The wonderful person

   I have many thoughts during the day, many of which are produced, or at least guided by the fears that I have and past needs which went unfulfilled. The ideas that I have and actions that I take have often been developed to try to keep me feeling protected from a world based on the past, but there are times, generally when I am quiet and at ease, where I am able to feel and see things in a way which seems quite present and often surprising to me.
   This morning was one of those times.
   As I walked, and the chilly, post-rain air emitted a feeling of "freshness"(as one person I know put it), the idea came to me that my wife is really a beautiful person. This impression was followed with the thought that her struggles to be in the world, which I can at times find irritating as they relate to me, are in a very literal way a reflection of my own difficulties in this area. I use the world literal here because it struck me in such a matter-of-fact way, and I realized then that if I could manage to be more aware, more cognizant and forgiving of her efforts, that perhaps I could do the same in regards to mine, too. It dawned on me what a good heart Fernanda has, and that probably, nearly all that comes from her still sprouts from this kernel, no matter how it may bother me.
   I remember as I am writing this that it was this quality which probably most drew me to her those nearly fifteen years ago, and it is still there, though it has been made murkier by my own struggles to exist in a world that I often find to be hostile, and which very much color my impressions of the person I love most.
   I realize that the more I can see her in this way, the more wholly and with forgiveness I may be able to envision myself, too.

Like ants

   My daily walks around Stow Lake have been started in near darkness for the past couple of months, mostly because the days are fairly short this time of year (but getting longer), but also due to the fact that I've been trying to walk an extra mile when possible in order to lose a few pounds added around the December holidays.The extra exercise feels good, too.
   I quite often find Stow Lake magical, but in the predawn hours it can be especially lovely, due in no small part to the the way the area looks when barely visible, where things in the distance seem mysterious, and my eyes and brain misread the material world. I believe I see animals in the distance that are not actually there, the lights from the few surrounding lamp posts illuminate what's nearest them in strange ways, and I see the distant interactions of people in a way that I only do here; I see them like ants.
   I recall coming home to my apartment after close to a week away on vacation, and seeing a line of seemingly thousands of ants stretching in and out of my refrigerator. While a bit horrified and disgusted (there were hundreds of dead members frozen to death inside inside the cold door), I was also fascinated by their organization, and saw that somewhere amidst the two ends of this line, stretching from the food source towards the nest, was a place where the ants would pause before passing each other.
   I imagined at that time that the individual members would relay some kind of information that was necessary to perform the large scale operation they were undertaking, although what was being transmitted was inaudible to me, Even if there were sounds being made at those many brief meetings, I doubt that I would have been able to decipher them anyway.
   In a similar way, I understood that whatever the people that I saw in the distance at Stow Lake were communicating was not for me to know, and although I assume that it was mostly in a form that I understood, the English language, it may as well as been as foreign to me as the ants' manner was.
   Often, when looking outside of my own subjective experience, I find the ways of others as strange and hard to comprehend.

"Two Jews, from across the room..."

 Early in December of last year, the activity department at my job, which I am a member of, had their holiday party. These parties always take place at least a few weeks before Christmas, I believe in an attempt to be as inclusive as possible (many people are on vacation later in the month). I use the word inclusive in a bit of a tongue-in-cheek way, because these holiday parties are really, as far as I am concerned, Christmas parties, featuring music and decorations pertaining only to that holiday. 

   The distinction between party types is not just a matter of semantics for me, but is important because I often feel like an ethnic afterthought in other people's minds, being the only Jew in the department, as well as possessing a predisposition to feeling invisible, with me since childhood. I know that I am neither physically nor psychically invisible to most people that I know, but it does feel that way more than I  wish it did. 

   So, there I was at this party, feeling uncomfortable, when it was announced that we'd play a raffle game with the tickets we'd been given when we arrived. As the first numbers were called, I realized that I held the winning ticket, and as I went up to claim my prize, I was guided by one of the well-meaning supervisors towards a particular package. I presumed this package held the "Mensch on a Bench" toy that I had been informed might be one of the prizes by this same supervisor earlier in the week.

   I returned to my seat and opened the gift, and felt immediately happy at the stuffed toy inside. The people clapped, and I honestly felt like I suddenly belonged among this group of familiar people listening to Christmas music. Although it was only a toy, and a kind of joke gift at that, to me it was as if someone that I knew and really related to had come to give me support amidst a room of indifferent strangers. I know that seems odd, but I felt as if my circumstances and emotional life at the time had been completely transformed.

   I placed the "Mensch on a Bench" on the table I was sitting behind so it was facing me, and I looked at it. With it's left arm raised as if waving, it seemed like we were destined to be near each other at that moment.

   My feelings of isolation in that peopled room fell away as I looked at that mensch, like the box I pulled him from had opened the one that had previously contained me.

The mensch, at my apartment, watching over the Chanukah candles.

The differentiated artist

   This morning, the local television news was reporting about a small group of people, mostly artists, that were being forced to vacate a warehouse live/work space in nearby Oakland because the building had been condemned as unsafe. The reporter interviewed a few of the tenants, and one spoke, a young woman with spiked hair and dressed in a red blazer, of how most of the people being forced to leave were "small business owners, artists and creative people".
   What she said got me thinking about the idea of being an artist, what it means to different people, and why it seemed that, for her at least, referring to these people as such set these occupants' evictions apart from other people that might face similar circumstances. It got me thinking about my own very conflated feelings about what 'being an artist' may mean culturally, and reminded me of why so many artists' views of themselves illicited a strong negative reaction within me.
   The question for me is why should anyone be treated or thought of as different than other people, and why the role of the artist should be considered as important or vital? In my own experience, I have found that most of the people that I've met or come into contact with that think of themselves as artists are socially important mainly to those that think of themselves similarly; they reinforce eachothers' ideas of self and place.
   I ask the reader to please be careful to note that when I use the term artist, I do so to differentiate the person who thinks of themself as such from the person that merely makes or does things in a creative manner. I make this distinction because I do in fact believe that it is important to have people (at least in my own life and with whatever word one chooses to call them) that seek to explore different ways to think about the material world.
   So it is then a matter for me of not what a person does, but how one defines themselves, and if these distinctions serve to differentiate themselves, or things from the ideas that serve to contain and limit them. For much in the same way that language labels and helps us to make distinctions, it also imprisons us in notions of how things should be.
   For me, freedom lies fundamentally in evicting predetermined ideas from my own limited ideas and sensations, not reinforcing them with a name