Once there was a college student who needed a place to stay for the summer while he worked on his Marine Bio Thesis. His Professor said, I have a very nice house right on the beach that you can use for the summer; it will give to great access to the beach to collect samples. I need a house sitter while I am traveling for the summer to take care of my back yard. It has a lot of fruit trees and flowers that I love. Please water it twice a week and pick the fruit when it looks ripe. And pull the weeds from the flower beds.
The college student was very excited to be able to stay at a beach house for free because his research project was going to take up a lot of his time and he didn’t want to get a job. Also the house was beautiful, and big, with lots of bedrooms and a large kitchen, and pool. The weeks of summer went by and the college student really enjoyed the house. He had big parties there and never cleaned up after them, thinking the professor is going to be gone for so long it doesn’t really matter if I don’t take care of the house. Chips, salsa and beer got ground into the rug.
A neighbor noticed that the backyard was looking poorly as between the parties and the research the college student never tended it. And went next door to inquire because he knew how much the professor loved his garden. Though the college student was home, he pretended not to be and didn’t answer the door. He threw away the note the neighbor left as well and never answered the phone. The house was looking in such bad condition after the many parties 3 different neighbors went to inquire with the house sitter. When he never answered the door or the phone they called the professor who was in Italy. The professor called his son and asked him to go see what was happening. The son decided to go at night, because the neighbor said there were always parties then, and he thought he would be sure to be able to find the house sitter then. He drove up to the house; the lawn was destroyed with tire marks and empty beer bottles. Inside the house the party was raging. The college student who was house-sitting recognized the professor’s son even though he was very, very drunk. When the son tried to talk to him he got angry that the professor had sent him. The party was raging and this son would end it. In a fit of drunkenness he took the son hit him over the head and tied and gagged him up and put him in the closet. The son suffocated to death.
When the professor found this out, the college student was sentenced to life in jail and had to pay 100,000s of dollars in property damage. The house was sublet to other people.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Monday, April 17, 2006
Heart to the Sidewalk
I heard gunfire. It was nothing but gunfire. Not fireworks. Not a car back firing. It was Easter Sunday. It was still sunny. I had just walked from my car to the apt. I saw a girl hoola hooping. I saw families walking home with baskets, little girls in dresses. I heard the first shot and wondered, did that sound like a bullet? I heard the second shot and I moved from my bed to the floor. I wondered, is it still wise to get down low when I live on the second floor. I decided yes, it’s good to avoid windows. Then I heard two more shots.
At first, I was indifferent. Whatever, gunshots, don’t think about it. There are no holes in my body, nor in those of my roommates. It doesn’t affect you. You can easily forget it. I continued playing with my cellphone trying to get it to work. Then I thought: Wait a minute. I moved to this neighborhood to be a part of it. The sound of the gunshots made it to my ears; I need to let it penetrate my consciousness, my life.
I decided my first reaction should be to call someone. My roommates didn’t answer their phones. I called my boyfriend. Then my roommates came home. I ushered them in and shut the door. They arrived only minutes after the shooting. Thankful they were not the ones caught in the cross fire.
After a brief summary of how we passed our days. The gunshots settled deeper in my consciousness. “Hey, you want to pray about whatever is happening?”. The helicopters were circling very close. The trees in our outside picked up their vibrations. The sirens were roaring. In our neighborhood it is easy to tune out these sounds of the landscape. But we decided not today. My prayer was a sloppy request before God. My nerves were rising and I didn’t know what to pray for. I just knew I wanted to pray. Luckily God listen to heart murmurs and not just words spoken by the tongue. My roommates were more eloquent and I could agree with their prayers.
I went to sleep later that night, my ear against my pillow, my heart against the sidewalk outside. I said to my roommate, “I want to learn how to keep an ear to the ground” to know what is going on in our neighborhood. “Maybe the 15 year old girl next door will know. Maybe I can ask her.”
I came to work this morning and decided the easiest way to set my ear to be tuned to the neighborhood was latimes.com. I clicked on California – local and found this article:
Pregnant Woman Critically Injured in Gunfight, Suspect Is Slain
From a Times Staff Writer
April 17, 2006
A pregnant woman was shot and critically wounded Sunday night when she apparently was caught in the middle of a gunfight on a street in South Los Angeles, police said.
The woman was shot near Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and Normandie Avenue about 6:15 p.m. Because several cars were struck with bullets, police believe the woman was caught in the middle of a street gun battle.
"As it looks right now, probably wrong place, wrong time," said Los Angeles Police Sgt. Lee Sands.
A man believed to have been involved in the woman's shooting was later shot and killed after opening fire at officers, Sands said.
Officers found the man, whom they considered a suspect, at a nearby bus stop and attempted to detain him, Sands said. The man started shooting at the officers, who returned fire, killing him, Sands said.
The pregnant woman, believed to be in her late 20s, was in extremely critical condition at California Hospital Medical Center. She was believed to be brain dead, Sands said.
Police were trying to locate a second suspect in the woman's shooting, Sands said.
----
The article is very short. About as many words as steps it would take to get from my house to where the shooting could have been. Short like the time it takes for a man to react and shoot. Short like the lives it describes.
I sent this article to my friend this morning, "My Monday is also starting differently. I just got information that one of our members got shot and killed this weekend in Riverside. I also heard gunshots in my neighborhood just after coming home yesterday afternoon and then I found this article today. This is my neighborhood. It’s a reminder of where I really live and how we really need to be praying. "
He responded:
“'This is my neighborhood' I can’t get this line out of my head. I’m not sure why. I guess I anticipated “I live here” or “this is near me” or something like that. But This is my neighborhood is stronger. It’s not ashamed or shy, but it’s acknowledging. I’m sure you didn’t mean all of this when you typed it. I’m just rambling now, but I still can’t shake it. "
This response meant a lot to me as I am learning how to identify with my neighborhood. A place as foreign to me as any other country in some respects. I have become accustom to certain things. The ice cream trucks playing off key Christmas carols in April. The tamales vendors bicycling around. The couches, the trash, the pigeons that line the street. With the strangely and double parked cars my street is always a bit of an obstacle course. Situations like this jar me to attention. How to find the balance of being comfortable, but not too comfortable with my neighborhood. How not to accept the status quo, without being judgmental.
At first, I was indifferent. Whatever, gunshots, don’t think about it. There are no holes in my body, nor in those of my roommates. It doesn’t affect you. You can easily forget it. I continued playing with my cellphone trying to get it to work. Then I thought: Wait a minute. I moved to this neighborhood to be a part of it. The sound of the gunshots made it to my ears; I need to let it penetrate my consciousness, my life.
I decided my first reaction should be to call someone. My roommates didn’t answer their phones. I called my boyfriend. Then my roommates came home. I ushered them in and shut the door. They arrived only minutes after the shooting. Thankful they were not the ones caught in the cross fire.
After a brief summary of how we passed our days. The gunshots settled deeper in my consciousness. “Hey, you want to pray about whatever is happening?”. The helicopters were circling very close. The trees in our outside picked up their vibrations. The sirens were roaring. In our neighborhood it is easy to tune out these sounds of the landscape. But we decided not today. My prayer was a sloppy request before God. My nerves were rising and I didn’t know what to pray for. I just knew I wanted to pray. Luckily God listen to heart murmurs and not just words spoken by the tongue. My roommates were more eloquent and I could agree with their prayers.
I went to sleep later that night, my ear against my pillow, my heart against the sidewalk outside. I said to my roommate, “I want to learn how to keep an ear to the ground” to know what is going on in our neighborhood. “Maybe the 15 year old girl next door will know. Maybe I can ask her.”
I came to work this morning and decided the easiest way to set my ear to be tuned to the neighborhood was latimes.com. I clicked on California – local and found this article:
Pregnant Woman Critically Injured in Gunfight, Suspect Is Slain
From a Times Staff Writer
April 17, 2006
A pregnant woman was shot and critically wounded Sunday night when she apparently was caught in the middle of a gunfight on a street in South Los Angeles, police said.
The woman was shot near Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and Normandie Avenue about 6:15 p.m. Because several cars were struck with bullets, police believe the woman was caught in the middle of a street gun battle.
"As it looks right now, probably wrong place, wrong time," said Los Angeles Police Sgt. Lee Sands.
A man believed to have been involved in the woman's shooting was later shot and killed after opening fire at officers, Sands said.
Officers found the man, whom they considered a suspect, at a nearby bus stop and attempted to detain him, Sands said. The man started shooting at the officers, who returned fire, killing him, Sands said.
The pregnant woman, believed to be in her late 20s, was in extremely critical condition at California Hospital Medical Center. She was believed to be brain dead, Sands said.
Police were trying to locate a second suspect in the woman's shooting, Sands said.
----
The article is very short. About as many words as steps it would take to get from my house to where the shooting could have been. Short like the time it takes for a man to react and shoot. Short like the lives it describes.
I sent this article to my friend this morning, "My Monday is also starting differently. I just got information that one of our members got shot and killed this weekend in Riverside. I also heard gunshots in my neighborhood just after coming home yesterday afternoon and then I found this article today. This is my neighborhood. It’s a reminder of where I really live and how we really need to be praying. "
He responded:
“'This is my neighborhood' I can’t get this line out of my head. I’m not sure why. I guess I anticipated “I live here” or “this is near me” or something like that. But This is my neighborhood is stronger. It’s not ashamed or shy, but it’s acknowledging. I’m sure you didn’t mean all of this when you typed it. I’m just rambling now, but I still can’t shake it. "
This response meant a lot to me as I am learning how to identify with my neighborhood. A place as foreign to me as any other country in some respects. I have become accustom to certain things. The ice cream trucks playing off key Christmas carols in April. The tamales vendors bicycling around. The couches, the trash, the pigeons that line the street. With the strangely and double parked cars my street is always a bit of an obstacle course. Situations like this jar me to attention. How to find the balance of being comfortable, but not too comfortable with my neighborhood. How not to accept the status quo, without being judgmental.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Mega Million
There is a woman lets call her Miss P. at my work who as been in an admin assistant for the last 30 years. What she says goes. She can not be reasoned with, like a deer caught in your headlights can not be reasoned with. She will break the car if it runs into her.
The Mega Million has reached epic porportions i guess. I dont know, I dont really follow the lottery. But she started going around with a list, and asking for 5 dollars saying we were going to win. I didnt understand so i said no, i didnt want to join. Suddenly everyone in the whole office was doing it. Respectable people, the unrespectable. and everyone inbetween.
I held fast. Whats five dollars, i thought. Well i didnt have five dollars so i did join. Today they were still talking about. She passed out copies of the lottery tickets to all 50 people who joined. Apparently Kaiser had done this and won some money. I still dont get it. But my Account Manager and I started to feel bad because we didnt join. He gave me ten dollars. I ran down to the liquor store down the street. It as fun and kinda rainy.
I asked "Do you sell that Mega Million thing here" "Yes" "Can I have 10" (5 for me, 5 for Account Manager). Quickly he printed out a little slip of paper. It was very undramatic. I ran back to the office. Signed the list. (So when we win, no one who didnt join can claim they did). I had to make 52 copies and hand them out. I didnt like handing them out so i ended up just putting them in peoples mail boxes. When Miss P. handed the paper out she was gruff, in control and quick. I was lost, felt like i wasnt doing my work, and quiet. So putting them in the mail boxes was a good idea.
I dont know how to find out what the winning numbers are. But I like to believe because I joined. We have a better chance of winning. If you hear about me on the news, the newest millionare, You will know we won.
Until then. This is alessandra signing out.
The Mega Million has reached epic porportions i guess. I dont know, I dont really follow the lottery. But she started going around with a list, and asking for 5 dollars saying we were going to win. I didnt understand so i said no, i didnt want to join. Suddenly everyone in the whole office was doing it. Respectable people, the unrespectable. and everyone inbetween.
I held fast. Whats five dollars, i thought. Well i didnt have five dollars so i did join. Today they were still talking about. She passed out copies of the lottery tickets to all 50 people who joined. Apparently Kaiser had done this and won some money. I still dont get it. But my Account Manager and I started to feel bad because we didnt join. He gave me ten dollars. I ran down to the liquor store down the street. It as fun and kinda rainy.
I asked "Do you sell that Mega Million thing here" "Yes" "Can I have 10" (5 for me, 5 for Account Manager). Quickly he printed out a little slip of paper. It was very undramatic. I ran back to the office. Signed the list. (So when we win, no one who didnt join can claim they did). I had to make 52 copies and hand them out. I didnt like handing them out so i ended up just putting them in peoples mail boxes. When Miss P. handed the paper out she was gruff, in control and quick. I was lost, felt like i wasnt doing my work, and quiet. So putting them in the mail boxes was a good idea.
I dont know how to find out what the winning numbers are. But I like to believe because I joined. We have a better chance of winning. If you hear about me on the news, the newest millionare, You will know we won.
Until then. This is alessandra signing out.
South Central Subway Sandwich: Open 24 hours: Risking our lives so you can eat.
The gangstas ain’t so bad. They’re pretty good tippers.
But the drunk college students make me want to lock the doors, turn off the lights.
Falling out their cars, millions shades of blond hair and blond skin bouncing out
like brand new pennies spilling out a slot machine,
Their futures gleaming about them so bright I can’t look.
Laughing in the parking lot, like they’re bulletproof.
They hang on each other as they decide what bread they .
They deliberate over the olives and onions and pickles. No mayo.
As if their lives depended on it. They pull cash from pockets and wallets
stashed in tiny purses and tight pockets.
I may be a sandwich artist at two am.
I can pull sliced tomatoes from plastic baggies.
I’ll give you 3 cookies for a dollar.
You can make it a meal if you want a drink and a bag of chips.
But that’s the end of my tricks.
I can’t swallow you like you taste good.
You are rubbing alcohol. My mouth is full of sores.
But the drunk college students make me want to lock the doors, turn off the lights.
Falling out their cars, millions shades of blond hair and blond skin bouncing out
like brand new pennies spilling out a slot machine,
Their futures gleaming about them so bright I can’t look.
Laughing in the parking lot, like they’re bulletproof.
They hang on each other as they decide what bread they .
They deliberate over the olives and onions and pickles. No mayo.
As if their lives depended on it. They pull cash from pockets and wallets
stashed in tiny purses and tight pockets.
I may be a sandwich artist at two am.
I can pull sliced tomatoes from plastic baggies.
I’ll give you 3 cookies for a dollar.
You can make it a meal if you want a drink and a bag of chips.
But that’s the end of my tricks.
I can’t swallow you like you taste good.
You are rubbing alcohol. My mouth is full of sores.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Don't be Sadish have a Radish
"We who lived in the concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms-- to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way." Viktor Frankl
If my feeling were little antenae at home on my shoulders they would be a bit wilty today.
Today was a day of slight disappointments:
It was pouring rain this morning... which made me wake with excitement. I called my mother to see if she would want to go to the Pantry to have early morning breakfast. She returned my call too late as she didnt notice her phone ringing.
I forgot my lunch at home.
I missed the clock 01:02:03 on the day 04/05/06.
I bought lunch in order to eat with my coworkers and pretend to be human and social, but then i got a stomach ache of too fullness. I had tried to avoid this feeling because last night i overate on chocolate.
The bus was late.
The dinner I cooked is still not done. Its been in the oven for over an hour.
I have no solid plans for the holiday I am taking this friday and saturday. I fought for the friday off. but for whatever reason, personality type, irresponsiblity, incapibility... I only have a vague picture of what i will do... Although i have prayed that God would bless my time.
My list of small mishaps are quite...hmmm whats the word. Next to Frankl's quote... they are like having chipped hot pink and cracked fingernails while wearing a stunning, elegant, black ball gown. Tacky, out of place, detractive.
I wish i had something really insightful to say in reaction to reading this book by Frankl. He was a psychologist who survived three years in Nazi death camps... his book is about the psychology of the experience, of suffering, of hope, of survival, of freedom.
If my feeling were little antenae at home on my shoulders they would be a bit wilty today.
Today was a day of slight disappointments:
It was pouring rain this morning... which made me wake with excitement. I called my mother to see if she would want to go to the Pantry to have early morning breakfast. She returned my call too late as she didnt notice her phone ringing.
I forgot my lunch at home.
I missed the clock 01:02:03 on the day 04/05/06.
I bought lunch in order to eat with my coworkers and pretend to be human and social, but then i got a stomach ache of too fullness. I had tried to avoid this feeling because last night i overate on chocolate.
The bus was late.
The dinner I cooked is still not done. Its been in the oven for over an hour.
I have no solid plans for the holiday I am taking this friday and saturday. I fought for the friday off. but for whatever reason, personality type, irresponsiblity, incapibility... I only have a vague picture of what i will do... Although i have prayed that God would bless my time.
My list of small mishaps are quite...hmmm whats the word. Next to Frankl's quote... they are like having chipped hot pink and cracked fingernails while wearing a stunning, elegant, black ball gown. Tacky, out of place, detractive.
I wish i had something really insightful to say in reaction to reading this book by Frankl. He was a psychologist who survived three years in Nazi death camps... his book is about the psychology of the experience, of suffering, of hope, of survival, of freedom.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
10 minute quickwrite: Rain slash Faith
March 28, 2006
So it's raining this morning. And I smell the wet concrete and
something in my soul sours a little bit. I don't know why rain makes
me long for adventure and makes me dreamy, but I am thankful that it
does. It's good to be dreamy every now and then. Maybe I like rain
because it makes people act differently. People carry umbrellas, get
wet, put a jump in their step. The people who get up tight and curse
the rain for raining on their parade or normal day, I want to tell
them to relax. It's raining. Be thankful. It's a sign of mercy. It
rains on the just and the unjust. Water is falling from the sky, how
magical is that?
I have been reading the book of Isaiah. It's a lot about the cities
celebrating and trusting their own strength... the strength of the
city walls, the grandness of their reservoirs, the illegitimate
prophecies of their rulers who tell them everything is great. Then
God comes and humbles the city. In the chapter of praise to God, it
still describes grand cities, but they credit the grandness to the
mercy, might, greatness of God.
It makes me wonder about LA. Where do people put their faith? In
their fancy cars? High Paying jobs? Martha Stewart approved
lifestyles? Their hard bodies? Their Gold Jewelry? I wonder if
there are enough people who have to pray that the bus won't be late
so they will get to work, kids to school, on time. Do they have
enough faith for the city? I wonder if the women who wear high, high
heels have enough faith for city. Each step they just assume they
will make it, they walk without looking at the ground, without
rolling an ankle in those ridiculous shoes. I have a feeling that
the bus riders/high-heelers, are not enough. Therefore I think I
should pray, and I ask you to pray too, for the humbling of our city
to be a spiritual revolution and not a war with fires, men riding on
chariots and earthquakes. What will it take for Los Angeles to know
and worship God, rather than Beyonce, Money, the security in
anonymity that this city offers, that no one knows or cares what you
do so you can do whatever you like.
At lunch I will go outside again to smell this city being washed.
So it's raining this morning. And I smell the wet concrete and
something in my soul sours a little bit. I don't know why rain makes
me long for adventure and makes me dreamy, but I am thankful that it
does. It's good to be dreamy every now and then. Maybe I like rain
because it makes people act differently. People carry umbrellas, get
wet, put a jump in their step. The people who get up tight and curse
the rain for raining on their parade or normal day, I want to tell
them to relax. It's raining. Be thankful. It's a sign of mercy. It
rains on the just and the unjust. Water is falling from the sky, how
magical is that?
I have been reading the book of Isaiah. It's a lot about the cities
celebrating and trusting their own strength... the strength of the
city walls, the grandness of their reservoirs, the illegitimate
prophecies of their rulers who tell them everything is great. Then
God comes and humbles the city. In the chapter of praise to God, it
still describes grand cities, but they credit the grandness to the
mercy, might, greatness of God.
It makes me wonder about LA. Where do people put their faith? In
their fancy cars? High Paying jobs? Martha Stewart approved
lifestyles? Their hard bodies? Their Gold Jewelry? I wonder if
there are enough people who have to pray that the bus won't be late
so they will get to work, kids to school, on time. Do they have
enough faith for the city? I wonder if the women who wear high, high
heels have enough faith for city. Each step they just assume they
will make it, they walk without looking at the ground, without
rolling an ankle in those ridiculous shoes. I have a feeling that
the bus riders/high-heelers, are not enough. Therefore I think I
should pray, and I ask you to pray too, for the humbling of our city
to be a spiritual revolution and not a war with fires, men riding on
chariots and earthquakes. What will it take for Los Angeles to know
and worship God, rather than Beyonce, Money, the security in
anonymity that this city offers, that no one knows or cares what you
do so you can do whatever you like.
At lunch I will go outside again to smell this city being washed.
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