Along Borders

lj-tags: philosophy, life

“Besides, interesting things happen along borders – transitions – not in the middle where everything is the same.”  Neal Stephenson 

 

So why is it, then, that in life we seem to always be taught to try to get to the center rather than linger on the borders?  Everything is pushing us to the center and judging us by our ability to blend with whatever is in that center?  Yet, it is never still, always shifting, changing, like nucleus of a cell pumping through the heart of a type A executive who is one more gadget away from the center, so that all your attention and energy must be focused on that center to reach that goal. 

 

In the meantime, we miss everything else.  

 

I always thought it was just my lazy, procrastinating nature that kept me from making any progress towards the center.  I linger on the fringes, walking the borders of worlds like a tightrope, living in the spaces between cells, occasionally rubbing up against the fluid walls, and eye or an ear sneaking a peek as to what is going on inside.  However, the effort to get in always seems a bit more that it’s worth.

 

In the nucleus, you have to conform to certain ways of functioning.  Outside, there is room to swim and experiment. 

 

It’s not always easy. You must be adaptable and open to bumping up with all the other border fringe, with those whose functions are also undefined and who are definitely not center material.  The longer you hang on this fringe, the more susceptible you are to being seen as suspect, as unstable, irresponsible.  Your life will never have the illusion of stability, of sameness.  

 

Then one day, for a fleeting moment, you will realize you are a center, but not one surrounded by sameness.  The next moment, the transitory nature of the border will whisk you along to the next moment remind you why you love living where the interesting things happen. 

The Summer of One

lj-tags: Philosophy, love, Mom, Swiss Cheese

“One is the Loneliest Number,” croons someone doing a bad rendition
of this song on my radio as I drive up Vineland Avenue on a sunny
(are there any other kinds) LA day. In my head, I hum along with
the Aimee Mann version. Actually, I belt it out . . .

“One is the loneliest number that you will ever doooooo ….One is the
loneliest number you will ever knowowowowowowow . . . One is the
loneliest number you will ever dooooooo . . . One is the loneliest
number, much, much worse than two . . . “

I stop.

Worse than two?

Though I am not a math teacher, this does not seem to add up. … I
scan my brain for evidence of twoness in my life. The time I had to
pay rent on two places as a move overlapped. ... definitely not
better than one. The time I had two roommates . . . so not better
than one (or none). Still have two student loans to pay off . . .
again, one or none would not be worse.

Right. That’s not the point of the song is it? Two, as in partner,
marriage, lover, better half. But even then, isn’t the two just an
illusion? Are we always just two ones who are sharing certain time
and space for a bit?

If this summer is supposed to teach me something, perhaps it is that
One is not the loneliest number. Loneliness is has nothing to be
with One, but with disconnection. Anything other than oneness is
just temporary, either a supplement to our oneness or an avoidance of
it, but never can it be an escape or elimination.

Think of Swiss cheese. I heard that in the cheese business they have
been trying to develop new processing so that Swiss cheese no longer
has holes. This made me sad. I like the texture of the holes in
Swiss cheese, the way the edges feel on my tongue, the occasional
absence of cheese and flavor emphasizing the presence of it. Some
holes are not meant to be filled. The holes are part of its essence,
its basic characteristic

Our Swiss cheese-ness is never more apparent as when we lose
something that can never be replaced – old pictures, friends, lover,
and, most of all, parents.

My mother’s birthday card thanked her for giving me what no one else
could, a Mother’s Love. For once, a card that I actually felt
expressed what I felt. I knew that once she is gone no one could be
what she is to me. A new hole as life slowly ages me, pushing the
substance into a denser more poignant me.

A me, one and complete, wrapping around the various twos that have
come and gone in my life, keeping that space open for the ones who
might return. One . . . complete . . . much, much better than two.

L- o- v- e

What the world does not need now, is another love song

One of my favorite lines from the Mo' Better Blues soundtrack

As I sang along with Ziggy Marley (or Stephen) "love is my religion"
I could not help but wonder what does this mean?

Yes, Jesus loves me; Yes, Jesus loves me.

I love you. I will always love you.

He says as he leave and ends up with someone else.

I love you, I say, and think I mean it. But what do I mean?

I love you, a friend emails in a time of fear and loss and need.

Love.

What is love?

And if we cant' define it what does it mean when I say I love you?

Love is oranges to you

And Apples to me

Or chocolate and raspberries

You mean what you say. So do I.

But it is two different worlds.

L O V E

Under the carpet and into the fire

I am tired of sweeping things under the carpet.

In an effort to get things out in the open, I decided to do a little
house cleaning and celebrate my return to LA after a month with a
home improvement project. True, I don't have a "home" in that I
still rent an apt. They raised my rent. I asked for new rugs.
They said no, but you could rip up what you have and live on the
concrete.

Easy enough.

Whoever invented wall to wall carpeting was an idiot. This simple
project has turned into a 3 day project, but well worth it once I
discovered exactly what I have been ignoring. There was a mini beach
under my rug. Not to mention the disintegrating padding.

This was war and I was ready.

Just not for the little strips of wood nailed to the floor with
millions of little nails. Most of my two days of work so far
consisted of prying up these boards, but there was no turning back.
I doubted again if this would improve the look of my apartment and
tried to envision the cocoa paint on the floor. My home all in
shambles, I could not sleep well that night.

The night before I dreamt that a kitten crawled out of my
bookshelf. During one of my trips to the dumpster, a little kitty
poked his head around the corner and later was waiting for me outside
my door. No, I will not get a cat. Really. Nor is it an omen that
I need to have children. Perhaps it is the surprises that will come
out of the cleaning and renovations. Like the surprise stories from
my mother as we cleaned out old pictures.

For instance, looking through her yearbook she wondered what happened
to Christopher Columbus Holmes. She reminisced about how polite and
kind he was to her and he used to watch out for her on the walk
home. He had a crush on me but was so shy and such a gentleman. I
come to see his picture and was honestly shocked to see that he is
African-American. Not that I find that shocking, but I immediately
remember my mother's shock and doubt and resistance when I was dating
someone who is African-American. "He was so nice, but in those days
it wasn't really accepted to date other races." I wanted to remind
her of her own prejudice of this past boyfriend, but held my
tongue. Instead she continued, "He was so smart. Oh, i don't
remember that he sang, it says he was a good singer. I wonder what
happened to him." I google him, but don't have any luck narrowing
down the many hits for Christopher Columbus Holmes and eventually
give up as I have little to go on.

So far, though, this project has left me with only a cleaner
apartment and the musty smell I no longer really noticed in the
closet is gone, and a chic rug free look, and many aches throughout
my body. No hidden kittens.

However, my first day of labor, after showering, my shower faucet
broke. I couldn't turn it completely on or off and only steaming hot
water would come out. It took a day for the handy man to come out.
Yet, while waiting, my building manager gave me a key to the sauna.
Yes, sauna (not jacuzzi). I didn't know we had a sauna in the
building. There is a shower in there, too, which she said I could
use if my shower is not fixed in time (she's been keeping tabs on my
project progress and noticed how grungy I was, I am sure). So,
tomorrow, perhaps, I will go lounge in the sauna and sweat out some
toxins, aches, and maybe even an extra pound or two. I think once
school begins, the sauna will be getting even more regular use.

Hope in Transience

"Lord, make me to know my end, and what is the extent of my days, let me know how transient I am." -- Psalm 39:4  (Thanks, Sara, for this verse)

 

On my mom's fridge is a do not resuscitate order and a shopping list including a lotto ticket.  

 

I think this pretty much sums up life.

Extra Pieces

I asked my mother today if she could teach my sister and I one thing that she wouldn't want us to have to learn on our own, 'the hard way,' what would it be.

She immediately said to be patient with other people – impatience alienates and scares others. I knew this was more of something she wanted to correct in us, not really teach us and I realized that my questions was all wrong.

Like any time I try to open my mouth lately. It comes out all wrong. My sister, today, tried to explain my frustration by quoting Dr. Phil and the idea that people's responses do not fit my script. This only led to more of the problem I was ineffectively communicating, because, while I knew what she meant by scripts, this did not really fit this particular experience.

Yes, I guess I was, technically, expecting a certain response, but only in that I expected the response to have something to do with the question or feeling in my head (this is now way beyond this one question for my mother).

On Sunday we celebrated my mother's 66^th birthday. At the end of the day, my whole reason for being her three weeks really hit me. This, I could not stop thinking as I tried to go get to bed, could be her last one. In fact, it was almost a given. Last, last one, the end, final . . .kept running in my head. This truly warps the perception of the world. Every time I tried to express this warped perception, the fears, anxieties, and anger, I felt about as comprehensible as the teacher from Peanuts (and not because I was talking through sobs and a stuffy nose and a growing headache). Every time I said something, I would get a response that was as appropriate as telling me to go roll around in the snow naked if I said I was cold. Things just didn't match up.

And this, I realized, was the whole problem. Things just weren't matching up for me. They still aren't, though a lull in the storm (as always occurs at some point in a hurricane) has moved in. Soon the chaos of winds blowing in opposing directions will come back around, probably with more frequency as the eye of this storm moves closer.

However, what my mother has taught me is that I am capable of more than I know or think. I know see myself projecting this fear and anxiety in every direction, hoping it will stick somewhere other than on my mother and keep her around for just a that little bit longer. Maybe if I move, change jobs, rehaul relationships . . . all futile distractions which only lead me away from the quality time I seek while I am here. But isn't this how many of us live most of our lives?

So, painful as it is, I take my sister's one piece of advice that seemed to fit and talk to my mother. Suddenly, I hear myself sounding like Barbara Walters. The question didn't work the first time, so I rephrase and get an answer closer to what I seek . . .which is still something new, trying to get to know this person before I no longer have a chance. Questions I did not have the presence of mind as a 10-year-old to even think of asking my father. Those will forever be unanswered, but on occasion a partial one slips through, matching a piece long ago unmatched and forgotten.