The Shoe
The holy grail of shopping for many women- alas, in this habit I am like all others, is the perfect shoe.
The penultimate shoe goal this winter was to replace my perfect tall brown boots which I have worn into oblivion. The rule is that after 2 heel replacements at the repair shop, it’s time to stop patching and time to lay them to rest.
How hard can this endeavor be?
Turns out there were so many variables to consider: first, I demand a "good" dark, even, brown. No weird tans, no yellowish reddish blackish tones, and must be quality leather with that leathery texture & aroma-but not overly textured. Needs enough of a heel to clomp commandingly down hallways as I am wont to do -but not too high or spindly as to render me a useless flower unable to speedwalk, catch a BART, or kick some ass if called upon to do so.
No pointy-toed witch shoes ( a trend that should have died more than 4 yrs. ago). Must be sophisticated enough for the office yet at home with blue jeans. Unacceptable if it exceeds 3 Benjamins in cost (for god’s sake shoes are made to be WORN and I wear my stuff into dust). No feathers, sparkles, bows, etc. Buckles and hardware in moderation only. No loose, baggy leather at the ankle. And (apparently the most difficult challenge of all): must fit over my big ‘ol runner’s calves.
Piece of cake. I work near the Westfield mall-home of the sparkly new Bloomingdale’s, site of daily pickets against Bristol Farms (hence, no gourmet Bristol’s lunches for me…Bristol farms of Pasadena was a fave former haunt-but I for one shall not cross a picket line-after all I am a laborer myself, blue under this white). Yes, Westfield the shopper’s paradise where everyone and their mother seems to have converged for shopping frenzy. Westfield where opening day was a production of red carpets, media passes, horridly ugly Bloomingdale’s giveways, and live basketball players doing their thang in the windows of the Adidas store facing Market St.
One would imagine that among the tens of thousands of shoes in that mall, a simple brown tall boot could be found. But no! This season designers were compelled to obscure the sleek boot lines with furs and velvety bows, cutesy things, & clunky things. I was beginning to feel like Goldilocks. "this one is too big" ,"this is too small", "this one is too hard" "this one is too soft and poofy." I can’t fathom what Bay Area woman has the kind of life that neccesitates either those giant Sasquatch Eskimo boots or allows for those velvety King Louis royal court heels.
Finally, am eager young salesman brings me 2 or 3 contenders. Nice mid-range brown boots. Naturally I wore the brown miniskirt for shopping since this is what I am seeking a match for. Inevitably, my chunky right calf muscle causes a zipper jam. The helpful chap attempts to assist me, but his gentle zip tugs are to no avail. He begins to perspire and look visibly flustered, trying to yank that thing open without looking into my lap despite the fact that he’s crouched on the carpet before me, trying not to touch my leg in any way as he struggles mightily.
Oh my God, I think.
I eye the nearby bank of elevators and think of the mortification factor involved here. I wonder if they’ll have to call firefighters to cut me out of this boot? I hope I am not the only person they’ve ever had to do that with. Will I be charged for ruining their boot with my massive size? Must I be rescued like so in front of all these other shoppers? Am I flashing this poor flustered salesguy as we clash with the boot? Are there people who get off on that sort of thing-and, surely he must know I am not one of them and this is just a horrifying snafu…
Salesguy flees.
Returns with his Pilipina ladyboss and a lovely Latina sales associate. In their expert 4 hands I am freed at last. After all that hubbub I decide to buy the boots…after all, they are truly beautiful. "Just drip some candle wax on the zipper when you get home and that won’t happen anymore", ladyboss promises me.
"Okay, thanks for the tip", I respond, not realizing until much later how impossible it would be to aim hot, dripping, candlewax at the tiny zipper teeth. I’m just so happy to have these great boots & have avoided a scene of utter big calf humiliation.
sigh. 3 months later I am returning the boots at Nordstrom. So sad…though I love these boots and receive compliments everywhere I go with them, even claiming a "walked backward through a doorway double-take" recently…I am just too friggin’ big. Embarrassingly I have had my leg trapped in these books 2 more times at home, which resulted in great tussles and expenditures of energy from my good-humored spouse.
My office spouse, who has also gone out and bought the same lovely boot (but who has normal legs) in black, insists my bulk is not to blame, surely a design flaw of the boot.
"I just love them, they’re exactly what I envisioned," I mourn to a friend.
"But I guess sometimes one has to gratefully accept the comfortable, practical shoe as opposed to the beautiful, sexy, difficult, and intolerable one."
Mi Amigo said that he thought that was a very insightful metaphor for life relationships. Hmmm. I meant it quite literally but upon reflection it surely applies to people as well.
People should write their personals that way:
SWF Seeking Sensible shoes. Pinched and rubbed all the wrong ways by stillettos past. Ready for Merrells/Clarks/Adidas to walk life with…
Eulogy for a friend
The service for Reverend Daniel Kensho Furuya took place 03/17/07, at Zenshuji Soto Mission in Little Tokyo, Los Angeles.
I was given the honor to present the eulogy.
All week long I made notes to myself in a journal, hoping something coherent would come by the weekend. The night before my L.A. flight, I sat at the computer in a fog, and thought to myself:
"I don’t know how to do this."
But for all of Sensei’s kindness, this is the least I can do as I pay my respects. I wanted to convey his expansive personality, and make sure his service is not a somber, dark affair which would not suit him at all.
Aside from mere competence concerns, I also wondered how in the world I was going to speak in front of 300 people without choking within my own grief.
I’m not much of an alcohol drinker anymore. But in the course of writing this eulogy I ordered $50 worth of gourmet Italian (Amedei) chocolate as a confectionary painkiller, and dearest Anita (who housed us in L.A.) offered up a box of rich Parisian chocolates as analgesic.
On a cultural anthropological note,
I was alarmed to realize that the Japanese temple had not a single tissue box in sight! The last funeral I attended had like 25 boxes of constantly circulating tissues, so I had expected it at this service as well (but they were Anglo). Oh, no! As Sensei’s casket was brought in and people were chanting, I was already starting to weep, while everyone around me sat stoic, and utterly stone-faced.
Sigh. This is new terrain for me, who usually doesn’t even cry at therapy (where I paid for it!) or in front my own spouse or parents. My napkin-hoarding habits saved the day. I spent the next few hours tending to the slow yet seemingly endless stream of tears with a series of square brown napkins…from Tully’s coffee, then exhausting all the ones from Coffee Bean & Tea leaf.
There were times I felt quite clear and calm, and stopped grieving, when the chants and the incense would remind me, that Sensei is not suffering, and that I can accept and tolerate all that this world brings. I would look over at the nun seated in her motorized wheelchair beside my pew. In her silky maroon and golden robes, structural neckbrace on, mobility-impaired, with a defiant Free Tibet flag waving on a pole attached to the chair. "Accept", I told myself.
The "I want"’s are the source of such pain and suffering. I want to talk to him, I want more time, I want, I want, I want…but such is not the path of this lifetime. Thus I remind myself what I have that was given most undeservedly to me. Such as my husband sitting beside me, at yet another funeral I have brought him to…his arm protectively at my shoulder, but keeping a non-intrusive space for all my mental wanderings to go at their pace.
Thankfully, the first student who spoke, an Anglo man who had studied with Sensei for decades, began to choke up as he made opening remarks. So I would not the only verklempt person there that day.
If one can gauge such things, I guess the eulogy went over well. As I spoke, people cried, and often people laughed with recognition at Sensei’s quirks. Part of me was worried that this eulogy would be too irreverant for such a formal service-but then I thought, "hey, that’s how he was sometimes, traditional, unswerving, yet also irreverant and funny."
Many of those who loved him, came to find me at the wake/reception afterwards and thanked me for speaking. Really though, the honor and privilege is all mine,
my pleasure, the only gift left I could possibly bestow.
Normally at this time of year I would be shopping for a suitable gift for Sensei’s April birthday.
At the wake they served so many lovely treats, (one really can’t top Japanese folks for attention to detail). This time I drowned my sorrows in endless sweet, dense Mochis/Manjus & rainbowed layered Jell-o treats (the kind I never have the patience to make.) Of course they had plentiful "real" food as well (Shu Mai dumplings, sushi, beef/phyllo, sandwiches etc.) but in my book sorrow calls for sweets (or vodka tonic, but we’re not going there….)
I got to meet Sensei’s Uncle, and so many of his students. We all watched the video presentation of Sensei’s life, and enjoyed one another’s company, as well as the strong spirit of the friend who brought us all together.
**************************************************
The eulogy for my friend:
My name is Helen and I’m here to represent the Hsu family,
who have known and loved Sensei Furuya for more than 20 (30) years of blessed friendship, and all of us who had the privilege to know Sensei’s complexities personally.
I’m humbled to stand before you and try to do any justice to Sensei’s legacy.
Initially, our lives came together because of martial arts,
where Sensei’s renowned reputation and quality writing speak for themselves.
But beyond his credentials and great accomplishments, he became a family member to us.
When I told my Dad the sad news of Sensei’s passing, he was incredibly sad.
Everywhere my Father or Sensei went, anywhere in the world, they would think of one another and send packages across the oceans: books, tea, calligraphy supplies -
recently Sensei even sent European cheeses all the way to Taipei.
Together they would lament the compromises in quality of martial arts these days, to a depth only they could truly understand.
My father’s latest book has just been published,
with a very special dedication to Sensei Furuya, for years of sincere encouragement and countless hours of careful editing and enthusiasm.
My father sends his deepest regrets to miss this service as he is caring for my fragile grandmother in Taiwan.
When I told my mother of Sensei’s passing, she said,
(with a big sigh)
“See jie you sao luh ee guy tuh bieh ren zhong luh”.
Or (Chinese translation) : The world has lost another of these special kinds of people.
Indeed.
When I told my brother, he said, “wow, that is really sad” and we agreed that Sensei was like a really fun and Japanese version of our father, if one can imagine such a thing!
A friend once said that it is technically incorrect for me to refer to him as “Sensei”.
After all, I was never accepted as a dojo student.
I have never focused and trained my way up the Dan ranks.
But over the years he taught a great deal through thoughtful example.
When I moved to Los Angeles for college in 1992, and for graduate training in 2000, I lived under the protection of an “L.A. Dad” at the dojo.
Sensei gave me the Daruma which resided on my desk for 5 years-until I could color in that last black eye, at the completion of my Doctoral degree.
When I opened my own practice, a beautiful Japanese scroll was the first gift to arrive and bless the therapeutic space.
Much like the 3 exquisitely beautiful scrolls he donated to my non-profit Asian Community mental health services- where he was happy to learn his scrolls had set off a series of heated bidding wars at the charity auction.
I’ve taken a few quotes from Sensei’s e-mail correspondence with me, that seem quite relevant today.
Early this year, Jan. 1, 2007 to be exact, he was extending his support to me regarding my grandmother’s ill health. He wrote:
Once a priest was invited to conduct the funeral service for a family, and the head of the family invited him to write something to console all of the family members.
He wrote, "Grandpa dies, Father dies, Child dies."
When everyone saw this, they were enraged at the priest for writing something so awful and horrible but the priest explained, "this follows the natural order of things so it is really a "blessing" that our lives go as it should.
It is only too sad when this order is altered or changed. . . "
How does one convey the complexities of a man so firmly in many worlds?
An old fashioned brow beating teacher, the funny man who would cover his mouth and giggle, who was the same man who could knock you over with a disapproving look?
Sensei was a man who could diligently study calligraphy or tea ceremony for hours, and then go out for lamb risotto and crack up over really awful kung fu movies. He reported to me how funny it was that he and his Aikido students celebrated Chinese New Year at Canter’s Jewish deli. He took us out for the most elegant dinners but was also comfortable at Aunt Kizzy’s Back porch where they added him to their wall of celebrities.
Furuya Sensei could be prone to blunt words and sharp criticisms, yet was still a big softy in his heart; who would fret, and worry, and make plans, and buy gifts for people…even while complaining about them.
He would be so thrilled at all the wonderful and fascinating people here this evening, who best represent all the diverse ways he touched and influenced lives literally all over the world.
And like an authentic Aikido master, he did this without force.
I hope Sensei’s stubborn dedication to preserve the integrity of Aikido, and of Little Tokyo, will live on and flourish in us all.
On Jan 27th, 2007, He wrote me:
As long as you love your work - keep working!
Despite the fact that I will never be a "success" in the common usage of this word,
I love my work, and I will continue to work my head off until I bite the dust.
We are saddened to lose the companionship and guidance of this generous soul.
But I am glad Sensei Furuya is free from all the stress and suffering of this life, and it is in the natural order of things, as Sensei had said;
that I, that we, can be here to mourn him.
I am most deeply grateful that he was able to pass his last moments surrounded by the art and the students he cherished,
in the beautiful dojo he built.
Thank You.
rock ‘n roll
I love rock ‘n roll, and one of the most irritating things I heard in the tabloid rags this year was then Carmen Electra and Dave Navarro are both going Bi-sexual/gay in their post-divorce state. Homosexuality itself of course, does not perturb me in the slightest. What rendered me agape was that Carmen is reportedly dating Joan Jett.
What!? She’s not worthy!!
Joan Jett is the absolute coolest Rock Lady of all time. She is talented, a fantastic live performer (saw her in SF on my 18th b-day), and volunteers to entertain US military overseas (with zero fanfare and camera-mongering when she goes…unlike our "president".)
Sheesh.
Ah well, I once read one of the wisest quotes ever, something to the effect of:
"in books, as in love, one can never comprehend the choices of others." Indeed.
As for the sad, sickly state of music these days, I’d encourage you real rock lovers to visit Your Horrible Smile
http://cdbaby.com/cd/yhs
and
http://cdbaby.com/cd/yhs2
I don’t just love these CD’s because that long-haired greek guitarist is an old-time friend, it’s because they are actually really damn good. If a band sounds fantastic in a barebones, small gig, then you know they’re good & not lip-synched, dubbed, airbrushed etc.
I mean come on now, are we ever, ever gonna see something like "J.Lo - unplugged" ? Uh, I think not or her agent would be fired! Even with all the technical bells & whistles, her voice is wafer-thin. Lovely woman, but a singer? Pu-leeze.
YHS They save me from enduring what I perceive as the overly repetitive, incredibly whiny, grossly simplistic state of popular music as we know it. The Grammys this year pretty much depressed me. One should take note that there are is a universe of difference between an actual musical artist and a "performer". The distinction is massive. Those of us who have ever sweated and strained under the tutelage of a real ass-grinding, old-school discplinarian music/dance/voice instructor know that difference in a visceral manner.
Of course one beef I had with YHS was the infant-sized tees they made for women. I was given one pale pink table napkin with strings on it - that I realized was a halter top! At an SF show I bought a hot pink "I Love (heart) Your Horrible Smile" tank, which turned out to be so tight people have to walk around me 180 degrees to read all the writing….Hmmm. GreekGuitarGod sort of chuckled off the complaint and made a comment about successful marketing.
One might give the benefit of the doubt…my Beloved welcomed me home at the aiport a few weeks ago with the cutest plushy Hello Kitty Easter basket, stuffed with 2 sparkly little tees in lieu of flowers. I thought they looked awfully small, and upon checking the tags we find that they are size Medium…for girls.
As in, little girls. Age 7-8 years old.
So, should I be flattered that he actually suffers the delusion that I am super, super skinny/tiny; or should I be offended that I appear that pre-pubescent!? I won’t make fun of P or YHS that much for the teeny tops since I can admit I do actually shop in the children’s section sometimes, (small folks’ like me get ripped off buying adult clothes, How come a lady size 14 or 3x pays the same price for an outfit that I do!?) but when I do, I’m a girls’ XL , about age 14-16.
Domestic animals
P & I have concluded that a fitting metaphor for the rather masochistic state of being married to me, is sort of like taking in a (feral?) cat.
As all animal lovers know, cats may love & adore you deeply and even defend you tooth and claw, but one never really actually "owns" a cat. Who knows if one ever really owns a person either for that matter. I am sure the frazzled parents of toddlers would have something to say about that…
Who would want slobbering, canine, devotion from their partners anyways?
P sent me the "Our Pet’s Diary" e-mail the other morn-which I believe came from Hayley. At any rate, I imagine many of you will see your domestic animal companions (or human ones) reflected…
*Excerpts from a Dog’s Diary*
8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm - Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
6:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!
*Excerpts from a Cat’s Diary*
Day 983 of my captivity.
My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little
dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat,
while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some
sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for
the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat
something in order to keep up my strength. The only
thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In
an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the
carpet.
Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless
body at their feet.I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. Bastards!
There was some sort of assembly of their
accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for
the duration of the event. However, I could hear the
noises and smell the food. I overheard that my
confinement was due to the power of "allergies."
I must learn what this means, and how to use it to
my advantage.
Today I was almost successful in an attempt to
assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around
his feet as he was walking. I must try this again
tomorrow — but at the top of the stairs. I am convinced that the other prisoners here are
flunkies and snitches.
The dog receives special privileges. He is
regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to
return. He is obviously retarded.
The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him
communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain
that he reports my every move. My captors have
arranged protective custody for him in an elevated
cell, so he is safe. For now.
Sensei Furuya
I tend to make people into a ‘chosen family’.
Those who have led me to growth or shown kindness are remembered infinitely, and everywhere I go, each day, things remind me of the good & the quirky.
One year I worked at hospice. It was an honor, a learning experience, and a serious existential mind warp.
The whole “stages of grief” thing with Kubler Ross is now understood as overly simplified. But I know this: that disassociation/unreality stage of grief is true.
I think it’s what allows us to function in the temporary space between hearing the news, and feeling the brunt of absence.
In L.A. 2 weeks ago, I almost missed my flight home.
Partially because
Enterprise
employees are slow as molasses, but mostly because Sensei Furuya and I got sucked into one of long chats over a splendid meal in Little Tokyo. (French-Japanese fusion)
Tradition now for every time we meet.
“Oh, you have to come to
L.A.
again more often” he’d lament, ‘There’s so many new restaurants to take you to…”
Our very favorite place was Ca’Brea. We also had a year when we were regulars at Aunt Kizzy’s Back Porch in Marina Del Rey. There was afternoon tea at the Ritz Carlton, a hundred
Shanghai
restaurants, Indian food in
Hollywood
.
Sensei met my Dad decades ago at a martial arts tournament. They impressed each other as true scholars and artists in an age where machismo and flashiness overtakes actual discipline & skill.
My first visit to the beautiful Aikido Center of L.A. dojo took place when I was a teen. He owned 2 beautiful, now departed Akitas, Michiko & Kuma. I showed up in a short red top and the ubiquitous boots. He took us to the finest sushi restaurant I had (perhaps ever have) been to.
My UCLA years began the time when I had an “L.A. Dad”. When I went to
Japan
in 1997, Sensei asked me what I liked “Unagi” was my very unsophisticated response. He made sure I was escorted in
Tokyo
to the finest of Unagi places.
When I moved back to
S. Cal
in 2000, Sensei and his dutiful students were waiting at the apartment to move me in. This apartment was my sole experience living 100% solo, I loved the independence, the teeny pool, the garden, the location…and the connection to Sensei’s student that had secured it for me after many a hot and fruitless apartment search.
I could likely come up with a 50 page list of the amazing places we went to eat, the Thanksgivings, Birthdays, New years’… It could never convey the unique familial friendship we developed. He would fuss and nag over my Dad with me. Remind me not to become a workaholic or choose a “no-money career like martial arts.’
We would laugh at bad movies, all kinds of L.A bad taste, and especially at bad kung-fu. On his rare visits up North we went to Chez Panisse, he fell in love with
Alameda
, and he came to our wedding at the Mtn. Winery.
In recent years Sensei would sometimes express some loneliness, a stab of regret that he’d never had a family of his own.
I always said, “I’m so glad you’re a part of our family.”
The
Japan
branch, if you will.
Like any loving, biased family member- he cheered everything I did with beaming pride (always disproportionate to the actual accomplishments), sometimes horrifying me by publishing something I wrote or praising me to the skies in his newsletter or website.
Mostly I enjoyed knowing someone who has integrity. Who had turned away from the easy money of cheesy
Hollywood
crap to pursue his arts, who was cultured yet down to earth, and still honing his skills in tea ceremony and calligraphy.
I always had a little nagging worry that one day Sensei might be all alone inside that gorgeous dojo and have an emergency. He’d cared for many members of his aging family until they had passed. I fretted whether we would be able to provide that kind of care to him.
Last night I got the call.
From Mark, whom we had that French-Japanese dinner with.
Sensei was talking, laughing even, with his students.
Keeled over. Ambulance was unable to save him.
In our living room, atop the coffee table, is the latest little gift from Little Tokyo.
He sent me off on the plane, with a beautifully wrapped box.
In my head I make the calculations.
I am pretty sure he received the photos from our last dinner together, as well as the card I sent the following Tuesday. I sure hope so.
It’s been about 26 hours since Rev. Kensho Furuya departed.
Words fall lame to convey what kind of rare soul has left us.
Reverend Kensho Furuya
Rev. Kensho Furuya is a 6th Dan in Hombu Aikido and 6th Dan Kyoshi in Muso Shinden Ryu Iaido, with over 47 years experience in martial artists. Furuya Sensei earned his degrees in Asian Studies at the University of Southern California and Harvard University. He trained at the Aikido World Headquarters in Tokyo, Japan in 1969, under the late Kisshomaru Ueshiba Doshu and established his Dojo in 1974. Furuya Sensei was ordained as a Zen priest in 1988 and received the honor to speak at the United Nations in the following year. He is the author of many articles on martial arts and has appeared on many television programs speaking on the subject. He is the author of the book Kodo: Ancient Ways, and the acclaimed video series, The Art of Aikido which is in nine volumes.
Credits: "Outstanding Cultural Organization Award" Japanese Chamber of Commerce, President of the So. Calif. Yamanashi Prefectural Organization, President of the Los Angeles Sword and Swordsmanship Society, Member of L.A. Police Dept. Civilian Martial Arts Advisory Board, Member of Soto Zen International, Past President of the Southern California Japanese Sword Society.
Second Life Suzanne
Suzanne Vega has got to be one of the greatest underrated singers of our time. It’s funny how such a "bare-bones" performer, the mellow queen of accapella, minimalist, zero histrionics/shrieking performer (sort of an antidote to Mariah/Celine) winds up being the "mother of the MP3" and also the first "live" performer as an avatar.
Here’s a brief interview and short performance-
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YCLSkTEBj2k
The other day P and I were talking with friends about how people select their Avatars. You’ll note in Suzanne’s audience that there are no obese or ugly "people" since in our virtual relations we can all creat finely sculpted torsos and dress in anti-gravity clothing far cooler than what exists in our actual wardrobe.
I work with a grown woman who looks and acts sort of like a walking cartoon/avatar: cute, Japanese, smiley-eyed, sometimes comes to work in overalls and sandals or with a bouncy ponytail. An adorable voice that could launch a thousand anime fantasies. Come on, we all have a friend or two who is sort of a walking caricature of sorts. When I had my super short, layered haircut two of my colleagues announced to me one morning that I reminded them of an anime character. (is that a compliment or an insult…?!)
I’m sort of partial to the folks whose representations of themselves include stuff like the shimmering purple butterfly wings, green alien skin, or devil horns. Thus far I refuse to assume any avatars or alternate lives, I figure I’ve lived several lifetimes (in the form of my numerous and varied vocational adventures) and have already overcrammed myself with committments in this present reality.
But years ago I became hyper aware of the disparate reality; between how I feel, and how others seem to view me. Apparently there is a tendency for people to assume that I’m- how shall we say- slow in the uptake. A bit wimpy, perhaps. A lot "exotic" at times. high -maintenance, even?
Sigh. Such is the fate of the petite Asian woman in the era of yellow fever.
Look man, I’d bet money that my English skills far surpass yours. I’m about as exotic as a boxy ‘ol Volvo & this is one wimp that’s been trained since infancy that "in America, if someone attacks you, you just have to kill them."
(kid you not, my Dad taught me that as a little girl. In retrospect, guess that sounds kinda psycho. But he meant that you had to do it so that they didn’t come after you another day or litigate you into oblivion, and that one should never feel even slightly guilty for defending onself tooth and nail. Thanks, Dad!)
If my bodily self matched my mental status, I’d be some kind of 6 ft. Amazon, hippy, curvy, Earth mother; kind of a beautiful, scary, Kali:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kali
Hoo-yah, now that is the avatar to end all avatars…
Passions
Scribbling along in a little writing exercise, I asked via paper:
"What do I really want?"
…the last item I wrote on the list:
"To enjoy Passion with great regularity…(almost an oxymoron)"
Or is it?
Passion does not neccessitate novelty, Personally I have known some of those faces, voice, books, trees, music, and mountains which send my heart soaring the same way (or better) the 100th time as the 1st.
When I was a little girl, I fancied myself an artist.
Like all American little girls, I had been thoroughly brainwashed to believe that penultimate happiness arrives with a handsome man and "happily ever after." I was working on a multi-day crayon/marker masterpiece at the dining room table, titled "Love in the Park", featuring several couples. All the ladies with long, pretty, hair; and long, pretty, dresses, all the guys with brown hair, wearing jeans - and attached to the ladies like big barnacles. Pretty Deep thoughts, eh?
My mom came upon this, and drew other creatures onto the page to complete the scene. I will always remember the explanations of "other kinds of love": the kid who loved animals and fed them (that would be me, my parents indulging me with countless journeys to Golden Gate Park so I could handfeed various critters), how the parents love children etc. She drew a brown fuzzy squirrel like the ones who ate from our hands and once jumped on her shoulder.
I realized as a teen that the sweetest thing to see, was an elderly couple sitting or walking together arm in arm, or hand in hand. Sadly I had learned quite quickly that lust and attention was an entirely different phenomena than actual loyalty. Young love, I think, is highly over rated.
Was it possible to obtain,this lifelong comfort & affection between the silver-haired set?
Perhaps. My report from the frontline of a mere (almost) 4 years of matrimony is that the weather is mixed. Sharing a bathroom sink with another human sometimes seems akin to water torture. Having another person witness how many shoes (boots) I own, magazines I subscribe to, books I read simultaneously, and bouts of puffy PMS I endure; is too mortifying for words.
Yet what could be better than sitting in our little home eating a vegatarian Italian dinner, ("I like a good bread you can fight with" I said, as I wrested apart hunks of a crusty loaf, "none of that wimpy, over-processed, soft American or Taiwan crap.") and reading aloud from the Lonely Planet guidebook to Nicaragua - where we are headed next month on yet another one of Helen’s bright ideas.
He’s held my hand within oceans from Thailand to Mexico, and almost fell off a horse into a muddy raging river during a tropical downpour in Belize, and climbed atop a looming Tikal ruin in Guatemala. Now he’ll hold my hand as we head for volcanoes and the former land he only previously associated with Iran-Contra and Ortega. Perhaps odds are good after all for our silver-haired days ahead…
