Magic Spoon

OKay, so I'm not a great cook.  And the Kid knows ("You're not magic"), but he's got a sense of humor.  Well, okay not really, I still have to explain myself to him.

"Don't I cook you the best cereal in town?"
"Um, no.  Cereal isn't cooked.  Ya pour milk over it.  And I poured milk over it, not you!"

That part was true, he had crashed momentarily on the couch while I pretended he was lost and went to look for him in the bathroom.  When I came back, I was actually surprised to find him where he should be.

I asked the dog, in a somewhat sincere voice, "Cody!?!?  Where he??  I lost the kid!!"

But there he was, a huge smile, actually eating his breakfast (instead of playing with it, like he/we did last week.  The Grand Battle of the Bran Flakes against the Pecans.  Long story short, they both lost)

Breakfast was him, still puffy eyed and bleary, hair unsettled down and talking about some dream where he went back in time.  And visited his father as a kid!  I wanted to press him for details about how he KNEW he was back in time, wanting to put my impressions onto him.  Did he recognize that the food labels had a different design?  The apartment had tackier art?  But all he kept saying was, "It was really . . . weird"  Which for a kid, can mean a million different things.

So I gave him a spoon, a plain wooden spoon, a simple giveaway from The Taste of France event in Bryant Park.  People were crowding the booths so much, you'd think they were GIVING things away. But no, the only samples I had were of an olive oil and butter.  Given to me just past the Eiffel Tower sculpted out of butter.  (And it tasted like Portuguese mornings by the ocean.  So fresh, you could dive in)

I wanted him to read the label of the spoon, (he reads so little!) but he shrugged as if it was in French.  I took it back and realized it was in script.

"Behold your magic spoon, giving you access to the marvels of a mysterious school and the fantastic secrets of French fine dining . . . " and a secret word: ONLYLYON

He shrugged again and said, "If it's magic then maybe it can make you . . . disappear!"

I closed my eyes like I was a squirrel, hoping I wouldn't be seen.  It didn't work on him.

And then it was almost time to go and he didn't have pants. "I don't have any Flexible Pants!" he cried.  I began going through the neatly piled pairs on the floor.  "What about this?"  Slacks, not jeans, but not sweats.

"I need Sweats!  They need to be Flexible clothes, I have gym today!"

I dug a little deeper and found some.

He turned to me, wide-eyed, "It's the Magic Spoon!"

"Thank you, Magic Spoon!"  I said, and then he said, both eager to take our magic wherever we can get it.

And later, when he and the dog were the first ones in line, he saw a van double parked in front of the bus stop.

"I wish that van would move!"  he kept repeating.

Assuming that it would be gone from that busy spot within the next 20 minutes, and seeing someone walking up to it with keys, I said, "Ask the Magic Spoon."

He did and it worked.

I found the website, www.chef-factory.com/ .  And watched the mysterious video, which starts with a boy that looks a little bit like The Kid.  But ti turned into a bizarre cartoon, so i still don't understand if it is a restaurant or a cooking school.  Somehow, it looked as if it was.  But to attend the school, you have to go to Lyon, be an infant and also be a cartoon.

When the dog and I got back, I had a sense that the dog was watching me too closely.  Like he's a spy or has a hidden camera behind his eyes (now THAT's a conspiracy theory).  Or maybe he was just a soul watching me, watching how I treat him, and me noticing him makes me more vigilant over my own interactions with humans.

And that counts as effective Magic too.

That Tiny Thing

He knew it was just a matter of a speck of mold in your yogurt.

One drop of poison in the well.

That fear in the pit of your stomach that you will play a single wrong note in the middle of a sonata.

He didn't mind perfectionism.  Or practicing too much.

He minded knowing.

That tiny voice.

That speck of unlawful crumb when your kitchen was supposed to be spotless for the sacred holy days.

That one thought, planting itself like a seed.  Sprouting in your mind and down into your genitals, until it consumes your insides with its insidiousness.

One thing spoils it all, and so he must be on guard.

Against everything.

The Same Person

You are all the same person.

The Little Boy, tricky and antsy.  Trying to turn everything into a game and pushing away words that smell vaguely of homework or wholesomeness.

The Old Man, lonely in the dark.  Cowering.  Anxiety has filled him up.  A knot in his stomach he used to recognize as too much coffee or apprehension.  Would the mortgage be paid?  What if the WORST happens? Fire?  Car accident?  Now, nothing is at stake.  And he is terrified all the time.

But the Grown Man, sitting in the car, thinks only of his disguises.  The warm smiles he gets as the Little Boy.  The cold shoulder as the Old Man.

His major Test of them all.

He will only love those people who love him at every age.

And if they manage to pass that Test, he will make up others.

He stands in the hallway.  Waiting for the elevator.  Looking straight ahead, a grown man, peaceful in this moment.  But when he emerges, he might have shapeshifted into someone else.  This is the secret power he tells nobody about.

When he emerges, he will be His Own Mystery.

Profile: Who Natalie Became

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Natalie.  Natalie Battle.  And it was an excellent name for this girl because she NEVER GAVE UP.  HEr idea was that PERSISTENCE LEADS TO GREATNESS.
In fact, she believed in that phrase so much, that she painted it o her bedroom wall.  Which didn't make her parents happy.  Even if their daughter was only 7 and knew how to spell words like "persistence", it was still not a good idea to paint on the walls.

Her favorite discoverer was Johannes Kepler, who had an "aha" moment, like an apple landing on his head.  He was discussing Platonic Solids and their ratios. And he realized that the planets followed something similar.  She loved him because he was wrong.  There was no connection between those 2 things, no matter how much he was trying to understand them or fit those two ideas together.  And then, somewhere along the way, he discovered the laws of planetary motion.  Persistence.

And she grew up to work for a group of people who send rockets into the sky.  She decided to dedicate her life to studying a patch of sky.  She was not a person who liked to be limited, but in this case, there was too much to look at.  If you stretch your hand out in front of you, the palm of your open hand was the size and scope of her study.  She said, "Okay, you can limit me to the size of my hand, but I demand a piece of the sky."  It turned out that there are 250 million stars in that tiny piece of sky.  So her work was still not limited.

And later, her own rocket, which cost millions of dollars, more than all the cars in the state, her rocket was stalled on the moon.  2 wheels broke.  And so the patch of sky she was focused on had to go on existing with her and her understanding.  But someone else created a new idea, and so she stumbled onto other discoveries.  Persistence.  (It's the secret to science.  There is no end.  There is only the possibility of you giving up.  Don't give up.)

http://www.onbeing.org/program/on-exoplanets-and-love/5029
http://www.flickr.com/photos/speakingoffaith/8480735637/sizes/l/in/photostream/

Gonna Buy Me A Dog

Hey L,

So I saw on FB that R got a dog.  Finally.

Perhaps you were thinking of using it as an entre to ask me to help out.  More contact.  Which it may/may not be.

When I AM there (which has been less and less nowadays, especially since mid-June, now August), I tend to use the elevator when I come in.

Because I have a certain amount of dread when passing your window.

Dread that I will/won't see you.  That you will make good on your promise ("Just be patient") and suddenly try to befriend me.  (Which is where the dread comes in)

Oddly enough, I am watching a movie, Red Lily (1928, silent), not paying attention but there was a scene of a girl, crawling on the floor . . . "I waited so long"

I've stopped being her a long time ago.

I don't understand you and your Bipolar Diagnosis.

Didn't you say how betrayed you felt when you lost friends?  How on your birthday that you only had 2 emails and no phone calls?  (I hope you understand that YOU brought that on.)  I was committed to the idea that I would be the ONE friend who would remain faithful to you, despite all your moods.  Despite everything that you feel yourself burdened by.

It was almost exactly a year ago when you invited me over.  When Rx had her "whirlwind" and you had your . . . Whatever It Was (you never told me).  I thought we had faith in each other (at least that's what you said in all those emails)

For a long time I sensed that you have chosen your piano teacher over me.  He's a "boy" too, and you spend time together, in ways that are easy and artistically seductive.  And that's what your philosopher soul wants, isn't it?  Eloquent words and aphorisms, but real world friendships are too difficult for you.

No matter what you've said.

And so now, you are still cruel.

Things remain unresolved between us.  Perhaps this is the worst part of your diagnosis, and you remain unaware of it-caught up in what you experience as your worst symptoms-you have NO idea how you hurt people.  Or maybe you do, and that is why you hide in your "hermit" persona, and like a little boy, you wallow in the fact you have no/few friends.

So now, I hope you treat the dog well (I have no idea what your capacity is for violance) and take it for walks, and I hope that you find some measure of happiness.

Yes, even now.

No matter how used I feel, what a sucker I am, how naiive and foolishly generous with my friendship, I wish you balance and peace and contentment.

I do say a prayer, a mantra along those lines when I pass by your window.  It's helped me (and somehow, I hope it has helped you)

Self Awareness

I strive to be aware of myself. Not overly kind or judgmental, just aware of what habits I fall into, what traps, what triggers and how I react to things and people.

My Father was the enthusiastic one. My Mom was/is always sick and unmotivated. The first to say no, or stay at home.

Depressed, in a word. I've gotten some of that from her. Tonight was a VERY typical night for us. I urged her to get out of the house & see fireworks. I drove her to Lexington a few nights ago, she stayed in the car. Last night, I went alone. Tonight , we went back and forth about where to go, what to do. And she talked about Tony. And how her first AC didn't work because the walls were so hot in her first ATTIC apartment.

Complaining and telling old stories. I stay quiet. She even talked about the huge waste of money that fireworks are and how she wants to be far away from the people.

I have nothing to say. And I am the only person to listen to her.

She can be happy, Joe made her laugh a lot. Which I can appreciate now. Humor, simple, unsophisticated and repetitive, but excellent for the heart. I can't seem to wipe this frown off my face.

Depression is awful. And manifests itself in a refusal to enjoy life, and in not holding out hope for the people you love. We are in the middle of a heat wave, so everyone's grumpy.

Most times, I have a better time by myself than being with someone.

We all need to be kind to each other & not take each other for granted.

Unresolved Issues

Dear L,

I sent you a letter last year, after August. When we had decided to keep being friends.

I asked about what you knew about your diagnosis, about yourself.  If you were violent, what I should expect.  All sorts of things.

You never answered me.

When I try to press you about hanging out in person (vs endless emails) you seem to get angry.  Yet you ask for my continued patience.  (Believe me, I am patient)

You seem to hang out with other people, at least that's what you tell me.  I get mad that you don't hang out with me (because that's what I think of as a friendship).  There have been LOTS of emails and frankly, the make me crazy.  I'm a girl and think talking is of primary importance.  Plus, it makes me check my emails every few minutes, because if I get you in a communicative mood, then you'll send a bunch of emails back.

I keep wanting to write to you, but it seems like I'd be begging for something I don't even like.

You texted me when I was in Boston.  In December.  You were thinking about your own death.  Again, you wouldn't let me talk to you.  You were NOT alone, and I'm pretty sure you had some alcohol.

I think I'm someone you talk to when you are Manic.

I think you are waiting for a time in your life when you can talk to people in a mania, or a subdued mania. I think you are waiting to get back on track somehow.  My persistence has been based on an idea that brief interactions can help you get back on track somehow.  But now I see that it's impossible.  And I'll wait through the summer.  (We didn't talk last summer, after a fight)  I'll wait forever.  But I don't know what I'm waiting for.  I don't know who you are.  I've been waiting to get to know you.  Maybe this is you.  Maybe if I didn't need anything from you ever, it would be easier (but what is the point of a polite friendship like that? We were honest with each other)

Everytime I think about you, I end up in this spiral.  How I should be nice to you, how I get a tremendous sense of PEACE when I think about you.  How this all seems unfinished.  And then I think about how you don't let me in, how you were open once and now you are closed and cold.  And how you said how you don't like being cold.

I need to stay away from you. There's nothing we can give each other from this friendship.  (Other than neighborly friendship and treasures of being humans on this earth.  Laughter, conversation, exchange of smiles, etc.)

Little Green Cars and "Devil in the White City"  (You are charming, but you said you have a "Dark Soul".  There's a reason girls get attracted to danger)