Pink Nikes and a Life Philosophy

"I like your sneakers," I told her.

How could I not comment? They were huge hot pink boats. And they were only inches away from my face.

I was doing push-ups on the gym floor. And Jennifer was just standing there flipping through the tv channels looking for any kind of sports.

"They're size eleven," she said. "They have to be so big because I have pins in my feet," she said.

Jennifer is a disabled gym member who has lived in Woodside for 35 years. I suspected she had MS because of her slow and slurred speech and the way she seemed to drag half her body around. She typically wore a brace and she moved so spasmodically I wondered how she got around at all.

But somehow we got into a conversation about her condition. It was the first time we spoke. I guess you could say that it was the first time I slowed down enough to listen. Turns out she developed a "brain virus" while working in the city. She pointed to her head calmly telling me about the dozens of lesions that we formed on her brain. She told me how she slowly lost her speech, how her left side began drooping, how she couldn't remember things. Her boss thought she was on drugs. Her friends were really worried; her mom too.


"I've been through so many tests," she says. The doctor thought she had Lyme disease, MS...but it turns out it was ADHM (I can't find any information on this).

"'Were you travelling?' I asked. I needed some sort of excuse. I wanted to put the blame somewhere.

"My doctors say it's just luck," she told me.

Um. Luck? WTF? Who accepts that?

Jennifer did.

As we talked about the 80s, she became much more animated. What a great decade, she mused. I had a car, I was in high school, I had friends.

"Life was good. I had a full life," she explains to me. "That's why I'm not that upset that this happened now," she says.

Somewhere, in the back of my chest, something turned over.

You know, I meet people every day who make a good salary, are happily married, go on fantastic vacations and have a world of options laid out before them. And still, they're miserable. They want more. Or they want something else.

Even I want more--more experiences, more time, more stability, more things.

But how often do you meet someone who accepts a terrible fate and learns to be happy with what they have? I get upset if my Saturday night plans are ruined. I get pissy when I have to share my weekends with my parents. I get mad when it rains ad nauseum. But what if I was unable to speak? If I lost my memory? If a brain virus decided to pick me and erase the life I've built? That's problems.

That's real problems.

It's people like Jennifer who kick me out of my imposed world of pity. I may not get invited to the cocktail parties at work, or maybe I won't ever fit back into that size four dress. But aside from all the BS, I have it pretty good. In fact, I have it pretty awesomely.

Observations on Mass

I went to Mass today. But I almost didn't. I almost hit snooze. I was dreaming about work. and when that happens, it's not a happy and restful sleep anyway. But I didn't. Hit snooze that is. I figured I had a grueling day ahead of me.

A wake in St. James, LI for my great uncle. I think. The familial lines are so fuzzy and twisted, I don't know if there is a clear title. He's my grandmother's half-sister's husband. I've never had a conversation with the man. I remember that he smoked cigars and was always watching football on TV. He was always yelling at the TV. But he was a good man. And I dreaded the wake. I dreaded losing myself in the whirlwind of family. The kind of family where, after you've said, "hey, how are you?" you look for an excuse to leave. Not all the time. But mostly. So there was that. Next stop--the hospital. My cousin (32) is currently getting chemo treatments. How can a person who is so young and athletic and very sweet in his own shy way--get cancer? Who decides this stuff? I try to put myself in his place. And I can't do it. Would I feel my body had betrayed me? Would I accept the disease? Would I want to fight? Too many questions. I mean, what do you say to someone who just got dealt a death sentence? Hope the jell-o is good here. Do you have cable?

Turns out my cousin had left the hospital early. He went home. So I never had to confront that reality. But I expected to. Which is why I went to church this morning.

I go to church for two things: the ambiance and the homily. Today's homily--incidentally--was how the "holy land" is everywhere. In Woodside. It wasn't very inspiring. But a noble try.

So--the reason for this post. There were two things I noticed. First, we typically have a person who "signs" the songs. So, if you're deaf, you're able to follow along. Well, then I got to wondering...what if a deaf person wanted to sing right along with everyone else? I actually saw a man in the crowd "sign" right alongside the person who was doing the interpretation. Well, then I thought, what if there was a whole choir of deaf people signing songs? Arms waving in the air, like Rockettes or synchronized swimmers--their arms dancing. That would be awesome.

The only part of Mass that I hate is the "sign of peace" part where you get to shake your neighbor's hand and say "peace." I always seem to bumble through it. There's like a second of embarrassment where you put your hand out for someone to recognize. But they don't. Then you want to withdraw...but you don't want to admit defeat. So you get more aggressive in sticking your hand out. I'm also always on the lookout for people who sneeze or pick their noses with the "peace" hand. When it comes time to give others a sign of peace, I try to avoid those folks. You can't really blame me. And there IS one per every Mass.

Well, at this particular Mass, we weren't instructed to give the sign of peace. Instead, we were told to "smile and wave peace" to your neighbor. Whew!! smile, nod. smile, nod. But wait! Smiling was not the same as grabbing his hand. It was less personal. There was a connection lost. Damn. I guess there was a point to sharing a touch. I don't want to admit it. But, if this is a permanent change, I think I'm going to feel sad every time Peace is exchanged.

I think the whole "smile and wave" thing is because of swine flu. But who knows? I haven't been to Mass in over six months. I just didn't expect all the changes.

An Artist at Work

So I just finished reading Annie Leibovitz's biography "At Work." If you don't know who that is, she was a photographer for Rolling Stone back when Rolling Stone really mattered. She eventually went on to work for Vanity Fair and she's most famous for her pics of Yoko and John Lennon and various celebrities in surreal settings or poses (re: a pregnant Demi Moore on the cover of Vanity Fair). I'm not a huge fan of hers. I don't "get" the depth or magic in her pictures. And to be honest, celebrity shots bore me. Maybe I've just been too inundated with EXTRA and US Weekly to give a hoot.


But Leibovitz's place in culture fascinates me. In this book she talks about working with Hunter Thompson during Nixon's resignation--taking mescaline --only because Hunter told her too. And getting invited to all the swank parties with Tom Wolfe. She was the official photographer of the Rolling Stones. And throughout the book you'll see shots of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards jamming, wrenching about onstage and passed out. There are photos of Andy Warhol and Truman Capote socializing and working in warehouses, restaurants. I happen to think these folks are really icons of history--unreal and unreachable. To think about their influence on one of the most radically shifting era is astonishing to say the least.

At the conclusion of this book I was left with another emotion: disappointment. Here's a paragraph from the book:

“The people I worked with at Rolling Stone in those early years didn’t tell me what to do. It never occurred to them. Most of the time I could respond to what was happening without preconceptions or an agenda. I was never thinking about the magazine when I was on the road. I was in the thick of it and I made my own decisions based on what was possible. Things happen in front of you. That's perhaps the most wonderful and mysterious aspect of photography. It seemed like you just had to decide when and where to aim the camera. The process was linear and it never stopped."

Today I feel most things are contrived. Marketing is so pervasive. Art is so measured and commercial. When was the last time you felt so strongly about something that you took part in changing it? It's a complacency that's killing what's magical and revolutionary about art. And I'm not just talking about photographs or paintings. If I had a camera, I don't know what I would shoot. The events don't unfold like they did. Or is it just me? Maybe I'm just blind to the wars that make my community.

I don't know. In many ways the 60s and 70s have been glamorized. And I'm sure it wasn't all love-ins and drugs. But at least people felt a part of something that was bigger than themselves. And I can't help but wish I could have been a part of that.

The "Troubles" continue

Making headlines today: Police Arrest 11 Men After Slaying in N. Ireland (http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/05/26/AR2009052602995.html?hpid=topnews)

While spending time in Northern Ireland, both me and my traveling partner Michelle, were surprised to note just how fractious the area was. In a local Belfast bar, Kelly's Cellars, tensions ran high and it was easy to notice the way surrepticious glances were thrown between friends; how big husky men shifted behind their scrawnier mates. Everyone was waiting for the spark--a sharp word, a drunken push. When a group of IRA "criminals" as they were described, staggered lugubriously into Kelly's--more than just eyebrows were raised. Men quietly put their coats and rucksacks behind the bar and the bartender declared the group "have had enough to drink," while the burly Polish bouncer perched himself near the door.

Nothing much happened that night. There were no fists thrown; no spittle hurled. But you could taste the bitterness in the air. It was exciting until I realized that it wasn't a game. This was a way of life. The unrest in Northern Ireland is referred to as "The Troubles" locally. Whatever peace has come, it has been uneasy.

In Derry (or Londonderry depending on your point of view) at the Bloody Sunday memorial museum, the past comes crashing down on you. Shouts from the protests--replaying on a TV monitor-- fill the room as you read about the 13 victims of the day's events. I will never forget the baby shirt stained a withering yellow behind the glass case. It was used to staunch the flow of blood from the head of one of the Bloody Sunday victims. All 13 victims are named; memorialized; martyred.

When the past is replayed over and over; when hatred is allowed to fester under the guise of remembrance; when history has a stranglehold on the present, well, how can there ever be any real peace? Or must we all languish in a world where the best we can hope for is that there will be no fights when you're out for a pint?

A thousand shades of green doesn't begin to cover it!

Ah..Ireland. Poets have long praised the country for its lush rolling green hills, the warmth of its people and the reasurring familiarity of its pubs. But there's a beauty here that no word nor photo can truly capture. It's in the fine mist and grey fog that wraps around you. It's in the ground pregnant with rain yielding under your footprint. It's the earthy scent of a peat moss fire that settles into your clothes.

This particular photo is taken at a sixth century monastery at Glendalough in Co. Wicklow.