Potato Bugs & Mommas

I'm afraid of committing. I'm not really sure why but it seems as though any time I come close to an opportunity actualizing itself... I throw a grenade at it and run away. It's frustrating really, the number of times I should have just stuck with something, but it seems to me like there's always a chance of something better being out there. This, of course, can't be a healthy way to approach life or relationships. Thus far it has been my M.O.

My father is the epitome of commitment. That man has been waiting for eighteen years for his lesbian wife to come back and reconcile with him. I'm not sure how much he believes it's actually possible, but he does believe that the "lord can restore the years that the locusts have eaten". I swear, I got so tired of hearing those words as a child. Over and over again, he would tell us about our "situation", how it was all his fault that our family was broken. "But son, the years can restore the years that the locusts have eaten." I surely wonder about this.

I was picking potato bugs off my plants in the garden this evening. Those damn things are reducing my potato plants to bare, green skeletons of disappointment. I pick them off and treat the plant, but they come back like every goddamned sin of my adolescent nightmares. I thought about my dad. Problems can be treated one of two ways, gardening has taught me: organically and chemically. Now, I'm not trying to sprinkle a bunch of highly chemical shit on my food. Consequently, the alternative is a very laborious and time consuming organic battle -- nature against nature, fighting bug with bug and disease with disease.

My dad, he always chose to stay in that church rather than be near us and an active part in our lives. Of course, he was 'praying for us and thinking about us every moment of every day', but damnit if he wasn't around. My mother - she may have made some questionable decisions but she was there. She was there, at the end of a long day covered in coal dust and inverted by a swing shift schedule that taught my sister and I to tip-toe with the stealth of your deepest secret. Somehow she managed to pursue whichever job she took a notion for. Massage therapist, river rafting guide, football player, three branches of the military. She was all over the place, but she was providing for us in the best way she could as a young, single, human mother. I suppose my point is that my momma was around to swat off the potato beetles everyday.

Hasta Luego

La plaza grande was abuzz with afternoon comings and goings and, if I remember correctly, it was a Wednesday. One of the things I love most about Latin American culture is la plaza - the main square. Energy funnels into the city center, a nucleus of the human element and daily life - although the more we 'progress' the energy has gained an air of nostalgia and tradition - of date nights and tourism. I am the tourist in this plaza, La Virgen del Pendacillo watching over me as I contemplate the fact that none of the basilica's clocks match. Two clock towers, four clock-faces each, and none of them agree. I think they're all sleeping, actually, as I've never seen them change.
That is the feeling I get here though, that different times are colliding. All this as I do things that tourists are expected to do - as well as some things that they're not expected to do. Try as I might to not look like a tourist, my affinity for photos and penchant to carry to many things (in the event that inspiration hits) leaves me with a camera around my neck and a backpack. It seems like when I have it all with me, I never need it. The minute I deside to leave it in the room - I see the most photo-worthy human moment, and I have nothing.
This, perhaps, is where writing comes in. There are moments that deserve to be remembered. Many of them are small, daily movements that go unnoticed by many people. Today on the bus, for example:
The bus, new-to-me transport in Quito, a familiar beast by genus, but each specie having its own territory and quirks city-to-city. I climb the ramp and it's the wrong side. Walk around, climb the ramp again. Twenty-five cents, barreling down the bus lane. Perdon, perdon, squeezing up to the front of the bus to see where I am. . . look for the park, look for the park, the park - el ejido. No seats open, I'm standing, swaying, hanging by a loop. To my right, in a seat facing the rear, ten year old eyes, biggest I've ever seen, stare at me, curiously I'm sure - I look out of place. Peripherally aware, finally I drop my gaze to meet his - contact and a returned smile of large, gapped teeth. Pure positivity and unafraid. What a kid.
Resuming my looking, for the park, for the park. A tap on my knee and a soft pssstt ". . . you want to sit?" he more mouths than whispers in Spanish, offering me his seat. Moved and smiling, "No, no te preocupes. Está bien," I say. He seems content to have offered. What a kid.
Two seats across from him open up, and I don't realize it. Pssstt! I look, he points, I look, I sit. By the window, I mouth, "Gracias!" What a kid.
He sees me looking, first for the park, now at my guide book. The park! We both stand at the same time. The stop is called Casa de Cultura. Deboarding together he asks, ¨¿Adònde va usted?¨ I tell him I'm going to the park, the parque el ejido. He points and steers me to my left, and I now have a guide. What a kid.
Park entrance, he reaches out his hand. "Hasta luego. . ." he says.
Hasta luego. . . Normally, luego never comes in such a case.
We leave each other, smiling. Several hours in the park and the rain, then even more hours in La Casa de Cultura, where I read every informational plaque in English and in Spanish, completely unware that the museum had closed when security guards escorted me out of the building. Ancient pottery and indigenous, artistic, phallic preoccupations. Second floor, colonial art. Christanity reaches the Andes, and now the preoccupation is santos, la virgen, and bleeding Christs. Walking outside, quite cold, and looking for coffee. I find it two blocks from El Parque el Ejido, north towards La Plaza Foch. Finishing my book, and two cups of coffee, I bawled when Madame Michel died. Always in never. . .
Luego tends to never happen. Running late, quick to the bus, I miss the one that's there already - barely. Waiting, waiting, there is the next one; barreling down the hill from the old city, headed uptown. Bus stops, drops the ramp, and I file in line. There, in front of me, ears plugged with white headphones. What kid? Is that the kid? Luego never happens in these situations. . . yet, and amazingly, luego is unfolding in the middle of rush hour in Ecuador's capital.
On the bus, we're up front again, both facing forward this time. Luego never happens, and it's happening, and I feel like there must be some significance to it. But how do I mark it? How to I take advantage of luego. I dig through my backpack, terribly upset that I don't carry an emergency statuette of Lady Liberty, or a pin of Elvis dancing, for such occasions. (As a proper tourist from the U.S. ought to do.) I wanted a recuerdo for what seemed to be like such a random, chance reconvergence of two completely separate lives. I find a bracelet at the bottom of my bag, twin to the one on my right wrist that I bought from a young, traveling, Otavalo artist on the bus from that city to Quito. He still doesn't see me.
I stepped forward when I saw that my stop was coming, Los Sauces, and I tapped on his hand that was grasping the rail in front of him. He looks at me, eyes realizing and turning to plates. We both smile as I hand him the bracelet. Such a smile, geniune and surreal, I say, "¿Que chance, que nos veamos en el bus y que luego pasara?" What are the chances we would run into each other on the bus, and that luego would happen?
The bus slows to my stop, and I have a sea of people to beg pardon around in order to reach the door. He reaches out his hand to shake mine, and that unrelenting smile gives way to, "Hasta luego."
Luego never comes in such a case, does it?

Posted with Blogsy

Strange Bedfellows, Part I: Racism & Urination

The ayudante in charge of collecting fares and distributing tickets on our bus to Cuenca, from Quito, was not immediately friendly. We do, in fact, have a very special relationship that I'm sure will endure the inevitable waning of memory. This connection, strong and deep as it runs, centers around public urination and horses. Not the public urination of horses, mind you. . . no. These are two, distinct bonding moments that he (let's call him Don Quixote) and I share.

Hat on, book in tow, and eager to once again greet the Andes on my own, great metal-horse (hat-tip to Old Iron Ass) we boarded the bus in Quito and steeled ourselves for a ten-hour trip to Cuenca. Different, perhaps even lacking, emission standards ensured that for the first hour or so, getting out of the urban area, I would be granted dark wafts of exhaust and fumes. The street-art so popular in the city extends out of the city and into the afueras:

"Favor prohido orinar

Multa $200"

(Note, urinating prohibited. $200 fine.)

Not even thirty minutes after passing this thoughtful, public advisory, I had to pee. Very well acquainted with the anatomy of buses, I turn and look for a small door in the back, left part of the bus. It's there. Wonderful. I tap on the door separating us from the conductor y ayudante, and after a few frustrating minutes, he decided to see what I wanted.

¨Por favor, que usted abra la puerta del baño,¨ I say, asking him to unlock the door to the bathroom.

He looks at me for a few seconds, unenthused and considering his options. I didn´t realize we needed to consider our options, but hey, I´m patient.

¨To pee?" he asks.

"Yes. . . to pee," I respond. Come on, I'm a pro, dude - don't poop on buses, I've got this.

"Just wait. . . we'll be stopping in a bit," he decidedly responds, seeming pleased with this plan.

I return to my seat by Alexander. For anyone who might not know, Alexander is my former Spanish professor, otherwise known as Dr. Steffanell. My travel partner is intelligent, a master of well-timed responses, and quite clearly latino. Colombian, specifically. I recount my exchange with Don Quixote to him and he laughs.

Ten painful minutes later, our bus slows as we approach a checkpoint, leaving one province and entering another (or something similar). Once cleared, we pull forward through the toll-booth-like obstacle and over on the right side of the road, directly between the aforementioned checkpoint and a small roadside market. Each are about 20 meters from our bus, and traffic is buzzing by on four lanes of well-paved expressway. A hiss of air alerts me that the door is opening, and Don Quixote opens the door of his cabin, looks at me, and alerts me that if I need to pee I should deboard and do it on the side of the road. Really?

Never one to turn down a good whizz in nature, I'm nevertheless taken aback that there's a toilet on the bus, that he has a key for it, and that we're now stopping the entire vehicle to let me out on the road to pee. Not my culture, not my country, not my bus. . . I assent and stand on the side of the road with absolutely no cover, exposed to Ecuador in all my gringo-glory.

Now, you know those long, urinal-troughs at stadiums and arenas? The ones that are often filled with ice, and always with a long line of waiting bladders that have been pushed to the point of eruption for the sake of one more song? Or the game-winning goal at the buzzer? Well, I always freeze up at those things and can never actually achieve the relief I waited so long for. I always end up faking it, shaking it, and walking away with my head down - defeated.

This happened on the side of the road. I return to the bus, the only one who knows the truth, and still having to pee worse than ever before. I tell Alexander what happened, and he, fulfilling his duty as friend and travel companion, bursts into laughter. He has to pee soon, and now that we're moving again, he knocks on the door in front of us.

Don Quixote opens the door, looks at me, thinking I was the one who knocked. His expression was a bit salty, until he realized that Alexander was He-Who-Knocked.

"Me das la llave para el baño, por favor?" Alexander asks, requesting the key for the bathroom.

"Claro, caballero, te lo abro," Don Quixote replies.

What? Did he just. . .

"Of course, sir, I'll open it for you." I can't believe this. I'm right there, he knows I speak Spanish, and he had, mere minutes before, put me in quite an uncomfortable and unhelpful situation. Alexander looks at me, an infuriating blend of surprise and entertainment dripping from his grin.

I could slap them both, I swear.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Juxtaposition in La Plaza Foch

For every viejita y chico walking around the plaza, I am ashamed to have been one more rejection in their entrepenureal pursuits. The reality is, however, that I don't always need gum, shoe shines, and cigarettes.

Several nights ago in the plaza Foch, one of the hip, trendy areas of Quito with great nightlife, I saw a small, hunched, indigenous woman laden with wares. In her right hand was a shoe-shining box, draped around her neck was a large tray filled with gum, cigarettes, and candies, and on her small, busy feet were shoes, the soles of which made her steps uneven and leaning. Her traditional attire was in sharp juxtaposition with the bustle of millenials surrounding her - happy hours and mochileros climbing out of taxis, adventure-appetites whetted for the pulse of a new place.

I find juxtaposition in many places, and the contrast between the hands that humans are dealt can be overwhelming to the point of wanting to crawl into a cave where I can forget my royal flush and use the cards for kindling instead. But this, of course, helps absolutely no one.

Yesterday I watched a mother, sitting and leaning on a lamp post in the plaza, send her daughter, who could not have been older than four years old, over to the patio of a cafe with cigarettes and gum. The girl was stubborn, a good sales-child, not taking the first five "no gracias" for an answer. Heatbreaking, absolutely, but a daily occurence here and one I'm completely inept and unsure about handling. Not my culture, not my country, not my city, but damnit. . .in a global family she is my hermanita.

I´m sorry, sister, but I´m not entirely sure what to do. . .¨no gracias, mi vida.. . no gracias.¨

 

Posted with Blogsy

Madame Michou

The woman beside me in seat 27D stared with no sense of intrusion at my book, The Elegance of the Hedgehog, as I underlined a line I quite liked concerning tea and the ability of small, simple things to create large, transcendental moments. As I underlined these four lines, her head tilted more to one side and leaned in a bit, as though I had invited her to do this. Invite her I had not, and we hadn't even spoken, but I'm not one to interrupt a bit of meddling, and so I went on reading. Sometimes, her dark eyes would be shooting right angles into the side of my head as she blatantly stared at my profile.

Within moments of taking off (this particular plane's landing gear was shrill and loud, like a giant fly rod under far too much pressure, some behemoth running away and maxing out the drag) the red-eyed flight attendants handed us the necessary paperwork to enter Ecuador. Do you have more than 10,000 in goods? Are you carrying any livestock, plants, or other organic materials? I personally had two chickens and a bonsai tree, plus $10,001 in dollar bills. Customs was a nightmare.

Anyway, back to my curious, voyeuristic neighbor, who I had deduced must have some affinity for gringos in fisherman pants who read new-philosphy. I realized after a few minutes of filling in my passport number, my date of birth, my length of stay, etc., that neither of my neighbors were filling anything out. The attendants hadn't given anyone a pen, but anyone who knows me also knows that I carry 6 or 7 at all times. I hand one to the man on my right, at the window, who was quite upset that his tv monitor wasn't working. He took it and with a gracias. Madame Miradora, however, did not take the pen I offered her. Instead, in somewhat broken Spanish, she told me that she "didn't know". Didn't know that she had to fill it out? Didn't know that she needed a pen?

She didn't know how read.

I offered to fill out her information for her, and she humbly (far more humbly than I wish she had to) assented. I asked for her passport and began filling out the three forms - all of which ask mostly the same questions. Her Haitian passport gave me all I needed to fill it out, and when asking her if she too was carrying chickens and a bonsai tree, I tried to be quiet so as to not draw the attention of anyone arround us. After a few minutes, I marked an X on each spot she needed to sign, and she slowly and methodically traced Floresno Michou.

I didn't like the rest of the flight after that. She seemed uncomfortable and quit staring at me, which I would have preferred to the way she sunk into herself. It occurred to me all at once that I - as well as anyone reading this - ought to thank every star above (and by star I mean mothers, fathers, teachers, siblings, neighbors, or Mr. Frickin' Rogers) for our ability to maneuver in a world where letters open doors - sometimes doors to other countries. I have plenty of family who didn't read, or still doesn't read, and they're far smarter than I am in many, many ways. The pleasure and solace that I find, however, in stories, histories, and narratives is far too valuable to take for granted. This experience further cemented my desire to teach letters, literature, and writing. As well as my desire to write.

I bid Madame Michou adieu, and hope that she, too, enjoys her time in this new place - and that there might be someone beside her on her return flight for her to stare at, who might help her fill in the necessary blanks.

Posted with Blogsy

Back to Juan Valdez

Walking back from the park late tonight, a Colombian taxi driver and asked me for directions in my neighborhood. 

"Oye primo, ¿sabes donde queda... carrera 26b15 con la 72?"  

"Uff, pues por allí, a la derecha y después a la izquierda," I say, wondering why in the world this guy thinks that I, in my Colombia PFG shirt (cuffs rolled to the elbow) looking like a proper gringo, should know where this small, very specific road was. But I did, and I thought that was cool. It made me realize that I've been living in Barranquilla for nearly two months now, and I love it. This prompted a domino effect of my memories from the days in this place. And now I'm typing… 

I have met fantastic people, and apart from getting pick-pocketed in La Guacherna of Carnavales, my experience has been all positives. Barranquilla is a city on the Caribbean Coast -- a city where when you and your friends are out one night and eat anything, be it street food or at a restaurant, you're never the only one eating your food. This has, at least, been my experience. Going out with, or simply being around, Colombian friends means that nothing that is "yours" is actually yours. Everyone shares food, takes a sip of that, and buys each other beers. Riding in a car with five other barranquilleros translates to "listen to four different GPSs giving the driver different directions, in a shout -- in rapid, costeño Spanish -- with loud music that's not being turned down to reduce my anxiety". It's a country where students can hug their teachers when entering the classroom, where your haircut might come with a free whiskey, and everyone dances like they're the hottest person in the world. Seriously, the Colombian people have more confidence than any other people-group I've ever gotten to know. It's just a happy place to be. 

I have this routine, nearly every day. It all starts with being woken up by a raspy, tired voice shouting, "Aguacateeeee!!! Paapayaa, Mango, Aguacateee!!!" in a way that sounds almost like a song -- because these street venders have been walking these neighborhoods selling avocado, papaya, mango, and more for years. They've been shouting the same three words…for years. I can't imagine what those words would sound like, or mean to me, after years of shouting them -- hearing them -- for years. My other curiosity is why people need avocados, mangos, and papayas at 7:00am. Anyway, the routine takes me from the house, walking, to the university where I've been studying and doing some work as a translator and helping with English courses. From the university I get on a bus that costs 1,600 pesos (1,700 on Sundays and holidays). That's around 80 cents. This takes me to the corner of 46th and 82nd. From here I walk to a frutera, a little cafe-style building (or tent) that sells cheap food (empanadas, pastelito, papita, palito de queso, and more). These places also have cold, fresh fruit and all natural juices -- they only cost around 80 cents. The best afternoon snack I've ever gotten to make part of a routine: empanada de pollo and fresh carrot juice. Then, I walk to my second home here. Juan Valdez.

Juan Valdez is essentially the Starbucks of Colombia (though way cheaper). I say that, not really pleased with the comparison given my inclinations towards Starbucks, but it's the best I can do. Just think burgundy umbrellas instead of green ones. It's harder than you might imagine to find really good coffee here, despite the country's reputation for really great coffee beans. Medellin has better options. Anyway, back to Juan Valdez. I go almost every day and order a tinto frio, an iced coffee. This got weird looks for a while when I ordered, but after a few weeks the employees would laugh behind the bar when a new barista didn't know how I liked my drink -- not that its even complicated. Coffee + Ice. Iced Coffee. But hey, goal in life to become a "regular" somewhere so I didn't have to verbalize my order: √. 

I met some cool guys at the coffee shop several weeks ago, and meeting up there everyday became another "regular" in my routine. Sebastián, David, Nicolás, Mauricio, Samir, Juan P, Julian, Juankie, and a few others. It was always a bummer when I couldn't make it because of a class. Whether it was the beach, the castle at Salgar, or bowling (which isn't a "typical friday night" here like it is back…well come to think of it, it might just be me) we made a lot of fun memories -- and lost a few thousand pesos at the casino. (That's just a few bucks, nothing crazy.) They are a group of guys who like to sit around and talk about whether or not the soul exists. The morality of humankind, classic movies and worthwhile documentaries. These guys are in, from everything I've deduced, a music war. That sounds weird, but it's cool. They guard their music, even while showing it off. When someone finds a really great song, they play it in the room or in the car. When it blows everyone's mind, hardly anyone asks about it. Because in a way, that's his song. That's Sebastian's song. We listen to it when we're with Sebastian. This has gotten me into the habit of actively looking for new music -- something I've never been good at, and usually rely on Brooke Quinley for. 

I live with my former professor's family here, in the neighborhood of El Silencio. Germán and Yesenia are married (Germán is my professor's brother). Yesenia is a really good cook, and I can honestly say that if it weren't for her lunches, my diet here would only consist of those empanadas, carrot juices, and tinto frios. She makes the best arroz de zanahoria I've ever had. They take good care of me, and since they're in the English classes that I've been helping with, we have a really cool language exchange going on. Germán is one of the best Spanish teachers that I've ever had. He is incredibly patient. Every now and then, Germán and I get to go out -- always memorable. I've learned loads from them, beyond from Spanish. For example: we have sometimes have ants come around the sugar jar, and one day a few of them got onto Yesenia's lunch plate before she went to eat it. What did she do? She turned on one of the gas-stove-eyes and sat the plate near it. As the plate heated up, the ants were less motivated to eat, and more motivated to get the hell off the hot plate. Brilliant. That's life here though. One time, I let a loaf of french bread go stale. I got in trouble. 

Part of me wanted to be like, "Hey I'm a grown man, I'll let the bread mold if I want to!!!" 

But as I suppressed this reaction to my reprimand, as my dad always suggested was the better option, Germán told me, "En esta casa, tú no botas la comida. Aquí, comes lo que compras. Hay gente en el mundo sin comida. ¡No botes comida!" In this house, you don't throw out food. Here, you eat what you buy. There are people in the world without food. Don't waste!

It's a country that has seen corruption, poverty, and violence. The country itself is safer and safer. Even though thirty years has changed a lot, these values of resourcefulness, caring for each other, family, and togetherness have not changed. People gather, people laugh, and as one friend recently told me: 

"When you're together with your friends and your family, that's the time to be happy. It's not a time to be sad about your problems, because everybody around you has problems, but being together allows you to step away from loneliness, sadness, or worries. Because you're together. As long as you're together, what's there to be sad, lonely, or worried about?" 

People here don't have the same, weird concept of "personal space", "my stuff", or "alone time". When someone calls you to do something, or to ask you for help with something, it isn't interpreted as an encroachment or demand of "my valuable time". When your neighbor wants to play salsa music on max volume until 4:00am, you're okay with it. When the same neighbor wants to have his salsa band practice on the front porch at 8:00am the next Sunday, it's just Fernando being Fernando. That's what it boils down to. People know how to live together here. Homes are full, from grandchildren to grandparents, all living in one house and probably pooping in the same toilet. Sharing one shower. I have a friend whose house keeps 11 family members… one bathroom. I used to have arguments over the shower with my sister, and we're only two. I used to be paranoid about using the blender here at any hour, even during the day (because I didn't want to bother anybody), but I realized what seems to be natural to my host family: if you want a juice, you have to use the blender to make it -- so, I'm not going be be bothered if you want blend a whole pitcher while I'm watching TV… I'll probably do the same thing to you tomorrow when I want juice.

(the fruit and juice here…so good)

It just makes me think about how finicky most American's can be about "personal space" and "personal time". Someone is welcome to argue with me (I don't know why anyone would), but I'm going to say that humans were meant to live in community. Not as the islands unto ourselves we can often be. Living in community, sharing a bathroom, learning compromise, sharing meals, talking instead of watching TV, walking to the park, or playing music together…this is community. This is relationship. Giving and taking, fairly and balanced. Taking care of each other. It could be grandkids hanging out with their grandmother (who lives with them) instead of going out with friends. It could be taking a thirty-minute bus to see a friend who's sick. Or it could be taking an over-talkative gringo into your home, letting him live with you, taking him to the hospital when he's sick, around to the local pool halls, and sitting up with him until midnight because he won't shut up practicing Spanish.

Colombia, and its people, is warm and contagiously upbeat.  

It's hard to pull together all of the experiences on paper, though I know nobody is asking me to. These though, these few things, are some of the highlights. Some of the things, places, and people that I will miss when I leave for a few months. But July I come back -- for a year. I look forward to being coming back to my routine then, after this time that I'm spending here and relationships I'm establishing. It will be cool to be able to come back home in a way. To come back to Juan Valdez.

Note from Street 82

What has happened when you would rather be dreaming than awake? What was the marking moment when the desire to wake up became the desire to linger, to breathe - to dream. I am worried at the revelation that struck me today, in the park and watching pigeons. I wish I were dreaming. Moment to ponder. What? I’ve never said that before. I’ve always been the person who says, “I must be dreaming,” because I’m, by what I thought was nature, a very happy and optimistic person. But no…I wish I were dreaming. The real has become not only painful, but seemingly hopeless. Just for me, I think. Everyone else still has a shot. I think I crossed some point of no surrender. My boots are wet with the waters of the Rubicon, which I crossed all too willingly.

I got some life-altering advice the other day. Well, not advice, but rather a question was posed that I had never considered, and its implications made me uncomfortable. I have a tattoo on my wrist that says precáre, which, in Latin, means ‘pray’, in the form of a command. A few days ago, a young guy asked me about it. I told him, and he said, “Oh, so you’re really religious”. I said, “Well…no, not at the moment.” He looked at me oddly.

"Okay, so I got the tattoo at a time that I really needed a reminder to pray. It was important to me then that I had it, and I’m glad that I got it."

"But you said you don’t pray."

"Well…I don’t pray now, but I know that I will again someday."

Here it comes, the question.

"If you know you’re going to pray again someday, then why don’t you just go ahead and stop wasting time?"

Poof. I was not dreaming when he asked me that. At least I can tell the difference. This was one of those uncomfortable moments when someone figured me out and could see enough to speak to something important. If I already know that I’m going to pray again, why don’t I just go ahead and start. Typing those words was easy…way easier for me than actually doing it. I’ve contradicted so much of my presupposed truth. Strayed so far from the track of the race. I have lost my moral compass…and God’s phone number.

Of course, you can’t lose God’s phone number, can you? That’s the most frustrating fucking part. For example, you meet someone and go on a date. It doesn’t go well, and you pretend “not to see” her number fall out of your wallet and into the toilet…in tiny pieces. That way, when you don’t call back, you don’t feel bad. Even if you regret it. Even if you realized that she was the best woman you could have asked for, you lost her number. It doesn’t matter anymore. You have no choice, so you just let it fade into memory. Unless you run into her at Target.

That’s what scares me to death. The thought of bumping into God in public, somewhere unexpected. Around some street corner that I walk every day, and he’s just standing there. Smiling, drinking coffee, and smoking a cigarette. He sees me, I know he does, and he knows that I see him. The awkward side-step. Leave. Leave. Leave. You can’t leave, he knows where you live!

Okay, side-step the other way, towards him. Lift the newspaper in your left hand awkwardly, waving and giving a head-nod. And that’s it, you’re stuck. In those last few moments, as long as it takes for you to walk the 10 paces to him, you think about everything you’re going to have to leave behind. Think about the people, the habits, the lifestyle, the self-importance. You know that after the first cup of coffee, after that first cigarette with God, you won’t want to leave. You’ll want to stand on that corner and drink coffee with God all day.

Maybe that’s what would wake me up. God suprising me on 82nd street. I imagine how that encounter would unfold. I can’t decide what I would want more. For God to just come at me swinging over how much I’ve fucked up and squandered. I would deserve it. Would I want Him to talk? To scream? To cry?

And what would I do? The first thing that came to mind was: run. At first glance it’s not the worst option. I might get away for a little while. Buy some time. Second option. Play dead? Hide?

Can you move when you see God? I don’t think so. I can only imagine, based on my extensive Sunday School classes as a child, that God has some kind of force-field thing that makes everyone freeze in his presence. It’s not a painful experience. That would be out of God’s character. If God had a Pokemon card, his power would be called something like “Radical Repemption”, and its description would be “God overwhelms you with Unconditional Love and binds you with Chords of Forgiveness. While you are technically able to walk away, you will remain Overwhelmed and Bound for the duration of your life. These effects cannot be annulled, by power of man or otherwise.”

I was never very good at Pokemon.

None of this is an issue when I’m dreaming. I don’t know how, but after all the terrible things that my eyes have seen, my dreams remain places of peace and joy. Night terrors do not find me. I have practiced and honed the ability to wake up to a noise, to go to the bathroom, and however many minutes later return to my dream as if pressing Play on a VCR. The people in my dreams are the people I long for, and they are nearly always in the mountains. I do not dream of these city streets. I dream of a trout on the end of my fly rod and John ‘Bear’ Moore watching from behind his pipe, downriver. I dream of traversing icy northfaces and sitting on my Mamaw’s front porch. I dream of driving through the Great Smokey Mountains in my little truck, windows down and Alabama on the stereo. My dreams are everwhere I’m not. In my dreams, I am what I am not.

Lester Burnham woke up one day. He quit his job, started working out, smoked a lot of weed. He woke up and found himself. He remembered his life, the goodness of it, and for a fleeting second was happy. Before the repressed, homosexual marine next door shot him in the back of the head. Here begin the series of questions. Why did the neighbour have to shoot him? Why did the marine get his gun? Why did he reject his son? Why did he reject himself and subject his family to the miserable life of mortifying self-oppresion and denial? Why are any of the characters as broken as they are? Why are we broken? In real life, why are Lester Burnhams miserable and people driven to the damage of repression and lies.

Fuck.

I don’t want to wake up when I’m 40. I’d like to wake up soon. I’ve been sleeping for a while and I’m getting tired.