness on the business to business level."

I nodded for a moment, taking that in before asking "What exactly does that mean?"

Mark came in carrying a bag from Carls Jr. He smiled and put it next to the secretary saying to me "She likes to eat a lot." He shook my hand and asked my name, and then took me into a conference room. An old arcade machine leaned against the wall while space invaders loomed nearer and nearer to the bottom of the screen.

"So, you think you can learn a new skill?" Mark asked me after pleasantries.

"I taught myself to understand Navajo Sign language while working in Flagstaff with developmentally disabled elders."

"Flagstaff. It snows a lot in Flagstaff, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, that threw me off the first time I saw it, being a southern Californian. Never had seen snow in the wild before, only domesticated snow tamed for ski use."

Mark had a professional laugh, and then he nodded asking if I thought I had a future in sales.

"I'm a Jew who got accepted to a Christian Seminary. I think I could learn."

Mark smiled and then started to explain his company, weaving the spell of words that men like him do. "So, you think you'd be interested in that sort of job?" He finished up with.

I nodded and said "Sure . . . I think I could do that." I hoped deep in my heart I hadn't just offered to remove the eyes from puppies, or something like that. Mark shook my hand with a plastic smile and showed me to the door.

I still had no idea what the company did, what the salary was, or if I'd even gotten the job. Stirred into action through vagueness and then left startlingly uncertain. I felt as if we were substances a world apart mingling before separating again, affecting eachother for a moment before moving into different spaces once again.

Daily Story Challege #1

Thu, 14 Dec 2006 04:57:00 GMT

(The Challenge from http://www.seventhsanctum.com/generate.php?Genname=writechallenge: The story must have a hamster involved in the middle. The story must involve a spear in it. A character will wake up, but the action is misinterpreted. A character is inebriated throughout most of the story. During the story, a character has someone make a meal for them.)

The headache that struck Hans when he awoke was apocalyptic, songs would be sung of it among future generations. He stared up at the blurs overhead . . . lights. The buzzing in his ear was grating, though. . . wait, not buzzing. . . organ music. Hans sat up and rubbed his head, hearing the gasps of the assembled onlookers. As Hans stared down for a moment at his coffin, he tried to remember how he'd gotten there.

Breakfast, it had definately started with breakfast. . . scrambled eggs, toast. . . bacon. Hans could feel the bile coming up in his throat. Ugh, the thought of food right now was unbearable. . . he rubbed the bridge of his nose and thought back. Yes, it had definately started with breakfast. "Are you going to clean the attic, honey?" Hans looked up from his toast and said "Hmm?". Emily, his
wife, stared down as she put some eggs on his plate "Are you going to clean the attic, honey?"

"Yeah, after breakfast. Why?" Hans looked down at his Mamosa served with the eggs, taking a knock back. . . he looked up at his wife "Sally's Hamster is missing. It might have gotten up there." Hans nodded and turned back to his paper, drinking some more. "Okay, I'll keep a look out for it." A peck on the cheek, and after breakfast, he went upstairs.

Hans came downstairs a few seconds later and grabbed a bottle. "Honey, I need some old Dutch Courage to face that attic alone." His wife looked up and said "well, remember to spare some of the rum for later. The Addelsons are coming by at five." Going back up, Hans stared over the attic again.

There was a time before time, in the dawn of the world, that the attic was clean. How could that have been? As it was, the smell of dead animals and the vision of feces on the ground made Hans want to throw up. He took a massive swig of the rum, and then stared at the attic again. . . then took another swig. And then he got to work.

It was two hours into it, and three bottles later, that Hans started really not minding what he was looking at. . . Old Tiki mask? Yeah, that's fine. Random picture of Hitler riding a surfboard? Whatever. . . it was when he found the spear that he felt the static go over his arm. . . Hans blinked at the spear as he heard the voice "YOU ARE THE CHAMPION OF DESTINY!" HE blinked, and then looked back at the bottle, then put down the spear. The spear stopped talking after another three swigs.

Hans sighed as he sat down, looking at the side of the spear again. . . Almost as if it had the weight of destiny. . . his entire direction was in this spear. Hans stared forward for a moment, and then threw up. It was then that he heard something collapse in the corner. With the strength and dexterity of 1,000 drunken dart masters, Hans threw the spear without thinking. It stuck in floor, pleasantly, held up by the corpse of the hamster. . .

Hans's eyes went wide as he walked towards the spear again, and pulled it out. Staring at the hamster on the end, he furrowed his eyebrows and then thought "I am a man. I have provided food. Shit, how am I going to tell Sally?" As he started to walk downstairs, Hans felt the ground give way beneith him. His feet were rising.. . his head falling. . . the smell of vomit very clear. . .

He saw the spear rise. . . and then he saw the spear fall. . . The hamster's face hot for vengeance. It came closer and closer, and then only blackness. . .

His head throbbing, sitting in nice clothes, Hans wondered how long he had been out. He looked up at Sally for a moment among the onlookers, She was screaming. His wife was next to her, eyes wide. . . and Hans swore at that moment. Not just any resolution, but just swore in general. It helped a bit. He knew it was better not to think too hard about it, his head was still throbbing far too hard. That is when Hans decided to give up drinking altogether, and buy his daughter a goldfish instead.

It's what you do for the gig.

Thu, 14 Dec 2006 04:31:29 GMT

"Thank you for your consideration and for coming in to interview with us. We wish you luck on your future career goals." I crumpled the letterhead and tossed it into the garbage with the rest of the junk mail. I felt a pang of regret as I threw the paper away. The rejections were the most personal correspondence I had at my apartment. Sometimes they were the only proof that I was still alive and living in California.

Everything had focused in that brief, white hot moment where the letter had gone into my mind, and I knew that I held job rejection 50 in my hand. It was time to give up. Move back to Arizona, where I'd had a life, a job, a social network, family who talked on the phone. It'd be easy, move where the rent was cheaper and I wasn't living on fear and prayer.

I'd decided to go to the Open Mike Blues Festival arbitrarily. When you feel closed from the world, the best option is to find something interesting you've never done before, and feel awkward in an entirely new setting. It helps you feel better rounded, and the new experience helps keeps you from getting bored. Was I getting self indulgent in my old age? I knew I had to be, because I didn't even notice the drive to Carlsbad.

I almost didn't register the homeless black man who asked for a dollar. He held an I pod in his hand with old headphones. Wanted bus fare to get somewhere. I gave it to him without thinking, didn't even register in my mind, past the iPod, no justification, I had two dollars in my pocket, I just handed one over to him while I thought about whether or not there was any point in staying in California.

The place was swank enough to have its own pianist playing in the lobby. A hotel, the Ocean Inn was an old hangout of celebrities and whatnot, too expensive for me to afford, almost too expensive for me to even dream about. When you're on a budget, one of the first things cut are desires. It saves trouble down the line when you develop a taste for generic food and free entertainment. The pianist nodded at me and kept into her song, Andrew Lloyd Webber made Classical by the trills on the grand piano.

I washed my hands, looked at my face, I looked far too worn for my own damn good. No wonder I hadn't found a job out here. Maybe I didn't really want one deep inside, maybe secretly I wanted to spend the rest of my life hiding away and never talking to anyone. Maybe I only ventured outside out of a sense of obligation or duty. I splashed water on my face, and

The guitarist had a baseball cap, and a jawline turning to jowl. A middle aged hipster resplendent in sweatshirt and jeans, he fiddled with the connection while talking to the man eating a Caesar Salad. "You know how all these years I kept saying that Santa Claus had brought me nothing."

The man chewed thoughtfully then swallowed "Uh huh?"

"Well, he made good this year. . ."

"Yeah, isn't that woman out there playing the piano your girlfriend or something?"

"That's the woman who's going to be my wife."

"So what'd you get for Christmas?" I asked, not putting two and two together.

The Man looked at me for a moment and said "The woman playing piano. Finally got her. Been leaving out cookies for years."

"I hear that if you leave out beer, it's quicker." I said. There was a time when I was charming, but that time was far away from now. The man smiled at me and said "You a musician?"

I said that I wasn't, but I was an avid listener. He chuckled and said requests were done the same as any blues club. Write it on the back of a $5 dollar bill and send it up front. "Wow, last place I went to it was $20"

The man smiled and said "Yeah, but I just met you, so I don't want to scare you off."

The salad eater said "I just moved down from Phoenix. It's expensive out here, just with the rent. You have to have two day jobs and play music at night, and have a room mate to pull it off."

The guitarist nodded and said "It helps if you have a roommate. I know back there you can make a living just playing music, if you have a girlfriend who's a waitress, it's even easier. It's just what you do to play the gig. You do what it takes to play the music. That makes it worthwhile. It's hard, though."

The Salad Eater shrugged before saying "Not a lot of blues singers out in Arizona. . . Hollywood's got the rock bands. . . Arizona's got Jazz. . . not a lot of blues out there."

My life had gotten more dreamlike since I'd moved to California.

I sat down while they talked about this. A 20 something year old in a room full of 30 and 40 something musicians. I realized at that moment that I was the only person there that night who didn't bring an instrument. This was a jam session for their community, all the stops would be pulled just to show off to eachother. . . the stage was lit with christmas lights, a television illuminated the bar next to the stage.

The group started their set with a song I didn't recognize, followed with a set I didn't understand. The Guitarist played with feedback, played with using the microphone stand on the guitar, leapt into the air, and tuned his guitar off key mid set. . . A steak sizzled on the TV while women behind me talked in shrill voices. The guitarist didn't even seem to care. Illuminated only by Christmas lights he played like he was the white hot center of the world, the bassist struggled to play on, the drummer just kept things steady, the heartbeat of a supernova. "They call it stormy Monday. . . and that suits me fine."

The guitarist sung, pulling out every trick he could on his instrument. His entire life was for that moment, in front of enthusiasts and amateurs. Some folks off the street, as he played in front of a television. No epiphemies, no flashes of insight. I was still in the situation I was before. It's just what you do to do the gig. You do what it takes to play the music. It makes it all worthwile.

Where are they coming from?

Wed, 13 Dec 2006 23:04:23 GMT

"I noticed a lot of dead birds on the beach, where are they coming from?" The boy had close cropped hair, and wore tennis shoes into the water. The Four young men with him looked remarkably the same. Just starting to develop the muscles on his neck, there's nothing that makes me feel older than looking at a new Marine. For about a minute they'd been catching up to me as I walked towards the pier.

"I really don't know. I was looking at them myself earlier." There was a dead seagull on the beach, though what it was doing there, other than rotting, I wasn't sure. When I saw one I was sad, when I saw the second one, I was confused. . . when I saw the third one I was a little concerned myself, but I had no answers. It was cloudy overhead, dulling the sun, the waves whipping into a quiet frenzy. I wondered idly to myself if maybe the lack of water glare confused the sea gulls. I'd heard that the suicide rate increased when the sun wasn't out. Maybe it's just more extreme for sea gulls.

"Huh. . . I was just wondering if they were common around here. We're not from around here, can you tell? Just sorta stand out in the crowd." He had a kind enough face, so damned happy to be in California, running over the sand, hanging out with his friends. Haircut so fresh you could almost smell the heat from the hair clippers. You could tell he ran his hands over the short parts of his buzzed hair. I know I would have.

"Eh, in Oceanside you fit right in. Where you from?" I remember there was a time that I was the young kid hanging around the marines down here.

"I'm from Omaha. Just came out here last week." He dodged out of the way of a wave as it played over the sand, running like a bird, laughing as he went. I let the water play over my feet. "You a local?"

I nodded and said "Born and bred." The other marines were chatting to eachother as they kept walking to the pier. I stepped over another dead seagull. Four.

"I don't know bout those birds here. I saw one flying to a table, take some french fries from a dish by the harbor. If we had those things in Omaha, we'd probably shoot em"

"We don't like to shoot the Seagulls out here. . . we're afraid that they'll start something. I once saw a seagull take a hamburger straight out of a man's hand, rip it away and fly off with it. Nasty seagull, with one leg. . . I didn't want to start anything with it."

"Yeah, if any seagull tried that where I was from, people'd shoot it." He nodded to himself, while one of his friends looked over through bottleglass lenses. He smiled at me and nodded once, but went back to talking to the other marines.

"Where you guys headed?" I asked.

"Going to the restauraunt at the end of the pier, it any good?"

"It's a Ruby's diner, not so bad if you like that sort of thing. View's nice, waitresses are okay, it's a little expensive though." I stepped over another seagull. Five? Maybe I shouldn't have been walking in the water. That's something to cause a lot of alarm.

The Marine smiled thoughtfully at that and then said "Thank you for the advice. I bet the view can't be beat."

In the distance I heard a helicopter flying over the water. The Marine stared out at it. "CH-46 D/E Sea Knight Helicopter. There's really nothing more beautiful. . . nothing at all." He looked almost wistful for a moment, smiling out at it. In that moment I saw him for his dreams, so much bigger than him, so big that I hoped that they didn't swallow him whole.

As he ran off to join his friends, leaping on the back of one of them, I thought one thing to myself. I really hope he survives.

Saint Francis

Wed, 01 Nov 2006 23:29:12 GMT

I saw Assisi because I had to. I wanted to see the home of St. Francis. I wanted to see the main monestary of the Franciscan order. I wanted desperately to understand the man better. St. Francis spoke truth and lived in the light of God. His spiritualism added a sense of reality to Christianity that was lost with the rise of Paulist thought in the Piscane church. He preached simplicity and service and lived a life according to his teachings. St. Francis inspires me.

By all accounts, even his own, St. Francis lived his first 25 years "in sin" more of a townsman with a quick blade than a mystic. He rode the finest horse that he could find in Assisi, wore the finest clothing and dreamt of glory on the battlefields. Like any young middle class man of that day, really. He got his chance for honor and glory in one of Assisi's many battles against neighboring Perugia (which today has some pretty good restaurants if you're in the area, but then again that's true of all Italy). The battle like many of the others ended in total defeat for Assisi. They may have had a future saint in their lines but Perugia was 4 times the size of Assisi with a larger army, better weapons and better generals. Francis was captured along with a lot of the other men of the Army, thrown into the Perugia prisons for disturbing the peace and ransomed off back home. He was prepared to make a better go of things with the crusaders, when he heard in his mind the voice of God. "Whom do you seek to serve, the Master or the servant?" it asked. St Francis answered "The Master, of course" The voice then said "Then go and serve the Master."

Asissi was grandiose, a walled city with stern Dominican and Franciscan monks walking among the tourists and lots of shops selling reliquaries, books, postcards, books and statues. The big destination was San Francesco, the large monestary at the end of the town built after St. Francis' death. When we arrived a Baptism was taking place, although teh security guards spent a great deal of time trying to silence the tourists inside, making sure that people went up the left staircase and down the left. Two basilicas made up the building, each like a jewel box, decorated with fantastic frescoes featuring St. Francis in various poses. Some of him looking stern, others serene. The bascillica was made in his honor, with large rows of collonades that house many Franciscan monks, and is considered the first among the monastaries in the order. Young St. Francis would have enjoyed the monastary, since it certainly appeals to his youthful pride and hope. Nevertheless I am sure that the older wiser St. Francis would have had problems with the place.

St. Francis died in Siena, taken to a grandiose cathedral with marble floors and golden ceilings, his body preserved as a holy reliquary for admiration by the rich and well to do, and the order that was established in his name. It was the Franciscans who were the most ardent critics of the Jews in Italy during the rennaissance, calling for their expulsion from many major cities. Only Venice held out against the Franciscan demands, mostly because the entirety of Venetian wealth was provided through Jewish contacts and control of the Silk Road. Instead they relegated the Jews of the city to a single island called the Gietto, or iron foundry. The jews changed the pronunciation to Ghetto. The Jews were further prevented from leaving this Ghetto or doing anything other than sell second hand items in pawn shops or practice their medical skills. The exceptions of course were the Jews whose commercial ventures profited the city of Venice. Nevertheless in Florence, Verona and several other cities the Jews were simply expelled. The Franciscans were the most ardent supporters of the Inquisition bringing many before its fires. They used their monastaries and orders to justify the enslavement of natives in the Americas. While St. Francis was a holy man who inspires me, I only saw the horrors of his order in Assisi. I felt little of God there. (Although I did buy an outstanding pair of sandals, really lovely leather jobbies that cost 30 euroes and make my feet feel as if they could take flight.)

After hearing the voice of God, St. Francis went to LeChelli di Ermeco near Cortona and lived as a Hermit, building a rock hut and contemplating his next action. Other young men returning from the wars heard of St. Francis and saw the natural beauty of the place and the peace that came from a life of contemplation. LeChelli di Ermeco is a beautiful place by a stream and a forest a short distance from Cortona. Frogs and birds and animals move around with a peaceful surety as the colors there seem brighter than in most other places, the greens deeper the waters clearer the sounds calmer. St. Francis went there when he contemplated what he was to do with his life, and it was from there that he began working in the feilds. He built the small building there with his own hands, and lived inside a small cell 6 feet by 6 feet, with a single window to let the light of God in, and a rocky ledge for him to sleep on. Other young men wanting to avoid a life of war went to St. Francis and asked to join him. When St. Francis began to grow popular, his lover from his youth, Claire, also came to see him. Betrothed to him in youth, she gathered other women and formed the Poor Claire's. She and Francis lived in a Chaste Marriage, sharing bed and life, though they both lived in chastity. St. Francis created three orders, an order of Monks, one of Nuns and one of Lay monks, who wanted to live a life of service but could not live in chastity or poverty. Young people living in the woods, they were the flower children of their day. St. Francis went to the Pope in humility. Surrounded by the finery of the sycophants and the decorations of St. Peter's Bascillica in Rome, St. Francis came in a simple robe and gave a single rose to the Pope as a gift. The College of Cardinals tried to pressure the Pope into excommunicating St. Francis, but after seeing the humility and the strength of will that existed in the man, the Pope created the charters for the three orders under St. Francis.

St. Francis himself wrote much like a Hebrew Psalmist, praising God on high, thanking him for the animals and the light and the world and the life of service. Rarely does he mention Christ at all, and when he does, it is always as God's messenger.

I visited LeChelli di Ermeco with my mother, calming down instantly as I came near the place. The roads leading to LeChelli, like all in Toscana, were twisty and hard to follow. I parked the car and walked with my mother to see the Cell of St. Francis. Unlike in St. Francis's day a full monestary now exists in the area, built around the small rock huts of the old hermits. St. Francis's cell is on the ground floor near the enterance. A few monks walked around the halls silently and my mother prayed that I could meet one. She knew after she tried to pray for me that she had to leave me, though. And so I sat by the stream and looked down into the waters that flowed below me. In the waters I saw three frogs, large and comfortable, swimming happily in the stream. It was then that I felt the words in my brain, rotating around. "Why do you look down, David? Why don't you look up?" And so I looked up and I saw the sky, blue and clear. "Why don't you look down?" And so I did and I saw the frogs again and the plants by the stream and the water. "Look all around." I blinked and stopped there. When I was two I told my first joke, which began in that way. (it continued "See my pinky? You're all stinky" which is the apogee of 2 year old humor. My parents were proud of my first joke, though I'm a little embarrassed to recall it now.) I felt the laugh in my mind and then it said "Look up, look down, look all around. Look outward." And so I did. I've never realized how tunnelled my vision was before that moment. It is easy to forget sometimes, looking straight ahead and never taking in things in the peripheral vision. "SHEMA!" I was told before and now "Look all around." and by taking these things in I am made whole.

I found the pilgrims in the chapel a short while later, and I sat with them as they prayed in silence. I smiled at the Pilgrims and they smiled back. Elderly British housewives and husbands, they knew me and accepted me with them, and for a short while I felt beatific as I saw them for who and what they were, not judging or being judged by them. And as I sat in silence looking and listening I could hear them.

God spoke to St. Francis near the waters of LeChelli, and it was from that he lived a life of service. St. Francis would have died in that place had he not been too sick to fight the Sienese who wanted him to die with them. Travelling to that place I can see that the life of a Hermit and a Monk is not a bad one; not a sacrifice at all. . . only a simplification to get to the source of things and cut out the distractions. In the silence the voice of God and truth can come through.

The Hunt

Wed, 01 Nov 2006 23:16:16 GMT

"I'm afraid you're just not qualified for this position." The woman in the hawaiian shirt looked up from my resume as the smile on my face froze in place like a dull mask. I was going through the motions at that point, not surprised after the way my day had gone up to that point. Hair combed perfectly, suit neat and straight and clean, breath nice, resume straightened out, dressed in the appropriate vestments for the ritual of job searching. How many offices had I been in that day? How many times have I had the smile freeze in place on my face? Four now? Five? Feet sore from the walking I did downtown, back sore from the driving from place to place that's required in Southern California Job hunting.

"It's a Grocery Store. . ." I said, in incredulity. Not that I truly wanted the job or anything, I dropped off my application almost as a masochistic lark, at that point. Let's keep going, see how many places I can get straight rejections from today.

"Yes, but you have no experience in a Grocery Store or with this sort of job." She shook her head, and handed back the Resume.

"I'm a college graduate. . . I'm sure I can learn the job." The smile was still there, firm, wide.

She shook her head and said "Sorry, but you just don't have the qualifications to work here."

I blinked for a moment and shrugged saying a quick "Thank you for your time." Was I still allowed to shop here now that I'd shown an application? Not that I shopped here much before, but would I get odd looks from the workers if I came back to buy my food? I mean, I wasn't just a customer anymore, I was someone who wasn't qualified to do what they do. What does that do to a Grocery Customer relationship? The mystery is gone, no longer could they look at me and wonder who I am or what I do, not that they probably cared much, but I'd just laid my entire life bare to them on a single sheet of paper, chronologically ordered along the things I've done in my life, every volunteer work, every job, every school I'd been to, my interests, my dreams. . . put on one piece of formulaic paper, put in the proper forms to try to outline me to interested Human Resources directors and managers.

I'd avoided retail up to that point, I didn't want to open up that can of worms. Maybe that was pride as Christmas Approached, but I still had savings to live for a while longer without going to hock goods that I didn't believe in. Pride? Definately, but I knew I would hate myself if I went into retail.

"Yes we've decided to go for another applicant, someone should have let you know that two weeks ago." That was how my day started, in a dark apartment eating leftover cereal from the bag. "Indeed, that would have been nice. Are there any other positions available at your company?"

The man from HR said over the phone "Um, tell you what, go onto the website and call us back if anything looks interesting to you." Go to the website. . . the touch of death among job hunting, where people are sent when humans don't want to look at them anymore. I started my job hunt loving the Information Superhighway, but with every day I was coming to see it as a ghetto of dehumanization among those who are afraid to commit one way or another. There was a time when human resources actually talked to employees who were looking to be hired. Now they send them to machines.

Time to get into the suit. . . time to hit the streets again, look around, open the paper, start making calls, start dropping by, start delivering applications and resumes. First place I went to was the newspaper, no openings, drop an app, maybe someday. Don't call us, we'll call you. Employment agency, drop by Thursday, maybe something'll pop up then. Drop by the childcare place, sorry, you've got child psychology training, but we need Early Education training. . . Rejection after rejection, the faint smile on my face freezing a little more with each one. Pleasant thanks for the abuse, see you never.

Driving along the road from the store to home, I called a friend, message machine. . . maybe family. I called my mother on the road on the cellphone. Maybe it'd be nice to hear her voice. Nothing. I chuckled to myself "I can't even get my family to take my calls."

The sun beat down as I walked, for I dressed inappropriately for the weather. The vestments of the hunt never match the reality of things.

The Wave Weaver

Wed, 01 Nov 2006 23:14:16 GMT

The fat man bent forward on hands and knees in front of the waves, tracing a design around the feather that he laid in the sand. His purpose was beyond my rational mind, although something in the back of my head said "He's weaving the waves."

The man sat bolt upright, moving his hands and arms in tune with the waves in front of him, his eyes closed, oily hair pulled back in an awkward pony tail, his wifebeater encrusted with stains. Flabs of fat hung down from his bones underneith his arms, his face was pockmarked, but he didn't seem to notice that he didn't have the body for beach use. It seems sometimes in California as if there are laws against a particular sort of person being on the beach. In a world of beautiful people made of plastic, the ugly are notable for their rarity and for their authenticity. His movements weren't awkward, but ecstatic. I needed to turn away at that moment, I felt too much like a voyeur.

Then caught by the sight of the sea, like catching a lover's eye from across a room. The last rays of the sun played over the waters, illuminating the gold dust that floated from the sands. The golden specks played in green waters, cut with the razors edge of daylight, sitting on the threshold between two states. The water at night is silver in the moon, the water of the day is golden in the sun. . . the water of sunset is infinity in transition, both transparent and opaque, both red and gold and blue and green, a study in simultaneous opposites, juxtoposed into a perfect moment. Is it possible to see every droplet of water seperate yet united in every second? Is it possible to see through the water, yet not be able to look past the color and light? To know that sits in the water all over the world, yet see it all combined? I've seen many things in the waters of the Pacific Ocean, but I never realized until that second that the water could be everything at once.

The man was weaving the waves, and that seemed appropriate to me. With the right eyes, everywhere is in the midst of myth. A study of heroes and sages, emotions and epiphemies, spirit and matter, in every last living person. So the man both sat, fat and ugly on the sand with the decaying seagull feather, and he sat weaving the waves unabashedly and unashamed. Shaping the universe around him with the power of his dreams, unimpeded by the weights of his life: transparent and opaque, mythic and mundane, all in a single moment.

It's okay, that's life.

Wed, 01 Nov 2006 22:49:19 GMT

"It's okay, that's life. It happens." The bald man shrugged as the water bubbled up past his chest and over his back. Blue eyes stared at nothing in particular, his words spoke with the bubbly cadence of someone who was born far from California.

He came downstairs from the balcony after watching me reach for my keys through the closed gate to the hot tub, and stayed to enjoy the heat. He said he was from Trondheim, when I asked, though I couldn't catch his name.

"Oh, I've been here for two weeks now, my wife and daughter have been here for a month. My daughter's going to the Hospital down in San Diego, they have a program to help her keep her muscles from atrophying. They think there might be hope, there's hope here. Nowhere else."

I'd seen the young woman in the wheelchair around the pool before, but she had always stared into space, and looked away whenever I said Hello. She always seemed to be in a state of prayer, just hoping that no one would look at her. Paralysed in her chair as she was.

"She was in an accident, and in Norway there was nothing to be done. Paralyzed from the neck down. We went to Moscow for two months, and they told us to come here. But that's life." I said that I was sory that he came to San Diego under those circumstances.

"That's just life. She was in the car with her boyfriend. . . he died in the crash. She's still with us. . . I count my blessings." The sun turned the world orange as the man stared forward at nothing in particular, a faint smile politely on his face. The waves provided a counterpoint to the silence, the white noise grounding the world into a single location, somewhere on the edge of paradise.

"I have to go back to Norway on Monday, though. I have work, and we've all learned the exercises that my daughter must be put through. She should be able to come back with me."

"I'm sorry about the circumstances, but I'm glad you were able to come to Southern California." What else could a man say to this, it was hollow and empty.

The man smiled to me, "So am I, I guess it's just life. It's okay." There really wasn't anything else to be said.