Sometimes its the little things that drive home how much I miss Adam.
Whenever I was interested in a new guy from an online dating site, I'd copy over his picture to Adam and title the e-mail "Who is this man?"
Adam loved playing Who is this man? He was often amazingly accurate on the basic parameters of age, profession, and hobbies. Of course from there we'd often get quite silly, speculating on all matters of the individual's private life and desires.
There is a new guy I'm interested in.
I really need to send Adam a "Who is this man?" e-mail.
Damn.
I miss him.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
I like this
"You have to take yourself seriously. So what I did was concentrate on the song."
- Susan Boyle
We all know her story by now. Unforgivably old Scottish woman comes out onto the stage, looks and sounds like Shrek when she talks, and then launches into the most angelic vocal performance of all time. When asked in a talk show interview later how she felt when people initially laughted at her, her answer was the quote above.
We are but conduits for what we can deliver.
Oy. That sounded cheesy.
Let me try again: She focused on the song, not herself.
When you start getting close to 50 -if you've made any kind of spiritual progress at all- you start to realize the song matters more than you do.
There's talk on the internet of Susan Boyle needing a makeover. Yes, her eyebrows could use a little work (perhaps with the help of a lawnmower), but other than that I really hope she continues to be herself. She's a great reminder that the plain people can be more beautiful than the beautiful people. And it's just kind of cool knowing she could kick Paris Hilton's ass.
- Susan Boyle
We all know her story by now. Unforgivably old Scottish woman comes out onto the stage, looks and sounds like Shrek when she talks, and then launches into the most angelic vocal performance of all time. When asked in a talk show interview later how she felt when people initially laughted at her, her answer was the quote above.
We are but conduits for what we can deliver.
Oy. That sounded cheesy.
Let me try again: She focused on the song, not herself.
When you start getting close to 50 -if you've made any kind of spiritual progress at all- you start to realize the song matters more than you do.
There's talk on the internet of Susan Boyle needing a makeover. Yes, her eyebrows could use a little work (perhaps with the help of a lawnmower), but other than that I really hope she continues to be herself. She's a great reminder that the plain people can be more beautiful than the beautiful people. And it's just kind of cool knowing she could kick Paris Hilton's ass.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
I have no idea why I'm posting this
As mentioned in my last post, when I lived in Denver I often used to take Pearl for long walks. Washington Park was one of our favorite places. One day we ran into my friend's 12 year old son. He asked what the dog's name was and I told him Pearl. He looked at me and said "Are you serious??!"
An hour later my friend called me, laughing. "Louie told me you have a dog named HURL!"
An hour later my friend called me, laughing. "Louie told me you have a dog named HURL!"
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
A Happy Memory
A strong bond in my friendship with Adam was our love of dogs. Around 1994 I briefly dated a massage therapist named Andrew. Andrew had a black lab named Pearl. Snicker if you must, but Pearl was a spiritually evolved dog. She was intuitive and emotionally expressive to a level I'd never seen in a canine. Andrew and I only lasted a few months; no big whoop. But my bond with Pearl was so strong I continued to see her. I lived close by, so I took her for long walks several times a week. Sometimes Adam and I would walk her in a park halfway between where we both lived.
Adam loved Pearl and Pearl loved Adam. Pearl was a friendly dog, but the way she responded to Adam was amazing. Her face would light up when she saw him. She would radiate pure joy. I could practically hear her say "ADAM!!!!!"
One time Adam and I agreed to meet in the park. Pearl and I got there a few minutes before him. Pearl hadn't seen Adam for a few months, so when he pulled into the parking lot she went beserk. I let her run to the car. Adam had rolled the passenger window down to say hello. I thought Pearl was going to put her paws up on the ledge to better see him. Her love for him was too strong to settle for that. In a bizarre, miracle-of-science manner she manuvered her fat body up the side of the car and through the window until she next to the object of her adoration. I'll never forget what she looked like when she was halfway up. I thought she'd never make it, but she did. We're talking some serious love here.
Dogs know who the nice people are.
Adam loved Pearl and Pearl loved Adam. Pearl was a friendly dog, but the way she responded to Adam was amazing. Her face would light up when she saw him. She would radiate pure joy. I could practically hear her say "ADAM!!!!!"
One time Adam and I agreed to meet in the park. Pearl and I got there a few minutes before him. Pearl hadn't seen Adam for a few months, so when he pulled into the parking lot she went beserk. I let her run to the car. Adam had rolled the passenger window down to say hello. I thought Pearl was going to put her paws up on the ledge to better see him. Her love for him was too strong to settle for that. In a bizarre, miracle-of-science manner she manuvered her fat body up the side of the car and through the window until she next to the object of her adoration. I'll never forget what she looked like when she was halfway up. I thought she'd never make it, but she did. We're talking some serious love here.
Dogs know who the nice people are.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
A Culture of Two
Do you know what it means for a person to be "too hey mommy"? Do you ever look at your called ID and then answer your phone "Whyeeee?" If you hear the word round do you immediately feel compelled to say "rounded and sexy"?
No, of course you don't. Those things were shared by Adam and me alone. I could explain each one, and the many more we had in our lexicon but they still wouldn't make sense to you. They made sense to us. Adam and I had a culture of two.
In Phoenix, an email circulated around to the women in my office. It asked all kinds of questions designed to give coworkers new insights into each other. One of the questions was "Are you strong?" My answer was "Is there a choice?"
It seemed like a dumb question. Of course we're strong. Life is tough, and we're getting through it aren't we?
It's possible that Adam was able to make the decision he did because he was strong. It's more likely that he made the decision because he wasn't. Regardless, he was a beautiful soul. He was warm, generous, sensitive, brilliant, creative, funny,and very unique.
It's entirely too trite to say he was one of the best friends I've ever had. He and I could have written each other's biography. For the majority of our 18 year friendship we inhabited a mental space together that was separate from the rest of the world. For a long period of time it was like an addicition. When we both lived in Denver, we saw each other maybe once a month. But for many years, in Denver and then all the other places our lives took us, we'd talk on the phone every day. Often for hours.
We had always shared the goings on in our lives. I was the first person he called when his daughter was born. We vented our frustrations and often confided in each other. But the singular defining feature of our friendship was this strange, playful mind space we shared. When we were there we were where we really lived -in a land of almost frenetic imagination, inspiration and joy. It was a place where we routinely laughed so hard we gasped to get out our next thoughts. The fact that it sheltered us from the harsher realities of life, which neither of us could tolerate well, was an added benefit.
Looking back on it now, I realize Adam was even more sensitive than me. Loud noises distressed him. Urban energy with its chaos and crime was like being in a jungle for him. He always sensed the predators might get too close and pounce. Mean people were incomprehensible to him. He breathed oxygen and they breathed poison. When they got too close and exhaled their fumes, they made him sick. I've learned that there were some very mean people at the end of his life.
In the past seven or eight years, Adam and I both had increased responsibilites and pressures in our lives. We didn't have as much time to be in our space together. We got there at times, which made me believe we'd always have it when we wanted it. That space is still there. It was there for so long, and had so much energy in it I plan to keep it alive. Everytime I think of or see or hear something interesting, absurd, or hilarious I'll tell him about it. In January I left a message for Adam "Todd and I were coming up with titles for Goth songs like 'Shattered Roses' and 'Withered Sunset'. Call me! Let's make some up!"
Every once in a while, in our space, I'd pitch an idea and he'd say "Nah. It's not grabbing me. Let's do this instead." and we'd go on a roll with that. Maybe the goth songs thing didn't grab him. But his not responding to it at all was a red flag I didn't want to see. Nor did I want to put it together that I hadn't heard any joy in his voice for six months. Our final conversations were about how depressed we both were, and how alone and unstable we felt in the world. The vicissitudes in our lives tended to align. I thought we were commiserating together and would soon both be in a happier time.
At the time I thought I was listening. I begged Adam to get away from his narcissitic, selfish wife. When he kept saying he's always catered to other people's needs (like his wife's need to do fairy paintings instead of earn money to support their high expenses) I told him it was because he had a good heart. But I practically yelled at him that he had to start standing up for himself and getting what he needed. It was my fear talking. It was born of compassion, but I was talking when I should have been listening. I wanted solutions. I wanted him to wake up and realize he needed to make big changes in his life; even if the process would be challenging. I should have just shut up and listened more.
Yep, I'm dealing with a lot of stuff. The worst part is that life got to be too much for a kind, sensitive man and he chose a permanent solution to a temporary problem. I'm in shock that he had to go that far. I'm in mourning over losing someone so central to my life; one of the few people I thought would always be there. I love him (as in always will) and miss him.
I'm all over the map emotionally. I have fits of sobbing, followed by strange, detached periods of calm. Sometimes I go through rounds of the two within minutes. I went into work on Thursday about two hours after finding out Adam had died. Staying at home wasn't going to accomplish anything. I had an appointment with a new student and put my full attention into it. I spent a lot of the rest of that day away from my desk, taking phone calls from his friends and / or crying. Robert, another kind sensitive soul (he and Adam would have liked each other) offered to walk me home. He asked me how I would get through the evening. Did I want to go to Doyle's? I thought about it for a minute and shook my head no. Doyle's has a corned beef sandwich on their menu. That's one of the foods that most reminds me of Adam. I used to tease him that he wasn't a real Jew because he ate his corned beef sandwiches with mayonniase, lettuce and tomato.
Robert and I went to The Hub instead. It's a popular new restaurant I hadn't been to yet. We ordered a pizza. Shortly after it arrived, another wave of grief hit me and I told him I might need to go home. He said whatever I needed to do was fine. I decided to stay. When the waitress asked if we wanted to see the dessert menu I said no. I looked at Robert and said "With my luck there's probably a dessert on there called Chocolate Suicide."
Adam would have loved that joke. It's exactly the kind of reality-deflecting joke we would have made together. We didn't make jokes like that because we didn't care. We made them to cope- and because our space beckoned. A space where we could be happy and free and on the joyous, not insuffurably harsh, side of life.
Please tell the people in your life that you love them. They may need to hear it more often than you think.
No, of course you don't. Those things were shared by Adam and me alone. I could explain each one, and the many more we had in our lexicon but they still wouldn't make sense to you. They made sense to us. Adam and I had a culture of two.
In Phoenix, an email circulated around to the women in my office. It asked all kinds of questions designed to give coworkers new insights into each other. One of the questions was "Are you strong?" My answer was "Is there a choice?"
It seemed like a dumb question. Of course we're strong. Life is tough, and we're getting through it aren't we?
It's possible that Adam was able to make the decision he did because he was strong. It's more likely that he made the decision because he wasn't. Regardless, he was a beautiful soul. He was warm, generous, sensitive, brilliant, creative, funny,and very unique.
It's entirely too trite to say he was one of the best friends I've ever had. He and I could have written each other's biography. For the majority of our 18 year friendship we inhabited a mental space together that was separate from the rest of the world. For a long period of time it was like an addicition. When we both lived in Denver, we saw each other maybe once a month. But for many years, in Denver and then all the other places our lives took us, we'd talk on the phone every day. Often for hours.
We had always shared the goings on in our lives. I was the first person he called when his daughter was born. We vented our frustrations and often confided in each other. But the singular defining feature of our friendship was this strange, playful mind space we shared. When we were there we were where we really lived -in a land of almost frenetic imagination, inspiration and joy. It was a place where we routinely laughed so hard we gasped to get out our next thoughts. The fact that it sheltered us from the harsher realities of life, which neither of us could tolerate well, was an added benefit.
Looking back on it now, I realize Adam was even more sensitive than me. Loud noises distressed him. Urban energy with its chaos and crime was like being in a jungle for him. He always sensed the predators might get too close and pounce. Mean people were incomprehensible to him. He breathed oxygen and they breathed poison. When they got too close and exhaled their fumes, they made him sick. I've learned that there were some very mean people at the end of his life.
In the past seven or eight years, Adam and I both had increased responsibilites and pressures in our lives. We didn't have as much time to be in our space together. We got there at times, which made me believe we'd always have it when we wanted it. That space is still there. It was there for so long, and had so much energy in it I plan to keep it alive. Everytime I think of or see or hear something interesting, absurd, or hilarious I'll tell him about it. In January I left a message for Adam "Todd and I were coming up with titles for Goth songs like 'Shattered Roses' and 'Withered Sunset'. Call me! Let's make some up!"
Every once in a while, in our space, I'd pitch an idea and he'd say "Nah. It's not grabbing me. Let's do this instead." and we'd go on a roll with that. Maybe the goth songs thing didn't grab him. But his not responding to it at all was a red flag I didn't want to see. Nor did I want to put it together that I hadn't heard any joy in his voice for six months. Our final conversations were about how depressed we both were, and how alone and unstable we felt in the world. The vicissitudes in our lives tended to align. I thought we were commiserating together and would soon both be in a happier time.
At the time I thought I was listening. I begged Adam to get away from his narcissitic, selfish wife. When he kept saying he's always catered to other people's needs (like his wife's need to do fairy paintings instead of earn money to support their high expenses) I told him it was because he had a good heart. But I practically yelled at him that he had to start standing up for himself and getting what he needed. It was my fear talking. It was born of compassion, but I was talking when I should have been listening. I wanted solutions. I wanted him to wake up and realize he needed to make big changes in his life; even if the process would be challenging. I should have just shut up and listened more.
Yep, I'm dealing with a lot of stuff. The worst part is that life got to be too much for a kind, sensitive man and he chose a permanent solution to a temporary problem. I'm in shock that he had to go that far. I'm in mourning over losing someone so central to my life; one of the few people I thought would always be there. I love him (as in always will) and miss him.
I'm all over the map emotionally. I have fits of sobbing, followed by strange, detached periods of calm. Sometimes I go through rounds of the two within minutes. I went into work on Thursday about two hours after finding out Adam had died. Staying at home wasn't going to accomplish anything. I had an appointment with a new student and put my full attention into it. I spent a lot of the rest of that day away from my desk, taking phone calls from his friends and / or crying. Robert, another kind sensitive soul (he and Adam would have liked each other) offered to walk me home. He asked me how I would get through the evening. Did I want to go to Doyle's? I thought about it for a minute and shook my head no. Doyle's has a corned beef sandwich on their menu. That's one of the foods that most reminds me of Adam. I used to tease him that he wasn't a real Jew because he ate his corned beef sandwiches with mayonniase, lettuce and tomato.
Robert and I went to The Hub instead. It's a popular new restaurant I hadn't been to yet. We ordered a pizza. Shortly after it arrived, another wave of grief hit me and I told him I might need to go home. He said whatever I needed to do was fine. I decided to stay. When the waitress asked if we wanted to see the dessert menu I said no. I looked at Robert and said "With my luck there's probably a dessert on there called Chocolate Suicide."
Adam would have loved that joke. It's exactly the kind of reality-deflecting joke we would have made together. We didn't make jokes like that because we didn't care. We made them to cope- and because our space beckoned. A space where we could be happy and free and on the joyous, not insuffurably harsh, side of life.
Please tell the people in your life that you love them. They may need to hear it more often than you think.
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