Trying something new this morn’, my kittens: Naked rant blogging — IN BED. Knowing me (and some of you are getting to know me quite a bit these days, thank you very much), I am shocked I haven’t done this one before.
The thing is, this week: Besides working really hard on my dreams (The Perpetual Dreamer is my life’s finally declared major), I’ve also invested a few hours on the most significant relationships of my life (which although do not currently include a romantic interest, but plenty of loves).
I’ve received my girlfriends’ strife and got updates from my comrades on the state of their own nostalgia for our no longer existent motherland: Bohemia, alas.
“Hear me out!” — a gypsy man ordered me the other day while he endlessly wondered about his next wandering. And I did. I did: I heard him out.
I’ve held my breath in silence yesterday afternoon while listening to my goddaughter far away from me, on the other coast, who hasn’t learned to talk yet but speaks volumes with her silence and her tiny furrowed brows inherited from India. Breathlessly, I held back my tears to the noise of her twirling her mother’s cell phone, in her little brown hands; and when she finally produced a noise that’s impossible to spell or imitate — (was that Malayalam, my love?) — oh how I wept! But then, again: I’ve claimed my breath back:
Now, I’m sittin’ here, in my canopy bed, with the most gorgeous skies tempting me from outside. My body — albeit its looking delicious this summer already, thank you very much — is feeling as if someone has ran it over with a truck. Better yet: a tank. Exhausted: That’s what I am, my kittens.
But regardless the state of being, I always come back to the blank page, every single morn’, as I’ve done for years, on my own. Alone. But now: You’re here. And these every day reunions beat every other desire I may harbor. It’s permanent — this wanting to be read. And even though I never allow myself the hubris of assuming that I may change a life — with my words — I hope I at least reveal enough compassion.
“How do you find what to write about?”
I hear a voice from another day — a voice of one of my broken-hearted. She’s always thought so highly of me! She wishes for my strength and esteem and discipline; while little does she know that all I wish for — is her time. She’s still got time on her side — time and youth, you see? — while I’m perpetually running out. Too young to know what chronic nights of loneliness feel like, she thinks I don’t cry behind my closed doors and curtains; that I’m immune to doubt. She thinks my compassion comes freely, at no cost.
How DO I find what to write about?
Compassion. That’s it. It never runs out. That’s my privilege, in life — and my burden: I’m never immune to humanity. No matter the stupidity or the disappointment, I always come back to it. And now: You’re here. And even though I never allow myself the hubris of earning your understanding, your misunderstanding — I just cannot afford! Because these tales come from my compassion: FOR YOU. For the sake of you. For the sake of my own kindness.
The hero of today’s rant blog shall be named Stan.
Stan was a simple man, my kittens; not really artistic or fearless. He just wanted to live his life, to live it out in calm — in some blah-ness of a simple survival.
No, he didn’t want much. Aspiring — wasn’t his thing. Ambition was somebody else’s spiel. Because to live — wasn’t even his choice in the first place. He was sort of born one day, to a pair of unartistic, fearful parents, somewhere in the middle of the country. They taught him how to walk and to use the toilet; then, sent him off to school. Then — college.
Stan got by. Started losing his hair early. Met a girl. Learned to wank himself off. Married the girl — knocked her up, clumsily, in the dark; then, returned to wanking himself off, alone. Pleasures were always simple for Stan. So were the solutions to his problems. (I wish he didn’t have any, to tell you the truth. But then, we are never granted more than we can handle. So, Stan’s lot had to be lighter than mosts’.)
“I hear California is nice,” he said to his wife one day. She was in the midst of matching his tube socks after doing laundry.
That was the day of Stan’s midlife crisis.
So, they moved.
And that’s where Stan and I met: At some random gas station on Western Boulevard. I was running low, in the midst of my Perpetual Dreaming. (Otherwise, I’d avoid that street at all costs: It’s got a special talent for inspiring depression.) And Stan? Stan was on his way back to Glendale. This — was his regular stop.
At first, he was the jerk answering his cell phone at the gas pump next to mine.
“Is this fucker suicidal?!” I thought and looked at him with the disgust I learned on New York subways. Don’t know about his simple life, but I still had plenty of aspiring to do! Ambition — was my spiel!
Stan noticed the look, realized his wrongdoing. He brushed his thin hairs over the bald spot, lowered the phone and said:
“I’m so sorry, M’am. I have to get this! My wife…”
Stan started weeping, my kittens. Subduedly at first, just so he could finish the phone call. But once the flip phone slid into the pocket of his un-ironed khakis, Stan became all about his “ohs” and “goshes”. Repeatedly, he tried to double over the hood of his car, then the trash bin with pockmarks of gum all over it. He tried so hard to face away from me.
“Sir? Sir, let me…”
With my hand on his hunched over back, I tried to guide him to his driver’s seat. But Stan was all about his “ohs” and “goshes”, clutching onto that filthy trash bin:
I was running low that day; but when compassion flooded — it took me with it, good riddance.