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Wednesday, June 23, 2004
God, we are so fucked. I mean, even if we get Bush out of the White House, we have decades and decades of clean-up to do. I know I get irrational and ridiculous about all of this, but sometimes that is better than absolutely losing hope and bawling all over my keyboard at work. I was just looking at the pictures of Kim Sun-Il’s parents, taken at the moment they found out their son had been beheaded in Iraq.
I just feel so hopeless, so defeated, because for millions of Americans it just doesn’t matter what Bush does, or for what he is responsible. I’m eventually going to talk to my little old landlady about voting this November, and in my mind there is a scenario played out not unlike a conversation my mom had with my great Aunt Donna. My mom made some offhand comment about the war and Bush, and my Aunt Donna asked her to not speak about Bush that way in her home, or something to that extent. Because it doesn’t matter what Bush does, my Aunt Donna, one of the coolest women alive, is going to vote for him. Not only that, she doesn’t even want to talk about it. In her case, it’s hopeless.
Okay, so let’s say we do get the ultimate Evil-Doer out of the White House. Then what? Where do we begin to address the seething hatred for the US? Clearly this hatred, particularly regarding Israel, goes back many years, but where do we begin? Or is that simply too far ahead to deal with right now? Maybe every ounce of focus must go towards getting Kerry elected.
I don’t know. Clearly Kim Sun-Il is just one man, and thousands of innocent Iraqis are dead, and hundreds of Americans, but it is still so hard to see his parents’ grief, and to think that I am in some small way responsible, even if only by association.
I just feel so hopeless, so defeated, because for millions of Americans it just doesn’t matter what Bush does, or for what he is responsible. I’m eventually going to talk to my little old landlady about voting this November, and in my mind there is a scenario played out not unlike a conversation my mom had with my great Aunt Donna. My mom made some offhand comment about the war and Bush, and my Aunt Donna asked her to not speak about Bush that way in her home, or something to that extent. Because it doesn’t matter what Bush does, my Aunt Donna, one of the coolest women alive, is going to vote for him. Not only that, she doesn’t even want to talk about it. In her case, it’s hopeless.
Okay, so let’s say we do get the ultimate Evil-Doer out of the White House. Then what? Where do we begin to address the seething hatred for the US? Clearly this hatred, particularly regarding Israel, goes back many years, but where do we begin? Or is that simply too far ahead to deal with right now? Maybe every ounce of focus must go towards getting Kerry elected.
I don’t know. Clearly Kim Sun-Il is just one man, and thousands of innocent Iraqis are dead, and hundreds of Americans, but it is still so hard to see his parents’ grief, and to think that I am in some small way responsible, even if only by association.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Write a letter.
I’m serious. You say you are going to do it all the time, flippantly, but do you ever actually do it? Letters are so freaking awesome. It doesn’t even have to be a letter, it could be a note. Just as long as it is written down, hard copy, something that the recipient can touch. This will be the one and only time I suggest you contribute to global warming by cutting down another tree. It’s just that letters mean so much.
A very sweet, young Irish man came to see me a few weeks ago, wondering about the program and lamenting because he could never afford to take a class here. He’s here just for six weeks and then going back to Ireland to open a wine shop. A few emails later I had him registered for a class under a full scholarship. I know what this guy does to make money. He works at a burger joint- upscale, but still a burger joint- where it is very hot and very busy. This is the kind of guy who deserves a scholarship. He took the class, loved it, and then went back to flipping burgers for his last two weeks here.
Two days ago he stopped by my office. I saw him pedal up on an old Schwinn. He came in bearing a bottle of wine and- get this- a letter, a note, a written thought- and thanked me for getting him into the class. He shook my hand and left. The note was so simple, and the wine was Riesling which means he was PAYING ATTENTION. A lesson to all you would-be lovers out there. The note is taped up on my wall, alongside several others of its kind. These words, in particular, mean something. They mean a lot. So the next time you think you should write a note or a letter, even if it’s because you have a complaint, DO IT. Emails are too easy, phone calls to laborious and ask for something in return. A note or a letter is so simple and so giving. It asks for nothing but a little bit of reading time.
So do it.
I’m serious. You say you are going to do it all the time, flippantly, but do you ever actually do it? Letters are so freaking awesome. It doesn’t even have to be a letter, it could be a note. Just as long as it is written down, hard copy, something that the recipient can touch. This will be the one and only time I suggest you contribute to global warming by cutting down another tree. It’s just that letters mean so much.
A very sweet, young Irish man came to see me a few weeks ago, wondering about the program and lamenting because he could never afford to take a class here. He’s here just for six weeks and then going back to Ireland to open a wine shop. A few emails later I had him registered for a class under a full scholarship. I know what this guy does to make money. He works at a burger joint- upscale, but still a burger joint- where it is very hot and very busy. This is the kind of guy who deserves a scholarship. He took the class, loved it, and then went back to flipping burgers for his last two weeks here.
Two days ago he stopped by my office. I saw him pedal up on an old Schwinn. He came in bearing a bottle of wine and- get this- a letter, a note, a written thought- and thanked me for getting him into the class. He shook my hand and left. The note was so simple, and the wine was Riesling which means he was PAYING ATTENTION. A lesson to all you would-be lovers out there. The note is taped up on my wall, alongside several others of its kind. These words, in particular, mean something. They mean a lot. So the next time you think you should write a note or a letter, even if it’s because you have a complaint, DO IT. Emails are too easy, phone calls to laborious and ask for something in return. A note or a letter is so simple and so giving. It asks for nothing but a little bit of reading time.
So do it.
Monday, June 21, 2004
Just when I’m feeling sorry for myself…
This morning I got a frantic phone call from a mother who couldn’t find her daughter. The daughter, let’s call her Leslie, took two classes here early last week although she wasn’t feeling well enough to complete the second one. She was supposed to have checked out of our Guesthouse last Tuesday night. The mother said she spoke with Leslie this morning at 7 AM, and that she was still here. I got on my computer and told her that it was impossible that she spoke with her daughter in her room here because someone else was booked in that room for a class this week. Mom insisted, though. She became very upset and explained that her daughter was not well, that she was refusing to take her meds and that the mother was very concerned for her daughter’s mental health.
Leslie had come to me on the first day of the second class saying she was not feeling well. I told her she was welcome to sit in the class if she wanted, but that ultimately she should take care of herself and if that meant going back to bed, she should do it. She didn’t seem terribly sick, just sort of down. She didn’t show up for the second day at all, which was the last day of class, and I assumed she just went home (which is about ten hours north). But I checked the phone number her mother had been using to communicate with her all week, and indeed it was the number to Leslie’s room at the Guesthouse. The mother said she had called her daughter very early this morning, on that number, but that now her daughter was not answering the phone. Her mother was terrified for her daughter’s health. But I knew that someone else was supposed to be in the room- the education department hadn’t had any housing complaints- so the mystery deepened. Finally I went to Security, explained the situation, and said I wanted someone to go to the room with me because frankly I was afraid of what I’d find.
The manager of Security and I were on our way to the Guest House when he realized he hadn’t checked his mailbox for keys from students who hadn’t shown up. Two hadn’t, one of which was the woman who was supposed to take over Leslie’s room. My stomach dropped. We walked over to the Guesthouse, listened at the door, knocked, and finally opened it- to find it empty and clean.
I went back to my office to call her mother who is in another country and who was trying to decide if she should fly out here or if maybe her daughter might have gone to the airport to fly home. She also asked me to canvass the parking lot, which I did, looking for her daughter’s car. It wasn’t there. This worried the mother even more because when she had spoken to her this morning, her daughter had been almost comatose.
I spent the next hour trying to find out if Leslie could have been on an airport shuttle or taxi of some kind, but I found nothing. Finally, half an hour ago, Leslie called a woman here at my place of work. Leslie could not identify where she was, or why she had left, but she did know that she felt terrible. The woman who answered the phone told Leslie to call her mom, and then Leslie hung up. I just called her mom to let her know that we’d heard from her, and her mom had just heard from her as well. Leslie managed to say she was somewhere in Napa, but she didn’t know where, and that the maid service had told her she had to leave the Guesthouse this morning. Her mom begged her to find a hotel or restaurant, and to call her back, so someone here would know where to find her.
The thing is, Leslie is operating a moving vehicle without being capable of reading a store or street sign to her mother. Her mom said she’d been “crazy” for years, but she did not say it unkindly. Over the last two weeks, I talked to Leslie several times, both on the phone and while she was here taking classes. I even got her a scholarship for her second class. She seemed so “normal” and balanced. I have a feeling that this episode will end okay- at least, I hope it does, with Leslie landing somewhere safe and one of her mom’s local friends finding her. But my god- how scary. When I was walking towards the Guesthouse room, I honestly thought I would have to deliver terrible news to the mother. It’s a pretty significant reality check, and yet another reminder that my life is just one of seven billion.
This morning I got a frantic phone call from a mother who couldn’t find her daughter. The daughter, let’s call her Leslie, took two classes here early last week although she wasn’t feeling well enough to complete the second one. She was supposed to have checked out of our Guesthouse last Tuesday night. The mother said she spoke with Leslie this morning at 7 AM, and that she was still here. I got on my computer and told her that it was impossible that she spoke with her daughter in her room here because someone else was booked in that room for a class this week. Mom insisted, though. She became very upset and explained that her daughter was not well, that she was refusing to take her meds and that the mother was very concerned for her daughter’s mental health.
Leslie had come to me on the first day of the second class saying she was not feeling well. I told her she was welcome to sit in the class if she wanted, but that ultimately she should take care of herself and if that meant going back to bed, she should do it. She didn’t seem terribly sick, just sort of down. She didn’t show up for the second day at all, which was the last day of class, and I assumed she just went home (which is about ten hours north). But I checked the phone number her mother had been using to communicate with her all week, and indeed it was the number to Leslie’s room at the Guesthouse. The mother said she had called her daughter very early this morning, on that number, but that now her daughter was not answering the phone. Her mother was terrified for her daughter’s health. But I knew that someone else was supposed to be in the room- the education department hadn’t had any housing complaints- so the mystery deepened. Finally I went to Security, explained the situation, and said I wanted someone to go to the room with me because frankly I was afraid of what I’d find.
The manager of Security and I were on our way to the Guest House when he realized he hadn’t checked his mailbox for keys from students who hadn’t shown up. Two hadn’t, one of which was the woman who was supposed to take over Leslie’s room. My stomach dropped. We walked over to the Guesthouse, listened at the door, knocked, and finally opened it- to find it empty and clean.
I went back to my office to call her mother who is in another country and who was trying to decide if she should fly out here or if maybe her daughter might have gone to the airport to fly home. She also asked me to canvass the parking lot, which I did, looking for her daughter’s car. It wasn’t there. This worried the mother even more because when she had spoken to her this morning, her daughter had been almost comatose.
I spent the next hour trying to find out if Leslie could have been on an airport shuttle or taxi of some kind, but I found nothing. Finally, half an hour ago, Leslie called a woman here at my place of work. Leslie could not identify where she was, or why she had left, but she did know that she felt terrible. The woman who answered the phone told Leslie to call her mom, and then Leslie hung up. I just called her mom to let her know that we’d heard from her, and her mom had just heard from her as well. Leslie managed to say she was somewhere in Napa, but she didn’t know where, and that the maid service had told her she had to leave the Guesthouse this morning. Her mom begged her to find a hotel or restaurant, and to call her back, so someone here would know where to find her.
The thing is, Leslie is operating a moving vehicle without being capable of reading a store or street sign to her mother. Her mom said she’d been “crazy” for years, but she did not say it unkindly. Over the last two weeks, I talked to Leslie several times, both on the phone and while she was here taking classes. I even got her a scholarship for her second class. She seemed so “normal” and balanced. I have a feeling that this episode will end okay- at least, I hope it does, with Leslie landing somewhere safe and one of her mom’s local friends finding her. But my god- how scary. When I was walking towards the Guesthouse room, I honestly thought I would have to deliver terrible news to the mother. It’s a pretty significant reality check, and yet another reminder that my life is just one of seven billion.
Sunday, June 20, 2004
My mom always says that depression is not deeper sadness, per say, but that it is feeling as though one doesn’t have any options. I know she’s right, and nineteen times out of twenty, when I’m feeling bad, I can isolate my unhappy feelings and realize that what I’m actually feeling is trapped, bored, lazy, useless- i.e., that I’m not seeing the gazillion options in my daily life. But today, and yesterday, and some of the days before, I’ve been battling a grey cloud and I can’t seem to get through it. I know it’s ridiculous, in a way. I know that there are people in my extended family, and all over the world, who have it much, much, much, much worse. Vastly worse. But I can’t fight my way out of this one.
I am sad that my baker is far away and that there are things pulling us apart emotionally as well. I can’t get away from this feeling, even though I know that had he stayed, there would have been far more destructive issues between us than the ones hurting us today. I am sad, deeply sad sometimes, that I’m not working as an actor right now, and haven’t been for a long time. I am sad that I’m not working in relief in any capacity. I am sad for silly things, like… well, I never built the community in New York that I wanted. I’m sad that yet another man who screwed things up when he had the chance to work on a relationship with me is now courting me with excessive persistence (even an offer to fly me to NY for the weekend). I’m sad for him because that window of opportunity is shut, with rusty nails bent into the wood. I’m sad for me because a year ago his attentions would have made me so happy.
It’s been a hard sadness to shake, even though I got to see so many friends and family this weekend. Even though I gave my notice at my job, even though I’m about to start something really extraordinary. I know that all of these great things are happening to me, but I’m having a hard time relishing in them, being present, appreciating everything coming my way. I honestly don’t know if I’m doing the right things or going in the right direction. I mean, what is “right” for me?
I am sad that my baker is far away and that there are things pulling us apart emotionally as well. I can’t get away from this feeling, even though I know that had he stayed, there would have been far more destructive issues between us than the ones hurting us today. I am sad, deeply sad sometimes, that I’m not working as an actor right now, and haven’t been for a long time. I am sad that I’m not working in relief in any capacity. I am sad for silly things, like… well, I never built the community in New York that I wanted. I’m sad that yet another man who screwed things up when he had the chance to work on a relationship with me is now courting me with excessive persistence (even an offer to fly me to NY for the weekend). I’m sad for him because that window of opportunity is shut, with rusty nails bent into the wood. I’m sad for me because a year ago his attentions would have made me so happy.
It’s been a hard sadness to shake, even though I got to see so many friends and family this weekend. Even though I gave my notice at my job, even though I’m about to start something really extraordinary. I know that all of these great things are happening to me, but I’m having a hard time relishing in them, being present, appreciating everything coming my way. I honestly don’t know if I’m doing the right things or going in the right direction. I mean, what is “right” for me?