A Year and a Half of No

I thought I'd share something I wrote when I got the job that was most...um...unlike me. It was like stepping into this skin that was too small, and squeeze as I might, suck in my gut as I tried, I couldn't fit. Why am I sharing this in a blog dedicated to joy?

Because I just re-read it and it's funny. Also, because I recently interviewed someone on the phone who only knew me in my brief stint as a PR. He couldn't figure out how I'd been demoted to hack. And he asked in hushed tones if everything was OK and if I was being "adequately compensated". Like dude, are you serious?

I told him rather shortly that he had known me during what I consider an aberration in my life. I was born a journalist. I will die a journalist. It's not that it's what I had to do. It's that it's what I get to do.

Subtle difference there, bucko!

And also because I'd like to acknowledge those hidden parts of my life. The parts I keep under wraps for shame. Ha ha. Nothing to be ashamed of. We make mistakes to make mistakes - and then we know better.

The name is Jenn. I do PR. Funny thing is, this is the last place I thought I’d ever end up. You know how you sometimes meet people who are so belligerent that you cross the street to avoid them? That’s me. Or at least, that was.

Since then, they have been trying very hard to initiate me into this glossy, manicured world where I’m supposed to please a lot of people. Some of whom I don’t even like. A little trouble there; when I don’t like someone, the man on the 12th floor in a coma knows about it. But anyways, here’s how I got to this pretty pass.

Picture this: It’s been a year and I’ve been out of a job. The freelance thing is not happening. Every newspaper immediately discounts me, assuming I’ll be too expensive because of my years of experience and newly-minted fancy liberal arts degree that doesn’t really teach me to do anything useful. I’m running out of options here.

A friend calls. A company is looking for someone to do their PR.

I gasp inaudibly. Rubbing my last two pennies together in my pocket (I have taken to seeing how long the coins will hold out) I say incredulously: “Me? PR?”

“Look, just go for the interview. I mean, what do you have to lose?”

She’s right of course. Nothing. Except my soul. But then, a soul doesn’t put food on the table. Or buy you Vahlrona chocolate to make the perfect triple chocolate muffin.

So I rock up for the interview at Starbucks, as bright and bushy-tailed as three hours of sleep and a dozen cups of coffee can make me, and face my two new potential employers. We survey each other with the slight suspicion you accord to strangers who could possibly run away with your mobile phone if you were to leave it on the table (although they had more to fear on that score than me) and sat down.

I order another coffee and lean back. After all, even if they don’t like me, it’s OK. I am no frigging PR. One gives me the practiced spiel about the company. I lean forward, interested despite myself.

“You’re talking Prahalad?”

“Um, yeah, no, I mean, who?”

“Just this writer who seems to have encapsulated your entire business philosophy beautifully. I think his books are Wharton Business School or something.”

Why did I have to come off sounding like I just went to Harvard or something? I had just picked up the book at MPH, sank into one of those squashy sofas and beguiled the wanton hours reading business case studies. This is what you do when time hangs heavy and you have no idea what to do next.

Anyway, this interviewer asks me about Prahalad and I proceed to give him a brief run-down of what the book covered. My one and only talent is reading voraciously and remembering nearly everything I read. Which doesn’t exactly qualify me for this job. But seems to impress these guys nonetheless.

There’s an awkward pause during which we all sip our respective beverages and look around. People are started to trickle in and there is an animated buzz at other tables.

Then, the inevitable question: “So tell us about yourself.”

OK, here’s where I do the hard sell and really impress these guys. Here’s where I go for broke. Here’s where I shine. Here’s where I…:“I don’t like stupid people. I don’t suffer fools gladly.”

The voluble interviewer looks a little stunned: “Well, we can’t all be smart. You’d have to learn to get along with people. What about your interests?”

“I like poetry. Frankly I’m more literary than corporate. I can write business, I just don’t like business,” I am pleased with my neat turn of phrase and smile complacently. (Part of me wonders why I am doing my best to screw up this interview. Maybe because it goes against my religion to do PR and be forced to be nice to people I don’t respect. But then, I need the job)

“Well, we all need outside interests,” says the benign one with a slight twinkle. Was he laughing at me?

We talked a little about my experience. Yeah, I could write. But could I do all that other stuff? I didn’t know.

Then it came to money. They had been looking (and willing to pay for) someone with half my experience. I admire people who can get down to brass tacks without flinching. I always feel a sinking in the pit of my stomach when we come around to figures.

Anyway, they named a sum. I upped it. They said, we’ll think about it. (Think about it? They were not seriously going to offer me the job after that interview were they? I wouldn’t if I were them)

Ten minutes later, my very basic Motorola (the cheapest phone I could get on a student budget in Australia) beeps.

“Can you start tomorrow?”

You can say it knocked the wind out of my sails. These guys were cool! I was grateful. I was alarmed. Heck, I was so freaked out, I started to hyperventilate. Right there, in the supermarket.

And that was how I went from bumming to PR in the space of an hour.

My friends fell over themselves laughing. You could say I was not famous for tact or diplomacy. (Come to think of it, I still am not) An ex-boss who came over to talk to me at a restaurant, asked: “So where are you again? And what do you do for this company?”

“Would you believe, I’m their PR?”

“No, seriously Jenn, what do you do?”

A colleague who had gotten to know me pretty well in the few weeks I’d been there butted in at this point: “She bullies the CEO and COO.”

My ex-boss nodded: “Yes, that sounds like her.” And he left satisfied.

God was once more in His heaven. And all was right with the world.

A Year of Yes

OK most of my friends don't agree with me on this. They don't see why I love this book so much. I can't rightly say. Except that every time I read it, it fills me with bubbles, kinda like champagne...and in the background there is this thrum, thrum, thrum, the kind of thrumming that Virginia Woolf was talking about in A Room of One's Own when she went for lunch at the university and there was this feast of reason and flow of soul...that went on and on and on...and how everyone broke out into extemporaneous poetry (have you ever felt like that? have you ever felt your fingertips tingle and feel light pouring out of your body like a Botticelli Venus? Have you? Have you? Have you?

Tell me, tell me, tell me all.

"We're going to Coney Island, baby," said the Conductor, and grinned at me. "Goin' to see the freak show. That shit's the shit to see. Swedish Fish?"

"No thanks."

The Conductor shrugged. He'd eaten most of a bag of Swedish Fish by himself already. It was a candy, he'd told me, that he could relate to. The fish swimming upstream their whole lives, he'd said, were like conductors stuck on the G train, never making it anywhere close to Manhattan, always hoping that the train would miraculously take flight and transit across the East River. Failing that, the Conductor wanted (at least, goddamn it) some shiny new cars.

I'd met the Conductor a few mornings before, on the G. Or rather, I'd met his voice. As usual, I'd waited half an hour for the train, along with a surging pack of irritable caffeinated New Yorkers. When the train finally pulled in, we squeezed on against our better instincts, pressed against friends and foes, elbowing and kicking to get a spot. It was a rush-hour ritual. At least one person on each car was usually speared by an umbrella. One this particular morning, a light rain had become, in about ten minutes, a torrential downpour. An hour later, our train pulled into Queens Plaza, normally five minutes away. The doors didn't open. We started to hyperventilate. Over the normally incomprehensible in-train intercom, a jolly voice boomed forth:

"Good morning, Great People of Brooklyn! As you can tell, we got some trouble. So take a deep breath and love your neighbor for just a few more minutes till we can get you all off to your day."

New York City subway conductors were known for two things: their mumbling and their irritability. Typical rush-hour messages normally sounded more like:

"Attention, Asshole-in-Red-Shirt at the last car. Step OUT OF THE DOORWAY. NOW. Don't think you're getting on my train. There is NO ROOM FOR YOU. We're just going to sit here and WAIT for you, Asshole-in-Red-Shirt."

The persons stuck on the last car with Asshole-in-Red-Shirt would direct threatening looks and/or gestures and/or streams of obscenity at him, until he got out of the doorway and back onto the platform.

Even more typically, the message went something like this:

"Wyhow? Mmmhhiummmumblemumble! Proceed to mumblemumble! MMMMPH! Now! Hmmghrrh."

This morning, it seemed that the rain had flooded every station in the city. The entire passenger contents of the subways were to be disgorged to buses. When the doors finally opened, I took a walk past the conductor's car to see who the hell this cheerful guy was.

I got there just as he left the train. He was walking in front of me, and walking fast. Five foot three was never the best of heights, and particularly not when trying to keep up with someone tall. From behind, I could see wiry, graying hair, a navy suit jacket, and a dark neck. I started running. The sunshiniest subway conductor in New York City stopped in his tracks, causing me to run past him. He started opening his jacket. Something began to emerge from his (horrors) sweater vest. I recoiled. Aliens! Sigourney Weaver! High school geometry teacher! My brain, as usual, was out of control with associations. I could do nothing about this problem. I hoped it wouldn't one day end me up in an asylum, babbling about Byron and Barry White. When I forced the brain to pause, it became clear that what was climbing out of the dreaded sweater vest was an iguana. The Conductor pulled a small white bag out of his pocket, fished something out of it, and fed it to the iguana. By then I was close enough to identify the treat as a Swedish Fish. The iguana retreated into its argyle lair.

"Excuse me," I said.

The conductor looked up. He was about fifty, skinny, and startled. Then he smiled a smile like a newly white-washed fence. I felt the rain retreating and rainbows scaling the sky. Maybe this was irrational. New Yorkers, though, weren't known for their smiles, particularly not at strangers. I felt like I'd found a kindred spirit.

"Hey, girl," he said, as though he'd known me for five hundred years.

"Hi!" I said. "How'd you get so happy?"

"What's not to be happy about?" he said. Even though he had an iguana, even though he wore a sweater vest, I liked him immediately.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Maria."

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Joseph."

I'd watched a lot of Mister Rogers as a child. The train to the Neighborhood of Make-Believe had been one of the primary objects of my fantasy. I envisioned myself stepping aboard, donning a conductor's cap, and shortly thereafter arriving in a glorious place where there was not one, but two talking cats. There was a definite soft spot in my heart for trains. So, when the Conductor asked me if I wanted to take a little trip with him on Saturday, I was very excited. I had visions of a little trip to heaven. Or, at least, some make-believe sector of New York City, one with sparklingly clean sidewalks and maybe a few nice elves. I thought maybe it was a secret place that only conductors knew, especially because the Conductor refused to tell me where we were going, and would only say that I needed to bring a bathing suit. It was October. Wherever we were going, it was somewhere warm. Somewhere tropical. Somewhere deep in Brooklyn that I'd never heard of before. We were taking the F train.

As we took it, though, it became clear that we were not going to the Neighborhood of Make-Believe. We were going to Coney Island.

Coney Island was about the last place on earth I wanted to go. It was cold, cold enough that hot dogs would be frozen on the spit, cotton candy would crack into spun sugar shards, and neon lights would split into splinters of color if they lit. It would be Siberia, but painted with toxically bright lead paint. It would be like one of those nightmares of juxtapositions that couldn't exist, similar to the one that had plagued me as a child: the evil Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters stomping down my driveway, his teeth bared to consume me. I would have deserved it, too, as I'd regularly killed his kin in campfire s'mores. Worse, I'd enjoyed it. I might as well have been a Nazi, as far as the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man was concerned. In the dream I cowered, watching his white head bobbing above the treeline, marking his inexorable progress toward my house. He often waved cheerily at me, a bloodied parent in each paw. Periodically, he'd nibble at their skulls, and grin at me with dripping red teeth.

"It's cold," I told the Conductor, speaking with all the authority I didn't have. "I think the freak show's closed. And the rides aren't running."

"Avoid the crowds, that's my motto. I only go in the fall. Summer, you got the crazies there, swimming in that ocean. Nobody need swim in that ocean in the summer. Nasty. This is the last day they're open, and it's perfect weather for it."

The train came above ground, and I looked out. Gray. Storm clouds, like giant rhinoceroses butting each other across the sky. And what was that? Oooh. A little spear of lightning! Yeah, perfect for a day at an outdoor amusement park.

I had a bad history with parks. I was scared of roller coasters, Ferris wheels, tippy things of all kinds, darts, and clowns. The last time I'd been to an amusement park, I'd been about eight, and a peacock had dive-bombed in from nowhere and taken an epic shit on my shoulder. Thinking that the cool trickle I'd felt was my dangling earring, I'd proceeded to rub my face across my shoulder, smearing peacock excrement from forehead to chin. Or perhaps an earlier memory: the time an off-kilter great-aunt had taken my siblings and me for a jaunt to Barnum & Bailey. Sometime during the acrobats, when one of us was vomiting cotton candy, she'd decided that we was done with us and had driven away. Or: the county fair when I was a teenager, at which my preternaturally developed friend won a Pink Floyd T-shirt and the ongoing stalker admiration of the vendor by flashing her tits for him and all of his twenty-something vagrant employees. I'd never been to Disneyland as a kid, because my family had never had enough money. As a result, I'd developed a deep scorn for all things Disney. Kids would come back after summer vacation, show-and-telling, proudly wearing their Mickey Mouse ears, and I would jealously inform them that mice carried the black plague and that they'd soon be breaking out in swellings beneath their armpits. The only animated Disney movie I'd really liked was Fantasia, specifically the "Night on Bald Mountain" sequence, and that was only because I took pride in being the only kid in the room who could watch it without wetting her pants.

"What video do you want, Maria?" the poor, deluded mommies would ask.

"Fantasia," I'd reply, handing over my own illegally dubbed copy. I'd hotly await the moment when the red devil guy would appear onscreen, and then I'd tell the story of the time I saw him come through the screen at a slumber party. I was not an A-list guest at slumber parties, because I had developed an early reputation for either puking or leading the other girls in somersaults through the house. I didn't care to sleep. This problem had, obviously, rippled into my present life, except that now my red devil guys were much more corporeal, and they had nothing as cultured as "Night on Bald Mountain" to accompany them. "Night with Bald Head" was where I'd ended up most of the time. God help me. At least it hadn't been "Night on Bald Mountie." Yet. I could just see it, though. Falling foolishly into bed with a Canadian. Being carried off on the back of a very slow horse. The little red jacket. The hat covering the shiny head. In bed, my Mountie would cry, "Eh? Eh?"

Apparently, some portion of my traumatic thought trajectory was visible.

"Why the long face?" asked the Conductor. "It's going to be fun. You have no idea until you try it. Coney Island, baby, at the end of the season, is the best place in the world."

All my knowledge of Coney Island was courtesy of A Coney Island of the Mind, a book of not terribly fascinating Beat-era poems written by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, the publisher of Howl. I'd read it, along with a bunch of Richard Brautigan, during that high school hobo period. The real Coney Island had little to do with the book. Brighton Beach was a myth to me. I had never ventured this far on the train.

Stan the Iguana poked his prehistoric head out of the Conductor's jacket. There were strands of green yarn impaled on his spines, part of the shredded scarf that the Conductor had informed me was Stan's winter garb. Being cold-blooded, Stan required careful dressing for outdoor appearances. The Conductor gave him a Swedish Fish. Stan took it and disappeared again into the jacket, smacking his little lizard lips.

"Won't that hurt him?"

"He loves 'em. What can I say?"

What did I know about animal desire?

"That's nothing. You know what I give him in breeding season?"

"No." I wasn't sure I wanted to know, either. But this was what I'd signed for. A date with a herpetophile. Which was not what it sounded like, but was instead a person who loved lizards. "Tell me."

It seemed that Stan's green scarf was part-time muffler, and part-time his mistress. No wonder the muffler was so dilapidated. Stan had big teeth and claws. It couldn't have been fun to fuck him. The Conductor told me that he had to watch out if he wore anything green, because Stan would immediately decide that green meant girl.

"Stan is easily fooled by placebo pussy," the Conductor told me.

I'd been treated like an inanimate object occasionally, even in the mammal world. Sometimes I felt like the blue velvet chair that Taylor had once told me had been his first love. Sometimes I suspected I was just being used as something to rub against.

"From time to time," the Conductor told me, "I put him in a little hat. He has a collection. Sombrero. Stetson. Shit, Stan even has a yarmulke."

Every iguana owner I'd ever known had been weird. The Conductor, at least, was a joyful kind of weird. He was the happiest person I'd ever met. We sat on that train, sharing Swedish Fish with Stan, and it rocked us up high above the city, careening all the way to the Ferris wheel and the Atlantic Ocean, to the hot dog and knish stands getting boarded up for the winter. Coney Island from above was a sad-looking thing, all its bright colors stark against the sky, everything strangely tiny compared to the modern-day amusement parks in my mind's eye. Coney Island had its Wonder Wheel towering over everything, 150 feet tall, and in position since 1920. The park's old rides still stood, skeletal, the newer rides nestled like toadstools in their shadows. Or so the Conductor, a Coney Island buff, told me.

"The Cyclone," he said, reverently, pointing at the most decrepit roller coaster I'd ever seen. It was made of wood, and there'd been no attempt to hide its age. It was weathered. It was battered. It was ancient. It was still fucking running. It was so New York: a city of the most stubborn people on earth. This part of the city was especially stubborn, given that it was full of Russian immigrants, and was the home base of the Polar Bear Club, a group of elderly men who went swimming in the Atlantic year round, most notably on New Year's Day. They'd been doing this since 1903. They were skinny-chested guys in Speedos and sunglassses, for the most part. And they didn't just dash in and out. They immersed. From the beach, their long-suffering wives applauded them, and then they scampered inside for black Russian bread and soup. I assumed. I knew nothing of the Polar Bear Club, really, only what I'd seen referenced. I thought they were crazy. Who would swim in the water at Coney Island? Particularly in the winter. Only freaks. By which I didn't mean the sideshow kind. I didn't think even sideshow performers would be loopy enough to jump into ice water. Who'd do such a crazy thing?

****************************

Coney Island on the last day of summer season was not the most populated place. Some renegade parents and children, some college kids, some women in saris pushing strollers. We got off the elevated train, walked down some rickety steps, and made for the freak show, housed in a windbeaten building with old-fashioned posters of attractions - the Tattooed Man, Zenobia: the Bearded Lady, the Great Ferdini, Koko the Killer Clown. Nobody outside. Too rainy. There was a small stand-up bar inside the doors, where you could get a beer and wait for the freaks to come out. Apparently, they'd stand on a plywood platform and do their crowd-catching maneuvers outside for a couple of minutes, between shifts. Sadly, by the time we got there the show was closing and everyone was going home. The Conductor and I sat on barstools and watched the Tattooed Man, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, pass us. Then the Bearded Lady, swathed in a raincoat. Finally, a couple of serpentine skin-and-bones performers that the Conductor identified as contortionists.

"Weren't we here to see the freak show?" I asked. "Not just watch them leave?"

"Girl, I see the freak show all day long. Hell no. I like to see them turn back into normal people and go home," said the Conductor. "Makes me happy to see them get on a train. I love New York," he suddenly whooped. "How can anyone not love this city?"

A tattooed guy gave the Conductor a look as he passed. A stunning, curvaceous Latina woman carrying a boa constrictor eyed the Conductor, too. Stan was scaling the Conductor's neck, and looking curiously around.

"That's my favorite part," said the Conductor. "They never ride my train. I want the F. If I had the F, I'd be more entertained. The G, the incredible folks on the G are more discreet about it. I had an opera singer on my train the other day. She started singing in the tunnel, and everybody on my train could hear it, but I never saw her face. Nobody's normal, baby, whether it's on the outside or on the inside. That's the thing."

That statement could be looked at two ways. Either it was a great thing, and I felt right at home, or it was evidence that I was destined to date weirdos until the end of time, because there was nothing else out there. The Conductor was definitely part of the weirdo category. In a good way, though. He was like a little kid, grinning and nodding at people, eating his cotton candy and spouting bits of Coney Island history between bites. The Spook-A-Rama, for example, the park's "dark ride" (a long tunnel full of thrills and chills, transited via open train cars), had been there since 1955. Charles Lindbergh had ridden the Cyclone, and had been quoted as saying that this two-minute roller-coaster journey was much more exciting than his famous flight across the Atlantic.

We watched the sideshow freaks leaving Coney Island. They melded into the people outside - the shifting mass of parents and their children, the Coney Island devotees, the Hasidic Jews and the Puerto Ricans, the Russians and the junkies - and made their way to the trains, scarcely noticed among the ice-cream clamors and the umbrellas. A stray dog skittered over the sidewalk. A guy sat cowboy-booted on the boardwalk and sang "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina," accompanied by his accordion.

We walked out into the sand. I was surprised to see that it really was sand. I'd been expecting some sort of false beach. I'd seen too many movies. The city felt like a soundstage. I'd thought the sand would be plastic pebbles.

It started to rain. It started to pour. The Conductor unfurled a candy-striped golf umbrella and a garbage bag. He pitched the umbrella in the sand and spread the garbage sack like a blanket. We sat down, and looked out over the rain and sea.

"Picnic?" he said.

"Sure," I said. As far as I was concerned, the Conductor was the coolest person I'd ever met. He made me feel like we were in sort sort of alternate New York, one that was both gritty and romantic. Never mind that the grit was partially due to sand that coated the Nathan's Famous hot dog the Conductor bought me. I ate the bun with everything on it. I gave the hot dog itself to the Conductor, who gave it to Stan to lick.

"A treat," he said. I was skeptical, but Stan relished only the relish.

"Does that count as a vegetable?"

"He thinks so."

I used the toe of my shoe to scratch a message in the sand. MARIA WAS HERE. I felt strangely compelled to make sand angels, despite the rain. I took off my shoes and wriggled my toes in the cold sand. They looked exactly like earthworms, which led me to ideas of earthworm decapitations, and made me want to put my shoes back on.

"What now? Do we go home?"

"Hell no," the Conductor said, and motioned toward the ocean in front of us.

"What does that mean?"

"Girl, we're going swimming. It's a beach, right? Got your suit?"

It was a beach only in the most generous sense of the word. I was wearing a bathing suit, yes. Under my sweater. And wool pants. And coat. And scarf. The Conductor was stripping down to psychedelic floral swim trunks. He folded his clothing neatly on the garbage sack. I could see goose bumps.

"Come on. You're joking. It's too cold to go swimming."

"Nah. I do this every year on the last day of the season. It's like New Year's Eve, you know? You make a wish, so that the next year will be good. You have to eat the last hot dog sold, swim the last swim, and watch the last tattoo go by."

He seemed to be combining several traditions into one.

Nevertheless, I started unbuttoning my coat. Something about the Conductor made me trust him. He was quirky, but, just as he'd said, nobody was normal. Not me. And he had happened to be standing next to me, grinning, and hopping up and down in the wind. I couldn't let him do that all alone. I could see Stan eyeing me from the pile of clothes. My bikini was green. I shoved him surreptitiously with my foot and made sure that he couldn't climb anything to get to me. I had no intention of being molested by an iguana.

Pretty speedily, the Conductor and I were both standing there, like psychos, on the beach of Coney Island in the wind and the rain, getting ready to run into the ocean. I could see some people watching us from the relative shelter of the hot dog stands and teacup rides. Way down the beach, an old lady in a black dress lifted a pair of binoculars.

"Okay, girl," yelled the Conductor. "Here we go!" He grabbed my hand, and we ran into the water.

**************************

ICE, ICE, ICE. Once you throw your whole body into ice water, you feel pretty good. Both in the metaphoric sense, and in the actual sense. I felt ballsy. But I also felt those balls shrinking. I concluded that this was, hands down, the stupidest thing I'd ever done. In a life of stupid things, that was saying something. Visions of pneumonia crossed with stomach cramps raced through my head. But somehow, I didn't care.

I'd always been secretly scared of so many things, and the months of yes had changed me. Maybe I'd been scared of falling in love, just as I'd been scared of roller coasters and sweater vests, of leaping before I looked. From the outside, I knew that I looked devil-may-care, but on the inside, I cared like crazy. Part of me was always preserving myself, making sure that I didn't get hurt, making sure that I didn't get lost. Not today. I let go of the last things I'd been clinging to. I was ready for love to come for me.

We ducked underwater and came up, gasping. The Conductor laughed his ass off.

"Dream on, Stan," he called.

I looked back onto the beach and saw Stan crawling away from our pile of clothes.

"Don't worry," said the Conductor. "He won't go far. I have his woman."

I wasn't sure if he meant me or the muffler, but it didn't really matter. I was willing to be an iguana's woman at that point. I was fucking freezing. Reptile though he was, at least Stan had a wooly scarf he was willing to share with me. I'd done worse.

"Why'd you bring me here? I asked the Conductor as we were leaving the water. "You don't even know me."

"I took one look at you, and I knew this was your kind of thing," he said.

"How could you tell?"

"Nobody chases a conductor down the platform to ask him why he's happy," the Conductor said. "People chase a conductor to chew his ass. So, girl, you surprised me. I owed you something special. Simple."

If I delivered something special to everyone I probably owed it to, I'd be busy for a long time. Maybe, though, I could try to deliver a little more from here on out.

****************

"How come you're single?" I asked the Conductor as we got dressed.

"Women are like trains," he said. "They go a million miles an hour, and when they get there, they turn right around, and, you're goddamned lucky? You're there waiting. Like you, girl. You're moving fast, right? I'm not going fast enough to keep up with something like you. I just have to wait on the platform and watch you go by. But fuck, baby, that's cool. Can't drive that train. You can love things you can't have, right? Watch 'em go. Me and Stan, we're happy together. I've been working the MTA for thirty years, and I like my life. Don't need a new one. But maybe I changed your life a little, huh?"

"You did," I said. And I hugged him. He seemed surprised, but then he hugged back. Who would have thought that my guru would turn out to be a New York City subway conductor? A whole life of everything from Hermann Hesse to Robert Heinlein, from Kierkegaard to Nietzsche, a childhood stocked with my mom's "spiritual" bookshelf and all of its Castaneda, Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, and everything else of that ilk. All those things had left me cold. What really mattered? Kindness. The Conductor smiled at me, and we walked to the train.

********************

On the platform, the Conductor handed me a pink frosted cupcake. He rummaged in his jacket and brought out a lone, somewhat crumpled birthday candle. He dug into another pocket, and found matches.

"We got one more thing to do," he said. "Don't breathe."

He lit the candle. The flame trembled, trembled, almost died. I looked questioningly at the Conductor. Finally, the tracks started to rattle, and the lights of the train glowed in the distance.

"Okay girl, now, you got to make a wish."

And so I did. Then, together, we blew the candle out.

A few days later, my wish came true.

The Lovers, The Dreamers and Me

OK today I wanted to take a time out and just say, I'm so grateful for having committed to doing this blog for a year. I'm grateful that I have to keep searching for things that bring me joy to share in these pages. As Pollyanna said, when you're grateful about not needing the crutches, you don't mind the doll you didn't get so much. (If you're wondering about context here, it's all about the Glad Game).

If you know me, you probably know that I have a problem with perseverance. I don't stick to stuff. So it's amazing that I've not only stuck to this, but I look forward to updating it. I mean, it's like the highlight of my day.

I'm grateful to the people who read. The people who comment. You have no idea how much that means to me.

I have a problem with liking myself. So it amazes me (and this is true) when anyone bothers to give me the time of day. I know I have issues but such as it is...I figure the best I can do is to keep bringing myself back to the moment, and then infusing that moment with joy.

Sometimes I go to my own blog and click on the different things just to get a rush.

So I started out doing it for anyone who felt sad, who felt like they needed a pick-me-up...and waddyaknow, I ended up doing it for me. I guess if we're all one, whatever we do, we do to ourselves. And whatever we do, we do for everyone.

Filaments of love.

That sort of stuff.

See ya in the funny papers!

Kindness

I read this in a book today. And then I re-read it. And I read it again. It's so lovely and it will only make sense to you when you hit rock bottom...and the only thing to get you out...is kindness. How did she capture it so perfectly? Truly, the poet is a prophet, a vessel of the gods...there is something divine and I know, I just know why the top of Emily Dickinson's head falls off....spinning, spinning, spinning....



By Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and
purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

How To Look Younger And Then Some

I wrote this when I was 34. Now I'm nearly 40. And I still look 10 whole months younger. Something must be working.

"How old are you?" he asked, casually, like it's a polite question and not one of the 10 big no-nos and likely to get you bitch slapped.

"34 years and what month is it now, August? Well 34 years and 9 months exactly," I answer because one of my affectations is that I always answer this question without hesitation. (My other is that I insist on using a fountain pen, which makes many people look at me askance, but let us be eccentric or die)

"Wow. You don't look your age at all. In fact, if you hadn't told me, I would have not pegged you at over 33 years and 11 months," he breaks into an artless guffaw.

I am stunned. 10 whole months younger! I must be doing something right. Trouble is, I don't know what. So here, in an effort to share the blessing, I give you all the ways I know of to look at least 10 months younger.

1. Be a bum: Now, this may be obvious, but you'd be surprised how many people are addicted to having jobs they hate.

2. Go through periodic bouts of intense depression: I dunno, it's probably cathartic or something, but it certainly works for me.

3. Eat more chocolate: See it's all about being happy and more chocolate makes everyone happier.

4. Have brief forays into alcoholism during which you write suicidal poetry: Happened, in Australia where the wine was cheaper and more accessible. Again, donno why but it seemed to work.

5. Toss off phrases like "I don't suffer assholes gladly" and then don't. They'll give you a wide berth. It may be a little lonely at first, especially if you're surrounded by them, but heck, it probably shaves like a couple of months off your biological age.

6. Go for long walks at the Bukit Kiara arboretum: During which time you take note of how all the geriatrics are much fitter than you. Then come back and eat a whole tub of ice cream to comfort yourself.

7. Hang about with people a lot older than you: Like at least 50 years older. You're bound to look younger then.

8. Lose your temper often: Again, catharsis.

9. Cuddle your Mummy and climb on her lap if you can: She may scream get off you baby elephant, but enjoy it before she pushes you off.

10. If all else fails, learn to make really good desserts: You can bribe your friends into saying you look 10 months younger.

I Wish I Didn't Feel So Strong About You

Like happiness and love revolve around you
Trying to catch your heart is like
Trying to catch a star
So many people love, baby
That must be what you are...



Gotta love the 80s. I took Arnold out today. And this song was playing on the radio...and it was so joyous, I was carried away...

And carry your heart into my arms
that's where you belong
in my arms, baby, yeah...

And I'd Give Up Forever To Touch You

And all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well in the end.

Dame Julian of Norwich