I confess

I love talent shows. I know they are orchestrated to make for good television but they are also, despite the artifice, an honest manifestation of the good and the bad in human nature. Naked, undisguised ambition. Frequent and alarming examples of a complete lack of self-awareness. An expert judge anointing someone with what we all secretly dream of hearing: Yes. I confirm your suspicions. You have a gift. This is what you were meant to do. The process of watching someone come into full bloom. Most of all, the excessive, joyous, almost overwhelming amount of talent in the world. The fact that there is no shortage of that fills me with hope.

Photo: http://www.fox.com/dance/

Many times

I dreamed that I went to Starbucks (which I haven't done for more than a year) and ordered a tall latte (not normally what I would order.)

I placed the white cup inside my tote, nestled between a stack of books and the outer corner of the bag. (You know what is about to happen, right?)

After carrying it all to my destination, I arrive to find the liquid has spilled, staining the canvas and ruining the contents. (Oh, my bag! Oh, my books!)

I woke up relieved that it was only a dream. And, not really needing anyone to analyze it. How many times do I do something despite knowing full well the outcome can’t possibly be good?

Razor wire

I find razor wire riveting.

I suspect the reason for my fascination is that the messages it sends (me) are completely incongruous.

Cruel (I’d rather see you shredded beyond recognition than trespassing) aggressive (try jumping over this and it will cut you), yet highly ineffective.

If I really wanted to get through, I’d use wire cutters and snip myself a door at the bottom rather than try to climb over to the other side. Granted, I’ve never tried doing that so I don’t really know how difficult it would be or how long it would take.

I guess its intent is to dissuade (don’t even try to come in here. Look how dangerous I am!) but it has the opposite effect on me. I find it strangely enticing (I bet I could outsmart you, you unsightly, mean, curly sharp thing you.)

Airport

I was standing in line to buy gum at the LA airport and the skinny woman in front of me raised her arms high up in the air and started applying deodorant. The bathroom was less than 10 feet away. I saw someone else flipping through magazines and absentmindedly sticking her chewed wad of gum under the shelf without even looking around to see if she was being watched. There was a family sprawled out on the bare floor, with their faces resting directly against the cold, filthy tile. And a couple making out. Her hair was long and shaggy and her head thrown back as he nibbled on her neck and shoved his hands into the stretched out back pockets of her jeans.

If I was from another planet and wanted to study humankind, I'd pick an airport.

Doorstop

My house came outfitted with doorstops that have never worked. The metal cylinder with the soft plastic tip fell off constantly and the door slammed open against the screw that was supposed to hold it where it belonged.

When we first noticed, a few days after moving in, we dismissed it as not urgent enough. We kept pushing the doorstops into place, only to find them lying on the floor against the wall. Every time I walked in or out I made a mental note I immediately forgot. The situation alternated between being irritating and being ignored.

It took us nine years to finally go to the hardware store, buy new ones, remove the old ones, and install the ones we had just bought. It wasn't hard.

A stuck window. A faucet that jiggles. Insignificant things don’t matter. Except, they do. They rob me of snippets of energy every time I realize they are still there.

It's less about being a control freak and more about giving my consciousness the vital, fragile space it needs to notice, distraction free, all the things about my life that are perfect and beautiful.

Color

Most of my clothes were gray. Sometimes brown. Ever so often I'd make a conscious effort to buy something with color, and it would end up at the back of my closet, incongruous and forgotten, a dot of pink standing out in a colorless ocean.

The walls of my house were all linen white. I liked very much to sit in a room and look through the frame of the door into the other at the crisp, clean lines of white on white.

One restless night I got out of bed knowing I had to paint the walls. I walked through my house taking notes, picked the surfaces that needed color and settled on four hues: red, green, blue and yellow.  Headed back to bed, I passed by my closet and was startled by what has obviously been happening for years: splotches of green, red, pink, blue, yellow; and a bit of gray, incongruous and forgotten in an ocean of color.

Photo: www.besthousepainter.com

Why I haven't written