When I get asked what kind of person I am, day or night, it always half amuses and half annoys me. The good people of the world, I rationalize are the morning people. The ones that throw back the covers and leap out of bed eager to take on the world. When I wake up in the morning, I check the clock by squinting really hard (glasses off) to see what kind of bargaining leeway I have. As in, 'oh it's only quarter to 5, I can still get another 1/2 an hour to potentially 45 minutes if I dry shampoo my hair and skip contouring around my eyes, yeah and if I eat breakfast in the car I might be able to carve out another 15 minutes...' Then and only then when I can no longer bargain and the time on the clock makes it imperative that I get up, or my cat Gordon senses that I am not fully asleep and begins crying in the vernacular of his people do I shade my eyes and switch on the light. Gordon and I blink at each other, I slip on my glasses and I say the first words of the day, the same words I almost always say, " Yeah G, I know, that's brutal, okay let's go get you and Jamie some breakfast..." And then I say nothing (except for off key singing in the car) until I am at work and the first person spies me and says 'Good Morning'.
Yep, I'm not a morning person and I generally feel bad about it. Heaven knows I've tried. I read books, tried morning Zumba, yoga, positive affirmations, and some concoction of apple cider vinegar honey and cinnamon that my uncle swore by. I've taken echinacea, vitamin b, c, d, e, and k. I shocked myself with really loud music and explored existential conversations with Alexa. Nothing.
I get through mornings by adhering to an airtight schedule. In fact, I have everything timed in such a way that if anything is off by more than 2-3 minutes, I panic because I am so dependent on doing everything in such a way that guarantees me nearly the same leaving time.
I think very little in mornings, I do everything on sort of an auto-pilot, leaving very little time to have deep thoughts or hear dialog in my head.
By contrast, I'm the opposite at night. I'm almost a different person. I ruminate, I consider, I rationalize, I romanticize, I conceptualize. I ponder, expound and illustrate. I read, I write, I listen to music and dance. Sometimes I just simply watch great old movies and laugh or cry. I recite poetry out loud, mostly the Romantic poets but sometimes a little John Donne or my favorite Sonnets from the Portuguese. I always feel somehow that poetry read silently is just wrong.
I always wish there was someone here to talk to, to dance with, to recite poetry. Most of my best conversation is probably at around midnight to 3 a.m, if I was awake that is. Sometimes I am, it's as if my brain had such a great thought or there is something in my soul that will not allow slumber until I acknowledge it. The best or most inspired writing I've done has always been in the late evening or early morning hours.
Maybe it's time to make peace with this. To finally allow myself to quit feeling guilty for loving the night more than the day. It actually makes sense. I'm a closure kind of person. I'm always happiest when I lay down the completed file and cap my pen. To me beginnings (mornings) are kind of scary; I have no idea what the day will bring. The night brings the enchantments like my favorite time of day 'twilight' when the stars begin to come out and the moon peeks out from behind the dark curtain of sky. It brings completion, the relaxation of knowing you did all you could to make the day a success. At night, you can reflect on all the vagaries of life and shrug off the disappointments and rejoice in the victories.
At night, Sinatra makes more sense, dreams can become reality and the new day can be put off for just a little longer.
"It must have been moonglow way up in the blue. It must have been moonglow
that led me straight to you..."
Thursday, July 25, 2019
Thursday, July 18, 2019
Portrait of the Artist
Writers are supposed to write, so that's what I find myself doing this Thursday evening. Despite the fact that it was a really long day. One of those days where at 8:00 this morning, I already wanted to go home and the market wasn't even going to open for another hour and a half!
This was the kind of day I knew I'd just have to grind out and keep going by any means necessary. Some people survive on black coffee and bitterness. I drink peppermint tea and reward myself for work with cute cat videos.
This post has been gestating with me for some time. I am not really sure how it's going to go, but I've been feeling the need to say these things. The more out on the limb I get though, the less need I seem to have for writing prompts and Google searches.
Of late, I've been compelled to be more truthful in my writing, in everything I guess. For so long I have to admit, I didn't like myself all that much. It made it much more easy for people to take advantage of me because I was so needy. I wrote about much more mundane things, I was judgmental as hell and I sort of used this blog as a way to vent my colossal spleen at the way life was. In truth, it was more about what I was, how I allowed things to be, choosing to be a victim and cherishing and nurturing all my hurts and scars.
I don't want that anymore. I don't do that anymore. It seems though, the stronger and more independent I get, the more it seems that I alienate the very people that I want to be closest to. I don't know how to do small talk; I am a disaster at flattery and flirting and all of the social niceties that one is meant to so glibly toss around. I am starting to wonder if this condition is permanent. If I am incapable of changing and maybe most importantly, do I really want to?
When I starting taking improv lessons...acting lessons if you will, I was hoping that maybe that would lessen my torment and maybe through acting, I could become the kind of person one wants to have around. So imagine my profound surprise when after all of the work faded, the dust settled and I was the same person, albeit under better control. My friend at work, Diane said it most succinctly, "You really have no game do you?" when I came to her to ask why it seemed that I was so out of my depth with most people and in particular the opposite sex. Diane is famous for her extroverted personality and many of our clients don't consider leaving until they've seen her. She is the expert in all things relational, having before settling down, the distinction of dating several men all at the same time with none the wiser.
At my age, by my 40's, I was certain I would really have a handle on love, in both abstract and reality and that I would have finally sussed out relationships. In truth, the closest I am to understanding love is the framed Marc Chagall print (Sun and Mimosa) that hangs on my wall. In it, the lovers are encased in a bubble framed by an outsize flower arrangement out of which a blue bird tipsily tumbles from the top. It has always felt right to me. "Yep, that's the way love should feel", one encased with love in a bubble shut away from the world with an explosion of flowers conveying the deep romance felt between the subjects and a bluebird signifying happiness and fidelity.
In fact, seeing that print for the first time at a charity auction several years ago was akin to the heady feeling of attraction you first feel for an attractive person. Seeing the colors brought a rush of emotion that I hadn't hitherto experienced from a mere painting, surprising and delighting me and from that moment on, I simply craved it, needing to possess it, wanting to have it on my wall and be able to conjure up that feeling whenever I desired. I placed my bid and waited. The night passed without any announcement and I assumed I had been outbid. I can scarcely articulate the feeling I had when the phone rang the next morning and a voice apologized for not letting me know that I had been the winning bidder the night before.
I often think to myself, 'if I can have that sort of emotion within me regarding a mere painting, why should it be so hard to translate that to a human being'? I am still uncertain of the answer, uncertain as to why it works with such ease for some, more than once in many cases, and I am still searching for my one "Chagall Moment".
Or even a "Picasso Moment" which would probably require even more soul searching than I find myself capable of.
I would probably even settle for someone just saying, "You are somewhat weird and quirky but I find that fascinating so let's talk some more..."
For now, I'll content myself with the vibrant beauty and breathtaking emotion that calls to me from the Chagall print, assuring me that surely love is alive and well in some corner of the world.
This was the kind of day I knew I'd just have to grind out and keep going by any means necessary. Some people survive on black coffee and bitterness. I drink peppermint tea and reward myself for work with cute cat videos.
This post has been gestating with me for some time. I am not really sure how it's going to go, but I've been feeling the need to say these things. The more out on the limb I get though, the less need I seem to have for writing prompts and Google searches.
Of late, I've been compelled to be more truthful in my writing, in everything I guess. For so long I have to admit, I didn't like myself all that much. It made it much more easy for people to take advantage of me because I was so needy. I wrote about much more mundane things, I was judgmental as hell and I sort of used this blog as a way to vent my colossal spleen at the way life was. In truth, it was more about what I was, how I allowed things to be, choosing to be a victim and cherishing and nurturing all my hurts and scars.
I don't want that anymore. I don't do that anymore. It seems though, the stronger and more independent I get, the more it seems that I alienate the very people that I want to be closest to. I don't know how to do small talk; I am a disaster at flattery and flirting and all of the social niceties that one is meant to so glibly toss around. I am starting to wonder if this condition is permanent. If I am incapable of changing and maybe most importantly, do I really want to?
When I starting taking improv lessons...acting lessons if you will, I was hoping that maybe that would lessen my torment and maybe through acting, I could become the kind of person one wants to have around. So imagine my profound surprise when after all of the work faded, the dust settled and I was the same person, albeit under better control. My friend at work, Diane said it most succinctly, "You really have no game do you?" when I came to her to ask why it seemed that I was so out of my depth with most people and in particular the opposite sex. Diane is famous for her extroverted personality and many of our clients don't consider leaving until they've seen her. She is the expert in all things relational, having before settling down, the distinction of dating several men all at the same time with none the wiser.
At my age, by my 40's, I was certain I would really have a handle on love, in both abstract and reality and that I would have finally sussed out relationships. In truth, the closest I am to understanding love is the framed Marc Chagall print (Sun and Mimosa) that hangs on my wall. In it, the lovers are encased in a bubble framed by an outsize flower arrangement out of which a blue bird tipsily tumbles from the top. It has always felt right to me. "Yep, that's the way love should feel", one encased with love in a bubble shut away from the world with an explosion of flowers conveying the deep romance felt between the subjects and a bluebird signifying happiness and fidelity.
In fact, seeing that print for the first time at a charity auction several years ago was akin to the heady feeling of attraction you first feel for an attractive person. Seeing the colors brought a rush of emotion that I hadn't hitherto experienced from a mere painting, surprising and delighting me and from that moment on, I simply craved it, needing to possess it, wanting to have it on my wall and be able to conjure up that feeling whenever I desired. I placed my bid and waited. The night passed without any announcement and I assumed I had been outbid. I can scarcely articulate the feeling I had when the phone rang the next morning and a voice apologized for not letting me know that I had been the winning bidder the night before.
I often think to myself, 'if I can have that sort of emotion within me regarding a mere painting, why should it be so hard to translate that to a human being'? I am still uncertain of the answer, uncertain as to why it works with such ease for some, more than once in many cases, and I am still searching for my one "Chagall Moment".
Or even a "Picasso Moment" which would probably require even more soul searching than I find myself capable of.
I would probably even settle for someone just saying, "You are somewhat weird and quirky but I find that fascinating so let's talk some more..."
For now, I'll content myself with the vibrant beauty and breathtaking emotion that calls to me from the Chagall print, assuring me that surely love is alive and well in some corner of the world.
Sunday, July 7, 2019
Last Days of 44
I've been kind of feeling around trying to decide what to write about for my next post. Looking at recent posts and feeling like there have been too many lately about people who died. I don't want this to become one big obituary or online memorial. There are sites for that.
Some part of me is appalled at my candor on occasion and some part comprehends that only through true vulnerability is creativity unlocked.
Going on in my life right now, Yacht Rock has returned to Sirius XM and up until this past week I'd been doing a lot of improv. On a more practical, but no less emotional note, I'm struggling to get my cat Jamie's insulin regulated and sometimes I feel guilty that somehow his diabetes are my fault. Did I feed him too much carbohydrate laden dry food? Sometimes I feel bad for being angry that the shots I have to give him tie me down. No matter how difficult it is to get up in the morning or how late I've been out the night before, at 6 a.m., he has to eat and I have to give him that shot. The same applies for 6 p.m. My co-workers don't even bother asking me out for happy hour anymore, they know I have a 6 o'clock date that I can't cancel. If on occasion, I move the time up or back to accommodate an event, the next day he's always a little 'off' and the guilt is worse.
The Stanley Cup was a little disappointing this year. Not one of my teams made it through the playoffs. The good thing is, there is always next year.
And then, there is the fact that I am coming up on another birthday...maybe that is the whole point of this.
Lately to quote Steely Dan, I've been reeling in the years. I am about to really hit middle age. No longer in my early 40's. Somehow I am full of dread. It's like...'Hmm...maybe Mom was right to worry that I'd never find the right guy...' Then there is my own reoccurring fear that I'll die alone and the only way someone will know is when there is an overwhelming smell of decomposition coming from my home, unless of course whatever cats I have at the time (I can't imagine NOT having a cat) eat my decaying corpse because there is no other sustenance available being that I am no longer able to feed them.
I try to focus on the positive, the things I do like about myself. I actually started to make a list and then quit becoming depressed when all I could come up with was, I have good hair, I am smart and I had never deliberately pulled the wings off a butterfly or used a magnifying glass to burn ants. Then, me being me, I started to obsess about all of the stuff that isn't so good. I suck at intimacy, my slight addiction to peanut M & M's and Twix, that I never really discovered what I want to be when I grow up.
Almost worst of all happened the other day, finding my senior picture and realizing except for the color (covering up the grey) and the length, I have almost the same damn hairstyle I did when I was 18!
The worst of all are the two perceived failures. You see, it doesn't really matter how many articles you read about the joy of being single, embracing your feminism, being assertive or any of that &*(#! On Thanksgiving Day, Christmas Day, New Years Day, Valentines Day, Mother's Day and your birthday, it is borne home to you that you are unmarried and have no children.
Actually, the children part I've made peace with. I realize perhaps, that particular perceived failure is a good thing, I've always been way more into animals than kids. Even when I was younger, I didn't really like babysitting, but if you asked me to walk your dog or feed your cat, I'm like,' I'd do that for free'.
I keep hoping that there is that right person out there for me. An animal lover, who'd understand my quirkiness, who'd be comfortable with my need for music at all times, my love of art and old movies and yes, understood my deep personal relationship with M & M's and Twix.
So Happy Birthday to me. I am going to embrace my late forties like I did my early ones, and maybe the next 5 years will bring me peace and the discovery that I what I am is what I want to be when I grow up.
Some part of me is appalled at my candor on occasion and some part comprehends that only through true vulnerability is creativity unlocked.
Going on in my life right now, Yacht Rock has returned to Sirius XM and up until this past week I'd been doing a lot of improv. On a more practical, but no less emotional note, I'm struggling to get my cat Jamie's insulin regulated and sometimes I feel guilty that somehow his diabetes are my fault. Did I feed him too much carbohydrate laden dry food? Sometimes I feel bad for being angry that the shots I have to give him tie me down. No matter how difficult it is to get up in the morning or how late I've been out the night before, at 6 a.m., he has to eat and I have to give him that shot. The same applies for 6 p.m. My co-workers don't even bother asking me out for happy hour anymore, they know I have a 6 o'clock date that I can't cancel. If on occasion, I move the time up or back to accommodate an event, the next day he's always a little 'off' and the guilt is worse.
The Stanley Cup was a little disappointing this year. Not one of my teams made it through the playoffs. The good thing is, there is always next year.
And then, there is the fact that I am coming up on another birthday...maybe that is the whole point of this.
Lately to quote Steely Dan, I've been reeling in the years. I am about to really hit middle age. No longer in my early 40's. Somehow I am full of dread. It's like...'Hmm...maybe Mom was right to worry that I'd never find the right guy...' Then there is my own reoccurring fear that I'll die alone and the only way someone will know is when there is an overwhelming smell of decomposition coming from my home, unless of course whatever cats I have at the time (I can't imagine NOT having a cat) eat my decaying corpse because there is no other sustenance available being that I am no longer able to feed them.
I try to focus on the positive, the things I do like about myself. I actually started to make a list and then quit becoming depressed when all I could come up with was, I have good hair, I am smart and I had never deliberately pulled the wings off a butterfly or used a magnifying glass to burn ants. Then, me being me, I started to obsess about all of the stuff that isn't so good. I suck at intimacy, my slight addiction to peanut M & M's and Twix, that I never really discovered what I want to be when I grow up.
Almost worst of all happened the other day, finding my senior picture and realizing except for the color (covering up the grey) and the length, I have almost the same damn hairstyle I did when I was 18!
The worst of all are the two perceived failures. You see, it doesn't really matter how many articles you read about the joy of being single, embracing your feminism, being assertive or any of that &*(#! On Thanksgiving Day, Christmas Day, New Years Day, Valentines Day, Mother's Day and your birthday, it is borne home to you that you are unmarried and have no children.
Actually, the children part I've made peace with. I realize perhaps, that particular perceived failure is a good thing, I've always been way more into animals than kids. Even when I was younger, I didn't really like babysitting, but if you asked me to walk your dog or feed your cat, I'm like,' I'd do that for free'.
I keep hoping that there is that right person out there for me. An animal lover, who'd understand my quirkiness, who'd be comfortable with my need for music at all times, my love of art and old movies and yes, understood my deep personal relationship with M & M's and Twix.
So Happy Birthday to me. I am going to embrace my late forties like I did my early ones, and maybe the next 5 years will bring me peace and the discovery that I what I am is what I want to be when I grow up.
Sunday, June 16, 2019
Living my Truth
Sitting around the table with a bunch of improv colleagues the other night; we were swapping stories about life and failed relationships and our 'worst dates ever'.
I knew exactly the story to tell. It starts with me arrogantly talking up all of my love of the outdoors (I don't) and ends up with me in the water under an upside down canoe, swimming to the point of exhaustion and at one point clinging to a tree in the middle of an (I wish I was kidding) alligator infested lake. All because I didn't have the guts to be honest with the guy I was with at the time and say that I'd never been canoeing and didn't really enjoy the thought of it. I wanted his approval even at the sake of my own safety, so I lied. After I 'fessed up' and said that it had been a turning point in my life and since then, I never lie about my personality and likes and dislikes, one of my colleagues overhearing, looked at me and said, "You gotta live your truth!"
I've thought about little else since he made that seemingly innocuous remark.
What is living your truth? Do I 'live my truth'? What is my truth?
These thoughts have chased themselves round and round my brain like some sort of demented carousel ride.
I'm rarely completely candid with people. I often utilize writer's privilege using it to embellish my own life to make it seem more exciting and hedonistic than it really was, rationalizing that I am hurting no one. Except, it seems...myself.
Why do I try so hard to conceal the person who is really inside?
I guess the answer is rooted somewhere in the truth. Which is that I've lived such a comparatively sheltered and quiet life. When my parents divorce was final some 30 years ago, I walled myself off like a sort of box turtle. I swore that if love and relationships made people this miserable, I wanted no part of it. I sought solace in books and work. I studied hard, I read everything I could get my hands onto. Reading became sort of an obsession with me, how many classics could I complete, how much knowledge could I cram in my brain? I began competing with myself in class, on tests, how close could I get to a perfect score?
The other kids, just seemed like competition, a distraction, so I ignored them. The only relationships I experienced in those years lie mainly in the romance novels I read surreptitiously because I was ashamed of my craving for them. I thought myself above such 'baser' feelings. Gothic romances were especially favored because so many of the relationships in them started from a place of conflict. Conflict, that I understood, thanks to family dynamics.
So I entered my early adulthood with absolutely no social skills, no real dating life. I lived mostly inside myself. When I entered the world of work, I concentrated my efforts on learning administration, writing the best business letters, paying attention to computers, how they processed, how programs worked. Basically it boils down to the fact that I never gave much thought to relationships. My work colleagues never really knew me well and if they did ask me to join them for drinks, etc., my role usually was that of the designated driver. Living the life that I did, a latchkey kid, I grew up with hyper-responsibility. I slid into the role of the responsible co-worker/friend quite easily.
When I actually went into the dating world, I had no idea what to expect other than the fact that I wanted to experience the love and companionship that I had heretofore only experienced in novels. Men don't behave in real life the way the do in novels. I had no idea what they really wanted, so I became accommodating, needy. I just wanted to be loved and cared about, but I had no inkling how to articulate that.
All this is how I ended up under that canoe that September Sunday afternoon. I just wanted to feel connected to him, to somehow get him to love and appreciate me.
That's my real truth. I rarely did hedonistic things because I knew no one, I was always on my own, I've always been somehow accountable only to myself or to God I imagine.
It makes you less welcome in crowds, etc. I don't have as many stories to share. People tend to think of you as sanctimonious, a prig, a goody-goody. Truly though, I had no thought other than self-preservation. I wasn't trying to live this life. This is the life that I ended up with.
That's my truth and I guess the only thing that remains now is to live it and with it.
I knew exactly the story to tell. It starts with me arrogantly talking up all of my love of the outdoors (I don't) and ends up with me in the water under an upside down canoe, swimming to the point of exhaustion and at one point clinging to a tree in the middle of an (I wish I was kidding) alligator infested lake. All because I didn't have the guts to be honest with the guy I was with at the time and say that I'd never been canoeing and didn't really enjoy the thought of it. I wanted his approval even at the sake of my own safety, so I lied. After I 'fessed up' and said that it had been a turning point in my life and since then, I never lie about my personality and likes and dislikes, one of my colleagues overhearing, looked at me and said, "You gotta live your truth!"
I've thought about little else since he made that seemingly innocuous remark.
What is living your truth? Do I 'live my truth'? What is my truth?
These thoughts have chased themselves round and round my brain like some sort of demented carousel ride.
I'm rarely completely candid with people. I often utilize writer's privilege using it to embellish my own life to make it seem more exciting and hedonistic than it really was, rationalizing that I am hurting no one. Except, it seems...myself.
Why do I try so hard to conceal the person who is really inside?
I guess the answer is rooted somewhere in the truth. Which is that I've lived such a comparatively sheltered and quiet life. When my parents divorce was final some 30 years ago, I walled myself off like a sort of box turtle. I swore that if love and relationships made people this miserable, I wanted no part of it. I sought solace in books and work. I studied hard, I read everything I could get my hands onto. Reading became sort of an obsession with me, how many classics could I complete, how much knowledge could I cram in my brain? I began competing with myself in class, on tests, how close could I get to a perfect score?
The other kids, just seemed like competition, a distraction, so I ignored them. The only relationships I experienced in those years lie mainly in the romance novels I read surreptitiously because I was ashamed of my craving for them. I thought myself above such 'baser' feelings. Gothic romances were especially favored because so many of the relationships in them started from a place of conflict. Conflict, that I understood, thanks to family dynamics.
So I entered my early adulthood with absolutely no social skills, no real dating life. I lived mostly inside myself. When I entered the world of work, I concentrated my efforts on learning administration, writing the best business letters, paying attention to computers, how they processed, how programs worked. Basically it boils down to the fact that I never gave much thought to relationships. My work colleagues never really knew me well and if they did ask me to join them for drinks, etc., my role usually was that of the designated driver. Living the life that I did, a latchkey kid, I grew up with hyper-responsibility. I slid into the role of the responsible co-worker/friend quite easily.
When I actually went into the dating world, I had no idea what to expect other than the fact that I wanted to experience the love and companionship that I had heretofore only experienced in novels. Men don't behave in real life the way the do in novels. I had no idea what they really wanted, so I became accommodating, needy. I just wanted to be loved and cared about, but I had no inkling how to articulate that.
All this is how I ended up under that canoe that September Sunday afternoon. I just wanted to feel connected to him, to somehow get him to love and appreciate me.
That's my real truth. I rarely did hedonistic things because I knew no one, I was always on my own, I've always been somehow accountable only to myself or to God I imagine.
It makes you less welcome in crowds, etc. I don't have as many stories to share. People tend to think of you as sanctimonious, a prig, a goody-goody. Truly though, I had no thought other than self-preservation. I wasn't trying to live this life. This is the life that I ended up with.
That's my truth and I guess the only thing that remains now is to live it and with it.
Sunday, June 2, 2019
Blue
Sitting here trying to pick out a word that fits my state of mind...and there it was, blue. Ordinarily, to me, blue is a good thing. It's my favorite color so often I'm dressed in blue, I go near water to make myself feel better and when I think of blue, it's usually healing.
Right now though, I am in a blue funk, period of time, or feeling. It's been a rough couple of weeks, I've been fighting through a protracted illness, mostly bronchitis, but it has really hung on. One of my family members has been hospitalized multiple times due to a heart condition, and another family member is in hospice about to give up his fight.
Finally, tomorrow will be the day on which my friend Eric, should have celebrated his 45th birthday. Eric loved blue too...On the first day of my junior year in high school, I had to suddenly change schools. We moved that summer and I was distraught about losing my teachers and friends. I've never been a person who makes friends easily so I always cherish the people that I do connect with.
Eric was one of those people. I encountered him the first time in Madame Tavera's 2nd period French II class. Yes, I know I live in Florida so why did I take French? It's an easy answer, they moved me because they shut down the German class that was my first choice. I rarely do the conventional thing, like take Spanish because you live in Florida. Eric would totally understand that. He never did anything conventional either which explains why he ignored all of the prettier, well-turned out girls in class to talk to the nearsighted blond with tear streaks still on her glasses. He asked me how I was doing even though it was pretty apparent that I wasn't happy, and I wish I could remember exactly what he said, but I recall he kept telling me jokes until I laughed and cheered up.
He was the first of many artistic types of people I would meet in school, yet Eric is the person that stands out in my mind the most because he never lost his inordinate kindness, his passion for his art and he never compromised to 'fit in'.
I think of Eric a great deal when I am doing improv, knowing how much he would love it, how he and I were actually improvising long before I ever knew what it was. He would love the irreverence, the lack of rules and the unbridled creativity it engenders.
I should point out that Eric was never my boyfriend, we simply weren't 'that way' together, but we just seemed to get each other. I wasn't even one of his closest friends, but it seems that whenever he was down, he'd find his way over to my computer in the newspaper office or my desk in classes and I would return the favor, telling him jokes until he smiled. I always tried to see his art shows and I was always awed at what he'd created.
About a month before he died at the age of 21, I ran into him at a local Subway and we made tentative plans to meet again to 'catch up' but I didn't follow up. I cannot even articulate how much regret and how many times I've thought of that, wishing it had been different. The circumstances of his death are grisly and I simply don't think this is the place to recant them.
Eric's influences are many. For instance, I always name my cars because he called his car Sharona and I thought that was the greatest. If I see people who seem distressed or unhappy, I talk to them first, always remembering what Eric did for me. Whenever I hear, well, just about anything on 1st Wave on Sirius XM, I think of him, but in particular, "What Have I Done to Deserve This" by Pet Shop Boys/Dusty Springfield, and Morrissey songs.
I wish so much that I could know what he would have been like in his 40's. I mourn the art he should have created, and every time I write this blog or challenge myself at improv or spend time in a gallery, I try in my own way to honor what he taught me.
So today, I'm blue. And I am going to ride it out. Maybe there are just times when you need to mourn to appreciate life for what it is and cherish the people who are here and the ones who are never really gone as long as you remember them.
Right now though, I am in a blue funk, period of time, or feeling. It's been a rough couple of weeks, I've been fighting through a protracted illness, mostly bronchitis, but it has really hung on. One of my family members has been hospitalized multiple times due to a heart condition, and another family member is in hospice about to give up his fight.
Finally, tomorrow will be the day on which my friend Eric, should have celebrated his 45th birthday. Eric loved blue too...On the first day of my junior year in high school, I had to suddenly change schools. We moved that summer and I was distraught about losing my teachers and friends. I've never been a person who makes friends easily so I always cherish the people that I do connect with.
Eric was one of those people. I encountered him the first time in Madame Tavera's 2nd period French II class. Yes, I know I live in Florida so why did I take French? It's an easy answer, they moved me because they shut down the German class that was my first choice. I rarely do the conventional thing, like take Spanish because you live in Florida. Eric would totally understand that. He never did anything conventional either which explains why he ignored all of the prettier, well-turned out girls in class to talk to the nearsighted blond with tear streaks still on her glasses. He asked me how I was doing even though it was pretty apparent that I wasn't happy, and I wish I could remember exactly what he said, but I recall he kept telling me jokes until I laughed and cheered up.
He was the first of many artistic types of people I would meet in school, yet Eric is the person that stands out in my mind the most because he never lost his inordinate kindness, his passion for his art and he never compromised to 'fit in'.
I think of Eric a great deal when I am doing improv, knowing how much he would love it, how he and I were actually improvising long before I ever knew what it was. He would love the irreverence, the lack of rules and the unbridled creativity it engenders.
I should point out that Eric was never my boyfriend, we simply weren't 'that way' together, but we just seemed to get each other. I wasn't even one of his closest friends, but it seems that whenever he was down, he'd find his way over to my computer in the newspaper office or my desk in classes and I would return the favor, telling him jokes until he smiled. I always tried to see his art shows and I was always awed at what he'd created.
About a month before he died at the age of 21, I ran into him at a local Subway and we made tentative plans to meet again to 'catch up' but I didn't follow up. I cannot even articulate how much regret and how many times I've thought of that, wishing it had been different. The circumstances of his death are grisly and I simply don't think this is the place to recant them.
Eric's influences are many. For instance, I always name my cars because he called his car Sharona and I thought that was the greatest. If I see people who seem distressed or unhappy, I talk to them first, always remembering what Eric did for me. Whenever I hear, well, just about anything on 1st Wave on Sirius XM, I think of him, but in particular, "What Have I Done to Deserve This" by Pet Shop Boys/Dusty Springfield, and Morrissey songs.
I wish so much that I could know what he would have been like in his 40's. I mourn the art he should have created, and every time I write this blog or challenge myself at improv or spend time in a gallery, I try in my own way to honor what he taught me.
So today, I'm blue. And I am going to ride it out. Maybe there are just times when you need to mourn to appreciate life for what it is and cherish the people who are here and the ones who are never really gone as long as you remember them.
Saturday, May 18, 2019
The 101st
Without realizing it, my last post brought me to a milestone, my 100th. Somebody out there is like, “Wait a minute, “I only count 89!” If that’s you, I’m torn between being flattered and worried. Flattered that you actually read this and worried that you counted blog posts. I only have 89 posts because the others were either, considered by me, to be too personal, borderline offensive, or just plain awful to release. Some were released and much like Disney movies, returned ‘to the vault’ because something changed or I felt they no longer represented my true feelings.
Life is messy, relationships are weird, unpredictable and much like water when it spills from a glass, flow where they will flow.
I decided for my 101st to make this a sort of time capsule for me to come back to. I completed a Things About Me quiz, the kind that people tag you to do on Facebook. Here it is:
1. Are you named after anyone?
A. Actually no, when I asked my parents who I was named after, they shrugged their
shoulders and said “we just liked the name”. Recently I learned that it was my
Dad who ultimately picked it.
2. Where did you grow up?
A. In the suburbs of Orlando, Fl.
3. What inspires you?
A. Reinvention. People who no matter how old they are, or the circumstances of their life,
continue to reinvent themselves, who have fears but do it anyway. Also, creativity, being
with creative people tends to inspire me to be more creative myself.
4. What has required the most courage of you in your life so far?
A. There have actually been a couple things. The first time I went on stage to do improv. I was really nervous the first time I performed a ballroom routine in front of an adjudicator.
The time I needed the most courage though, was giving the eulogy at my Auntie G’s funeral.
5. What is your favorite childhood memory?
A. Being with my grandparents on my birthday. They always made it a point to delay going
back north until after my birthday in early July. It must have been a sacrifice, not getting
back to their friends and other family, but it meant the world to me that they were with me
on that day. We went to Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlor and had special birthday sundaes. Every
birthday in spite of the fact that they passed away several years ago, I still miss them.
6. Are you a good cook?
A. Actually I am. My dad graduated from culinary school and created two (2) restaurants, owning and operating an italian restaurant when I was born and he passed a lot of his knowledge
and techniques to me. I am told he built a nursery in the back of the restaurant so that I
could be with my parents when they were working. To this day, I love to cook, particularly
italian food.
7. Do you sing in the shower?
A. Absolutely. I sing in the shower, in the car, in the kitchen, at my desk while working, when I
am working out, basically all the time. I’m pretty annoying about it. What do I sing…where do I start? Broadway show tunes, 80’s top forty, country songs, Motown, Disney songs (a lot), and people are usually shocked to hear how much ABBA I sing.
8. If you could eliminate one weakness or limitation in your life, what would it be?
A. Self Doubt. I wish I trusted myself and my instincts more. It would help my improv, writing and a lot of other things as well.
9. Who was your first celebrity crush?
A. Probably everyone, including my Mom and Dad assumed my first celebrity crush was Ricky
Schroeder. I thought he was the one everyone wanted me to like, so I was like, ‘okay, I think
Ricky Schroeder is cute’. I didn’t. My first celebrity crush was really Julian Lennon, and I still find him attractive. For the record, I never usually like who I am ‘supposed to’, i.e., I never found Leonardo Di Caprio, Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise particularly attractive. However, I’ve been
in love with Robert Downey Jr., for years. I’ve always loved him 3000.
10. What is something that amazes you?
A. I read that sea otters hold hands (flippers) while they sleep so they don’t drift apart or lose
contact with each other. I don’t know if I am more amazed or touched by that.
11. Are you a morning person or a night owl?
A. Night Owl. I have to get up early most mornings for work, so I’ve learned to ‘do mornings’, but my mind and my sociability, etc. are most active at night.
12. What is the last movie you saw at the cinema?
A. Avengers- Endgame. Actually I believe I’ve seen all 22 in the MCU (Marvel
Cinematic Universe) and heretical as it may be, my heart still belongs to Thor: Ragnarok. I’ve
never laughed as hard or left a movie feeling as great as I did after Ragnarok.
13. Are you 'high maintenance'?
A. It depends on who you ask. I've been called many things, intimidating, complicated, and my co-worker used to call me a princess until I finally broke down and said how much it bothered me. The intimidating moniker baffles me, to this day I can't listen to Don McClean's 'Vincent' without tearing up and I'm actually very soft-hearted, but I don't often show it. Maybe all of this boils down to being a little, 'high maintenance'.
14. Do you believe in love at first sight?
A. I used to. Now I am more inclined to think that often attraction is mistaken for love. I've been attracted to people at first sight. I think that's a chemical reaction in our brain where we are hard-wired to value some features more than others. To me, love is something that develops over a period of time, and it isn't always a person that we are going to date or be with intimately. It's a person who has your best interests at heart and for some reason, you share kinship, common goals or just when you see them, your heart is full of affection for them. You cherish their dreams and their goals and want the best for them. It doesn't mean they are the right partner for you. I think finding the right partner takes time and work to develop.
15. How old were you when you found out Santa isn't real?
A. Santa isn't real! Actually I don't know that I was ever really encouraged to believe in Santa, per se. It wasn't really emphasized in my home. I do though to this day, believe in the spirit of Santa. I love those stories of people who perform random acts of kindness or make a little kids' day with a new bike. In fact, that's what I love best about Christmas, how it (hopefully) brings out the best in us, brings out joy, where we laugh a little more with each other and remember all of the good and the bad that happened in the year.
Thanks for reading the last 89. Now you know a little bit more about me, ( I do too) and my values.
See you next time.
Life is messy, relationships are weird, unpredictable and much like water when it spills from a glass, flow where they will flow.
I decided for my 101st to make this a sort of time capsule for me to come back to. I completed a Things About Me quiz, the kind that people tag you to do on Facebook. Here it is:
1. Are you named after anyone?
A. Actually no, when I asked my parents who I was named after, they shrugged their
shoulders and said “we just liked the name”. Recently I learned that it was my
Dad who ultimately picked it.
2. Where did you grow up?
A. In the suburbs of Orlando, Fl.
3. What inspires you?
A. Reinvention. People who no matter how old they are, or the circumstances of their life,
continue to reinvent themselves, who have fears but do it anyway. Also, creativity, being
with creative people tends to inspire me to be more creative myself.
4. What has required the most courage of you in your life so far?
A. There have actually been a couple things. The first time I went on stage to do improv. I was really nervous the first time I performed a ballroom routine in front of an adjudicator.
The time I needed the most courage though, was giving the eulogy at my Auntie G’s funeral.
5. What is your favorite childhood memory?
A. Being with my grandparents on my birthday. They always made it a point to delay going
back north until after my birthday in early July. It must have been a sacrifice, not getting
back to their friends and other family, but it meant the world to me that they were with me
on that day. We went to Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlor and had special birthday sundaes. Every
birthday in spite of the fact that they passed away several years ago, I still miss them.
6. Are you a good cook?
A. Actually I am. My dad graduated from culinary school and created two (2) restaurants, owning and operating an italian restaurant when I was born and he passed a lot of his knowledge
and techniques to me. I am told he built a nursery in the back of the restaurant so that I
could be with my parents when they were working. To this day, I love to cook, particularly
italian food.
7. Do you sing in the shower?
A. Absolutely. I sing in the shower, in the car, in the kitchen, at my desk while working, when I
am working out, basically all the time. I’m pretty annoying about it. What do I sing…where do I start? Broadway show tunes, 80’s top forty, country songs, Motown, Disney songs (a lot), and people are usually shocked to hear how much ABBA I sing.
8. If you could eliminate one weakness or limitation in your life, what would it be?
A. Self Doubt. I wish I trusted myself and my instincts more. It would help my improv, writing and a lot of other things as well.
9. Who was your first celebrity crush?
A. Probably everyone, including my Mom and Dad assumed my first celebrity crush was Ricky
Schroeder. I thought he was the one everyone wanted me to like, so I was like, ‘okay, I think
Ricky Schroeder is cute’. I didn’t. My first celebrity crush was really Julian Lennon, and I still find him attractive. For the record, I never usually like who I am ‘supposed to’, i.e., I never found Leonardo Di Caprio, Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise particularly attractive. However, I’ve been
in love with Robert Downey Jr., for years. I’ve always loved him 3000.
10. What is something that amazes you?
A. I read that sea otters hold hands (flippers) while they sleep so they don’t drift apart or lose
contact with each other. I don’t know if I am more amazed or touched by that.
11. Are you a morning person or a night owl?
A. Night Owl. I have to get up early most mornings for work, so I’ve learned to ‘do mornings’, but my mind and my sociability, etc. are most active at night.
12. What is the last movie you saw at the cinema?
A. Avengers- Endgame. Actually I believe I’ve seen all 22 in the MCU (Marvel
Cinematic Universe) and heretical as it may be, my heart still belongs to Thor: Ragnarok. I’ve
never laughed as hard or left a movie feeling as great as I did after Ragnarok.
13. Are you 'high maintenance'?
A. It depends on who you ask. I've been called many things, intimidating, complicated, and my co-worker used to call me a princess until I finally broke down and said how much it bothered me. The intimidating moniker baffles me, to this day I can't listen to Don McClean's 'Vincent' without tearing up and I'm actually very soft-hearted, but I don't often show it. Maybe all of this boils down to being a little, 'high maintenance'.
14. Do you believe in love at first sight?
A. I used to. Now I am more inclined to think that often attraction is mistaken for love. I've been attracted to people at first sight. I think that's a chemical reaction in our brain where we are hard-wired to value some features more than others. To me, love is something that develops over a period of time, and it isn't always a person that we are going to date or be with intimately. It's a person who has your best interests at heart and for some reason, you share kinship, common goals or just when you see them, your heart is full of affection for them. You cherish their dreams and their goals and want the best for them. It doesn't mean they are the right partner for you. I think finding the right partner takes time and work to develop.
15. How old were you when you found out Santa isn't real?
A. Santa isn't real! Actually I don't know that I was ever really encouraged to believe in Santa, per se. It wasn't really emphasized in my home. I do though to this day, believe in the spirit of Santa. I love those stories of people who perform random acts of kindness or make a little kids' day with a new bike. In fact, that's what I love best about Christmas, how it (hopefully) brings out the best in us, brings out joy, where we laugh a little more with each other and remember all of the good and the bad that happened in the year.
Thanks for reading the last 89. Now you know a little bit more about me, ( I do too) and my values.
See you next time.
Sunday, May 5, 2019
You Are Special (Phil and Me)
I've put this one off for quite a while. I've been writing though, since the moment, Rick put a hand on my shoulder and said simply, "Phil passed away last night..."
Phil went to heaven on Oct 31, 2018.
Who was he?
In the simplest terms, he was a financial advisor. What we both couldn't have known when I started out as a wet behind the ears sales assistant was that I would be the last sales assistant he ever worked with and he would be so much more than just another financial advisor to me. He would become a friend, a confidant, a second grandfather.
Sometimes I think about Phil being in heaven and I always see him seated at some sort of celestial desk, mahogany with brass fixtures and he's dressed in a white double-breasted suit with gold pinstripes. Sort of a heavenly stock trader if you will. As ever, he's watching a ticker, maybe trading shares of commodities like gold, myrrh, frankincense, rubies, etc.
That's how I best remember him, sitting there, a be-spectacled diminutive grey-haired man behind a massive desk, his eyes fixed on the television waiting for the pundits to do their thing, then the light coming into his eyes when he fixed on his prize, usually a bio-tech of some sort and then he'd start working the phones calling all his top-tier clients, making the trades. He'd come out of his office, walk to my desk and drop a screed of stock reports on my desk saying jubilantly, "this is it Jill, Leopold Pharmaceuticals!"Make sure these are mailed out to Rupert Wallace!" Then he'd come a little closer and say, "Now, tomorrow I think we'll bottom out, but by Thursday, we're talking at least a 1-2 point spread!"
In the stock market, there are few hard and fast rules, compliance not withstanding, someone is always either in the money, at the money or out of the money. Phil was generally all three at different times, but his enthusiasm never waned. He loved the cut and thrust of the market. Truthfully, I think he would have worked for free.
After the excitement of the new hot tip died down, usually at about 10:30, Phil would leave the office and walk several laps around the parking lot getting in his exercise, he lunched around 11:00, generally Panera soup or his favorite thing, a Chik Fil-A sandwich, coming back to the office at around 12:00 whereupon he allowed himself one snack size Kit-Kat that he kept in the freezer door of the office refrigerator. Then it was back to his office to check up on the markets, snooze for a bit in his chair, and leave the office promptly at 2:00 p.m. to go home for his nap.
After all, when I started work as his assistant, he was 84 years young.
Despite the difference in our ages, Phil and I shared a lot in common, we were both stubborn Germanic types, both bull-dog in our tenacity and our work ethic, we loved cats and we loved movies. Many mornings as I came in to the office, Phil would already be in the office kitchen making the generally agreed upon worst coffee in the world, and he and I would always talk movies. Phil was unique in that, despite being born in 1930, he wasn't stuck in that time. In fact, while I enthused about movies from his childhood, Phil would scoff, full of his enthusiasm for the latest blockbuster installment in the Marvel franchise or Disney. He liked to relate in some detail all of the plot, so if I didn't want to know or hadn't seen a movie, I would have to quickly change the subject.
When the day finally came when Phil acquiesced to retire at age 86, I organized most of his retirement party, and as per usual, I worked hard on it, rushing around, checking details, working furiously to dull the ache inside about the coming days when he'd no longer be around every day to chat about movies, cats, Indy racing and life.
When the last moment came, the last piece of cake eaten, the last glass of sparkling wine drunk, before taking that last walk to his car as a full fledged broker, Phil sought me out. I was cleaning the conference room, carrying out bags of trash full of all the detritus of any good party and he stopped me, hugged me, and then, something I will never forget, he took hold of my shoulders looked me square in the eyes and said, "You. Are. Special... you're special!"
I am not humble-bragging. To this moment, I would have given anything to truly understand what he meant by that. So many times to me, I'm so ordinary, so unremarkable. When I look in the mirror, I mostly wish the other image was cuter, thinner, prettier. What Phil saw, I'll never know, but I'll never forget it.
After that, in the next year or so, he came around to visit every so often, stubbornly refusing to use the cane he'd been prescribed, so my co-workers and I took it in turn, to watch him surreptitiously, hiding behind walls and plants to avoid injuring his pride but so that we could have the piece of mind that he'd not fallen as he made his rickety way to his car. He always managed to somehow make me feel that he still thought of me as special, important.
When the moment came last autumn, that he'd had a fall that required surgery but he couldn't seem recover from, Rick, another of the brokers advised,
"Jill, if you want to see him again, I wouldn't wait."
I took the injunction for what it was, made my way to the hospital, dreading the moment where I'd have to see him, not full of life and hugs and kind words, but hooked to machines with tubes and wires everywhere, and up in that small hospital room, Phil and I had our final conversation.
The nurse insisted he could still understand despite being heavily sedated. This time it was a one-sided conversation, I did all of the talking and sometimes begging, wishing that he'd sit up and just... anything, argue, get stubborn, spoil the plot of another movie for me...I talked, telling him all about the office, the markets. I explained improv and the triangle of the scene, telling him about all the people I met doing scenes and how much I loved it. Then I just sat in the chair next his bed unable to contain my tears any longer, knowing that I was going to have to finish the conversation and not knowing how. And then I said, "Phil, you are special, you mean more to me than I have words to tell you!" And with a last look at him, I walked away.
I'm different since Phil died; I found myself wanting to share with others what he taught me. People need to be told they are special, that they mean something to you.
I was stingy with myself before Phil, now I write the email or leave the message, no matter how awkward or emotionally naked I may feel afterward. Sometimes there are replies and sometimes there is silence and that's okay too. For me, it's knowing that I've taken the time and told you how special you are and how important your presence in my life is to me. Sometimes life is just showing up, being there for, and somehow letting each other know that you are special.
In this way, for me, Phil lives on.
Phil went to heaven on Oct 31, 2018.
Who was he?
In the simplest terms, he was a financial advisor. What we both couldn't have known when I started out as a wet behind the ears sales assistant was that I would be the last sales assistant he ever worked with and he would be so much more than just another financial advisor to me. He would become a friend, a confidant, a second grandfather.
Sometimes I think about Phil being in heaven and I always see him seated at some sort of celestial desk, mahogany with brass fixtures and he's dressed in a white double-breasted suit with gold pinstripes. Sort of a heavenly stock trader if you will. As ever, he's watching a ticker, maybe trading shares of commodities like gold, myrrh, frankincense, rubies, etc.
That's how I best remember him, sitting there, a be-spectacled diminutive grey-haired man behind a massive desk, his eyes fixed on the television waiting for the pundits to do their thing, then the light coming into his eyes when he fixed on his prize, usually a bio-tech of some sort and then he'd start working the phones calling all his top-tier clients, making the trades. He'd come out of his office, walk to my desk and drop a screed of stock reports on my desk saying jubilantly, "this is it Jill, Leopold Pharmaceuticals!"Make sure these are mailed out to Rupert Wallace!" Then he'd come a little closer and say, "Now, tomorrow I think we'll bottom out, but by Thursday, we're talking at least a 1-2 point spread!"
In the stock market, there are few hard and fast rules, compliance not withstanding, someone is always either in the money, at the money or out of the money. Phil was generally all three at different times, but his enthusiasm never waned. He loved the cut and thrust of the market. Truthfully, I think he would have worked for free.
After the excitement of the new hot tip died down, usually at about 10:30, Phil would leave the office and walk several laps around the parking lot getting in his exercise, he lunched around 11:00, generally Panera soup or his favorite thing, a Chik Fil-A sandwich, coming back to the office at around 12:00 whereupon he allowed himself one snack size Kit-Kat that he kept in the freezer door of the office refrigerator. Then it was back to his office to check up on the markets, snooze for a bit in his chair, and leave the office promptly at 2:00 p.m. to go home for his nap.
After all, when I started work as his assistant, he was 84 years young.
Despite the difference in our ages, Phil and I shared a lot in common, we were both stubborn Germanic types, both bull-dog in our tenacity and our work ethic, we loved cats and we loved movies. Many mornings as I came in to the office, Phil would already be in the office kitchen making the generally agreed upon worst coffee in the world, and he and I would always talk movies. Phil was unique in that, despite being born in 1930, he wasn't stuck in that time. In fact, while I enthused about movies from his childhood, Phil would scoff, full of his enthusiasm for the latest blockbuster installment in the Marvel franchise or Disney. He liked to relate in some detail all of the plot, so if I didn't want to know or hadn't seen a movie, I would have to quickly change the subject.
When the day finally came when Phil acquiesced to retire at age 86, I organized most of his retirement party, and as per usual, I worked hard on it, rushing around, checking details, working furiously to dull the ache inside about the coming days when he'd no longer be around every day to chat about movies, cats, Indy racing and life.
When the last moment came, the last piece of cake eaten, the last glass of sparkling wine drunk, before taking that last walk to his car as a full fledged broker, Phil sought me out. I was cleaning the conference room, carrying out bags of trash full of all the detritus of any good party and he stopped me, hugged me, and then, something I will never forget, he took hold of my shoulders looked me square in the eyes and said, "You. Are. Special... you're special!"
I am not humble-bragging. To this moment, I would have given anything to truly understand what he meant by that. So many times to me, I'm so ordinary, so unremarkable. When I look in the mirror, I mostly wish the other image was cuter, thinner, prettier. What Phil saw, I'll never know, but I'll never forget it.
After that, in the next year or so, he came around to visit every so often, stubbornly refusing to use the cane he'd been prescribed, so my co-workers and I took it in turn, to watch him surreptitiously, hiding behind walls and plants to avoid injuring his pride but so that we could have the piece of mind that he'd not fallen as he made his rickety way to his car. He always managed to somehow make me feel that he still thought of me as special, important.
When the moment came last autumn, that he'd had a fall that required surgery but he couldn't seem recover from, Rick, another of the brokers advised,
"Jill, if you want to see him again, I wouldn't wait."
I took the injunction for what it was, made my way to the hospital, dreading the moment where I'd have to see him, not full of life and hugs and kind words, but hooked to machines with tubes and wires everywhere, and up in that small hospital room, Phil and I had our final conversation.
The nurse insisted he could still understand despite being heavily sedated. This time it was a one-sided conversation, I did all of the talking and sometimes begging, wishing that he'd sit up and just... anything, argue, get stubborn, spoil the plot of another movie for me...I talked, telling him all about the office, the markets. I explained improv and the triangle of the scene, telling him about all the people I met doing scenes and how much I loved it. Then I just sat in the chair next his bed unable to contain my tears any longer, knowing that I was going to have to finish the conversation and not knowing how. And then I said, "Phil, you are special, you mean more to me than I have words to tell you!" And with a last look at him, I walked away.
I'm different since Phil died; I found myself wanting to share with others what he taught me. People need to be told they are special, that they mean something to you.
I was stingy with myself before Phil, now I write the email or leave the message, no matter how awkward or emotionally naked I may feel afterward. Sometimes there are replies and sometimes there is silence and that's okay too. For me, it's knowing that I've taken the time and told you how special you are and how important your presence in my life is to me. Sometimes life is just showing up, being there for, and somehow letting each other know that you are special.
In this way, for me, Phil lives on.
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