I wish I was a runner.
With knees and perseverance made of steel.
Like Maniac McGee I would run along the train tracks, straight out of town.
Running makes my heart beat faster than walking.
But I can not run as far as I can walk.
Running gets me faster to my destination,
But I do not always know where I am headed.
Running makes me feel hardcore and burn more calories
But burning calories and feeling hardcore is not what is going to get me through life.
I wish I could run through the tape at the end of a marathon called “Being Healed”
But unfortunately this marathon is longer than 26k and calls for good rounds of sitting.
Sitting acknowledges, accepts, and prepares me to move.
Sitting in pain, loneliness, reality how I’ve messed up, and how others have messed me up.
Sitting in being loved,
Sitting in being loved,
Sitting in being loved
by the father of lights, the father who spoke this earth, this sky, this day and me into life—
This kind of sitting turns into movement:
Walking with this love spilling out my pockets, skipping, dancing, and maybe even flying,and living out of being loved, loving others out of being loved.
I have started walking to the bus stop on the other side of USC rather than the one that is only three blocks away.
I pass by the museums and the Rose Garden at Exposition Park.
This morning fog filtered a brilliant rising sunlight through the trees.
I stopped walking to breathe in the sight and then I continued.
I also pass through USC. I stop there too, by a fountain, by a library which has a wall that reads, “He that loses his life, gains life everlasting.”
I sat, and resisted taking out my journal to write down my prayers as proof, I did not take out a book to increase my knowledge, I sat and I breathed.
And I asked God if he really loved me.
Then I continued walking to the bus stop past the USC fanfare of some sort involving many tables and red and gold table cloths.
While I walked I sang, “I’m going to show you love in every language, I’m going to speak the words that need no form.”
I like to sing while I walk. In the noise of the city, no one notices and if they do, for some reason, I don’t care.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
13 going on 14
My building is 24 floors. Until recently, it really has had 24 floors, numerically speaking. But as of Monday last week floor 13 was renamed 14. 14 renamed 15. 15 renamed 16 and so on. And now we have a (25) button on the elevator. It seems strange that some one would go through the trouble of changing the buttons on all 8 elevators in order to provide for the superstitious. I thought this was the age of space exploration, yoga and computer chips, but I guess were headed back to the dark ages: pulling swords out of stones to find kings, and throwing salt over the shoulders for good luck. On one hand, I look forward to this transition, perhaps health insurance systems will be simplified and I can find a new job. On the other hand, I feel like President Bush is the one who would asked building security to change the buttons on the elevators, in an effort in the war on terror. I am sure the number 13 has some al-Qaeda links, or if not al-Qaeda, then at least drug dealers. Did you know that thirteenth letter in the alphabet M. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that murder, Mohammed, and marijuana all start with this letter.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
5 is a good round number
1. Walking home from the bus stop, I pass by this building that is being constructed. I have seen it change from a dirt lot into a 5 story wooden skeleton of a building. There is scaffolding on the sidewalk for the block down Vermont where this building is being hammered, nailed, breathed into existence. On this scaffolding there are billboards signs. The kind where there are about 10 of each kind, smothered with glue and every week it changes. Beyonce, Vans Shoes, Ludacris, Snakes on Planes, and Jessica Simpson have been among the ones prostituting themselves on the street. It makes me laugh, a good belly laugh, when I walk by and Jessica Simpson has been given a unibrow, a mustache and warts all over her face. It reminds me that children are just children, even in South Central.
2. A black woman on the bus, who is familiar to me, as I often ride the bus, and I think she is a homeless woman who panhandles near my office. She is coherent, aware that her bags are taking up the center aisle, and tries to move them closer to herself when passengers need to walk by. Suddenly, as if the bus was her living room, and we were all her guests, she starts speaking animatedly about white stuff oozing out her skin, having snakes and worms inside her body, and how Michael Jackson told her we were all going to die. Then she says, “I can’t wait to go to the doctor, and let him take care of all this.”
A few people nod at her. One woman smiles at me like, “Dude, this woman is crazy.” I do not acknowledge that grin, and instead close my eyes and pray. The truth of statement about the doctor rings in my ears: yes, Jesus is the doctor and we just need to go to him with trust.
Out of her bag she pulls a Fedex ® Envelope which she is reusing as a bag, and from there pulls out a magazine. She has all the mannerisms of waiting in a doctor’s office, paging through a magazine, primping her hair, looking at the time. She comes to a picture of a small town, “Look here,” she is speaking to us again, “a picture of old times. I look at this and it makes me want to be there, like back in Arkansas. I’m from Arkansas you know?” She seems to be directing these comments specifically to another black woman two seats to the left. And that woman responds emotionlessly, “The old days are gone.” The homeless woman continues, “Seeing this makes me want to be two places at once. All this...maybe just there in the summer time and here in the winter. Traveling, you know.” She motions out the window, towards the downtown buildings.
She confuses me. She is sensible, yet she has to be crazy. I wonder how she got to be here: on this bus, talking to strangers about the snakes inside of her, waiting for the doctor healing touch.
3. A tip for the Disney Generation: Have you ever been in an orchard, picking apples, singing, “I’m wishing for the one I love To find me today, I'm hoping and I'm dreaming of the nice things he'll say,” (emphasis added). And then when he comes riding on horseback, (as most Prince Charmings do), you run away, dropping all the apples you just picked. Well, if it hasn’t happened to you, it has happened to someone we all know and love: Maybe Snow White should change her Lyrics, “I’m working on my character and hoping that when my love and I find each other, we will be ready for a relationship.” Too bad that doesn’t rhyme.
4. Have you noticed that noses are protrusion in the middle of your face and there is just no way to hide these noticeable noses? Only the thing is that we hardly ever do notice. I guess because everyone has one. But when you do notice, then you can’t stop noticing. Go out and look at some noses today. Did you know they come in all shapes and sizes? Much like vegetarians...
5. 9am meeting: At 8:45 the meeting reminder pops up on all the admins computers (Oh, the miracle of Outlook). We all guess that we don’t have a meeting (since we just had a special once a quarter office wide meeting earlier this week), but still someone asks, “Do we have a meeting?” “Yes, I heard Les say we were still meeting.” Hmm okay, at 8:59, I grab a pen, a piece a paper and head towards the conference room. We all look around, Les is sitting there. There is the usually pre-meeting banter (“I’d be a 1,000 times better right now if I had a donut in my hand” exclaims Davey his unique accent her attributes to prostitutes in the 1930s). At 9:03 Les looks around in that I-am-starting-the-meeting-now-look and so we all quiet down and look in her direction. She stands and says, “Well, yes, I think everyone is here, and this is how meetings will start on time. There is only one announcement at today’s meeting and that is that there is NO meeting.” She smiles and we look at each other in bewilderment, wondering why she didn’t email us, or leave us voicemails, or that handy-old-fashion word-of-month style, and leave.
I have a sinking feeling it was some kind of test and the worse thing is I think I passed...
2. A black woman on the bus, who is familiar to me, as I often ride the bus, and I think she is a homeless woman who panhandles near my office. She is coherent, aware that her bags are taking up the center aisle, and tries to move them closer to herself when passengers need to walk by. Suddenly, as if the bus was her living room, and we were all her guests, she starts speaking animatedly about white stuff oozing out her skin, having snakes and worms inside her body, and how Michael Jackson told her we were all going to die. Then she says, “I can’t wait to go to the doctor, and let him take care of all this.”
A few people nod at her. One woman smiles at me like, “Dude, this woman is crazy.” I do not acknowledge that grin, and instead close my eyes and pray. The truth of statement about the doctor rings in my ears: yes, Jesus is the doctor and we just need to go to him with trust.
Out of her bag she pulls a Fedex ® Envelope which she is reusing as a bag, and from there pulls out a magazine. She has all the mannerisms of waiting in a doctor’s office, paging through a magazine, primping her hair, looking at the time. She comes to a picture of a small town, “Look here,” she is speaking to us again, “a picture of old times. I look at this and it makes me want to be there, like back in Arkansas. I’m from Arkansas you know?” She seems to be directing these comments specifically to another black woman two seats to the left. And that woman responds emotionlessly, “The old days are gone.” The homeless woman continues, “Seeing this makes me want to be two places at once. All this...maybe just there in the summer time and here in the winter. Traveling, you know.” She motions out the window, towards the downtown buildings.
She confuses me. She is sensible, yet she has to be crazy. I wonder how she got to be here: on this bus, talking to strangers about the snakes inside of her, waiting for the doctor healing touch.
3. A tip for the Disney Generation: Have you ever been in an orchard, picking apples, singing, “I’m wishing for the one I love To find me today, I'm hoping and I'm dreaming of the nice things he'll say,” (emphasis added). And then when he comes riding on horseback, (as most Prince Charmings do), you run away, dropping all the apples you just picked. Well, if it hasn’t happened to you, it has happened to someone we all know and love: Maybe Snow White should change her Lyrics, “I’m working on my character and hoping that when my love and I find each other, we will be ready for a relationship.” Too bad that doesn’t rhyme.
4. Have you noticed that noses are protrusion in the middle of your face and there is just no way to hide these noticeable noses? Only the thing is that we hardly ever do notice. I guess because everyone has one. But when you do notice, then you can’t stop noticing. Go out and look at some noses today. Did you know they come in all shapes and sizes? Much like vegetarians...
5. 9am meeting: At 8:45 the meeting reminder pops up on all the admins computers (Oh, the miracle of Outlook). We all guess that we don’t have a meeting (since we just had a special once a quarter office wide meeting earlier this week), but still someone asks, “Do we have a meeting?” “Yes, I heard Les say we were still meeting.” Hmm okay, at 8:59, I grab a pen, a piece a paper and head towards the conference room. We all look around, Les is sitting there. There is the usually pre-meeting banter (“I’d be a 1,000 times better right now if I had a donut in my hand” exclaims Davey his unique accent her attributes to prostitutes in the 1930s). At 9:03 Les looks around in that I-am-starting-the-meeting-now-look and so we all quiet down and look in her direction. She stands and says, “Well, yes, I think everyone is here, and this is how meetings will start on time. There is only one announcement at today’s meeting and that is that there is NO meeting.” She smiles and we look at each other in bewilderment, wondering why she didn’t email us, or leave us voicemails, or that handy-old-fashion word-of-month style, and leave.
I have a sinking feeling it was some kind of test and the worse thing is I think I passed...
Monday, September 18, 2006
Friday, September 15, 2006
well, personally...
Our personalities drip from us. They are in the way we walk, talk, and make our sandwiches. My personality extends itself through my curly hair. Davey’s personality gnaws on the world through his crooked teeth. In an apt of four girls, you can almost tell who did the dishes by the way they are stacked in the dish rack. Our personalities define business casual for us. Our personalities dictate what make sense to us. To Silvia, it makes sense to eat Lean Cuisine frozen dinners in order to lose weight. My personality is distrustful of all packaged food, especially when going for healthy. One girl runs at a steady pace for 3 miles around USC. Another girl also runs around USC first sprinting, slowing to a walk, jogging, sprinting and jogging again. Lisa uses paper towels or shirt sleeves to open all doors. Every dance at the Lindygroove was entirely different depending on the guys personal interpretation of triple-step-triple-step-rock-step and skill level, each personality extending itself to me through sweaty palms. Personality is screaming from the walls of the cubicles in this office as each one tries to personalize the grey walls to make is space livable. I have a plant in almost every corner. Cynthia has wall of fame for her son and daughter. Mariessa has the glass frog figurine that she hates, but that her girlfriend gave to her. Frank’s blinds are crooked in his new office, and he has not stopped to fix them. Everything reeks of personality. If I think too hard about this, I feel unfree. I am a product of my environment; everything is filtered through my experiences, my eyes with their corrective lenses. Some people’s eyes have the devil living in them, deceiving them, calling beautiful, ugly and malnutrition, sexy. When I can call that which is beautiful, “beautiful,” and that which is green, “green” and she who has bone sticking out through the skin makes me cry, I wonder how I can carve the devil out of the eyes of those who can not see right. Sneaky little devil making us play games with ourselves, counting calories thinking this is how we will find salvation. Sneaky little devil, counting number with that strange S with I through it ($) thinking this is what will make me smile. This ten minute quick write has changed direction. Showing you what my person is troubled with. Some people have been building castles in the sky for about 60 years with all the pounds of flesh they have never gained, all the food they have thrown up, all the water bottles they have emptied as they have filled their bellies with everything calorie free. They have placed their flag at the top of this mound. The flag is the thin lipped grin stretched across their teeth so painfully, that you know whatever they are laughing about cant possible be funny because they as the queen of their self constructed castle are really a queen of wasted freedom, moldy bread and Splenda © wrappers. She is crying out with awkward statements, truths that she can’t back up but offer as parables. I am taking the bait, but I don’t know what to do with it besides cry.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
I just dont know what to make of it.
“Uh, Alessandra?”
“Yah?” I respond with an inquisitive look, closing the online shopping website that has been confusing me for the last 5 minutes.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Sure,” I say, I grab a pad of paper and pen and walk into his office.
“Have a seat,” he says, as he is standing by his chair. I sit across the desk at the guest chair. “No, no over here.” He has made me sit in his seat before, when he has needed help figuring out his email, or when he was telling me how he organized his offline folder before he went on vacation.
So I go sit there, wonder what he needs help with. But then he walks away. I am sure I make a strange face, especially when he sits down at my desk and says, “Okay, can you just take over.”
I get it now. He is making a joke. I take note of things from behind his desk. There are a few mountains of paper and folders, holding highly important information. (its only important because we say it is, and we believe ourselves).
“Feeling overwhelmed?” I ask standing up and letting my hand fall on one of the stacks.
I don’t remember his response. What I am really wondering is how my desk looked to him. I wonder if I left any strange or personal things open. I sit back down in my chair and look around. It looks like I have been working hard.
*
“I just got a call from a broker complimenting you.” Another sales rep says to me.
I wonder who and why, smile and move on.
This sales rep goes into my sales rep and says how wonderful I am. I am listening to her, confused but unconcerned as I have no idea what she is talking about.
“I have two words for you.” My sales rep smiles, “Gil, who?”
Gil is the person who used to be here. I think that he is complimenting me but I don’t get it. I have filled the shoes of Gil so well that he cant remember him. One day (soon?) I will leave. And to his new assistant he will say with a smile, “Alessandra, who?”
“Yah?” I respond with an inquisitive look, closing the online shopping website that has been confusing me for the last 5 minutes.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Sure,” I say, I grab a pad of paper and pen and walk into his office.
“Have a seat,” he says, as he is standing by his chair. I sit across the desk at the guest chair. “No, no over here.” He has made me sit in his seat before, when he has needed help figuring out his email, or when he was telling me how he organized his offline folder before he went on vacation.
So I go sit there, wonder what he needs help with. But then he walks away. I am sure I make a strange face, especially when he sits down at my desk and says, “Okay, can you just take over.”
I get it now. He is making a joke. I take note of things from behind his desk. There are a few mountains of paper and folders, holding highly important information. (its only important because we say it is, and we believe ourselves).
“Feeling overwhelmed?” I ask standing up and letting my hand fall on one of the stacks.
I don’t remember his response. What I am really wondering is how my desk looked to him. I wonder if I left any strange or personal things open. I sit back down in my chair and look around. It looks like I have been working hard.
*
“I just got a call from a broker complimenting you.” Another sales rep says to me.
I wonder who and why, smile and move on.
This sales rep goes into my sales rep and says how wonderful I am. I am listening to her, confused but unconcerned as I have no idea what she is talking about.
“I have two words for you.” My sales rep smiles, “Gil, who?”
Gil is the person who used to be here. I think that he is complimenting me but I don’t get it. I have filled the shoes of Gil so well that he cant remember him. One day (soon?) I will leave. And to his new assistant he will say with a smile, “Alessandra, who?”
Stride
I am going to the airport today, to drop off others who will set onto the tiled floor of LAX and into the humid air of the Philippines. This stride across the globe will take about one day. It is the 5th anniversary of September 11 and I feel unemotional. Does this reflect lack of love of country, unnappreciation for the lives lost. Or am I just tired. Or am I looking past the television set with the melodramatic reenactments of heroism that took place in NYC and gazing into the world wide web that connects me with the millions of silent cries that no one seems to care about as much. The cries of the homeless, the aids orphans, the impoverished in the slums of every major city around the globe, the neglected kids
People Gazing
I saw a mother posted on the corner like a soldier waiting for the light to change. She took her Power Ranger backpack seriously as her son danced with the matching umbrella.
The man who waters the plants (these potted ivies and shrubs are rented by my company) says hello and asks me how I am doing. He has an apron with pockets that he puts the dead leaves in. “Busy,” I smile, eyeing his watering can. I am thankful for my job, the security, the pay increases, but I am jealous of him as he waters the plants, his thoughts are his to have.
Today I have been ruled by my stomach or rather the tastebuds on my tongue. The longings climb into my swampy heart chambers and whisper, “chocolate, sweets, crackers” in my ears. I ate an Almond Joy®, cereal, a piece of chocolate, dessert yogurt, salad, lentils, and a brownie. “That is enough,” I said. So I brushed my teeth and said no to the Cheetos, the Reese’s peanut butter cup, the pop corn and the graham crackers. I want my thoughts to be consumed with higher things, like the Holy Spirit and prayer.
“Adoro, what does that mean?” the Filipino man at the table next to me, as he reads the sign of the Mexican restaurant that is going to open next door. “To adore, I adore.” I reply. He asks me where I am from. I say here, Los Angeles. I love when I say that, it doesn’t really mean anything. He is trying to figure out my “ancestry” or “heritage” or “ethnicity”. In LA, one could be from anywhere. “You look Spanish.” I smile. I like when I am mistaken for who I am not, for who I could be. I can hear the Philippines in his voice. We converse about Manila, but don’t get past the weather. He likes me. When he goes to buy a lottery ticket, I put my book in my purse and leave.
She is a talker. I can tell by the aggressive way she asked the other girl at the bus stop where she got her bag that said, “BELIZE.” She is young and hip and looks some kind of mixed, curly hair, medium skin and freckles. (Belizean?). I check her out for a couple of mornings at the bus stop. The way she was not shy to move to the front of the bus, her mouth and nose covered with disgust, when the stinky homeless man boarded and sat mid bus. (His smell brought about community on the bus, as everyone made eye contact, eyes watering from the stench, wondering how long we could endure the putrid smell). I knew I just had to ask one question and we could become friends with the Belizean woman. One morning she came on the bus with a purse, which my friend also had. This was it. I turned to her and said, “Hey I like your purse, my friend has the same one. Where did you get it?” And we are launched into a conversation that dips into GAP, how to find bargains, Denzel Washington, insurance. I haven’t seen her since. But I look forward to our next bus ride.
The man who waters the plants (these potted ivies and shrubs are rented by my company) says hello and asks me how I am doing. He has an apron with pockets that he puts the dead leaves in. “Busy,” I smile, eyeing his watering can. I am thankful for my job, the security, the pay increases, but I am jealous of him as he waters the plants, his thoughts are his to have.
Today I have been ruled by my stomach or rather the tastebuds on my tongue. The longings climb into my swampy heart chambers and whisper, “chocolate, sweets, crackers” in my ears. I ate an Almond Joy®, cereal, a piece of chocolate, dessert yogurt, salad, lentils, and a brownie. “That is enough,” I said. So I brushed my teeth and said no to the Cheetos, the Reese’s peanut butter cup, the pop corn and the graham crackers. I want my thoughts to be consumed with higher things, like the Holy Spirit and prayer.
“Adoro, what does that mean?” the Filipino man at the table next to me, as he reads the sign of the Mexican restaurant that is going to open next door. “To adore, I adore.” I reply. He asks me where I am from. I say here, Los Angeles. I love when I say that, it doesn’t really mean anything. He is trying to figure out my “ancestry” or “heritage” or “ethnicity”. In LA, one could be from anywhere. “You look Spanish.” I smile. I like when I am mistaken for who I am not, for who I could be. I can hear the Philippines in his voice. We converse about Manila, but don’t get past the weather. He likes me. When he goes to buy a lottery ticket, I put my book in my purse and leave.
She is a talker. I can tell by the aggressive way she asked the other girl at the bus stop where she got her bag that said, “BELIZE.” She is young and hip and looks some kind of mixed, curly hair, medium skin and freckles. (Belizean?). I check her out for a couple of mornings at the bus stop. The way she was not shy to move to the front of the bus, her mouth and nose covered with disgust, when the stinky homeless man boarded and sat mid bus. (His smell brought about community on the bus, as everyone made eye contact, eyes watering from the stench, wondering how long we could endure the putrid smell). I knew I just had to ask one question and we could become friends with the Belizean woman. One morning she came on the bus with a purse, which my friend also had. This was it. I turned to her and said, “Hey I like your purse, my friend has the same one. Where did you get it?” And we are launched into a conversation that dips into GAP, how to find bargains, Denzel Washington, insurance. I haven’t seen her since. But I look forward to our next bus ride.
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