The City, my home.

A trip downtown for a pedicure and stroll through Anthropologie must be weighed alongside the cost of a train ride. Or in this case, a bus ride when the train breaks down. Or perhaps a really long walk. Through the rain. Anyway you look at it, there is a decision to be made. And I made it. Sans umbrella, I trekked down my hill and hopped on the train.

Today I enjoyed lunch with a friend from the burbs. Commenting on a recent trip to the city she wondered at all the crazy people. Its true, but I think I've come to find "normal" people a commodity. I'm intrigued by the mother who can balance a baby on her hip while walking through the moving train. Or the business man who can keep his balance, text, and drink a cup of coffee. I don't so much notice the drunken cursing man in the train station, the unnecessarily flamboyant couple prancing down the street, not even the young homeless guy who stashes his bedroll in the median two blocks before the freeway onramp.

This city is strange, but it fascinates me. As I waited for the train to take me home from my escapades, a petite Vietnamese woman, who I later learned considered herself just as much a French woman as a Vietnamese, hobbled over and tapped my arm.

"Which train do I take?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know if I can help you, I only know how to get to my house."

"I need to go to the hospital."

"Oh! I can get you there, that's my train! It doesn't come for 12 more minutes."

The next twelve minutes were filled with the most peculiar conversation i might have expected to have with a complete stranger. First, she wanted to know if I had kids- for some reason this seems to be the first question anyone ever asks. I laughed and gave her my signature, "not yet! maybe someday." Her response startled me, "pshaw! kids are not good. do not have kids." Suddenly our conversation went from friendly platform chatter to a whole new level of rawness. Her eyes began to well up and I was completely speechless. So instead I smiled and let her poke me as she gave me more advice about life than I might care to hear. And then I helped her on the train where she insisted we sit together. Her stop came first. I wasn't sure if I should walk her to her doctor's appointment or just bid farewell. she seemed so lonely. in the end i stayed glued to my seat, she smiled, patted me on the arm and hobbled down the steps.

And that was the end.

Fell. Octavia. 101. Bay Bridge. 880. Hegenberger. Thirty minutes if I'm lucky. In reverse, forty five. Stich and I have become quite familiar these days. Silent friends, I've time to be pensive.

My heart has a cancer. It needs to be cut out, scraped away, sent off to pathology, never to return. In its depths, it longs to be true, to be good. Yet I fall short of this intention so often. If the most important thing in my existence is to honor him to whom I owe each breath, why am I so selfish? I am wretched. Full of pride.

Might I be loosed from self absorption,

Might I be free from useless concerns,

Might I be true to Him who gave his life me,

Might I be honest in front of the mirror.

Might I slumber to awake with resolve,

Might my first thought be not of myself.

Might I consider others more important,

Only then might I feel more alive.

Beautiful Day in my Capital

Today I went for a walk downtown. I can't paint a picture with words to describe how beautiful it was.

As I strolled down Independence Ave, I noticed this family of kids. Three little kids holding sticks. A girl, about 5 years old, and two boys, maybe 3 and 4. They were swinging their sticks around in the air and the little boy sent his into a trajectory that ended in brute force with his older brother's torso. The stick broke and the older brother diverted his attention to poking his sister. I expected this brother to begin crying or carrying on. Instead, the younger brother cried out, "my stick, no more! it broke!" he was crushed, even though his brother had borne the blow of the attack.

He just carried on and on, I couldn't help but laugh. I just wanted to sit him down and give him a little lecture but i couldn't decide whether i would say, "and that's why we don't hit people with sticks," or "you need to be nice to your brother," or "yeah, that's what we call speaking softly and carrying a big stick."

because i think often in life, i'm like that brother. i do things or say things and expect something to happen, and when the outcome is different that i think it should be, i'm dumbfounded. i think i need to be more flexible. i think i need to not swing tree branches around as if i might conduct and orchestrate the events of my life with a broken stick.

nostalgia

Sometimes I am struck by feelings of nostalgia- for seemingly no good reason. Last night I went to cvs to get face wash and a new razor. Somehow I walked out having spent $45.

I bought a box of Whoppers. Not sure why, I don't particularly like them. I just remembered the sensation of sucking the chocolate down to the grainy core and letting it dissolve on my tongue. It reminds me of Grandpa Will. When he lived in Ventura, he always had a carton of whoppers in that side pantry in the kitchen. I remember he would sneak over there, pop the carton open and pour a handful into my outstretched hand. We would eat them quickly, before his terrifying doberman, Missy, could snatch the melting treats from our fingers. Part of what is so funny is that I don't remember ever eating whoppers at any of his other houses, just the Ventura one.

I ended up with shampoo in my cart; though it was a laborious process determining which bottle to buy. I considered the expensive kind that makes my hair smell so good every time the girl at the salon does it. Then I picked up the Dove. Katie used to use that in our McComber Creek apartment. It always smelled so fresh and so clean. Finally I grabbed the Pantene, it was on sale. I popped the lid open to make sure the scent was acceptable. I was suddenly taken back to my apartment in Courthouse, I closed my eyes and remembered riding the metro to work, and walking through the park to my school in Northeast. That dirty old classroom that was so hot and humid, my hair was completely limp and shapeless by the time I arrived at school. Hopefully Pantene will be better to me this time around.

I bought some scar gel to try to erase the damage done to my stomach from the last surgery. Should've used that last time. Reminded me of last time. When my surgeon was a woman, the scars were so much smaller and precise. I don't think the old man who cut me open was quite so concerned that I might care to don a bikini ever again. But, I'm healthy. So I guess it's okay.

I bought some face wash, but I bought the newest product, pink grapefruit. Time to make a new association with a fresh new scent.

So I guess that was what yesterday gave me: the sweet reminder of nostalgic days I've know, and the hope that there is always something new on the horizon. My same old neutrogena face wash, but with a new scent. Things once old, may surprise us with a new aroma. And taking the time to remember the past isn't such a bad thing.

Mountains

The deepest and darkest valleys can only exist in the shadow of the tallest and most jagged of peaks. The mountains, shaped by God's fingertips, carved when his calm breath caused torrents of icy water to carve a path through the landscape. Yes, these mountain offer the most breath taking of views, the most exhilarating inhalations of purity, of beauty. So if one wishes to ascend to the highest of heights, he must also be willing to descend into the depths throughout the journey. Sometimes the crevasses require ropes and pulleys, zip lines, leaps of faith. When the world appears to vanish beneath your feet, those ropes suspend- offering grace, requiring faith. For at times the peaks are too far apart to leap across. And what would a life be if one spent his entire existence on the same hilltop?

Hungry

I hadn't eaten in over 24 hours, and still had 24 to go before my surgery- I was hungry. I ran a few errands at the mall, a bottle of water handy to appease my growling insides. I noticed that my sense of smell was especially keen. Outside the library in Shirlington the aromas wafting from the row of eateries were easily distinguishable. At the mall, Sbarro looked incredibly appetizing. The piles of fried and stale foods- disgusting, unhealthy, greasy- they suddenly looked like the most decadenct treat I might every place upon my tongue. Every food stand became nearly irresistible, though on a normal day such food would never tempt me. I realized that starvation lead to a terrible lapse in my judgement and perception. Why do we starve ourselves?

inspired.

I wrote this earlier in the summer and saved it to drafts:

I haven't felt inspired. I've have nothing to say, nothing to write. It's quiet inside. I wonder if perhaps it's too quiet. Has part of me died, or simply gone into hibernation. Or am I like a caterpillar that grew too fat in the comfort of its larvae state, and is now trapped in a cocoon that only taunts me with wings to fly?

I remembered feeling this quiet when I moved four years ago. Indeed it was different, more expectant perhaps. The knowledge that the phase was temporary, had a specific purpose, and must be endured at all costs. Now I fear I've become paralyzed with not knowing what the next phase of life holds.

I've allowed my assets to become toxic, filled with receipts for tomorrow without record of yesterday or today's exchanges.

Today:

This week Mr. Bernake announced that the economy has show symptoms of growth.

Likewise, I'm feeling a bit more inspired. I want to have a purpose, but not just for the sake of having a purpose. but perhaps that is ultimately selfish. do i want to change the world because it makes me feel good? i don't know, maybe.

And so I guess I look at the indicators, they're promising. And I commit to living today for today. To spending $35 on a pedicure because it makes me feel beautiful, and to saving $5 by eating mac and cheese instead of dinner out. For taking the time to chat with the old guy in starbucks who laughs that i ask to put my own tea bags in the cup, secretly stashing one in my wallet so i can come back the next morning, ask only for a free cup of hot water, and stretch my one cup into two. I hurry through my chores, or neglect them completely to enjoy the beauty of the day outside.