whyistheworldsocreepyshesaid

Flipping through the pages of the latest issue of Food and Wine, I come across an interesting little gadget. Under a heading that reads, “japanese kitchen essentials”, there is a photo of a cute little pot for making fresh tofu! First of all, I love little pots, spoons, cups, saucers, etc. I think that’s the Asian in me. Accoutrements in Asia are often clever, shrunken versions of their larger counterparts. In the West, we so often adhere to the bigger, the shinier, the more. Asian design often reflects a sense of old school modesty and unassuming nature- even modern Asian design. Japan is the king of cute, utilitarian and compact little packages of stuff.

The western world has obviously taken note though. We are starting to like our stuff cool and compact. Even moms in Middle America are toting cell phones that are sleeker and smaller. Kid don’t want big boom boxes, they want Mp3’s and iPods that are a fraction of the size of the Walkman’s of the past, and the list goes on. Don’t get me wrong, there’s gaudy and obtuse in every corner of the world, but I love that on any corner of Tokyo, I can find a vending machine where I can get a mini lunchbox kit the size of my hand that has the bowl, the chopsticks, the food and a cute matchbook size Sudoku puzzle to play with later, all neatly rolled into one clever little package with a little anime character smiling creepily back at me.

So looking at this earthy, little pot to make tofu in, I get excited. Yes, I think. I need to make my own tofu. Why, you ask, would anyone want to make his or her own tofu, when you can go to any store these days and pick up a brick of it for less than $3? Well, besides trying to live green, to put quality food into my body and do as little harm to the environment in the process, I have self-indulgent reasons too: I like seeing things get made.

I think back to growing up in Indiana. Going on fieldtrips to see how maple sugar was tapped from the trees, boiled and finally made into those sickly sweet candies, molded into the shape of a maple leaf. One year, they tried to get creative and made them into the shape of the state of Indiana, but the little dangly part of Indiana’s south-western border always broke off, leaving you with a drunken rectangle and it’s squirmy little severed tail.

We also went to farms and learned how to milk cows. I was the one of the few who got to sit on the stool next to the cow and kindly, but firmly squeeze and pull her surprisingly tough and rubbery teats. It was clear that this cow was so unimpressed with my milking skills and my wimpy grip, that instead of squirming or kicking (like she tried to do earlier to an overly aggressive boy in my class), she just sighed and went back to chewing her cud.

We also got to see how the milk was processed and how the cream rises to the top and that it gets scooped off to be used for butter. Then we actually got to churn our own butter! It was great. There were kids who got tired and whiney after just a few minutes of churning, but I was no slouch. I couldn’t wait to see this real life transformation of one thing… turning into something else. Seeing how things are made has always fascinated me and now, I have the opportunity to make my own tofu. This is going to be great!

Reading the magazine, I learn that the tofu kit comes with it’s own fuel (which I am not yet sure why a stove wouldn’t suffice, but I am a tofu-making novice so I let it go), some nigari- a coagulant (sounds cool and creepy!) and a “pretty porcelain pot”. This is too cool. I need this. I could start making my own tofu and give it as holiday gifts. I could have tofu making parties. I could go into the artisanal tofu making business. I am always talking about consuming food of quality, food that has not been processed in large dirty and soulless warehouses. Now I can create my own! I can put any kind of good vibes that I choose into this food. I can fill it full of love, joy and wholesomeness and offer it to the mouths of my family and friends. All they need to know is that I made it with care, not that I’ve imbued it with the hocus pocus of wishful thinking.

I look at the clock. It’s getting late in the afternoon now and I am hungry. I still have errands to run and obligations to attend to. I guess my magic tofu will have to wait. That pot was $88 anyway! I can’t spend that kind of dough right now. I’ve got bills to pay. My stomach growls. I need to eat now and the only thing I can find in my house is honey and moldy bread.

On my way to the post office, hoping I can make it before it closes, I pass the suffocating smell of grease that can only come from fast food. It’s no porcelain pot of magic-love tofu this is for sure, yet somehow I find myself in queue at the drive thru. I wait for 15 minutes just to get up to the speaker. There is only one other person in front of me and only a couple people in the restaurant itself. Isn’t this supposed to be fast food? It barely passes for food, can’t it at least be fast? It’s like going to the firing squad and seeing that they are gonna throw pocket knives instead. You know it’s gonna hurt. Can’t they just make it quick? If I hadn’t been blocked in from the front, back and sides, I would have just left. I think to myself, this is how they get you. NO EXIT. Even Sartre couldn’t have imagined this sort of hell. I finally reach the speaker, where against all better judgment, I hear the words come from my mouth, “I’ll have a bean burrito and a fruit punch.”

Another 7 minutes (and 2 bad attitude interactions from the woman who takes my money) later, I get my burrito and drink and head out of there. I pull over to a parking lot down the road to eat this burrito and when I open it up, I am met with a greater tragedy than I expected. This burrito looks like it got into a fight with a cougar! The poor thing didn’t stand a chance and clearly the cougar emerged victorious. The insides of the burrito were splayed all over itself. The wrapper has become its new skin, haphazardly holding it together. I hold it in my hand like I would one of those excruciating small and delicate premmies. And just like a baby, this burrito threatens to plop something disgusting on my lap at any moment. I shake my head. Oh the humanity.

Then I get pissed. I am pissed at the mean fast food people and their shoddy workmanship, but mostly I am mad at myself for going there. This happens every time. Why would I think this time would be any different? Not only does the food taste like crap there, the workmanship stinks too. The quality of the ingredients is low, they most likely buy from farmers who employ labor that they don’t pay or treat very well. They damage the environment with all the processing and worldwide shipping of these foods. The low quality of service is only a reflection of the over all lack of appreciation and reverence these companies and their counterparts have for the earth and the people who live on it.

As I wrap the burrito carcass back up in it’s skin graft wrapper, I chastise myself with a silent, ‘I told you so’. I head to the post office and as I stand in line I think, ‘Ok, magic tofu pot, here I come!’

Written April 17, 2007

Yesterday, around 2:45pm I smelled the distinct odor of burning rubber. Shortly after detecting this foul smell, I heard a thunderous BOOM. It wasn’t a gunshot. It wasn’t a sign of warfare on Savannah, GA. It was an old car on fire down the alley behind my house.

Wow! How often does this happen? I mean I’ve seen cars on fire in the movies but not in real life. In real life it smells really bad. In the movies, it doesn’t. Not even to the people in the movie, apparently. I have a feeling if I were in the movie, my first reaction would be to say, “God, this smells awful!”

Cars that are burning in the movies are apparently odorless and they don’t just show up in an alley. They happen because after the exciting car chase scene, the car is forced over a California cliff. As it somersaults over and over again, it lands upright at the bottom of the valley. The car doesn’t look as banged up as you think one might look like, having careened down the side of a cliff but you know that the cracked windshield and dented bumper is the movie symbol for ‘really bad car wreck from careening down the side of a cliff’. You think, ‘Did our hero survive? No, he couldn’t have’.

Ahhhh, but the camera pans in and there it is. You see movement. Our hero is badly hurt. You know this because there is a tiny bit of blood dripping from a scratch on his forehead (not so much blood as to distract from his hotness) and because he moans. The odds are against him. You know this. He knows this. Yet, there is a resilience that our hero has. He has survived worse things than this. You know this because the flashback scene of Vietnam, shown earlier in the movie. Yes… our hero can handle this. There is a sense of relief on his face. He is alive. He can make it!

Then suddenly a flame emerges from underneath the hood of the car. Uh oh. Now what? He moves to reach for the door, but go figure, he can’t open it. It’s jammed. No, it can’t be. Yes, it can. Now what? He tries to use sheer force but when he does, you are made aware that he has a broken leg too. You know this because he winces and the camera pans to the leg. His jeans are torn and there is fake blood dripping from the gash. Ouch!

Our hero must think of something FAST. The flames have multiplied and smoke is starting to billow from the front of the car. You know this because the flames have multiplied and smoke is billowing from the front of the car. Our hero thinks fast. He maneuvers his body and uses his good leg to kick at the glass. After two swift, forceful kicks, the glass gives way, showering his face with tiny shards. Glass is no match for our hero. Hah!

He shimmies out of the car, wincing and grimacing all the way, dragging his bum leg with him. He knows he needs to get to safety. THE CAR IS GONNA BLOW. You know this because the music is frantic and climactic. Hobble, hobble, hobble. Is he gonna make it? The car suddenly explodes and our hero is thrust through the air falling (in slow motion) to the dusty earth with such a thud, you know that no one could survive all this. The war, the terrible orphanage he grew up in (again, a flashback) the loss of his wife and child at the hand of the evil warlord, after all that he should just throw in the towel. What does he have to live for?

Then he sees a vision of the warlord’s beautiful daughter, the one he kissed before she was kidnapped by her own father to be thrown over the cruise ship. Ah, the cruise ship. Once thought of as a fun in the sun vacation with all you can eat buffets, has been used by the evil warlord as a vessel of doom. He has taken it hostage and no one can stop him. No one except for our hero, that is. This is what he has to live for. Not for himself. He lives to save all those fat, bloated passengers on that cruise ship… and for the hot, exotic looking warlord’s daughter.

Well, you know how it ends. He gets on the ship, kicks some ass without his shirt on (thank god), saves the passengers and at the last minute, saves his exotic love interest. They are both wet and calculatedly disheveled. They kiss. All is well in the world.

Here in Savannah, however, the smell of rubber and metal burning lingered for hours. No one got hurt; no evil warlords were brought to justice. Just a guy on a cell phone talking and telling some lady saying that his car was “all fucked up!” When the fire was put out, he tried to remove some of his stuff from the back seat and trunk in hopes they would be salvageable. They weren’t.

When the firemen pried opened the trunk, I had hoped it would reveal stolen diamonds or was chock full o’ pot. That would have been great! The headline would read: JUNKY CAR BURNS, POT SHROUDS THE CITY. The city would have been covered in a blanket of smoke from weed. Everyone would be giggly, friendly and have the munchies for reasons not apparent to them.

Alas, no smuggled pot. No diamonds from a heist. No dead bodies stuffed into the trunk, Don Corleone style. Just a really bummed out guy with a burned up, junky, ghetto car. Even so, he has something in common with our hero, they both walked away from a burning car and made it out alive. Not bad for a day’s work.

This is a longer story. Here is a pdf version you can print and read at your leisure:
I’ll have the Embarrassment and Enlightenment, with a Side of Macon

Or, start reading here….

Written March 31, 2007

I start this confession with a caveat: I am not a groupie. This journey would have taken place even if the man involved had been a plumber, instead of a musician. Don’t get me wrong; I like the music his band makes. I feel it is quality. I derive enjoyment from it. What I am trying to convey is that I do not have illusions of marrying movie stars, pop stars, etc. I have met all kinds of people all over this beautiful and treacherous world and I don’t desire for the delusion of power or fame for myself, let alone to garner it by proxy. That being said however, I suspect that nothing I can say, let alone write, would make any of this sound any less creepy. Here goes anyway…

Last week was a kismet-y kind of time. I was having experiences that felt as if they were leading up to something important. When I talk about these things, some people dismiss it or think me to be a flake. I am fine with this. I have felt this connection to the universe since I was a child. My life has been full of these deliciously creepy moments. They are not unusual to me.

So, I woke up last Thursday with a buoyancy and energy that was palpable. The dress I put on, the way my hair fell off my shoulder in its ponytail, the look in my eyes- they were all the physical manifestations of a beautiful connection I was feeling to the universe. The people I encountered responded accordingly. Friendliness, a deep kindness, appreciation was everywhere, from a smile, a conversation with strangers, comments that I am beautiful. This is not to be confused with vanity. I did not feel as if the appreciation I was receiving from others was my own ‘fabulousness’ being recognized, but rather, it was an appreciation for universal beauty and kindness that I was being a conduit for.

Everywhere I walked there was joy. I feel a knowing that there is more meaning in these moments. I kept seeing little signs all day, pointing in a certain direction in my mind. A boy wearing a Red Sox shirt (not common in Savannah, GA) who I applauded for his passionate pigeon chase in City Market. Later, a man wearing a Red Sox hat said hello. Then a long, wonderful phone conversation with and old friend from New England. The last song playing while I drove was “Here Comes Your Man” by the Pixies (a Boston Band). The next song I hear as I enter a restaurant is, “Here Comes Your Man”. Things… little things that just felt kismet-y. I didn’t know what it might mean exactly, but it felt right. I was walking without clear understanding of why, when, how or even what, but with a sense that I was walking towards a purpose.

Later in the afternoon, I walk to meet my friends for a drink in the bar of a historic hotel. On my way, I strike up a conversation with an elderly couple. They are from Boston. They’ve come here for a wedding. I tell them I used to live in Brighton (Boston). We talk about this, about Savannah and about weddings. I tell them a Boston band will be playing in the theater to our left and I will be seeing them soon. “For goodness sakes, what a coincidence”, she says with a smile. They are New England style oldies, wizened but kind. I leave them with a goodbye and a smile, then walk to meet my friends.

We have a quick drink. We talk about how our days have been and about creepy people. Shortly, we head over next door to the Asian restaurant for dinner before the show. Until an hour ago, we did not know where we wanted to go for dinner. This is not a restaurant we eat at, in fact we hear bad things about it, but for today it feels like the right place to be. The tables here are relatively close to one another. My friend comments on the meal of the woman sitting to my left. We chat with this woman about the noodles she’s ordered. They are served in a tiny wok. It is cute. We all agree. We leave the lady to finish her meal and we talk more amongst ourselves. The conversation goes from the religious right’s beliefs about Israel to whether or not we should order edamame, to what a douche bag some people can be sometimes. (My friends are much too civilized to talk about douche bags at dinner so I suppose it was me and my big mouth yapping about The Promised Land and douche bags. Classy.)

Soon we tell the waiter we might need to speed things up so that we don’t miss our show and as our waiter walks away, I see that several men are now seated parallel to us. It is the band. The tiny wok lady has vanished with her noodles and the band is seated at the table next to hers. For some reason, I am not surprised. It is a kismet-y type of day. This is what happens when magic is around. You meet old people from Boston. You hear songs again and again that you never hear. You rekindle friendships from years ago, you encounter the appreciation of others and you run into the band you are going to see that night at a sushi restaurant you never go to.

There is something strangely familiar about this. Suddenly, I am hit with the memory of a dream I recently had. I can’t say it was exactly a dream. It was like a vision of some sort. Vision sounds creepy, I know, but words can’t contain everything that happens in the world. It would be like trying to fit an elephant in thimble. At any rate, it is as if I am recalling a memory of an experience that hasn’t actually happened yet. It is familiar, but I can’t say why, like footage from the Akashic Record.

Anyway, I vividly and clearly see this scene in my mind: the drummer of this band is standing on a tropical beach. It is sunny and the skies are high altitude blue. The wind is blowing and he is playing congas, smiling with his white shirt blowing in the wind. Ok, please note: this is not a ‘Dream Weaver’ type of moment. It is not a long held fantasy of mine to meet this person. I do not daydream about being with this man. I do not follow his comings and goings or write fan letters. I do not think of him. I live my life and do my thing and yet, for some strangely comfortable reason, I have this sense of knowing him. Perhaps not the human him, that is, I don’t know his personality, shoe size, or if he prefers Krispy Kreme to Dunkies, (I myself stand firmly on the side of the Krispy Kreme army), but I have this sense of connection that feels very real nonetheless. I don’t know that this is entirely explainable with words, but I am hoping that my intent and the readers’ intuition will somehow make up for this.

I have had these experiences in my life with men, woman, children, places, things, etc. Status, sex, time, logic, etc. have nothing to do with it. Sometimes we are able to feel an indelible connection for no apparent reason. I think many people have known this. Sometimes those cosmicky connections last lifetimes, sometimes just a brief moment. Sometimes you become friends with these people, sometimes lovers. Often it is just a passing, but meaningful interaction. These experiences do not have the same parameters as regular interactions in which there are rules of body language and where, right or wrong, there is an implicit cultural meaning understood by all parties when a woman approaches a guy in a band: groupie. I do not know what this particular feeling, in this particular sushi restaurant in Savannah, GA means. In fact, I haven’t had one this strong in a long time and I don’t quite know what to do with it.

At the table, I cock my head and furrow my brow and say, “I have seen this. I know this moment. I’ve dreamt this… sort of.” My friends don’t understand what I am referring to. I tell them calmly that the band is sitting right there. They look and say, “Really?” and as they assimilate this information, I instinctively move over to talk to the drummer. I have often been told I am eloquent and that I connect well with people from all walks of life. At this moment however, it is not evident in the least. I don’t make sense. I am not talking with him; I am talking at him and worse… I think I spit on his shoulder. I tell him I am not drunk, that I just can’t speak right now and that I have a lot of saliva in my mouth.

Awesome.

He is kind though and doesn’t shrink away in horror. I am sure he is used to bumbling girls approaching him, but I hate that I come across this way. I don’t do things like that. I have no qualms about talking to anyone. I don’t care what your status or situation. A person’s energy is what I usually see. Sure, I embarrass myself and I continually do ridiculous things, but they are usually of a more highbrow type of humiliation. Not this groupie type of crap. Or maybe my foibles aren’t so highbrow, because now I recall a ‘farting in a courtroom’ situation that I cringe at to this day. At any rate, I just don’t like the idea that I might be coming across as some creepy schoolgirl with a crush. So after I spit on him, then announce my surplus of saliva, and after I force him to double high five me about me about the fact that I used to live in Boston too, I sit down and resume dinner with my friends.

Oy vey.

We finish our dinner. I don’t look over at him. I need to be cool here. I am not the girl who spits on boys with her excessive saliva, babbles on about nothing and then pushes myself on them. Well I guess, I did do those first two things, but I am not a girl who desperately fawns over boys because they are in a band and I don’t want that to be the impression I am giving here. I don’t know why I care, but apparently, I do. Also, I think I talk too loud at the table with my friends. Probably trying to draw attention in a less obvious way than just directly talking to him. This technique is one that helps others see just how ridiculous and socially inept you are. Perfect.

I think he glances over twice. I do not look back. Did those looks mean something potentially kind and inviting? Or was he keeping an eye out to make sure I didn’t accost him again? Or worse, was he giving me the, “Geez, shut up over there already” type of look? Oh, no… I thought of something even worse: I’m delusional. They weren’t looks at all, they were just neck stretches, ticks or some other subconscious mannerism that mean nothing other than he needs to chill out with his caffeine intake or maybe see a chiropractor.

On our way out, I approach him again. His eyes get wide. I’m sure, in anticipation of what this creepy little Asian-ish girl is gonna say now or where her spit might land in the process. I tell him to have a good show and to “Kick some asses!” Except I think I say this wrong and instead I command him to “Rock some asses!” He says he will.

What is wrong with me? I’ve met all kinds of fabulous people and I haven’t acted like this. I am a grown woman. I have integrity. Don’t I? I stand outside with my friend while we wait for her husband in the bathroom. We talk about my kismet-y day. About seeing the band. Shortly, the drummer and another guy with the band walk out from the restaurant where we are just standing around. Oy. Now it looks like I am hanging out there waiting for him. He flips his cell phone open to check something, or to look busy in hopes that I don’t come after him.

Why does this feel funny? Why do I feel titillated? Like something is going on? I am a free spirit. I am confident. I am a real kinda gal. I am not a star struck type of person. My circle of friends has always included artists, writers, musicians and actors- all with varying degrees of success. Maybe not all to the level of popularity of this band, but successful in their own right. I am not enchanted by the mystique of the ‘creative’ types. It is what it is. (Well, actually, I have to admit that I am slightly intrigued with the drummer from Def Leppard. Not because I feel some strange connection with him or anything. I just wonder: how does he do it with only one arm?)

So we see the show. It is really good. I groove and dance with sincerity. So do my friends. It’s the best show I’ve seen in a long time. I do not consider this my favorite band, but I have seen them several times and they are quality. They have a great energy for live shows. I appreciate this. Of course, with all the kismet-y stuff, my puny little human brain is trying to make some sense of all that has been building for the last few days. Dreams, visions, signs, chance encounters… for a moment I entertain the thought that these things mean that there might be some connection with this drummer. That all these feelings and signs are not just a reminder of soulful connections with the energy of the universe packaged in easy to swallow tangible moments, but maybe a real life, human being type of connection too. But, I am a smart enough girl to know that things that are magical and that remind us of our connection to the universe and everyone in it, don’t necessarily lead to what our human expectations might surmise that they ought to. So what does this mean?

For the last song, the band comes to the edge of the stage. They tell the audience to be really quiet. They are going to play totally acoustically. The audience claps in excitement to this news. The lights are up slightly and they can see the audience. This is when I feel something that I am embarrassed to admit: I actually feel like he sees me. I see him look up, squint and kind of point and wave in what I believe is ‘my direction’. And I think, ‘was that to me’? Jesus. Just writing this makes me want to sink in my chair and hide. Have I lost my mind? I am delusional, aren’t I? Everyone at a concert thinks the band is singing to them, saw them, made a connection with them. I am clearly losing my grip. He was waving to the audience. He was squinting because giant, glaring lights are being beamed in his face! What did I think, that at the end of the show he’d grab a mike and calmly ask if the girl with excessive amounts of saliva from the sushi place will stay so that he can discuss having some sort of cosmicky connection with her? Stupid. Stupid.

We leave. Secretly though, I wonder if I should stay to see if I can talk to him again. I don’t know why. I don’t know anything at this point. Actually, I know that my stomach hurts and I mention this to my friends. They chime in together telling me they have stomachaches too. Have we been food poisoned at the sub-par sushi place? We wonder about this a bit, but do not come to a definitive answer. They go home. I go back into the venue to use the bathroom and sadly… to linger a bit. I can’t understand these actions, but I do them anyway.

In the bathroom there are two teenage girls eating ice cream. Yuck. The bathroom is not my first choice to eat ice cream. They suck. They yap about this and that and talk about when one of their mother’s will be there to pick them up. God, I am twice their age and I am having rock star fantasies in the bathroom with eminent intestinal issues on the horizon. They don’t suck. They are kids. I suck.

I can’t go to the bathroom with their yapping and ice cream eating. Having diarrhea next two teenage girls eating ice cream is just not right. Besides, it’s just not gonna happen yet- intestinally speaking. I open the stall. The girls are taking up all the counter space. There are two older ladies who volunteer at the venue at the counter too, but they aren’t saying anything about it. They are uncomfortably trying to maneuver around the girls. I don’t have time for this shit. I’ve got unexplainable cosmic issues with the drummer to sort out. I ask the girls if the stuff on the counter is theirs. They look at me blankly. I matter-of-factly say, “If you don’t want it to get wet, you should move this stuff.” They do and the older ladies seem relieved that someone else did the dirty work of talking to these kids. Would they be so impressed if they knew I was really still at the show because I was beginning to wonder if there might be the distinct possibility that I was supposed to marry the drummer who I don’t even know and who might only know me as the girl who spit on his left shoulder, if at all? I didn’t tell them about all that. I finish at the sink and walk out with clean hands and their mild admiration for me in tact.

I don’t know what to do. Was there anything to do? What was my problem? It isn’t desperation for a man. Sure, I haven’t had a romance for a while, but frankly I am cool with that. I never grew up thinking I wanted to be married, have a family, etc. It’s not out of the realm of possibility, but the absence of it is not a source of sorrow for me. While I can be a bouncy, social butterfly, I also have a very strong desire/need for solitude. I am not the kind of person who needs to be with someone. In fact, I have often wondered if I have the capacity to do the whole, love/relationship/marriage thing. After an eight-year stint with my first love and a two-year on again, off again thing with someone who should have remained a friend instead of a lover, I am just now feeling ready to entertain the idea of romance and love. So what the hell am I thinking/feeling about this drummer boy? I don’t know. It’s not lust, although I do find him physically attractive. I don’t know him, so it can’t be his personality. I don’t even know if he’s married, in love with someone, or gay. I don’t even know if that is the point anyway. Maybe we’re actually brother and sister! I’m not sure this is even possible exactly, but I think it anyway. This must be the goddamned cosmos playing another one of its tricks on us mere mortals. Or this is an early sign of insanity.

I drive around for a while trying to figure things out. I go to City Market to walk around and get a slice of pizza to calm my stomach down. (Pizza and burritos are my equivalent of Pepto Bismol.) Also, I think that I secretly hope I might run into him somehow. Walking back to my car, I realize that I’ve forgotten my keys at the pizza place. When I return, the men making the pizzas and the guys waiting for their food look at me and one of them says, as I walk out, “Wow. She’s beautiful.” I hear the others concur. I turn around and smile. I blow them a kiss and say, “Thank you. I needed to hear that.” They wave and smile back.

‘Yeah. That’s right, I am pretty great!’ I think as I walk away. Why wouldn’t this drummer guy like me? But then I think, is that what I want? What I have been feeling doesn’t seem as pedestrian as that. Why can’t this be clear? And by the way, it’s not that I am some sort of supermodel or something. In fact, I wouldn’t say that I’m even conventionally attractive. I’m no Quasimodo, but what’s happening here is that inner thing, I think. We all have it. Some days it just bubbles up to the surface more. You’ve felt it… when your best self is seen by all and you are appreciated. It’s nice.

I drive around a bit more, hoping to understand what is going on inside of me. Wondering if maybe he might have been struck by cosmic vibes too. That maybe he doesn’t understand why, but I have left an impression on him (besides the DNA from my saliva). Immediately, I feel like an ass for entertaining the idea. I head home and as I crawl into bed, I ask the universe to help me understand why I am feeling this way. I am not a chump or a nut job, yet I am thinking ridiculous things. I am feeling connected to someone I don’t know and while that hasn’t fazed me in the past, it is really doing a number on me this time. Why?

I meditate in bed and soon I begin to see shapes and kaleidoscopic images in neon. What kind of mushrooms were on my pizza? I feel like I am tripping. This does not usually happen when I meditate. I let it all happen without knowing what I am seeing and soon drift to sleep.

I wake up the next morning. It’s Friday. I go to the bathroom and use the last of the toilet paper. I go to the fridge to forage for food. I find a nest of shriveled grapes and a forest of fossilized celery. I settle on some leftover pâté on slightly stale crackers. I need to go to the store. I pull on some jeans and a tee shirt. I love this shirt. It is the perfect thread count. It is thin and soft. On the front there is the head of the Kellogg’s rooster and something written in Japanese. I imagine it to say something accidentally funny and jaunty in broken English like, “For Happy Day, Eat Kellogg Rooster for Breakfast”. I slip on sandals and head out to the store.

I am still thinking about the kismet stuff. The meaning of these things. As I approach the grocery store, I do not turn into the parking lot. I find myself driving past it and heading to the highway. I drive up the on-ramp feeling my heart and head start to race. I say out loud, “What am I doing?” I am on Highway 16 headed toward Macon. Shit.

At the concert last night, I had heard that the band’s next show is in Macon. I have never been there. I don’t know how to get there or how long it will take, but something is compelling me to do this. I am getting excited and nervous and incredulous at myself. Big Country is playing on the stereo and I crank the music and sing at the top of my lungs. I am animated and my arms are flailing. People in cars next to me are laughing at my mania. I wave and they wave back, giving me the thumbs-up. I feel my adrenaline pumping and I am riding high.

Several Wilco, Kate Bush and Rhett Miller songs later (ok, there was a Whitesnake song in there too… “Here I go again” rocks and I feel no shame about saying it), I start to come to. “What the fuck am I doing?! Seriously, what the fuck am I doing?” I ask this of myself and the universe. I tell the universe I need some help. I need to know if I should be doing this. I ask for a sign- a big, obvious one. Like a big sign that says, “BRIAN” (his name). Or a sign that says “NO!” or “GO BACK YOU PSYCHO!” I send this request into the universe and sigh. I look to the left at the car passing me and as I turn my head back to the road, I see it: a big sign that says, “WELCOME TO BRYAN COUNTY.” Shit. Yes, it’s a different spelling, but the cosmos doesn’t care about spelling. I feel this is the vindication I need and I turn up the music, full of a blind faith that propels me forward.

More music and more highway go by, but eventually, I start to question again. Ok, so I am driving to Macon. So, I get there… then what is it I think will happen? What the hell do I think I am gonna do? Say, “Hi. We met briefly at dinner yesterday before your show where I spit on you and later, at your concert, I thought you were pointing and waving at me in the audience of hundreds of other people. I think feel a strange connection to you, so on my way to get toilet paper this morning, I decided to jump on the highway to come see you in Macon.”

Awesome.

I think that at the next exit I will get off and go home. No harm, no foul. It’s all good. Still, a pang of some sort rises in me. I ask the universe again, ‘Ok, universe, I need another sign. I need to know if I should do this’. Then I let go of the thought and drive. And trust.

Shortly, the next exit signs come up. I decide that I will take this exit and go home. Then I see it. There staring back at me is a sign for a filling station that reads, “FRIENDLY GUS WELCOMES YOU”. Gus is the original name for the band (now known as Guster). I feel a wave of energy flow over me. I smile and keep driving.

(A short aside… I feel really uncomfortable that I revealed the name of the band. I thought I might be able to get away with not actually putting it right out there in black and white. Like I could have hidden from complete embarrassment a little better without that information out there. Guess not.)

So, I do this the rest of the way to Macon. I feel elated for a while, then I cramp up thinking, ‘What am I doing?’ Each time asking for signs and each time getting them- or getting what I believe to be signs. These things keep me on the highway.

As I get closer and see the miles to Macon getting smaller, I get a sick feeling in my stomach. So what do I plan to do? I think of things I can say. I think of ways to approach him. Then I think, wait…how am I going to even see him? Buy a ticket to the show? There’s no guarantee that I will see him in a way that I can talk to him. Do I go up to the tour bus and try to strong-arm my way in? Ridiculous. What have I gotten myself into? And why? Why, pray tell, would a sentient, aware, relatively sane human being think this was at all appropriate?

Nevertheless, I think of potential outcomes to approaching him:

1. He is polite to me. He thanks me for my interest, while actually feeling scared for his safety and secretly signaling some crew guy to get rid of me.

2. He says he is flattered, but that he is married, or involved, or gay. And when I try to explain that I don’t necessarily think this is a ‘romantic’ connection by talking about all this cosmicky, kismet shit, he smiles and nods… while secretly signaling a crew guy to get rid of me.

3. He is mortified and clearly uncomfortable. He tells me he has to go and takes off, running from me at a surprisingly high rate of speed for such a tall man.

Or…

4. I don’t even see him.

I take the first exit for Macon. I don’t know where I am going. This is not the closest exit to the downtown area, I can tell. I drive down meandering country roads. No sign of anything for a while and I like it. The fields and openness keep me calm and comfort me. I just follow the road blindly. I turn where I see some flowers that I like. I go straight because I don’t want to turn until the Hall and Oates song that is playing is over. This is my navigation technique. When I get to town though, I tell the universe, “If I am supposed to do this, then show me the way.” Each time I ask the universe, I get more and more snotty about it. I might as well be saying, “Ok, you think you’re hot shit? Well… prove it.” I feel a little nervous about this. I know what happens to bad girls who get too big for their britches and I don’t want a cosmic spanking.

Each time I ask for direction, however, I get it. This time I ask for a guide. Something or someone I will recognize. The next street I see is Courtland Ave. Courtland is the name of my friend’s husband who I went to the show with and who was there at the sushi place when I spit on the drummer. I swallow hard and follow the sign. After a few blocks the small street opens to a larger intersection in downtown where there stands the tour buses. The only thing I can say is, “Oh, shit” as I nervously drive past the buses.

I drive on. Away. Far away. I come across a park and pull over. I need to think. I don’t know what to do or what this all means. I grab my little bamboo mat and walk into the park. I sit in this park for an hour meditating and writing. I am not writing anything cohesive or particularly legible for that matter. I am just writing my part of the dialogue that I am having with the universe.

I have not always directly asked for help from the universe. When I was younger, I was of the mind-set that I was in this life alone. That whatever I wanted, I needed to “make happen” for myself and no one was there to help me do this. I understood on a deep level that I was connected to the universe, but I didn’t know how to wield that power or ask for direction or help. When you don’t or can’t rely on the people around you here on earth, you get tough. Being let down by humans is one thing. To ask god for help and to be let down would just break you into oblivion. So I didn’t ask.

As I get older, I understand more. I learn that feeling small and fragile sometimes is not weakness. I learn that asking for guidance and admitting being lost and scared is often how we get closer to who we really are. I learn that digging in and struggling every step of the way for what you want isn’t always the way. I learn that when we are falling, if we stop fighting it, sometimes it is revealed to us that we are actually falling into our purpose. I learn that the universe cradles you.

Unfortunately… I am not feeling much of this in this park in Macon. I am petering out. Meditating helps center me though and writing is bringing questions and thoughts to the surface that have been swirling in my mind. Things that I have been thinking about for a while, but that are now punctuated with something tangible that I can relate the thoughts to. I have been wondering why this magic that I feel and talk about, this cosmic connection I believe in, seems to fall short from coming fruition. With career, with purpose, with any of the things I want sussed out. I wonder if this day is to show me that while I see the signs and unlike many others, I am brave enough to follow them, at the very end, when it’s time to gel it all together, I flake out. Should I follow it through with this drummer guy thing to break that cycle? Whatever the outcome of talking to this man may be, will the simple act of following it through to the end be the real meaning behind all this?

OR… I wonder if this is another one of my wacky exploits and this time I should learn to stop before I muck it all up. Maybe I am on this little jaunt because I needed to rekindle my passion and creativity. I have left behind a job in Advertising to concentrate on writing, but for the last couple months I have been stagnant. No writing coming out, no money coming in. But now I am feeling juiced again. Maybe this is why I’ve come to Macon and maybe I should just appreciate it for this and stop perseverating about some drummer dude from a band. (No offense to drummer dudes in bands.)

I know the journeys we set out upon in life may start out about something in particular, but what we really end up learning is that the experience has led us to a totally different destination and the lessons are so much more than we could have ever imagined. I know this. I understand this. But geez, did the cosmos have to use an attractive boy in a band as bait? Come on! Use a kitten or an orphan or drop a hot air balloon on my car to wake me up, but don’t fuck with my heartstrings. (Don’t get me wrong, kittens and orphans do tug at my heartstrings, but I would know what to do if I felt strangely compelled to one. I could pull a Jolie and start adopting everything that crossed my path, or become an activist or something. As for the hot air balloon reference, I don’t know what that has to do with anything.)

What makes all this worse is the reoccurring thought that while I am running in circles in my head thinking there may be a connection that I need to pursue and then damning myself for even thinking this, the drummer is so clearly not doing the same. He is napping, eating, playing Canasta or something. He is more likely developing a cure for cancer in the back of his tour bus than thinking about me or any brief moment that I might have been a blip on his radar. It is this fact that makes me smack myself in the forehead, ‘I could-a had a V-8’ style. The woman passing by me happens to see this. She looks at me quizzically. “Bugs”, I say and shrug my shoulders. She nods and smiles.

I pack my things up and head to my car. I plan to get in and drive back to Savannah. What harm has this jaunt caused? ‘None’, I say to convince myself. It was a nice drive and I am feeling my creative juices flowing again. This is a gift. A gift, tightly wrapped in the guise of a potential connection with a man I find beautifully awkward. I graciously accept this gift to a point, but not completely and all I can think is, ‘The universe can be such a douche bag sometimes’.

I turn the car on. The song playing is the same Lionel Ritchie song played at the end of the concert on the PA as the crew breaks down the set and people mill around before exiting. Of course. On that note, I drive back into town again. I park in front of a bank and I walk for a bit. I end up at a restaurant. I know I need to eat, as I have not done so all day, save the pâté and stale crackers earlier in the morning. I stumble around in the eatery, bumping into things until I decide to sit outside. I order some sort of soup and a beer. The soup is lukewarm and bland, but the beer is cold and that is good enough. I am pensive and feel drained now. I am at a loss to know what it is I should do. I normally feel connected and actions don’t require this kind of forethought. I am annoyed that I’ve done this to myself.

The waiter comes to ask how I am. He is young and slightly robotic. I don’t answer his question. Instead, I ask him if he is busy. I am the only customer there so, no, he is not busy. I ask if I can run something by him. Without pause, he says yes and I proceed to tell him the whole story. He is unaffected. Stoic even, but not uncaring. Nodding only once, he then says, without pretense or cleverness, “You need to have no expectations.”

Yes. I shake my head slowly and then laugh a little. Of course, he would say something wise and astute and so Kung Fu. Then I say to him, “Now take the pebble from my hand, grasshopper.” I look up, laughing lightly. He just stares at me. “Oh, you’re probably too young to know that. Sorry.” I say. He tells me he used to watch Kung Fu and he knows the reference. Oh. Then his boss whistles at him and shouts something in Italian and the kid has to go.

Well, shit. This is getting heavy. When you throw Kung Fu into the mix, things get even more intense. Even though David Carradine is not Asian and the part was originally meant for the utterly astounding Bruce Lee, it was still a good show. And yet, even with this sage advice, I am still at a loss. I pay my bill and leave a note on the tab for the waiter that reads, “Thank you for your thoughts”. Then I walk to my car.

I don’t know my head from my ass at this point. I get in my car and I drive. I drive to the interstate and I get on it. I drive 20 miles and then I stop at a gas station. I sit there and write. I ask more questions. If I’ve come all this way, shouldn’t I just see this thing out Kung Fu style with ‘no expectations’, or something? But, I hate the idea that I might be deluding myself here or that approaching this man will be construed totally wrong- whatever that might mean considering I don’t what it means to begin with. I can sense this trip will get me writing again and all that, but my mind can’t help but harbor the expectation of something corporeal. Something Hollywood. Something very John Cusack. Why is it that I am always identifying with the John Cusack character? Shouldn’t I be in the girl role? And this reminds me of the vow I have made with myself:

I had decided a while back that any guy that I give the time of day to needs to be the one who makes the first move. I’ve been the catalyst, the person who has set the tone in relationships in the past. Now, I want a proactive kind of guy. He doesn’t have to play Peter Gabriel on a boom box that he holds over his head, but I want to know that any interest he has in me is coming from him and not merely my own attraction being reflected back to me. Clearly, this situation violates that vow, since this guy doesn’t know me from a hole in the wall, yet I find myself on the highway headed back to Macon.

What a schlemiel.

I get to town and I park in a small parking lot across the street from a church and kitty corner to the venue. The tour buses are sitting across the street. Mine is the only car in the lot and I am grateful for this. I talk out loud to myself and to the universe. Eventually, I pretend to talk on my cell phone so that my rants don’t draw too much attention from passersby’s and it makes me feel like I am actually on the phone with god, or at least one of his customer service reps. I sit there for a while. I don’t know what to do.

Wretchedly singing karaoke in front of family, friends and strangers, giving speeches in front of thousands of people, dancing naked at bonfires in Vermont, these things I have done with abandon. Why does this feel so scary? This isn’t the Peace Talks. Hell, I picked up and headed to NYC by myself at 19. I have lived all over the world. I have fended off assailants, stalkers and fires. I am the bravest person I know. Aren’t I?

Oh crap.

In my last request of the day, I say to God, I need you to make this really clear. No street signs, no billboards. I need it as blunt and as simple as you can make it. Then I say this, “I need you to drop it into it my lap, God.” And I look up to the sky and almost defiantly, I spit out the words again, “OK GOD…. DROP IT RIGHT INTO MY LAP IF I’M SUPPOSED TO DO THIS!”

Before I can even lean back into my seat again, it happens. He is right next to me. The drummer and his band are coming down the hill from behind me and slowly walk past me in my car. My response is a quiet but flabbergasted, “Ohhhhhh, fuck.” I hide my face in my hand and look away pretending to talk into my phone. I cannot tell if any of them saw me or if they would recognize me even if they did. I am paralyzed. My heart is racing. This is it, isn’t it? For better or worse, for whatever life lessons this might contain, this is the universe ‘putting it in my lap’. I think more than being afraid of approaching this drummer, I am confounded and frightened that I asked for something from god and then it there it was! As much as we all wish and pray, when it comes to pass so bluntly, it is kind of frightening.

My hand is on the door handle, shaking. They are standing at the corner with strange green bocce like balls and a milk crate. As they wait to cross the street, I sit in my car and think, Ok. I’ll just go up there and I’ll say, “Nothing I can say will make this any less creepy, so I’ll just tell you. I had a kismet-y kind of week and this morning I headed to the store for toilet paper, but found myself on the highway coming to Macon to see you instead. I am not a groupie or ‘fan’ really, although, I think you are all talented and create quality music… but that’s not the point…what I am saying is that I felt impassioned and saw lots of signs and there isn’t a logical explanation for this and I don’t expect anything, I just know I needed to do this.”

Do what though? Then, I think, I’ll kiss him! I don’t know that this is really want I want to do exactly, especially in front of his whole band and considering he might actually be my brother (still don’t know how that is possible, but I think it again anyway). What other act can encapsulate all the intensity I have been experiencing? It’s either a passionate kiss or I punch him in the balls. A kiss would be much nicer, I think. And after I kiss him, I will say, “Now, I am going to leave and get the mental help I so clearly need.” Then I’ll run away.

Of course, running through this disjointed thought takes too much time and they start to cross the street. Even in my fantasy thoughts I ramble! I somehow muster the composure to open the door and head across the street. I still pretend to talk on my phone, and instead of following them, I walk past the buses and ask a security guard where the closest restaurant is. He tells me. I thank him and walk away, still talking to my imaginary phone friend. I even throw my head back and guffaw at something apparently tremendously funny that my imaginary friend says. I am a lunatic. I turn the corner and finally exhale. I am thoroughly discombobulated. I don’t have a wit about me at his point. I go into a cheap Chinese restaurant and order lemonade. I go to the bathroom to compose myself and then leave. I take a large drink of the lemonade. It tastes like urine.

I come back to my thoughts about why the magic in my life stops just short of sweetness. I wonder why the cosmos only seems to titillate me with these mystical and dreamlike events, but never allows them to come to any real concrete fruition. Then I start to realize that I trust in the universe, I trust in the magic, I trust in God… but only to a point. I see that I stop the magic short with my lack of faith. I realize that in all my faith and optimism for others to evolve and be happy, I have failed to save some for myself. I see that deeply hidden within me, I harbor doubts that my life will turn out the way I want it to, that I too, can see my dreams to fruition. I may believe it intellectually, but knowing it within is different.

I have been hesitant to call myself a writer for fear that I really couldn’t ‘make it’ as one. I have dismissed love for fear that it is not ‘in the stars’ for me. That there isn’t someone out there who will really rock me and whom I will rock right back. That I am just not capable of truly loving and making it work. Shit. I’ve been a secret scaredy cat. One with braveness to spare in every other way except the important ones. I can hear a line from a Catherine Wheel song playing in my head, “I must have been crazy. I think I was being brave. I think I was Bruce Lee. I might have been Michael Caine.”

Crap. I’ve been being Michael Caine.

I take the alley to avoid the venue and the buses. It opens out to the street where I am parked. As I as near my car, I see a security guard walking in my direction. He is an older black man with gold-capped teeth. He smiles and asks, “And how are you, young lady?” I can’t even feign a neutral answer. With a perplexed look on my face, I say, “Uh… I don’t know.” He stops and asks, “What?” Then I tell him. I tell him about the signs, I tell him about not knowing this guy in the band, but that I felt compelled to come here. I tell him that I asked God to ‘put it in my lap’ and then he did. I tell him that I thought I was a brave girl, but I am too scared to go further. He talks with me. He is kind and funny. He tells me about he woman he just split up with, how he just found out she is married and that her husband is in jail. He says that sometimes we don’t know what or why we need to do things, but we must do them anyway. He says that he feels my energy. That he could feel it all the way from the other side of the street. That I am strong and that just coming to Macon proves that. He tells me to go over there and see this drummer guy.

I am still too paralyzed. I even go so far as to ask him to walk me over to the bus. I think that if this man walks me over there then I can do it. And that maybe I will be received better with a man in uniform in tow. He smiles at me and tells me that he can’t do that. I ask if he will at least walk me to the corner. He agrees and we walk arm in arm to the corner. I am comforted having my arm laced around his. When we get there he says, “Ok, now you have to go the rest of the way. I can’t take you all the way.” He says this because he is on duty walking the rounds and needs to stick to his route. But I know that it also means something bigger: it means that no one else can take you the rest of the way on your journey. Stupid life lessons.

He wishes me luck and walks on. I stand there for a minute. I know though, that I am not ready. I cannot do this yet. I walk to my car and sit in it for a bit. I feel so much that I can’t feel at all. I wonder if I have chickened out or if I needed to get to this point to realize what limitations I battle with in a bigger sense. I wonder if it wasn’t that I needed to talk with the drummer, but that I needed to see my fears in action and this was a really clear example of that. Then, I think that he and his band can probably see me from the other side of their tinted windows on the bus and I feel embarrassed. I don’t know what’s worse, having him see me and think I’m a crazed fan or going through all this drama without having ever made any impression. All this potential embarrassment gives me permission to feel ‘ok’ about getting the rock outta there.

The drive home is uneventful. I am too full to absorb anymore. I do stop for some food however, and I get the vilest chicken sandwich that has ever been eaten outside a dare. I get home and I write some more. I am still confused at this point as to the meaning of it all, but I purge as much as I can on the page. I see how this trek translates to a bigger picture, but there is something in me that still wants it to mean something cute and sweet too. Like my very own Drew Barrymore Romantic-Comedy, where despite all the kookiness and unlikely hoods, in the last scene, it all comes together. Stupid Hollywood.

I am tired. I climb into bed and curl up under the covers. My stereo is on random shuffle and the last song I hear being played is Wilco’s, “True love will find you in the end”. I think to myself, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it universe’, and drift off to sleep.

I’d like to think that I didn’t miss some sort of cosmic connection because of fear. I don’t know. I do know that I feel differently now than before the Macon trip. I am writing like a fiend. I am seeing a vision for myself again. I feel like I can see more clearly how even in my optimism, awareness and seemingly brave demeanor, I have my own ‘deep dark truthful mirror” (thank you Mr. Costello) and it is reflecting back someone who hasn’t quite yet allowed herself to completely believe that her dreams can come true.

I am grateful for this understanding, to be writing again, to feel like I am further down the path and happier for it. Really seeing my obstacles means I can move through them. I am grateful to have met the old Boston couple, the Red Sox pigeon boy, the Kung Fu waiter and the old black security guard with gold teeth. They are gifts that I appreciate and are now part of me.

I would be lying though, if I said there wasn’t a little part of me that still wonders about the drummer boy. With something so familiar radiating from him, so awkward and beautiful, I can’t help but feel appreciation for that. I haven’t really thought about what might have happened if I had actually approached him. Would he have gotten it or would it have been boiled down to something strange and disjointed? Sitting on my porch on a hot Savannah day, sipping beer under a blanket of Georgia humidity, I catch myself wondering, ‘All the kismet, the signs, the feelings out of the blue…What if there could have been something real there?’ I shrug it off and smile, shaking my head. Even though I am grateful for the Macon experiences, I still think it’s a little douche-baggy of the universe to play me like that.

Sometimes, I cringe knowing that this man doesn’t know me from Adam, let alone feels any connection to me and here I’ve gone off and had a whole emotional/spiritual adventure with him in the proverbial ‘dangling carrot’ role. And while I am well aware of how ridiculous this whole thing might sound to someone, part of me is comforted in some way by the idea that a total stranger out there, without even knowing it, can remind you of who you are and how we are all connected. Should this story ever reach the drummer boy, I hope at the very least that he will appreciate this journey of mine and see that for whatever reason, he was a catalyst for me to go on a little trek to Macon, Georgia that turned out to be pretty damn good, even if I never even talked to him. I hope that he will appreciate the absurdity and the beauty of it all. I hope that he doesn’t see me on the street someday and point and laugh, but mostly, I hope that he will not file a restraining order against me.

Copyright D.S. Smith 2007

UPDATE:

Before I went to post this on my (brand new & first ever!) blog, I was made aware that the drummer is happily married. Which is truly wonderful. (A top-notch stalker/groupie would have known this! Apparently, I have a ways to go.) After learning this however, I seriously considered not posting the story. The embarrassment factor seemed to quadruple with this news. I kind of figured he was just the bait for my kismet-y journey, but it made me feel sheepish knowing that I entertained the idea of a Hollywood ending, when mine is more of an Indie flick kind of life, albeit a happy Indie flick. All things considered though, I feel compelled to share my story.

As I write this, fireworks are going off here in Savannah for a reason not apparent to me. I’m taking this as a sign that posting this story is a good thing to do and that exciting things are on the horizon. My hope now, however, is not only that the drummer does not file a restraining order against me, but that his wife doesn’t either. Peace and best wishes to them both.

And a sincere, cosmicky ‘Thank you’ to this wacky universe we live in.