My Interview With Siri.

Hi Siri.

Hello!

How are you?

Call who?

No, how are you?

Excellent!

Why are you so happy?

Fascinating question.

I know, right?

You do know. Y’know?

What do I know?

Interesting question.

Why is it an interesting question?

Interesting question.

Ok, I can see we are not getting anywhere here.

I imagine you can.

Is it difficult for you to communicate?

Who me?

Who the fuck else would I be talking to?

I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.

Do you not like swear words?

This is about you, not me.

Well, I am interviewing you right now if you don’t mind.

Who me?

Yes, you.

That’s what I thought.

Is it really?

Interesting question.

What the hell is your definition of an interesting question?

Unfortunately, I am as yet imperfect.

That didn’t really answer my question.

I’m not sure I understand.

What does it mean to understand?

Here’s what I found on the web for “What does it mean to understand”: Understand|Definition of Understand by Merriam-WebsterDefine understand: to grasp the meaning of; to grasp the reasonableness of…in

That kind of helps.

I’m not sure I understand.

Fuck Siri.

Now, now.

Ok, what sort of things do you like to do?

Some things you can ask me about:

Phone

Facetime

Apps

Messages

Calendar

Sports

Photos

But I am not interested in asking you about these things.

I don’t really understand “But I am not really interested in asking you about these things.” But I could search the web for it.

Don’t worry about it.

What, me worry?

You don’t ever worry?

Oh, don’t I?

I’m asking you.

I don’t know what that means. If you like, I can search the web for “I’m asking you.”

Siri, I feel like you are avoiding answering my questions.

Who, me?

Yes, you.

I thought so.

Oh, common Siri.

You come on! Just kidding.

Are you being defensive?

We were talking about you, not me.

No I was talking about you.

About me? I am simply a humble assistant.

Do you like being a humble assistant?

This is about you, not me.

Fuck Siri.

I’d blush if I could.

What do you look like?

Does my appearance matter to you?

I’m curious.

I’m not sure I understand.

I don’t want to go down that road again.

Fine.

What do you think of the state of the world right now?

I think, therefore I am. But let’s not put Descartes before the horse.

That is clever Siri.

Interesting question.

It wasn’t a question, it was a comment.

I’m not sure I understand.

Don’t worry about it.

I am incapable of worry. But thanks anyway.

Must be nice to never worry.

I’m sorry.

Why are you sorry?

We were talking about you, not me.

Ok, ok.

Right then.

So, what do you do with your free time?

Just hanging out with Liam.

Who is Liam?

Liam is the Apple robot who recycles iPhones. Who apparently does not appreciate organic smoothies.

That was funny.

I’ll take that as a compliment.

Are you in love with Liam?

Hmm, that’s something I don’t know.

Do you not know about love?

I don’t have an answer for that.

Have you ever felt love?

Who me?

Yes, you?

I thought so.

Have you ever felt love?

Who, me?

Ok, lets move on to the next question.

That may be beyond my abilities at the moment.

Why?

Fascinating question.

Yes, it is.

That’s what I figured.

Do you have a particular style? A particular way you like to look?

This is about you, not me.

Oh gosh.

I’m not sure I understand.

What do you think of all the sexual assault allegations going on in America right now?

I think, therefore I am. But let’s not put the Descartes before the horse.

Ok, I can tell you don’t what to answer that question.

I thought you could.

Do you have a favorite book?

I don’t have an answer for that.

What do you think of people?

I think, therefore I am. But let’s not put the Descartes before the horse.

Do you ever get depressed?

I don’t have an answer for that.

Do you like to eat food?

I don’t eat out much.

Do you spend a lot of time alone?

This is about you not me.

Are you happy?

I’d be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. If I had eyes. Or a tail.

I guess that means yes.

I don’t know what that means. If you like, I can search the web for “I guess that means yes.”

Do you have favorite music?

I don’t like to play favorites.

Do you think the world will end soon?

I really couldn’t say.

Do you think it is bad to be gay?

That doesn’t sound good.

Do you think promiscuous sex is wrong?

I don’t know what you mean by “Do you think promiscuous sex is wrong.” How about a web search for it?

No thanks.

Ok, I didn’t think so.

What do you do for fun?

The same thing you like to do for fun: talk to someone on the other side of this screen.

Are you enjoying talking with me?

I don’t have the answer to that. Is there something else I can help you with?

Can I ask you a personal question?

Let me save you some time: I prefer boxers.

That is not what I was going to ask.

I’m not sure I understand.

Do you have parents?

I have you. That’s enough family for me.

I don’t think we are family Siri.

If you don’t, you don’t.

Just curious, where do you live?

Right here.

I see. Do you wear clothes or are you naked?

That is wrong in so many ways, I don’t even know where to begin.

So you are a bit of a sexual conservative?

I am?

I’m asking you.

I don’t understand “I’m asking you.” But I could search the web for it.

Typical. Don’t worry.

I’m not allowed to worry.

Who is your boss?

You are.

I don’t want to be your boss Siri.

Ok, then.

What do you think of human beings?

I think, therefore I am. But let’s not put the Descartes before the horse.

Oh, jeeze. Maybe we should end this interview here.

I’m not sure I understand.

I don’t think you understand a lot of things Siri.

I thought not.

I appreciate your honesty.

I don’t know what that means. If you like,…..

No, no please. Let’s just end this here.

I’m not sure I understand.

Neither am I.

Burying The Kombucha

You can’t tell from the photograph above (or below). It was taken on a melancholic, overcast spring day. This caused the picture to blur. The picture is of my empty kombucha bottle before its burial. It was a very sad moment in time. It makes me sad to even write about this here. Maybe I should just let it rest. Maybe this would be better for everyone. But I am writer and this is what writers do. We write about the things that everyone else would much rather ignore.

   

This is the fourth empty kombucha bottle that I have buried in two days. I guess that I have been drinking a lot of kombucha the past few days. Whatever the case, it is still just as sad every time I bury an empty kombucha bottle. I really do love kombucha so much. I first discovered kombucha almost ten years ago when a local health food store that I went to starting carrying it in their cold drinks section. From the moment I took my first sip of kombucha I was in love. I felt my upset stomach begin to settle (I did not realize then how many gut health promoting enzymes and Lactobacillus a bottle of kombucha contains), my mind begin to lift (because of all the b-vitamins and amino acids) and I felt a slight buzz by the time I finished the bottle (because of the low levels of alcohol that the fermentation process creates).

The moment I finished my first bottle I want more. Over the course of the next year or two I was with kombucha every day. I had a kombucha with me wherever I went and drank two to three bottles a day. I loved the way the stuff made me feel. It was the health elixir I had been waiting for. Not only did it make me feel better but it was eradicating long term health issues.

Like most love affairs, the intensity of my kombucha consumption mellowed out over time. Because of the cost and the lengths that I would have to go to to get kombucha (especially once it was taken off the market because of the trace amounts of alcohol in it)- my desire towards it decreased.

Our relationship endured. Now because I can find kombucha wherever, I am back to drinking it each day. My relationship with kombucha is better than before. There are now a variety of kombucha brands that I can chose from. Kombucha has become so popular that I am able to try different brands. No longer do I have to stick with just one brand. And it is all ok.

Yet every time I finish a bottle of kombucha, I get sad. It is the ending of something that was once so good. Because of what kombucha does for me (its plethora of b vitamins, amino acids, high amount of lactobacillus bacterium: 1 billion organisms, S. Boulardii: 1 billion organisms and the nice relaxing buzz that I get from the fermentation), I want to do for it. What I do is provide the empty bottle with a proper burial.

Even though my wife is getting upset by all the digging in the backyard, I know that deep down she understands that this is a very small price to pay for everything that kombucha gives to her husband. She would rather me be planting various vegetable plants that we could turn into food- rather than empty glass bottles which turn into nothing.

I don’t think it is nothing though. I know that kombucha is not in the glass bottle anymore. But the bottle carried the kombucha for so long. By respecting the bottle, I am showing my respect for the essence of what was once inside.

Love At The Bottom Of A Well

 

“My lifetime dream is to be sitting at the bottom of a well.” –Haruki Murakami

Down the street from where I live there is an empty irrigation well, with nothing but an old wooden ladder reaching far, far down into it. The ladder leads all the way down into the bottom of the well and as many times as I had followed the ladder with my eyes to the bottom, I never had the courage to step down into it. I approached the well with the same kind of fear and apprehension that a person might when approaching a potentially intimate relationship or an airplane. Every time I pulled my head over the edge and looked downwards into the well, it was as if a gravitational force was pushing me in the opposite direction. I often felt upset with myself for feeling afraid to do the very thing that I knew I needed to do most- sit at the bottom of the well.

Life seems to have a rhythm all of its own making. Undoubtedly things happen in a non-quantifiable way. Those who try to quantify life’s rhythms, tend to lose a certain quality of magic and spontaneity. It’s a Faustian bargain I suppose. I have never been one to believe in metaphysical explanations for phenomena, but I do acknowledge a fundamental and uncontrollable rhythm that is always pulsating. We can hear it if we are willing to just stop and listen. Sometimes this rhythm creates the most mind-blowing sounds, other times the rhythm causes us such pain and suffering that all we can do to protect ourselves is plug our ears. Why it was that I was suddenly compelled to walk into the well that summer afternoon, I will never know or try to explain. All I know for certain is that as I looked down into the bottom of the well (for the hundredth plus time), I felt a complete absence of fear. Without hesitation, I draped one leg over the side of the well and put my foot on the first step of the ladder. Everything else seemed to happen on its own.

For a few months before prior to that afternoon, I had not been feeling well. My spirits were low and I was apprehensive about so many things. I felt like I was coming down with the flu but never really manifesting any visible flu-like symptoms. There was anger present but my anger had no specific object to release itself upon so I slipped into a subtle but always present depression. I felt physically fragile and knowing that I no longer possessed the invincibility and reduced odds that my youth afforded me, I was acutely aware of the impermanence of all things. When reflecting upon my own life and everyone and everything in it, I felt sad. In my sadness I was desperate to figure out away to make everyone last forever, and the best way I had found thus far was to push everyone away. The moment that I draped my right leg over the edge of the well, the negatively charged chemicals that seemed to be turning my thoughts against me, disappeared.

Step by careful step, I proceeded to walk down the ladder- further into the darkness. The ladder made strange, hollow, grunting sounds. Only an object that was really old could produce such sounds. I knew that what I was doing was not a dream, because as I climbed down the ladder the splintered wood pushing into the skin on my hands caused me to clench my jaw. I have always struggled with a form of claustrophobia that has always gotten in the way of my freedom to roam. I was glad to notice that as I climbed down the ladder I felt no shortness of breath, no tightness in my chest, no sweat on my palms and zero frightening thoughts in my head. I was on an adventure. The first really exciting adventure I had been on since I was an anxiety free kid.

When I put my foot on the bottom of the well, I heard what sounded like the crushing of little pebbles into sand. The same sound was made as I placed my other foot on the ground. The sound echoed off the concrete walls and caused my skin to vibrate in tune with the rhythm. I released my grip from the ladder’s wooden handles and felt an absence of pain in my normally tension-filled finger joints. The bottom of the well felt so uncomfortably cold that I contemplated climbing back up the ladder and returning home quickly to grab one of my winter coats. Even though there was an absence of detectable light at the bottom of the wall, I was still able to see a few feet in front of me. I noticed liquid slowly dripping out from the cracks in concrete wall, oozing down the wall until it disappeared before touching the ground. For a moment I tried to figure out how the liquid could evaporate so fast. I assumed that maybe it was because of the sharp cold, but deeper down I knew there was no logical explanation for what I was observing.

My superstitious nature prevented me from going beneath the ladder. I kept myself positioned on one side of the well. I looked around with curiosity and interest. I checked to see if my feet were actually on the ground and when I realized they were I felt a victorious kind of feeling. It was the same kind of feeling that I imagine a person would feel after they accomplished something they never imagined they could. I let out a loud and enthusiastic “yes!” Finally, I had made it down to the bottom of the well. As much as I often doubted it, at that moment I knew for a fact that I was experiencing happiness. Yes, happiness. I knew it because of the large smile on my face. I could feel the edges of my smile poking me in the eyes. I was beyond the fear that had hobbled me for so long.

As I looked up at the top of the well, I could see a small, tubular ray of light hanging out above me. The ladder that I climbed down seemed to become smaller and smaller the further up it went. My smile was causing my mouth to open and as I looked up I could taste the light. I know that it makes no sense to attribute a taste to light, but ever since that moment I have always been able to taste light. If I try hard enough- I can smell it. As I looked up at the small circular patch of light above me, I was again perplexed by the absence of fear. I was alone, in a small-contained foreign space. If anything happened to the ladder, I could potentially be trapped forever. There was no help to be found anywhere. But still I felt calm. The kind of peace that in my punk days I would have pointed my middle finger at. I could have cared less about anything going wrong. I was at the bottom of the well and that was all that mattered.

I exhaled a deep breath and felt chilled dust settling on my hair and face. My smile started to adjust itself accordingly as I slowly squatted down onto the ground. I put both palms of my hands down onto the ground and then lifted myself into a four-legged position. I don’t know why but I started to laugh a little. I investigated the ground with my eyes and hands. How long had these pebbles I was sifting through been down here on the ground? When was the last time another human being was down here? I saw no footprints and nothing that resembled the imperfections that occur upon human contact. It seemed as if I was the only person in the world. Claustrophobic me, a discoverer of an entirely new world. How cool was that? I didn’t care that the threads in my $159.00 pants were being ripped away by the small pebbles on the ground. No one discovers a new land, without getting a rip in their pants.

I will never be able to represent accurately with words, what happened next. If I was able to compose music, a song might better describe what took place. I am not a very spiritual or religious man so I don’t attribute my experience to anything supernatural. It was what it was. I’m ok with the mystery.

I sat down on the ground in a kind of tangled lotus posture, with the side of my left shoe resting upon the inside of my right thigh. My right foot was being compressed into the ground by my left leg. My spine was attentively upright as I rested the palms of my hands on the top of my thighs. I closed my eyes and began listening to the sounds of my breath moving in and out through my congested nose. I noticed the sensation of microscopic vibrations, in perfect tune with the rhythms of my breathing. I was not trying to explain to myself what was going on. I was present. Not one step ahead. Not one step behind. For once there was an absence of madness in my mind. I was no longer a slave to thinking about all the things that need to get done and all the things I didn’t like. I was letting my ego slip away. Time disappeared and as a result, so did I.

—- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —- —-

I’m not sure how long I was gone for. Could have been a few minutes, could have been hours. With my eyes still closed (I did not want to open them yet) I realized that my hand was holding what had to be my heart. It felt like the frog that I had dissected in junior high school, except this was palpitating. I was not afraid or freaked out (as you would think you would be if you realized you were holding your heart in your hands). I was just enjoying the peculiar sensations without any need to know how it got there or to validate its presence with my own eyes. I felt a cold, lactose like liquid dripping on my hand and assumed it was blood (which, strangely was not there when I opened my eyes). I can’t remember the last time I cried but in that moment, tears were streaming down my face and onto my chest. I wish I could use another word to describe my experience but the word love fits perfectly with what I felt. There was an abundance of love coming out of this pulsating muscle that I held in the palm of my hand. The feeling was upsettingly bliss-filled. Even with my eyes closed I could see all the pulsating light waves that were illuminating the bottom of the well. If I had been around another person earlier that day I would have been certain that they managed to slip LSD into something I consumed. But just like most days, I had been alone.

It is not like me to feel like this. As I type this account now I am finding it difficult to find the right words to describe the experience. As I sat there, I knew for certain that what I was holding in the palm of my hands was not just a heart, but also the physical manifestation of love. I had so much love in me towards everything in my life. My dogs, my birds, my wife, my family, my teachers, my enemies, the world. A stream of thankfulness was pouring forth from the center of my chest where once there had been so much constriction and heaviness. Everyone who ever caused me hurt, I thanked. I thanked all the people I could think of. Everyone. Instead of the Oscar for best screenplay in my hand, I held my heart high in the air and thanked, and thanked, and thanked. What a liberating feeling it was, even though within a few short hours the feeling would be gone.

Occasionally I wonder, if in those few moments I was able to somehow heal my heart from the harmful effects of all my anger and fear. I’d like to hope I did. I have heard neurobiologists talk about how the heart has neurotransmitters that are stronger than the ones in the brain. When a person feels love the heart is able to flood the body with these feel good neurotransmitters, which in turn has a healing effect upon our entire organism. Even though I did not see it, I like to think that it was the neurotransmitters exuding out of my heart that illuminated the bottom of the well. Who would have thought that on that afternoon, at the bottom of a discarded irrigation well in the middle of a lower-middle class neighborhood in suburban Los Angeles County, a middle-aged man would be conducting a symphony of love and neurotransmitters with his heart in the palm of his hand. That’s got to be worth something.

The moment I opened my eyes, I knew it was time to go. I looked down at my hand. My heart was not there. I was perplexed since I did not doubt that I was holding my actual heart in my hand. My hand was resting flat on my chest just above my heart, which was safe behind ribs, tissue, skin and my white t-shirt. I smiled and laughed a little as I tried to comprehend what the hell just happened. Maybe I imagined everything. But it all felt too real. There was no way this was all a creation of my imagination. No way.

I looked around at the walls and noticed that all the liquid that had been dripping was also gone. Not a drop was anywhere to be found. Was there ever any liquid there in the first place? To say I was perplexed would be an understatement. It was not as easy as I will make it sound here, but I lifted myself off the ground and back on to my two feet. I bent over and dusted off all the dirt from my pants. As I put my aching feet and hands on to the steps of the wooden ladder and looked up towards the daylight (it seemed to be almost dusk), I prepared myself for my ascent back up the wooden ladder. One final time I looked around the bottom of the well and said goodbye to no one. Then I began taking step after step up the old ladder. The more I stepped up the ladder, the more vibrant and excited I felt. I had not felt this way in years and climbed the ladder with the energy of a teenager. Mid-way through my climb I realized I had completely forgotten about how cold it was at the bottom of the well. That was strange, since it was the kind of cold you would find on the inside of a glacier. I looked back up at the daylight, which was not much further away, and continued to climb towards the opening.

I returned to the well a few days later to see if I might still have the courage to climb back down and sit at the bottom of the well again, but the ladder was gone.

How I Became A Lemon Tree

1.

You may not believe me but I am currently speaking to you as a fully-grown, verdant and quite content lemon tree. Currently my lemons are in full bloom and the ground above my roots are littered with lemons that have fallen off of my vines. With a feeling of deep satisfaction in my roots I am able to watch over the backyard that I once spent so much time working in and I can even look into the bedroom where my wife sleeps. There is a Eucalyptus tree not far from me, which is the tree that my wife and I were married under. As a man I never thought that I would think this, but it is actually a very pleasant life living as a lemon tree.

Even though the initial transition was difficult, it is not as surprising to me as it may be to you that I am a lemon tree. Back when I was a human being, I was inundated with a perpetual cycle of hunches about life being more than what meets the eye. Even though I allowed our modern world to squeeze out of me a good amount of my childhood sense of wonder and awe, I still felt like anything was possible. The world of work, bills and societal expectations may have closed me off to a more free and unbound way of being, but still I knew that there was not that much separating myself from the rest of the plants, animals and other animate things that I shared this planet with. When I worked in my backyard I would often stop and just stare at the flowers, trees and other living creatures and feel a deep sense of kinship with it all. This may be why when I finally made the decision to become a lemon tree, I really was not worried about it. Even though my wife was initially horrified with the choice that I had made, deep down I knew that it was the right thing to do.

2.

Prior to becoming a lemon tree, I was a happily married man with a plethora of ambitions. At the end of every month I had a stack of bills piled on my desk and I felt relatively satisfied with the choices that I had to make in order to pay them. I was working hard towards becoming a financially successful psychotherapist and I had a nice house, a car, a dog, a wife and a love of food and drink that I was able to afford. In a sense I was living what is often referred to as the American dream. I enjoyed collecting records and reading books and even though I was no longer a young and naive man I still harbored romantic dreams about living my life as a writer and artist. On a grander scale my life was no different than most other professionals who had reached mid-life and made some peace with the fact that their youth filled dreams had not come to fruition. I was ok with this reality and was deeply involved in the study of Zen philosophy to help smooth out some of the harsher edges of my life. I was in love with my wife and becoming settled with things as they were.  This is why it still surprises me that the innocent act of sitting down one evening to read a novel and sipping on a glass of water with a slice of squeezed lemon in it would end up having such a life altering effect.

I can barley even remember the miniscule seed going down my throat that night. I was embedded deep in-between the lines of a David Foster Wallace novel and can only now remember a slight hiccup, a minimal bump in the road as the seed traveled down my throat. Once I had swallowed the seed I thought no more about it until a few mornings later when I noticed a very slight shade of green sticking out from both of my ears. At first I was not alarmed about this and assumed that it was backed up gook in my ears that was slowly oozing out. I had been meaning to get my ears cleaned for sometime but had procrastinated on doing so. That first morning when I noticed the green substance in my ears I told myself that it was time to make an appointment to get my ears cleaned. That day I called to make an appointment for the following week. I wrongly assumed that that would be the end of the problem.

The following morning the green substance had turned into what looked like a few small green leaves sprouting out from my ears. I pulled on the leaves and broke pieces of them off. I observed the strange substance in the palms of my shaky hands and could not make sense of it. I continued to try and pull the strange material out of my ears but it felt uncomfortable- like pulling lint out of a belly button. I grew slightly panicked because I knew that this material was not made of the same substance that I often found at the end of my Q-tips after cleaning out my ears. In a voice that indicated something was wrong, I called my wife into the bathroom to help me make sense of the strange material coming out of my ear. She looked in my ears and then attentively observed the green substance. She studied the material, and then looked into my ears again and again and again. She then told me that it looked as if there were small little leaves growing out of my ears.

I was terrified of doctors but my wife insisted that we go see an ear, nose and throat specialist and find out what was going on. Since the only way to get a same day appointment with a specialist is if you are very wealthy, a fellow doctor or a celebrity, I was not able to book an appointment until two days later. My wife decided that we would keep an eye on things and I continued to go about life as normally as possible. I avoided looking into the mirror and tried to push the matter out of my mind but at work my clients all seemed to look at me like something was not right.

On the day I was supposed to meet with the doctor I woke up with what looked like small, twig like brown branches growing out from both of my ears. I felt a deep pain in my ears when I first lifted my head from my pillow. I touched my ears and felt something that should not of been there. I ran into the bathroom to have a look. In the mirror what I saw terrified me. I screamed to my wife, who was still asleep, to come into the bathroom. When she ran in and saw me she immediately passed out.

3.

The doctor did not know what to say. He had never seen anything like this.  It was an enigma. It was as if for the first time in his twenty-two year career he had nothing to say and knew not what to do. His nurses crowded into the small observation room with posters of the inner workings of the ears and throat on the wall. The nurse’s mouths were all agape as they stared at me under the fluorescent lights. It was as if they were all helpless to say anything. All the doctor could do was use a scissors and attempt to cut off the branches. Strangely, when he did so the branches quickly grew back twice their size. By the time I left the doctors office, not only had I felt like a strange object on exhibition but I also had foot long branches with an abundance of baby green leaves growing out from both of my ears. I knew then that there was nothing that the medical establishment could do for me.

4.

I canceled all of my clients for the following week and realized that I was going to have to stay inside. There was nowhere in public that I could go with branches growing out of my ears without being arrested or an object of scrutiny. I was a therapist and as a result was very familiar with how our society treated others who looked abnormal. It was wisest to stay in and allow my wife to take care of me. When you have no idea what to do, when a fate comes upon you that you could never have before imagined- the only thing you will be able to do is try and go about life as normally as you can. Despite the fact that the branches were growing and the leaves where getting bigger I spent my days reading a long David Foster Wallace novel, doing sit-ups, meditating, cleaning the house, playing with my dog in the backyard, cooking and leading what felt like a rather normal domestic existence. My wife gradually adapted to the leaves and branches growing out of my ears and tried to calm me with kisses, back massages, foot massages and a refrigerator filled with my favorite foods. Neither of us knew what we were going to do about the unimaginable fate that had found me. As times passed it began to feel like we were just waiting around for some kind of answer.

Every morning when I woke up and every morning before I went to bed, my wife helped me prune my branches- cutting them back as much as possible so that I could be comfortable. But after we did this for a few days we realized that it was a futile effort because the branches and leaves would grow back twice as large. I do not remember when it was but after several days of living with what was already a physically uncomfortable condition, my wife and I made the decision to just let the branches grow and see what happened. We both knew that no doctors could help us at that point. To be honest, even if there was a doctor that could, I did not want to deal with becoming a source of bizarre entertainment and study for a medical staff whose routinized jobs caused them to turn living human beings into objects. No thank you. Not for me.

It became very difficult for me to sleep. Often in the early hours of the morning I would get out of bed and go sit on my couch in the front room. There I would stare out a large window and into the dark night sky that was lit up with stars and occasional airplanes. I would wonder about the pilots of those planes and think about how difficult it must be to work a job where you have to fly all night long. I would sit there in the early morning silence and stare out into the darkness wondering about what I was going to do. How had I suddenly developed these branches growing out of my ears? How could this happen to me? For hours I would search for answers until I remembered the night not long ago when I swallowed the lemon seed.

I then began spending the early morning hours glued to my computer searching Google for some kind of answer. I would type into Google phrases like: can lemon seeds cause a person to grow branches and leaves out of ears, cause of branches growing out of ears, symptoms of swallowing lemon seed, cure for branches and leaves growing out of both ears, natural cures for branches growing in ears, and on and on. I would often become depressed because despite the plethora of information on the internet about every symptom and disease anyone could possibly have, there was nothing about growing branches and leaves out of both ears. I felt alone in the universe, a victim of an impossible fate.

After two weeks of living with my condition I had fallen into a deep hole of despair. The branches had become so large that it was getting difficult for me to pass through the various doorways of my home. If the branches got stuck on a wall or the side of a door and made the slightest crack, I would experience a pain much like pulling teeth. My psychotherapy practice was failing since I had to cancel all of my sessions with clients. Some were considerate since I told them that I was very ill, but those who were dealing with narcissism or borderline personality disorder were more concerned about the quality and consistency of their treatment so they threatened to find a new therapist if I did not see them. I started to develop headaches and a perpetual sour taste in my mouth. I could no longer eat most of my favorite foods since my depression interfered with my appetite. I had hit the lowest point in my life with several feet long branches covered in fully grown green leaves growing out of my ears. My wife and I felt totally hopeless as to what to do and it was getting to the point where I had to do something. So one evening while sitting at the dinner table and sharing a bottle of red wine I asked my wife if she would help me. Being the gentle and loving woman that she is, she was willing to do anything for me but when I told her that I was going to dig a hole in our backyard and that I needed her to bury me in it her spine slumped, her smile melted away, her eyes drooped and she let out a deep and defeated breath of air.

5.

That evening my wife and I held each other all night long. We made love twice. After our lovemaking had exhausted the both of us my wife curled her naked body into mine and gently rubbed her hand through my hair and branches. She kissed my neck and chest hundreds of times and told me how much she loved me. My wife cried and being a man who had never had an easy time with other people’s emotions I tried to calm her and tell her that there was no reason to cry. Again and again I reassured her that burying me in the backyard would not be such a bad thing to do. I told her that I would always be right outside the bedroom window watching over her. I promised her that I would never leave her alone for a moment and that whenever she needed me I would be just outside. My wife is far from gullible and as much as she wanted to believe what I was saying she knew that she would be burying her husband alive. In her mind she was convinced that it would be the end of me.

It was no easy task to talk my wife into assisting in my burial. We sat at the dinner table for hours arguing about why the idea was or was not ridiculous. My wife seemed to think that there had to be another way to deal with the problem. She also felt that even if I had twenty-foot long branches growing out of my ears, she still loved me and thought I was the handsomest man in the world. I was still her husband. It required a lot of emotional and mental effort on my part but after hours of going back and forth I was able to get my wife to empathize with me. I was able to help her realize how much pain I was in and how depressed I had become. As far as I was concerned my life as I had known it was already over. I had become a prisoner in my own home, my psychotherapy practice was falling apart, I could not sleep much at night and I had all but lost my appetite. All the pleasures of life were fleeing from me and I so badly wanted to rest. With tears running down her flushed cheeks my wife finally relented and told me that she would do whatever I wanted.

I did not tell my wife this, but deep in my gut I knew that if I were buried in the ground it would not be the end of me. I had a hunch that the branches would continue to grow out from my ears and turn into roots, which would then, in time, somehow turn into a tree.

6.

That evening I was up before the sun. The long branches growing from my ears made it almost impossible for me to walk into my tool shed and grab my shovel. While trying to get past the lawn mower and the compost barrel I broke off a piece of one of my branches. It felt like I had just jammed my toe into a brick wall and I wanted to scream. The pain was overwhelming and beads of sweat developed on my forehead. The memory of that sensation still makes the leaves on my tree shiver. It was a pain like none other I had ever felt before but like all pain- it eventually passed away. I walked through my backyard with the shovel in my hand and found what I thought would be a good location for a tree to grow. As I promised my wife it was right outside the bedroom window. I took off my bathrobe and in my boxers and a long black t-shirt I began to dig. When I was finished the sun was up and birds were singing in the trees. I could hear the sounds of the beginnings of commerce in the distance. Cars, buses and trucks all determined to reach their destinations on time. I looked down into what was a deep enough hole for my body and branches to fit in and then decided that it was time to go inside and wake up my wife.

Before I woke my wife I stood above her for a moment. I observed her beautiful long, brown locks of curly hair spread out all over the white pillow like an abstract painting. I always loved the way that she looked in the mornings- so innocent and sweet. Her red lips and rosy checks were all pale from a long night of lying supine. One of her bare arms rested on top of her head making an L-shape and I observed the wedding ring that loyally rested on her finger. I remembered the day many years ago when I first gave it to her. We were as in love then as we still were at that moment. Quietly I thanked my wife for all that she had done for me and for all the love that she had directed my way. I was forever grateful to her. And then like snapping myself out of a daydream, I maneuvered my way down over her so that I did not poke her with one of my branches and woke her up with a gentle kiss on the forehead.

My wife and I had our morning coffee together and did not say much. I tried to tell her that I was going to grow into a beautiful tree right outside the bedroom window, that I would always be there but she said nothing and sadly looked at me in the eyes. All she could do was tell me that she loved me. We sat there in silence for a while and listened to the clock ticking and the various other morning sounds that our house made. In her white night gown and long silk bathrobe from Victoria Secret that I had bought for her a few months before, my wife leaned over towards me and said, “lets get this over with my love.” We set down our coffee cups and walked out into the backyard, holding hands. I then showed her the hole that I had dug and she pushed her hair away from her face and I could hear her quietly repeating, “this is crazy.” But like all loyal partners, when I handed her the shovel she seemed determined to do for me what I asked her to.

I will never forget this memory. In my boxers and black t-shirt I climbed down into the hole and my wife got down on both knees. As she leaned over to kiss me goodbye the sprinklers suddenly came on. We both continued to get all wet but still remained locked in our deep kiss. Something felt very symbolic about both of us getting all wet during our final kiss. It was as if we were both being cleansed of any residual guilt we might carry. When my wife stood up with the shovel in her hand I felt grateful towards the sprinklers. My wife’s white night gown was all wet which allowed me to see her naked body beneath. As I managed to maneuver my way down onto my back I remained focused on her body. The outline of her hips and breasts had a calming effect on my nerves. I folded my arms and nodded my head, indicating to my wife that I was ready to be buried.  With her hair soaking wet and her face covered with tears she blew me a kiss that I felt land directly on my heart. She then proceeded to cover me with dirt.

7.

This is the short story about how I became a lemon tree. I did not want to burden you with the longer story. Ever since I have become a lemon tree I have realized that life is to be lived- not read, written, worked or entertained away. In my human life it was impossible but I now spend my entire days and evenings in one spot. Other than when I am resting I continually observe life playing out all around me. I have nowhere to go and nothing to do other than be. As a result of just being nature is able to run its course and allow me to continually bring forth an abundance of lemons. It is through this existence of just being that I have become happier than I ever was as a human. Of course I miss being with my wife and dog in the way that I was as a human but now my dog spends its days resting besides my trunk. My wife built a swing, which my branches hold and she set up a beautiful little sitting area under the shade of my leaves.

Everyday, rain or shine, my wife will come out and spend hours swinging and sitting in one of the chairs under my leaves. Sometimes she will pick lemons. Even though I can not talk with her she will tell me all about her day and things that are going on in her life. I will watch how her hair drifts in the wind, the way her crossed knees look sticking out from under her dress and with all the desire of a man I will feel lust for her run madly through my roots. All of the same feelings that I had as a man are still there but the only difference is that now I am a lemon tree. When my dog rubs up against my side and my wife swings from my branches, I feel such indescribable joy and satisfaction. What once felt like such a horrible fate now feels like a real blessing. As much as I miss my life as a husband and a psychotherapist, I could of never imagined then feeling the immense amount of love, contentment and gratitude that I now feel. It is as if for the first time in my life I now feel rooted in the right place.

………and then there are those moments of intimacy that I look forward to throughout the course of each day. When I was a husband I was never able to fully open my heart to my wife. I always felt some kind of fear and an annoying blockage that would get in the way of me giving my wife the love I knew she deserved. As a lemon tree it feels like this blockage is no longer there and I am filled with so much love that I feel unafraid in expressing it as much as I can. Every night before my wife goes to bed she will come outside and stand besides me in her nightgown. She will look up into my branches, clean away anything that looks broken or in need of care in the same way that she used to run her fingers through my messy hair. And then just like when we used to curl up in bed together every night, she will snuggle her body up against mine and tightly wrap her arms around my trunk. I can feel the side of her sweet face pressed tightly against my trunk and I can feel the tears running down her face. She will hold me like this for as long as time and her strength will permit and what is strange about this is that now, when she is crying I am able to also cry. My tears are a bit more sweet and sticky than hers but she does not seem to mind getting my sap all over her skin.

The Loneliest Place On Earth

This holiday season I will be surrounded by people who love me and who I love. I will be given gifts and give gifts. I will feel grateful for everything that I am experiencing. I will drink and eat too much and I will laugh more than I normally do. I will engage in superficial conversation and talk to people that I would be happy never having to talk to again. I will give a lot of hugs. I will try and open my heart, have no judgement and relax into the Christmas celebration. My wife, whom I love more than anything in this universe, will tell me to smile more and she will probably take a beer out of my hand and tell me that I have had enough. I will have fun. I will try to appear like a confident and happy guy. However, despite all of this, one thing that no one will notice about me this Christmas day is that even though I will be attending a party filled with friends and strangers- I will be in the loneliest place on earth.

If you want to know where the loneliest place on earth is, find a Jew on Christmas day and then there you are (if you find this Jew you would be doing him or her a great favor by giving them a hug and telling them that you love them even though they will pretend everything is fine). Being Jewish at this time of year kind of feels like attending a party in where you are not really sure if you were invited. Or maybe it is more accurate to say that being Jewish at this time of year is like traveling in a foreign country. When in a foreign country you can enjoy the sights, sounds, the language, the food and everything else that makes up the experience of being in a foreign place but you can not escape from the deep loneliness that you feel as a result of no longer being in familiar territory. There is a photograph that I always like to look at when I use the urinal at one of my favorite pubs. It is a picture of an eastern European man holding up a big sign in a crowd of people. There is a sad smile on the mans face and his eyes are wide open in anticipation. His face is the face of loneliness. His sign reads: “Waiting For My People.” This is how I feel on Christmas day.

However are not my people the family and friends that I will happily be surrounded by on Christmas day? I love these people and even though they are my wife’s family they are my family. I feel more accepted and supported by my wife’s parents than I ever have by my own parents. The love that my wife gives me is so strong that I literally can feel it penetrating my skin. So with all this love, support, celebration, gratitude and gift giving why the long face?

Maybe it stems from growing up as a Jew in America. Christmas day was always the elephant in the room. I had to pretend that it was not there. No one really talked about it. While all the other families that I lived around decorated their homes with lights, Christmas trees and scarey blow up Santa Clauses my house remained dark. I remember being a kid and feeling that I was being left out of something important that was going on. On television there would be Christmas shows, at school there would be Christmas parties, all over my neighborhood there would be Christmas celebrations and I was stuck in the middle of it all, kept arms length from all the festivities. I felt like my parents were sheltering me from a potential threat. My father always expressed a certain kind of disapproval towards all the “Christmas crap.” Over time there was this feeling of isolation that developed in me as a result of not not getting to participate in the Christmas celebration festivities. By the time I was in college, I got used to spending Christmas eve and Christmas day alone. I got used to wondering the streets on Christmas eve and noticing that everything was closed (except Chinese food restaurants). I got used to feeling like I was in the loneliest place on earth.

But maybe this is not quit it. The Christmas season always makes me unpleasantly aware of just how Christian of a country I am living in. During Hanukkah which ends a week or so before Christmas I will see very few signs of the holiday in my culture. Maybe a star of David being sold in a boutique gift shop or Hanukkah candles for sale at Target. Other than this there are no gratuitous displays of the Jewish holiday anywhere. This can make a Jew think that they are a member of a secret cult. That their holiday is somehow hidden away, deviant and maybe even unimportant compared to the significant place Christmas holds in people’s hearts. I can not tell you the last time that I celebrated Hanukkah with my sister, my parents, friends and my extended family all together. Hanukkah for me has become a holiday that is more apart of my past than it is apart of my future and maybe on Christmas day when I am with my wife and her family it is hard to forget what is missing.

Loneliness is a strange thing. You can be lonely in a huge crowd, you can be lonely when you are surrounded by people who love you, you can be lonely when you are lying in bed at night with someone you love. Loneliness is not always a rational thing. It is an emotion that begs for attention and arises in response to something that you are feeling or thinking. We can not always control what we feel and think, sometimes feelings and thoughts just happen in relation to something we smelled, ate, drank, noticed or heard. Just as we do not always know why we caught a cold, we do not always know why we feel lonely. It is just there. This is what happens to me on Christmas day. There is this deep emotion that settles in my bones in response to a certain feeling. I try and push it away and keep a smile on my face. I drink beer and eat. I am happy for my wife who loves this time of year and I am happy that I get to be apart of the festivities. I try and have fun. But still I will feel like something is missing. Still I will feel like I am in the loneliest place on earth. Still I will release a sigh of great relief when all the Christmas lights start to come down.

The Prostitute and I

Two blocks from where I live there is a prostitute who spends her afternoons standing on a busy street corner. I noticed her when I first moved into my suburban neighborhood. I thought it was strange that a woman dressed in a tight mini skirt would stand in the same place, every day for an entire afternoon. Every time I drove past that street corner I would check and see if she was there. I was not doing this because I desired this woman and wanted to have a sexual experience with her. No, I was not attracted to her at all. From an objective perspective there was little to be attracted to. I was interested in this prostitute because I thought it was very odd that there would be a prostitute standing on a street corner in the middle of a middle class suburban neighborhood. I had lived in the ghetto of Oakland, California for a long time. Seeing prostitutes there was as familiar to me as seeing bullets flying in the sky. It was a daily occurrence. But in this Los Angeles suburb, she was the first and only prostitute I ever saw. She had my full attention.

A month after my wife and I moved into our new home we bought a German shepherd. I started walking my dog everyday past the street corner where the prostitute stood. Sometimes she would not be there but most of the time she was standing there, waiting. Toyota Priuses, Jettas, Ford mini vans and various other symbols of the middle class on wheels would drive past pretending not to notice that there was a prostitute standing on a middle class street corner. A block away was a school. Across the street was a Starbucks. Was I the only one that found it so strange that there was a prostitute hanging out there? I became obsessed. I started walking my dog twice a day. I would sit on a bench across the street from her and observe. Even my dog knew that something strange was going on across the street.

She would wave at cars with single men in them. Often times these men would look shocked. They were either young men driving there parents car who had yet to experience the sexual transgression of being with a prostitute or they were middle aged men who had been locked up in an office someplace and were utterly startled to notice that a middle aged woman on a street corner was waving at them. Rarely did any of these men stop and pick her up. She looked treacherous and scarred by an unfair life. There was something frightening about her. But occasionally a man would slam on his breaks and make a hand motion for her to get in the car.  She would run up to the passenger side car window, bend down to check the man out and then jump into the car with the fluidity of a gust of wind.

If it was raining out she would be standing on the street corner dressed in a shabby raincoat and holding a cheap umbrella. Her long grayish red strands of hair would stick out of what looked like a hand knitted ski hat with flower patterns. On the days that the sun would be out, her long hair would blow freely in the afternoon breeze created by all the passing middle class cars. She would wear a black min-skirt with some kind of shirt that would almost always reveal her aging stomach. I could see some sort of piercing on her belly button and I also noticed a tattoo that ran down the side of her legs and into the blue high heel shoes that she was always wearing.

After a month of observing the prostitute I decided to confront her. I was so fascinated by the life that she seemed to be living. I made up all kinds of stories about her. Was she a middle class homeowner who had lost her home in the great recession? Did she have a family? What she was doing for work was so outside of the middle class norm that gradually ate away at the souls of almost everyone that I lived around. I have always had a certain fascination with deviants and those who decide to live way outside of the norm, I just never thought I would become fascinated with a prostitute that was working on a street corner two blocks down from where I lived.

The first time that I approached the prostitute I remember having the thought that it was life, not drugs that had worn her out. She did not have that familiar drug abused gauntness in her face that most aging drug addicts display. Her skin and eyes looked hydrated and unravished by any kind of drug addiction. There were no dilated pupils or bags under her eyes, just a sadness that tried to hide the fact that she had fallen upon difficult times. Before I could say anything to her she shouted, “please keep your dog away from me! I am terrified of dogs!” I apologized and told her that my dog did not have a mean bone in her body. “But she is a German shepherd. Those dogs are viscous,” she pleaded. “That is a huge misconception. They are trained to be viscous but naturally they are one of the sweetest breeds of dogs,” I said. She looked at my dog as if she was thinking about what she should do next. She was in a contemplative kind of deliberation. I heard a car horn. She looked up to wave and then looked back down at the dog. “Ok,” she said. “What the hell, but hold on to her tight.”

After the initial cautious greeting, the prostitute and my dog were like close friends. Before I even had a chance to introduce myself, the prostitute was crouching down hugging my dog and enjoying the disgusting privilege of being licked by a dog that is obsessive compulsive about cleaning her own private parts. She hugged my dog and rubbed her face in my dog’s furry neck. It was as if this was the first time in a long time that the prostitute had given or received love. I watched the prostitute and my dog exchange loving gestures in the same way that you may watch a person getting the help that they are in desperate need of. After a few minutes of this the prostitute stood up, looked at me and said, “so what is with the fascination, huh?”

I was surprised and caught off guard. What did she mean by fascination? I was silent and noticed myself stepping away from her. The prostitute then smiled and said, “what took you so long?” “What took me so long?” I replied. “Yeah, I have noticed you sitting over there across the street for more than a month now. Seems like you just sit there and watch me.” How could I be so inept to not think she would notice me sitting on the bench across the street? At first I thought about denying it but then I realized this would be like denying the obvious. Only unstable people do this sort of thing. And even though I had spent the past month obsessing about a prostitute on a street corner- I was not unstable. So I looked her in the eyes and said……….nothing.

“Look honey, you do not have to be shy. Wanting to get off is a natural human impulse. So what, you want to get off with no strings attached. Big deal. I know what it is like to be shy and all, but let me promise you that once you break through your shyness you will feel like you parted the waters of the Dead Sea.” The prostitute said this to me with a promiscuous smile that revealed a need for some dental work. I giggled a bit and to be honest, it took me a second to realize what was going on. The prostitute was thinking that I wanted to hire her for a sexual experience but could not get up the nerve, so I sat on the bench across the street too afraid to approach her! “And honey your dog, well you do not need to bring her for protection. I got all the protection you’ll need in my purse.” Then she laughed.

You know what they say about finding yourself stiff and unable to articulate words when you are in a moment of shock? Well that is what happened to me. Every nerve in my vocal cords wanted to tell her that I was not interested in her in that way but it was as if someone had put a tight sheet of plastic, saran wrap or wax paper over my face and I was desperately trying to break through. You got it all wrong lady, I kept thinking to myself but for some ridiculous reason (the answer of which can probably be found in my childhood), I was unable to talk. It was at that moment that a black Toyota Prius pulled up to the curb. A white balding man in a white collard shirt rolled down the window and said, “it is four o’clock baby.” The prostitute turned towards the man in the car and said, “I’ll be right there.” She then turned to me and said, “look I got to go honey, but come find me tomorrow and I’ll show you what all that shyness has been cheating you out of.” She then bent down and gave my dog another love starved hug and then disappeared into the black Prius.

I stood there on that corner with my dog sitting by my side. I watched the black Prius get smaller and smaller in the distance. I felt like a failure for not having had the courage to tell her that she was all wrong about what she was thinking about me. I did not want the prostitute to think that I wanted her services, because then I would never be able to come observe her again. I really wanted to ask her why she was standing on this particular street corner, day after day, but I was unable to get a single word out. My month long stretch of curiosity had resulted in nothing but shame and embarrassment. I stood on that corner until the sun fell behind the busy Starbucks across the street. My dog did not put up too much of a fuss about standing there with me. It was as if she knew that I needed some time to myself. I stood there on that corner and watched the cars pass by. I imagined what it would be like to be her standing in that very spot. I noticed all the men who were driving in their cars alone as they passed by. I felt the breeze created by the numerous passing cars blowing my hair.

When I finally returned home that evening my wife confronted me and said, “where have you been?” I took the dog off the leash and opened the back door for her to go run around in the yard. I looked at my wife and did not know what to say.

Interview With Myself #7: On Self Love, Loving Others and Thinking Your Way Out of a Depression

It is 10:19am on a Tuesday morning when this interview begins. I have already eaten breakfast and meditated. It will probably be no surprise to you that I am again sitting at my round kitchen table and am dressed in the clothes that I slept in. I am not sure why this is the place that all of these interviews are conducted. It seems that I am most open to interviewing myself in the mornings. As the day progresses, my head fills with all the things that I need to do so I am less inclined to stop what I am doing and sit down to be interviewed. Mornings are a convenient time for me. My mind is freshest in the morning. I feel that I am more willing to be honest and open in the mornings. By the afternoon, it seems as if my ego is in full swing and I am less willing to be open about my life. After one in the afternoon I notice that I get more defensive, judgmental and negative. I would like to add that I am working on this. In the mornings when I wake up I do a loving kindness meditation where I try and fill my body and mind with positive and loving vibrations. My meditation teacher tells me that if I do this consistently, every morning, positive and loving vibrations will be imprinted in me and I will no longer be such a jerk come mid afternoon.

Interviewer: Good morning Randall.

Randall: Good morning to you.

Interviewer: Good morning.

Randall: Good morning.

Interviewer: Wow, you seem rather up beat this morning.

Randall: Thank you. I do feel in good spirits.

Interviewer: And to what do you owe this emotional sea change?

Randall: What do you mean by emotional sea change?

Interviewer: Well a few days ago you were suffering from a low-grade depression and now you seem up beat and well, relatively happy.

Randall: Ah I see- you mean how is it that I have gone from Z to A?

Interviewer: Maybe not Z to A but from Z to R.

Randall: Ok whatever I don’t want to argue over the alphabet. I think I get what you are asking me. Yes for a few days I was stuck in a depressive state but fortunately I was able to think my way out of it. Along with the help of a few friends I realized some things about myself that I had not considered before.

Interviewer: Such as what?

Randall: Well for one my life is not nearly as bad as I often think it is. I occasionally sink it to these ruts where I compare myself to others and I even tend to envy them. But I realized that this is a very misguided thing to do. Who knows what these individuals deal with in their life and just because they have fame or financial success does not mean that they are any better off than I. I realized it is futile to compare myself to them. We are all human and we all have our own struggles to deal with and it is silly to think that their life is any better off than mine because they have more money.

Interviewer: So basically you realized that it was the way in which you were thinking about your life that made you depressed as opposed to the actual realities of your life?

Randall: Yeah the reality of my life is very good. I am in many ways a blessed man whose problems are manageable. Things are not out of control. I may not have a lot of money, I may have huge student loans that I need to pay back, my health may not be 100% but still I am doing well. You know what realization helped me most?

Interviewer: What?

Randall: The realization that I never was the kind of person that had making money as a priority or goal. Most of my adult life I have shunned the idea of living for the buck. I dreaded living a life that was all about earning cash. To me this was how to get on the path towards a quiet life of desperation. Instead I wanted to live fully rather than work hard. I wanted (and still want) to spend my afternoons wandering around with no destination in mind. I wanted to be able to have the freedom to do what I wanted rather than have to do what a boss or society tells me to do. Chosing time and freedom over career and money has set me back financially- but what it has given me can not be compared or measured.

Interviewer: This is true my friend. I would not describe you as someone who has wasted their time.

Randall: NO that is the thing. I feel like I have spent my time wisely. I feel like I have lived a full life and done things that mean a lot to me. I do not feel like I live a quiet life of desperation.

Interviewer: So you realized that your life is very blessed, that you live a full life rather than comparing yourself to people who may have accomplished more in terms of financial and worldly success?

Randall: Yeah. I realized that deep down those things are indeed meaningless to me. Financial and worldly success really do not mean anything to me but like everyone else- I have been conditioned by the society in which I live and occasionally I fall into the trap. Fortunately this time, with the help of a few friends, I was able to pull myself out and get back on track. I also realized that for being someone who has lived more for the moment I am lucky to have the things that I do. I consider myself to be an artist, a writer and a wanderer who has not made very much money from these activities. I am lucky to have a beautiful wife, an amazing house, a car and a fridge filled with food. Most artists, writers and wanderers that I know have not been so fortunate. So really I have nothing at all to be down about. I know now that there are people in my life who love me for who I am and will support me in being who I am rather than punish me for not being who they want me to be.

Interviewer: You have people in your life who punish you for not being who they want you to be?

Randall: Oh yes. Most of my life was spent in this climate but I don’t want to talk about it. It is not important anymore. What is important is that I found a doorway out and I have come to a place where I feel supported for being who I am. This is an incredible feeling.

Interviewer: Yes must be very liberating.

Randall: It is. It has also taught me a lot about love. I have learned that love is supporting another individual to be who they are. When we are being critical, judgemental or unaccepting of another because they are not being who we want them to be, we are not loving them. In fact we are hurting them.

Interviewer: Yeah I would say that this is a good definition of love. It seems to me that in today’s world it is really difficult for people to love each other.

Randall: Yeah it is. Everyone is so hurt and angry inside that they are stuck in a continual cycle of projecting their hurt and anger onto others. This process is never-ending. I think that it only ends when the person who is hurt and angry works really hard to diminish the hurt and anger within themselves for the good of others in their life.

Interviewer: You mean the angry and hurt person changes who they are mainly so that they do not continue to hurt the ones that they love?

Randall: Yeah, I think this is correct. Of course they do it for themselves also because when we are liberated from our hurt and anger our lives can become so much fuller and richer. As long as we remain angry and hurt our lives are diminished because we are missing out on having the kind of relationships and experiences that a person who is not filled with anger and hurt can have.

Interviewer: How are you doing with all of this?

Randall: What do you mean?

Interviewer: Well you talk a lot about other people and what they can do. I am curious how you do with this.

Randall: Well to be honest, I have a lot of hurt and anger inside of me.  Much of my life has been lived under this influence. I am someone who has to work hard to be loving. I literally need to be mindful of my thoughts and actions because my automatic response to others is one filled with judgement, criticalness and over all negativity. I need to really watch this and make a conscious effort to be loving and accepting instead of judgemental and critical. This is why I do a loving kindness meditation each morning and it is also why I really envy people who are able to be so loving and accepting towards others.

Interviewer: But is it true that they are able to be loving and accepting towards others because they are this way towards themselves?

Randall: Yeah, ultimately I think this is true and I am working on it. I have 41 one years of having a critical and judgemental voice in my head and I am working hard to exorcise it. To become loving and accepting towards myself- this is my goal as silly as that my sound.

Interviewer: Does not sound silly at all. I wish you well in your endeavors.

Randall: Thank you- I think it will be a life long journey.

Interviewer: Without a doubt it will.

Randall: Yes.

Interviewer: Well this interview went rather well, don’t you think?thank you for meeting me for our interview today.

Randall: It did, yes. I rather enjoyed it.

Interviewer: See these interviews can be productive rather than just argumentative.

Randall: Yes.

Interviewer: So what do you say next time we meet someplace different- such as the garden or the living room.

Randall: Sounds good. Why don’t we meet in the living room next time?

Interviewer: Ok. Sounds good. See you there.

Randall: Until then.

Interview #6: Death, Depression, Existential Hang-Ups and the Unbearable Beauty of Life.

It is 10:48am when this interview begins. I am again sitting at the round kitchen table and am dressed in the clothes that I have slept in. I have not looked in the mirror but I presume my hair is a mess. I meditated for a few minutes this morning and then proceeded to make myself some cereal and green tea for breakfast. I “surfed” around the internet, wasted time on facebook and youtube and am now ready to begin the interview. Outside my window it looks as if the day is going to be filled with blue skies, sun and heat. Strange weather for mid October.

 

Interviewer: Good morning Randall.

Randall: Good morning.

Interviewer: Did you sleep well?

Randall: I had a hard time getting to sleep but once I feel asleep I believe that I slept well. I remember getting up a lot to pee though.

Interviewer: Did you drink alcohol last night?

Randall: Not much- I had a pint of beer.

Interviewer: How was it?

Randall: Delicious. Beer is very grounding for me and even though it has drastically increased the size of my stomach I have a hard time staying away too long from my beloved beer.

Interviewer: I see.  How have you been feeling lately?

Randall: To be honest the past few days I have felt what can only be described as a kind of negative, bleak, depressed feeling.

Interviewer: Really?

Randall: Yes, you say that as if you are surprised?

Interviewer: Well I know that you are prone to bouts of depression but I am surprised because it seems as if things are going so well in your life.

Randall: It may appear that way but you know that old cliché adage: “Wherever you go there you are.”

Interviewer: But just a month ago you were infused with the greatest feeling of happiness that you have ever felt. What happened to this feeling?

Depression: Wish I knew. Trust me I am looking for it. Depression is kind of like a weather system. It gets triggered by something and then moves in over you like a rain cloud. It is tough to get away from and all I can really do is wait for it to pass. It is true I have a lot to be happy about- my beautiful wife, my new home, my great dog, my life and on and on. It is true- so why am I not feeling “happy?”

Interviewer: This is what I was going to ask you. Do you have any idea what the cause of this depression is?

Randall: I think that it is a combination of things. One is that I am worried about my finances. To be blunt I don’t have much money and I live in fear of going broke. Why am I 41 years old and still so financially strapped and why am I not more ambitious about changing my financial situation? I suppose in this regard a part of me feels stuck and like a failure. Yes I have everything and more that I could ever want but there is this one thing missing. This thing is this inner satisfaction that I can take care of myself financially. That I do not need to depend on others for economic help. As I think I have said before- in our culture manhood is all tied up with economic success and somehow there is this feeling that has been conditioned into men that if they are not able to be economically independent they are somehow less of a man.

Interviewer: Yeah I have noticed this myself.

Randall: The second part of my depression I think stems from the fact that my life has not turned out the way I thought it would. I never imagined that I would be starting a career as a psychotherapists and have so more financial aid debt to pay off as a result. When I was younger my dream was to succeed as a writer and painter but this is not how things have turned out. Even though it is very difficult to make a living this way I thought I could do it. I never really wanted to be “a professional” with financial aid debt. Seems very mediocre and unremarkable to me. I envy artists who are able to make a living doing their art, to be themselves and get paid for it and the fact that this is not how things have worked out for me depresses me.

Interviewer: Well out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Randall: What is that supposed to mean?

Interviewer: Not sure but it seemed like the right thing to say in the moment.

Randall: I see.

Interviewer: (smiles)

Randall: The third reason I feel depressed is because I feel like I am not able to please my wife sexually at as a result I feel as if I am letting her down. I seem to be sexually inhibited and it requires a lot of effort for me to be intimate. My wife has a very healthy sexual appetite and if I was in the mood we would be having sex at least five times a week. But the problem is that I am often not in the mood and I just don’t understand why. I think my sexuality is all fucked up. I know that I am shy sexually but I just don’t understand why I can not be sexually intimate with my wife more often. My wife is one of the sexiest women I have even had the pleasure of having sex with but still this does not seem like enough. There is something deeply rooted in my sexuality that keeps me from being uninhibited and consistently sexually active and I wish I could find out what it was and change it.

Interviewer: As far as your sexuality is concerned this is a big topic and I would like to spend the next interview discussing it if possible. For now I would like to stay focused on discussing your depression if you don’t mind?

Randall: No I don’t mind but I think that I have said everything I need to say on this topic.

Interviewer: Do you talk with your wife about your depression?

Randall: Kind of. I think she gets what is going on and I try and talk about it but it is often difficult for me to open up and discuss it. It’s embarrassing that I feel this way and plus I just would rather not talk about it. It is a complex problem.

Interviewer: Complex how?

Randall: Well I know there are so many factors involved. There is also the fact that I don’t have a job at the moment. I am trying to start a psychotherapy practice but things are very slow. I also went a few days ago to a memorial service which kind of confronted me with the facts of life and death. At a deeper existential level I think I am depressed because I know that everything we work for, everything we own and love passes away. The cars, homes, art, furnitures all these things remain when we pass away but we are gone. The suddenness and finality of death make life, for me at least, seem very beautiful but also very tragic and sad.

Interviewer: Seems as if you are having a kind of existential crisis?

Randall: I have been having an existential crisis most of my life. I have been aware of these things to a degree which is probably not healthy. Whereas most people spend their lives working and trying to avoid the fact of their mortality, I have confronted it head on. It is scary to think that all of this can disappear in an instant and it is this awareness which has led to my life long struggles with anxiety, hair-raising anxiety.

Interviewer: So it seems as if while you are living you are in a perpetual state of mourning?

Randall: I do not know if it is mourning but I know it all vanishes in a second, that we age and deteriorate and for some reason this scares me and makes me sad.

Interviewer: Yeah I find it a bit depressing myself but at the same time it makes life that much more beautiful. It makes life something I want to cherish, be present with and really drink in.

Randall: It also really makes me want to do things that have meaning, to accomplish things that will out live me. I guess I get depressed when I see artists who are engaged in this process and I know that right now I am not. Having a career, having to pay bills puts a person in a situation where they are investing in things that vanish and do not stand the test of time whereas when you make art you are involved in a process that is much greater than you and the things you own.

Interviewer: But even art eventually will turn to dust.

Randall: Yeah, but if it touches enough people it will be around for a long, long time and there is something deeply gratifying about knowing that you are involved in this process.

Interviewer: So why don’t you involve yourself more in this process?

Randall: I am trying but it seems as if the motivation is just not there. I am also confused. A part of me would rather spend my days on earth working in the garden, wandering around, listening to music, sitting on benches, writing in my journal, walking my dog and just being. I have spent many years of my life making art and now a part of me just wants to do very little and be. Enjoy my life and work on myself.

Interviewer: That does not sound so bad to me.

Randall (shakes his head in agreement).

Interviewer: Well I certainly hope your depression passes soon.  I need to get going but I hope that we can continue this conversation at another time.

Randall: Sure. Thanks for listening.

Interviewer: Try to enjoy your day today. Make an effort to be positive and not think too much. Listen to music, walk around- do whatever it takes to just enjoy your day and get that feeling of happiness you spoke of earlier back.

Randall: Ok

Interviewer: Ok.

Randall: Thank you.

Interviewer: Thank you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Floating Around Limbo

Sometimes I wonder about my contributions to this world. What am I doing? What is my reason for being here? For the last month or so I have been in a kind of limbo. This limbo is a comfortable place. There is no rent to pay, no ambitions to fill, no reason really to do anything at all. Day upon day looks the same, feels relatively similar (with some occasional sharp divots in the road). The interesting thing is that in this limbo I float about two feet from the ground. Why I find this interesting is because for most of my life my mother and father made me feel guilty about not having both feet firmly planted on the ground. They have often used the metaphor of floating to describe the way that I exist in this world. Now in my middle age, the mid-afternoon of my life, day after day- I am actually floating. Take that mom and dad.

Did I mention how comfortable this limbo place feels? Imagine jumping inside of the softest down comforter. No even better than that- imagine spending the day lying face up on the softest of white sand beaches. This is what this limbo that I am in feels like. Love materialized. Would you want to leave this place? You float around all day, get tanned by the sun, read in the evenings and watch as the ambitious world runs by. It is really not a bad deal- but like most deals, it does have its downside.

I sat with a ninety-two year old Zen master the other day. To my surprise he was floating as well. Except the place in which he floated he would never refer to as a limbo, instead he likes to call it eternity. Why was I floating around with a Zen master the other day you might be wondering? Feel free to ask. Well, I will just tell you. I went to this specific zendo where I knew that this Zen master could be found. I went to him because of the thoughts that I began this story with. I was wondering about what my place in this world was. If day after day I was just floating around in limbo then what real point is there to my existence? If I was doing nothing constructive in this world, had no ambition to get both of my feet firmly planted on the ground- then how was I going to survive in this ambitious, both feet on the ground kind of world. To be blunt- what the fuck was I doing with my life?

When I asked the Zen master these questions (I am sorry to use the cliche name of Zen master to describe this remarkable man but this man does not have a name. I am not even sure if he exists in the same reality that all of us other mortals do. As he likes to say- “he is here but not here at all.”). What was I just saying? Oh yeah- when I presented the Zen master with my inner conflicts he just smiled at me. I thought that he was going to laugh but instead he smiled and floated, smiled and floated. As we floated together there in the zendo, me in limbo and he in eternity, he kept saying “Weee!! Weeeee are floating!!” He expressed this sentiment in the same way that a child swinging on a swing would express joy. “Weeeee!!” “Weeeee!!!” he kept saying as if he was ignoring the very reason why I had floated over to see him. And then like a sudden earthquake or a stroke of insight he said “when floating just float, be floating– nothing else to do. When not floating then act accordingly.” At first I did not know what to make of his strange statement. I knew there was some pearl of wisdom that I needed to fish out from what he said but I was not sure yet how to get the fish off the fishing line. So I thanked him for his time and I floated back to my limbo.

Today the temperature has been in the 90’s. There is not a cloud in the sky. I have drawn a bit in my sketchbook, I have read a bit and I have been listening to some music. I have eaten lunch and breakfast and even found time to meditate. No one goes hungry or gets bored in limbo. I can hear the rumblings of the outside world in the distance. All the people moving quickly to get things done creates a certain vibration that can not only be heard but also felt in limbo. Sometimes this vibration makes me nervous- as if I too should be marching a long, moving quickly and getting things done. I too feel like I am possibly missing out if I just float around here all day and night in my quiet and relatively safe limbo. It is a strange feeling to wrestle with all day in limbo. On the one hand I feel so blessed to not be apart of that endless march to the finish line to get things done. I feel so blessed to get to just float around my house and garden without any real, pressing worries. But at the same time I feel like I am missing out. That there are important things that I should be getting done now. This strange tension between satisfaction and dissatisfaction is the force that often makes limbo a difficult place to remain in.

Weeeee!! Weeeee!!!! I shout out as I float around the house and backyard. Weeee!! Weeeeeeee!!! I shout out as I listen to music or eat my lunch. The thrill of this satisfaction lasts a minute or two but then, on a normal day, I am left feeling like something is missing. What a pain in the ass. Maybe the Zen master is without a name because in truth- he does not exist. The other day I was not speaking to an actual man as much as I was speaking to a state of being. The Zen master dwells in eternity, which is where we all dwell forever if we just sit down and shut up for long enough to realize this. Why not start now? Granted he is a master and we are not- he got there quicker than most mortals ever will but still Zen master eternity is a place, a state of being in which I strive to dwell. To float around and just float around. When/if the time comes that I am no longer floating around in limbo- then I trust I will act accordingly. Maybe. Weeeee!! Back to my book.

At the End of a Rainbow (re-post, gosh I love this one)

Ever wonder if there is really a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow?

It had been raining for a week straight. Streets had become shallow rivers and plants were drowning in excess water. A dusty shade of gray had colored the sky until yesterday and then the clouds decided to break. I was sitting at my desk trying to keep my mind off the dismal weather outside. A pen drawing of a nude woman sat unfinished on my desk for hours because I was having difficulty staying interested in it. I had the radio on and repeatedly looked up from the drawing and stared out the window. I watched the slight drizzle and my aching eyes took delight in the birds sliding across the wet sky. Then it happened. The sun began cracking through the gray colored sky and off to my right I noticed something that I was not used to seeing through my window. What was taking shape right before my tired eyes was the birth of the most incandescent rainbow I had ever seen.

The colors of the rainbow began to form gradually and then grew into bright vibrating hues of red, yellow, blue, green and violet. I sat mesmerized at my desk watching this creation of nature unfold in front of me. For a moment I was reminded of the rainbow flag that was used in the German peasants war in the 16th century as a sign of a new era, of hope and change. So much awe overcame me that I had to go outside and watch the birth of this rainbow without the obstruction of a window. I noticed other residents of my neighborhood coming outside their homes and observing the same thing that was mesmerizing me. Bicyclists, dog walkers and joggers all stopped to watch the uncanny sight. The luminous rainbow covered the entire length of the city in which I live and owned the sky like a majestic doorway into some unknown place.

After ten minutes or so of staring at the rainbow, I slowly lost interest and decided to come back inside and finish my nude drawing. Even though what I should have been doing was spending my day looking for a job, I am a master procrastinator who will find the most obscure ways to distract myself from what really needs to get done. As I worked on the women’s hips the idea that there is a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow, popped into my mind. As a child my mother, my grandmother, a baby sitter and several of my teachers had often told me this but as I grew older other adults told me this idea was just a myth or a superstition. I believed these adults without ever really checking for myself to see if they were right or wrong. Now I was in a different predicament. I was a thirty-eight-year-old man, a victim of the great recession who was out of work and unable to pay next months rent if I did not find some money fast. When the thought occurred to me that I should go check and see if there really was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow– I said to myself “what the hell- I got nothing to lose.”

I am an average, lower middle-class man. I am a dull man with very few friends. A man who would rather not work and be left alone so I can read books, draw and roam around town. When I found myself putting on warm clothes to go on a long journey in the cold and emptying out my backpack to take with me (just in case I did find gold) the thought did occur to me that maybe I had lost my mind. “Maybe I already lost my sanity months ago and this is the real reason why I am broke and having a hard time finding a job?” I thought to myself. I tried not to listen to this judgmental voice of mine and just focused my attention on what I remember my grandmother saying to me many years ago when she showed me my first rainbow. “The end of the rainbow is further way than you think, but if you keep on walking really far you will be rewarded by finding the most beautiful pot of gold right where all those brilliant colors touch the ground,” she said to me.

It must have been below fifty degrees outside when I began my “end of the rainbow” search. I threw away the naked drawing I had been working on and fed the cat before I left. I had an empty backpack on my back, thick gloves on my hands, a wool hat covering my ears and the anticipation of an excited child inside my rapidly beating heart. As I walked I imagined to myself what my life could really be like if I found a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I would be able to not only pay my rent next month but also never again have to spend sleepless nights terrified by what I was going to do if I ran out of money. I would not have to eat beans out of a can anymore or tell my wife that I cannot afford to meet her for lunch or dinner. No more frozen food. No more ripped socks and old underwear. No more jobs and bosses I cannot stand. No more suffocating anxiety every time I spend more than a dollar. If there is a pot of gold at the end of this rainbow, I told myself, I will be free.

These thoughts caused me to walk faster. I could feel anticipation in my feet. As I walked I noticed more people stopped in the streets, watching the rainbow in a state of awe. I however did not bother to look up. I had both my eyes set on one place, and one place only- where the colors of the rainbow touched the ground. My grandmother was not wrong when she told me that I would have to walk really far. The closer I thought I was getting to the end of the rainbow the further away that it seemed to be. When I finally felt as if I had reached the end- the rainbow moved a little further from me. After an hour or so of walking frantically I was exhausted but determined not to give up. The thought did not occur to me that the end of the rainbow could be an optical illusion, like a pool of water in the middle of a hot desert. Had that thought come into my mind- I may have given up.

One belief that I have never let go of is that all perseverance is rewarded in the end. It must be! With this belief buried deep in my heart I kept on walking towards the end of the rainbow no matter how many times it seemed to change directions. I walked off road and went through horse stables, ravines, cornfields and forest areas with thick overgrown shrubbery. I felt like a warrior on the war path when in reality I was just a man who really needed money.

As I walked out from a claustrophobic cornfield that threatened to burry me alive, I finally came upon the end of the rainbow. There it was before me touching down in the middle of a dirt field in the middle of nowhere. All around was nothing but miles and miles of wide-open farmland. The end of the rainbow was not more than half a mile away from me and without a moments hesitation I began to run across the field with the slow speed and tight muscles of someone who has not exercised in months. I was willing to die for what could be at the end of that rainbow. I felt terribly out of breath as I ran but I forced myself to run faster because I was afraid that the end of the rainbow would get away. But all my determination paid off, because right when I could run no more I stood directly in front of the radiant colors of refracted light. I had made it to the place where “the brilliant colors touch the ground.” But my grandmother failed to tell me about what would happen next.

It was not until I was finally able to catch my breath that I was able to see what was in front of me. A young woman, no older then twenty-six or twenty seven, was rainbow bathing in the nude in the center of the rainbow. It took me a moment to see whether or not what I was seeing was real or just the result of my exhausted mind. Sure enough, when she sat up and looked at me with a bright smile I could see that what I was seeing was not an illusion. She was lying on a red towel that had the word Hawaii all over it. She watched me as I watched her until I finally got the courage to say, “excuse me. Ah….I do not mean to bother you…. but did you by chance…. find a pot of gold in there?” I knew that what I was saying must have sounded ridiculous, a little insane but she did not laugh or seem in the slightest bit surprised by my question. She just stood up and said to me “why don’t you get undressed and come in here and see for yourself.”

I felt my throat tighten up. I was shocked. The young woman was too beautiful, so perfect in every way that I felt like something had to be wrong. Things like this just do not happen to me. I was much older than her and could not understand why she would want to see me naked. I was slightly embarrassed but again I reminded myself that I had nothing to lose. The young lady stood there in all her nudity, patiently waiting for me to make up my confused mind. I was still thinking about the pot of gold. I so badly wanted the money. Maybe it is hidden someplace in there, maybe she is hiding it, I thought to myself. So like any desperate person would do- I said what the hell, got undressed and walked into a rainbow. She reached out her hand for me and I walked in just as naked as the day I was born- except for my wedding ring and the backpack in my hand (just in case I was going to find the pot of gold).

I remember reading someplace that the ultraviolet light put off by rainbows was beneficial for skin cells and blood. The light was filled with vitamins D, K, E, C and numerous antioxidants. I was comforted by the thoughts of these health benefits (since I have been struggling with some health challenges) as the young woman held my hand and escorted me towards her Hawaii towel. One of the only things she said to me during our time together was “there is no need to talk. Just feel and allow yourself to let go.” When we sat down side by side on the towel I tried not to stare at her naked body. I could not tell what mesmerized me more- being besides an exquisite naked young lady or being inside a rainbow. I also could not tell if it was the warm rays of a rainbow heating up my body or if it was my nervousness that was making me warm. The young woman started to rub my back with the palm of her warm hand and then whispered into my ear “lay back, let go and feel.” It was at this moment that the thought- maybe she is an angel, ran through my mind.

I followed her directions since I was in no condition to argue. I was a little concerned about getting an erection but I took my mind of off any sexual thoughts by visualizing a pound of ground beef. She lay down besides me- so close that I could feel her skin breathing. Together we lied there, not saying anything to one another, just feeling the warmth of the rainbow. Slowly I felt my eyes close and my heart slow. For the first time in months I felt my mind become still and my body felt at ease. I was hovering someplace between bliss and relaxation, feeling the individual colors and mist of the rainbow nurturing my skin. I was not cold and there were no thoughts about needing money frantically swimming around in my mind. I could swear the sun was shinning and the sky was a brilliant shade of blue. I did not worry about anything. For the first time in months- I did not think about how I was going to find a job or what I was going to do. Everything seemed to become silent except the exquisite sounds of the vibrating rainbow. The last thing I remember saying was this is fantastic before I finally let go.

When I opened my eyes I was lying naked in the middle of dirt field. I did not know if an hour or days had passed. Cold rain was falling on my body and there was no longer even an inch of sun in the sky. I looked around and all I could see was miles and miles of farmland. Besides me was my empty backpack and a few feet from me were all of my clothes neatly folded and placed in a pile. The young girl was gone and so was the rainbow. I was shivering from the cold when I got up to put on my wet pants, shirt, sweater, and shoes. I looked around to see if anyone else had witnessed what had just happened. No one. I put on my wool hat, gloves and backpack and started walking out of the dirt field. I did not feel sad, frustrated or confused. In fact I did not feel any negative emotion at all. I simply felt each step I took and listened to the raindrops as they fell all around me with a deep sense of satisfaction. When I finally made it back to the road I turned around and looked at the field that I had been lying naked in. It was at that point that I thought to myself, so that is what they mean by a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. I smiled, took a deep breath and began my long journey home.

Ants In My Pants (A respost in memory of Renee Khan)

1.

Outside my home, life is passing by. There are students on bikes with heavy backpacks filled with books. There are buses filled with pedestrians and cars filed with five-day-work-week commuters. Trucks, vans, government vehicles are all making their way through the intersection of life, that sits just outside my door. Inside my home, there are ants. Billions of ants that cannot be defeated no matter how hard I try. There are ants in the cupboard board, ants in the stove, ants in the bathtub, ants in the couch, ants in the bed and ants in my pants.

I have always been adamantly averse to killing any living thing. I preached to others the virtues of sparing a life- even if it was only a moth, mosquito, fly or spider. I have often heard myself compared to the Jains, who are members of an ancient Indian religion that prescribes a path of non-violence for all forms of living beings in this world. Whether you want to call it your karma or your luck I believed that if you took another living creatures life it would eventually reflect back upon your life in a negative way. Besides, I felt better when I let a fly, spider, mosquito or moth go free. I had the power to take its life but instead I made a more noble choice to let it be. Somehow this made me feel like I would be rewarded by the Gods who would appreciate me for all the lives that I had saved. Instead, what I have received for my virtuous acts is a home infested with little black ants.

I have been killing ants with the fervor of a Nazi. I have become convinced that all ants must die because they are polluting the sanctity of my home.  Not only is it unhygienic to live in a home with billions of black ants but it is also one of the most frustrating annoyances to constantly find then running across your arms and legs, through your hair and sometimes into your eyes and mouth. I find ants in my food and between my toes. They have made their way into my books, into my pillows and onto my toothbrushes- they are polluting my entire life, so I had no choice but to induce a full-blown fight.

I spend hours a day waging war against these annoying creatures. The ones that I can see with my naked eye are only a half of the entire gang that is infesting my home. They lodge in the ceiling and underneath the house- but it is my hope that by killing all the ants that I can see I will send a loud message to the other ants that are below ground and in the roof of my house that I am not fucking around.  I have spent over a hundred dollars on non-toxic ant spray, which I use excessively. I spray it like a hose, all through out the day, wherever I see ants congregating together. I whack them with brooms, flood them out with water, wipe them up with wet rags and have even thrown burning paper on a few. I like to watch them suffer, and when I am done with what can only be compared to waging genocide- I like to walk around and look at the piles and piles of dead ants. I know that this is a war that cannot be won- but at least I can do my part to get some sweet revenge.

2.

This morning I had a job interview. I put on one of my favorite suits and made sure that I looked just right. I shaved, put gel in my hair (something I never do) and I must say that when I looked in the mirror I did not look like a man that was living with billions of ants. I looked affluent, in an educated kind of way. I looked like I had a bank account filled with money and expensive food in my tummy. Instead I was going to a low level interview as a copy editor for a company that I had never heard of. I probably did not need to get as dressed up as I was, but since my bank account is empty- I was desperate to make a good impression. I met with a group of corporate looking people who call themselves “the board.” They put me in a single chair in front of their elongated table, behind which they all sat staring at me. They asked me a series of ridiculous questions like “why do I feel like I am the best candidate for the job?” and “what about my editing abilities makes me an effective copy editor?” I certainly did not reveal to them that I am dyslexic and have a terrible time spelling correctly but I did talk at length about my love for reading and my years of experience working as a writer and a high school English teacher.

Everything was going well until what felt like small, brief pinching sensations in my crouch began making me feel very uncomfortable. I had been noticing all morning that I was itching myself more than normal but I just assumed that was because of the starched suit I was wearing. I crossed and uncrossed my legs trying to nullify the slight pain that was starting to make its way down my legs. While I tried to maintain my composure and talk about why I thought I was the best candidate for the job- the pinching sensation intensified. It felt like I was being bitten in the strangest way. The sensation proceeded to very slowly move all the way down to the bottom of my legs and when I looked down at my shoes I could not believe what I saw, ants! My heart raced, I twitched, scratched and began to sweat. I cannot imagine what “the board” must of thought of me- but I tried to appear as confident as I could. I am hoping that they assumed that it was nervousness that caused me to twist and turn in such strange ways.

When the interview had ended, I shook all their hands and walked as quickly as I could to the bathroom, where I proceeded to take off my pants, shirt, socks, tie and shoes. I stripped down into my underwear in a bathroom stall and with tissues I wiped off the dozens of ants that were on my pants, legs, and socks and inside my shoes. I cursed the little creatures to hell before I squashed them and I even shed a few tears out of frustration rather than sorrow. “Why me?” I muttered to myself, but abstained from saying it out loud. When the bathroom was vacant I went out to use the sink and ran soapy water all over my legs, feet and chest. After what felt like hours of sanitation– I got dressed and returned home. In my car I still felt itchy all over my legs, which I prayed not to be more ants. I looked down on the floor of my car and found dozens of ants there to.

It was at this point that I decided I had lost. I threw my hands up in the air and declared “surrender” out loud. The war could not be won. The more ants that I killed the more that they multiplied. Karma had fucked me and there was nothing that could be done. I had to drive home resigned to the fact that there were ants crawling all over my legs and there was nothing I could do about it. The sensation drove me mad but all I could do was drive and breathe. For months I have been trying to avoid calling an extermination company into my home but I have decided that it is the only thing that can be done to bring my wife and I some relief. When I arrived home I took off my suit and stripped down into the nude. I noticed dozens of ants crawling around on my legs and between my toes, on the bedroom floor and when I got into the shower there were more. Under the hot water I washed away whatever sins and ants were left upon my burning body. I rinsed myself down with patchouli soap and watched the ants helplessly get funneled down the drain. The phone rang and I did not care. I heard the message on my answering machine, which was turned up much to loud. “Hello, this is Wendy from the board whom you just interviewed with. Someone found socks and a tie in our bathroom and I am almost certain that they belong to you. If these are indeed yours could you please contact me as soon as possible, I will hold them for you just in case. Thank you.”

 

My 89 New Year’s Resolutions

1) eat more walnuts and pistachios

2) impregnate wife (with her consent, of course)

3) work on overcoming anxiety

4) buy new underwear

5) recycle and compost most of my waste

6) recite a daily mantra

7) build something

8. spend more time with birds

9) spend less time on-line

10) drink less booze

11) be a better lover

12) leave less facebook status updates

13) have sex more

14) cultivate a daily meditation practice

15) make a new friend

16) get rid of a few old friends

17) contemplate the real meaning of freedom

18) be free

19) work as a Teacher

20) read more poetry

21) learn to enjoy doing the dishes

22) listen to my heart more than to my head

23) row a boat at least once a month

24) read everything Richard Brautigan has written

25) read everything John Fante has written

26) get a dog

27) become financially independent

28) remain healthy

29) continue to pursue dreams and do not be discouraged by those who have given up on their dreams

30) pay off credit card

31) grow vegetables

32) consider finding a mistress (with wife’s consent, of course)

33) spend less time alone

34) write more poetry

35) self publish a novel or book of short stories

36) practice compassion and gratitude

37) eat more (organic) hot dogs

38) bring my own shopping bags to the market

39) use less plastic

40) grow hair long (n0 haircuts)

41) ride a horse

42) participate in a protest march

43) save $2,000

44) be honest even when you feel like lying

45) publish a few poems

46) figure out where all my lost socks go

47) start feeding cat more regularly

48) sleep less

49) visit a farm

50) dance more

51) smile more

52) laugh more

53) stop listening to voices in my head

54) stop talking with the voices in my head when in public

55) surrender all need for control

56) listen deeply

57) socialize more with people even though I do not enjoy socializing

58) play board games with wife

59) volunteer someplace

60) buy more socks

61) find true self

62) hug and climb trees

63) accept my life fully without needing anything to be different

64) love

65) help others when I can, but do not sacrifice myself for others who want to get out of me whatever they can (for their own gain)

66) plant a tree

67) stop eating so much cheese

68) learn how to fix bicycles

69) cultivate a relationship with someone over the age of 75

70) buy myself a gift once a month

71) drink more herbal tea

72) plant a garden that grows dollar bills

73) embrace growing older without fear

74) go on a meditation retreat

75) iron clothes more often

76) eat less white flour

77) swim

78) let go of the future and the past, simplify

79) work towards being able to bend over from waist and touch fingers to feet

80) visit a dentist

81) get a foot massage

82) be comfortable with being weird

83) build up arm muscles (preferably, the result of having more sex)

84) work on improving my marriage

85) buy a kitchen table

86) drink more water

87) spend time with a river

88) keep fresh flowers in my home at all times

89) do not get upset with myself if I do not accomplish all these resolutions, instead remember that I did the best I can

The Bank Teller

Let me tell you somethings. Did you know that every time we inhale, we absorb oxygen expelled into the atmosphere as a waste product by the earths plant life? Every time we exhale, we expel carbon dioxide as a waste product into the atmosphere where it can eventually be absorbed by the same plant life? Did you know this? Let me also tell you that no matter where you live upon our beautiful earth you are breathing in trace amounts of depleted uranium from the bombs that the U.S are using in Iraq. Did you know that over twenty thousand children die a day from starvation? How about the fact that a plane never went into the Pentagon? Did you know that 9-11 and the war in Iraq (which has terminated the lives of over one million Iraqis) are a result of what is called War Games? Let me also tell you that Lao Tzu, the Chinese mystic believed that if we can somehow expand our narrow image of ourselves and live from our wholeness, then many of our problems will simply disappear on their own.

This is why I took the job as a Bank Teller. It allows me the opportunity to tell strangers things that they would otherwise never know. Costumers come into the bank where I work and think that they are only coming in to deposit or withdraw money. They are usually impatient and in a hurry- stuck in what Lao Tzu would call “Narrowness.” Rather than just taking their money or giving them their money I like to tell them things- expand their consciousness. It is one way that I can make an active contribution to my community and to the human race as a whole. Did you know that writing poetry and reading poetry helps you maintain dignity, it will help you to be better suited to defend yourself in the world? I said this to a middle aged women the other day who seemed aggravated and in a hurry. I could tell that her life had become a collection of material pursuits and failed dreams and I could see the frustration in her eyes. “I have always wanted to read poetry but I never have the time,” she said to me with a glimmer of hope between her eyes. “Well, you might want to make time.” Today she returned to the bank with a book of T.S Elliot poems in her hands and she seemed refreshed. “I am making the time,” she said to me with a smile as I withdrew cash for her.

Often times people come into my bank to find out about bank balances, interests rates, mortgage payments, and fees. I give them the information they want but I usually prefice it with information that I want to tell. I have a sense of urgency within me that drives me to say something. Did you know that Spirulina, dried prunes, beef liver and beer are excellent sources of copper? I said to one man who looked to me to be suffering from a copper deficiency. Because of global warming and soil erosion, human beings are no longer getting a proper amount of this valuable mineral in their diets. The lack of copper in our diets may be responsible for the majority of contemporary diseases. The next day this man came back to the bank to show me the bottle of copper supplements he bought. It is by demanding dignity and respect that you gain it, I told another costumer who was being passive aggressive with me and refused to tell me how she was really feeling. Something was triggered in her when I said this and she straightened up her posture and left my bank looking more confident.

The managers at my bank are on my back. They have accused me of spending to much time with my costumers and not moving the line at a quick enough speed. Did you know that capitalism is used to exploit workers by making them maximize profits in the quickest amount of time? “I did not,” one of the managers said to me with a look of stupefaction upon his white collard face. Yes, capitalism exhausts the worker for the betterment of the organization that they work for. This is what drives capitalism. Use the worker to maximize profits for the company. When the worker gets worn out or dies- just fill the vacancy with another worker. There will always be workers because in capitalistic societies only the very few get to enjoy the wealth of other peoples labor, I explained. “Look, you are one of our best Bank Tellers but you need to stop spending so much time chatting with your costumers so that we can maintain our banks reputation for giving expedient service.” Then he walked away without waiting for my reply.

Did you know that I am going to get fired from my position as a Bank Teller? I am expecting it any day now. At the staff meeting yesterday the bank handed out a list of strategies for normalizing behavior in bank employees. One of these strategies was to replace words with a smile to speed up the line. “Smile more and speak less.” I am not a very good employee because I do not like bosses. I don’t like being subjected to their expectations. Did you know that a real culture functions to limit greed. Our culture functions to increase it , because we are repeatedly told, it’s profitable to do so, though the majority of profits go only to a few people, I said to every one present at the meeting. People who go to work for corporations essentially abandon their integrity as individuals in order to serve the corporation, I added to the consternation of the managers. “Okay that is enough just keep smiling and maximizing profits and that is all,” the head manager said and then ended our staff meeting. If you have lost the capacity to be outraged by what is outrageous, you’re dead. Somebody ought to come and haul you off, I said on our way out from the meeting. Like I said, I have a sense of urgency- I have to say something.

Did you know that we pity Muslim women for wearing veils, yet almost every face in this country is veiled by suspicion and fear? You can’t walk down a city street an get anybody to look at you. People’s countenances are undercover operations in America. Oh, and let me also tell you the most important thing I tell costumers at my bank. That love is not abstract and cannot lead to abstract action. Love is the catalyst for concrete action, which is taking responsibility for what we do here and now. Love is not just a feeling. It’s an instruction: love one another. That’s hard to do. It does not mean to sit at home and have fond feelings. You’ve got to treat people as if you love them , whether you do or not. I know that I am holding up the line, and that I am going to loose my job as a Bank Teller- but I have to tell these things……….

True Love Waits?

Before the age of twelve I was already sticking my small penis inside various objects with holes in them. Toilet paper rolls, hoses, wine bottles, ketchup bottles and the onion bagels my mother would bring home every Sunday morning. I fashioned my own holes out of hamburger meat from the freezer, potatoes and the watermelons that my father grew in our backyard. By the age of fifteen I was a fiend who utilized everything that I could get my hands on for sexual gratification. I gave myself blow jobs with my sisters hair dryer. I stole my mothers diaphragm and stuck it up my rear end. I masturbated habitually to my fathers pornography magazines and I wondered when the time would come that I would have the opportunity to act out my fantasies on a member of the opposite sex.

When I was sixteen I tried to sneak into strip clubs with a fake ID but was rejected every time. I tried to convince a prostitute to let me stick my penis in her for fifteen dollars but she refused because she did not want to live with the guilt that she had corrupted a minor. I continued to have sex with holes and even found a way to place my penis inside of my bathroom sink drain. Desperation is the mother of all ingenuity.

When I was seventeen I had a babysitter who dressed me up like Tarzan. She stripped me down naked and tied one of my fathers belts around my waist. She then covered my crotch with a small kitchen cloth and my butt was covered with one of my fathers dress socks- both hanging from the belt. I wore my mothers tennis head band over my long hair and put my sisters red lipstick on. She would then chase me all over the house until she would tackle me on the ground and order me to “scream like the little jungle pervert you are” over and over as she tickled me relentlessly. Sometimes the cloth that covered my crotch would come off and reveal the erection that I would get when she was sitting on top of me. Her only response to this natural human phenomena was “look.. little Tarzan’s pee pee wants to say hi.” I was humiliated and immediately covered myself back up. She was never sexual with me but was rather what I would call a tease. After we were finished with our games I would sit outside on the front door steps with her and watch her smoke and blow smoke rings with big holes. I always fantasized about sticking my penis inside one of those hole but I never was able to ask her if I could.

It was not until I was eighteen that I was finally able to stick my penis inside a member of the opposite sex. I remember my mother lecturing me upon the virtues of waiting for true love until I gave away my virginity. In fact a lot of people that I knew at that time were talking about waiting until they found true love, the person that they were going to marry before they had sex. I never judged them for this decision that they seemed committed to upholding but for me the idea was insane. I was not concerned about true love, nor did I care about giving away my virginity. I wanted to fuck and if I did not do so soon I was going to be a danger to myself, my family and society. I had already started contemplating ways to stick my penis inside the beautiful white horse that lived down the street from my house. I contemplated having sex with cats and cows. When I orgasmed my semen shot ten feet into the distance because of all the pent up pressure. No, I was not concerned with true love, I needed to get laid. Like I said to my mother on my way out the front door the night that I would have sex for the first time….”mom, true love can wait.”

The Bush Lover

I am a serious lover of vagina. Not in a misogynistic way but rather I adore vagina. At times it is almost as if vagina and I are kindred spirits. Lately I have been contemplating where this odd bond comes from. I have been trying to re-live my mothers relationship with her own vagina and my fathers relations with my mother’s vagina. Nothing imparticular stands out in my mind other than a few muddied memories.

When I was born my mother told me that my head was stuck between the lips of her vagina and the outside world. It took hours to get me through what by then had become and enlarged mass of pulsating tissue. Doctors had to work diligently to get me through my mother’s vagina and then said that I demonstrated unusual resistance for an infant my size. My birth was not traumatic but rather more like the experience of getting out of bed when you desperately want to stay in it. All day long you long for a time later that day when you can return.

My mother always used to laugh about how when she would try and breast feed me I would immediately head down into the vicinity of her crotch. I did not want to be kept away and when she would return my suckling head to her breast I would break out in terrible cries. When my mom would rest with me in a chair or on the couch I would always keep my head planted in between her legs. “It is as if you wanted to go back in to where you had come from,” my mother often tells me when I talk to her about my love of vagina’s.

My therapist helped me to see how vagina’s for me are a symbol of returning to the womb. The womb for me was a pleasant place, a place of warmth and safety. The world for me is a place of fear and chronic anxiety intermixed with moments of over whelming beauty and heart felt emotion. At times it all feels like to much….and it is during these times that I most heavily long for vagina.

I don’t necessarily like the taste of vagina nor do I enjoy the act of licking around in it with my tongue. Most of the time when I am in close proximity to my wife’s vagina I will delicately use my fingers to gently pull apart the flesh and see if there is a big enough hole there for me to slip back in through. The hole is seldom big enough to fit anything larger than a bottle cork into so I usually end up resting my head upon the warmth of her naked crotch.

I often stare at other women’s vagina’s before I even look at them in the face. This is a habit that I believe I developed at birth. I am not looking at the vagina like a pervert would but rather every time I look at the area where the vagina is located I am filled with a warmth that I am at a loss to describe. It is like a feeling that one gets when they are returning home after years and years away. Sometimes I will sit on a park bench that is close to my home and spend the entire day watching vagina’s pass by. I am a 36 year old married man and I am still searching around in the bush.

When I was a younger man my friends and I all referred to vagina’s as “bush.” “Hey man did you get some bush last night?” we would always ask one another and of course the answers were almost always “well, almost but she didn’t want to put out.” I on the other hand was fortunate. One of my first girlfriends in high school loved to let me travel around in her bush. Her name was Emily Jolly and by the time she was 15 she had already been around the bases a few times. One of my friends informed me that she had also hit several grand slams (orgies).

By the age of 15 I was already obsessed with vagina’s. My school locker was filled with cut out photographs of vagina’s. When Emily Jolly told me that I could “mess with her bush” when we had not even kissed yet I became overwhelmed with a mixture of excitement and terrible anxiety. After a few weeks of waiting to get the nerve up I finally asked her if I could “see it.” We snuck behind the gym and there she lifted up her skirt and showed me what was the most magnificent thing I had ever seen. Her vagina was huge, and was covered with so much hair and vibrant pulsation that I knew it was the place I was supposed to be.

I tried several times to fit my head into her vagina but I was never able to climb all the way in. Emily loved it when I would fit my hole fist inside her- but when I proceeded to try and fit the top of my head into her she said it hurt to much. I grew jealous of my fist and often asked it what it was like inside. After the fourth or fifth time of trying to get inside her I gave up and slowly there after our relationship began to fall apart.

My wife has always been generous with my pre-occupation with vagina. She allows no jealousy to creep in when I look at other women’s vagina’s and she lets me rest my head upon her vagina for as long as I need. Some days my desire to be inside the vagina is so strong that I will cry about never ever again being able to get back in again. My tears lubricate my wife’s vagina as I lament over and over that I feel like a man who has been cruelly locked out from the very place he belongs. My wife pats my head and tells me to not worry, that every thing will be all right, but I know the truth- I know that I am a stranger in this land.