Public Service

Cello player on the subway platform, head down, long hair falling across his face as he sways, eyes closed, draws his bow deep and slow across the strings. He taps the pedals on his loop sampler that stores his ostinato drones and arpeggios over which he plays plangent, longing melodies, and the music subtly changes, growing agitated and intense as the train screeches into the station.

I give him a dollar to encourage his work, and I think, he has given me something, allowed me to give myself something: a connection to my soul. By giving a dollar, even just a dollar, nothing to me, but by giving, I acknowledge that I am in touch with a heart that is not dead, and he has created the space for that, to be here and know that something inside me feels, is alive, hears the tune and still remembers how to dance.

Work/Life Balance

I think, as I'm standing on the platform waiting for the train to go home from work, "Oh, I should write down my thoughts from that last meeting before I forget."

But all I've got is my new, personal notebook, full of silent pages waiting for words.

I feel a clenching in my gut. No, that notebook is for me.

It Was Britta from "Community"

I come out to the reception area a little apprehensive, as the receptionist wouldn't say why the security guard from our building would want to see me, except to say it was "personal" (this followed by a giggle that, under the circumstances, managed to sound sinister rather than girlish and silly as she probably intended).

He's out there in the vestibule by the elevators waiting for me, and when he sees the concern on my face, he rolls his eyes and shakes a mocking fist at the receptionist. "Ah, I hate her," he growls, laughing.

"No, listen though, who is this?" he says, handing me his phone where there's a picture of him with his arm around some very attractive blonde woman who's obviously some kind of celebrity or other, but with me still imagining some dire "personal" matter (a debt collector chasing me after all these years? some law enforcement officer come to arrest me for something that happened years ago that I can't remember?) that he wouldn't want to embarrass me by revealing, it takes me a second to place her.

And Done a Better Job, Too

"I'm sorry," I tell her. "I didn't know there was more than one entrance to the Gardens."

Katie is clearly struggling to control her temper, and I'm worrying I've spoiled this beautiful day with my inept lack of planning.

"It's just that, when it's something where other people have made arrangements," she says, "where I have no control, and there's chaos and ambiguity, I just think, 'Well, I could have arranged it.'"

A Visit to the Dentist

We sit with our downstairs neighbors on their deck as the clouds roll in, drinking proscecco and chatting. 

"It's kind of an emotional roller coaster," Katie says. "After they've been drilling, my legs don't work and my hands are numb and my core is cold, and I'm just this lump of cold sweat."

"I guess I kind of go into shock," she finishes, shrugging.

On the Boundary Between Public and Private Life

As I become more entangled with the day to day threads of simply living, I find that there are limitations on what I can write about here. Admittedly, these are self-imposed limits, but still, finding that balance between what you can and can't write about on a daily diary sort of blog (such as this), can be difficult.

And I'm not flattering myself that a HUGE number of people are reading (although there are a few, and thank you, you know who you are) but let's say, for example, my boss reads this - that could be kind of weird, right?

So I'm asking Kevin about how I should go about asking for a raise, and he says, "Well, don't get fired."

Start Over

"I don't feel like you're listening to me," I say.

"Well, I don't feel like you're listening to me," she replies. 

I sigh. "Okay, what are you trying to do?"