Adjusting to the Light

how curious indeed
that the part of my body
that remembers it most
are my two arms

who have little feeling
otherwise, but who
have taken to giving me
nightmares, so that I might

wake up, walk
to the bathroom
adjust my eyes to the light
and look at myself

in the mirror
before returning to bed,
all the while
walking and swinging

my arms back and forth
rocking them back to sleep,
trying to forget
the reason we woke.

Laundry List

This list includes my laundry, the colors mixed in with the whites, an utter disregard for the rules of the trade, a refusal to stay within the lines and to do as I’m told. This list includes the things to-do, which number too many or too few. This list includes my job, for which I have yet to create an acceptable label, and my sense of self, which I have carefully placed on the scale at the post office in order to affix the appropriate postage. It also includes a padded envelope.

It contains some small things, which you might not notice if they weren’t pointed out to you. For instance, it includes the precise mili-second I turned 11 years old. It contains one teaspoon of mercury and one standard-issue-thimble full to the brim of cold sweat, but it does not include the spoon itself nor the nightmare. This list includes my first gray hair. It includes the misplaced memory I have for that thing that I can’t remember. It includes the only letter “D” I ever got in my life. This list includes the 3 grains of sand that cling to the bottom of a strip of 3M brand scotch tape. It includes the eye of a needle and gravity. It includes singularity and the name Ed.

This list does not contain some big things, which were too large to include, like Jupiter or the human spirit.

This list does, however, include E.E. Cummings and all of the things that he intended for me not to mis;understand. This list includes the girl in the coffee shop, who for reasons still unclear to both of us, I will never marry. This list includes a used 9 volt battery, which can, although barely, still perform its manufacturer-intended-function. It includes Jermaine from 2^nd grade, who could walk upside down on his hands, but it includes the adult version who is no longer able to walk upside down on his hands and who is no longer in 2nd grade. This list includes the stray cat with the yellow stripes, the one with the firm belief that it is not lost, but merely taking an extended vacation from its home. This list also includes a box of the least popular cereal in aisle 13, whichever rice-puff or corn-crisp concoction that may happen be.

This list also includes you, but not all of you, just some parts. For instance, it includes the way you smell and the fit of your shoe on the night of the senior prom. It includes the grip of your handshake and the outline of your jaw. It includes the sensation you feel when you are tickled by someone by whom you are OK being tickled. It includes the second time you fell in love, but it doesn’t yet include the time you got back up. It includes the last time you watched a scary movie and thought there was someone else in the house. It includes the someone else that was in your house. In fact, it even includes your whole house, the one you grew up in, exactly as you no longer remember it. It includes all the things you meant to say but didn’t. For the sake of balance, it also includes all the thing you said but should not have. The emotion you feel when you first notice that I’ve written again is transcribed into sheet music and is included on this list. This list includes a sound indistinguishable from the echo your laugh would make at the bottom of the Grand Canyon on an oppressively hot afternoon in August, but it does not include the laugh, the month of August, nor the Grand Canyon itself. It includes your belief in things that will never happen to you. It includes the two things I won’t name, but which I’ve wrapped in colored paper and set aside for you as a surprise. (It includes my hope that you will like it.) It includes your 4^th favorite geometric pattern and the name of your unborn son, whom his 5^th grade friends will appropriately rename, Chunk.

This list is not all-inclusive. For instance, this list will not include lyrics like, “please don't forget how much I meant to you/when you are redefined by someone new,” because they have chosen to exclude it, those with powers in such matters. This list will not include diagrams similar to those found at http://www.heimlichinstitute.org/howtodo.html, because this list does not seek to guide you in such matters. This list does not include any of the people of alternative lifestyles or sensibilities that populate this town, only because they seem quite content here and because they do not wish to be included on this list. This list once included Pope Pius IX, but it no longer does, nor will it ever again at any point in the future. This list contains all the girls with whom I will ever be in love, but it does not include the 2,592^nd time I utter the phrase ‘I love you,’ because they, who decide such matters, are not yet sure to which among them it will belong. This list contains a brown paper bag full of broken pieces of something that was once whole.

This list is mostly complete. This list only includes a few things that are not on this list.

The only copy of this list will be framed and placed in a bulletproof suitcase, which will be handcuffed to a man with a lengthy criminal history, who will sit silently in the backseat of a taxi that will take him half way across the country to the intersection of US Route 50 and US route 281 just south of the small town of St. John in Kansas. This list will be left there among other such lists and will never be spoken of again.

Value in Number: Lessons From Nursery School

The thought that is preoccupying me at the moment is whether or not there is value in number when it comes to human relations. That is, suppose you wanted to learn about the human race, would you be better off studying lots and lots of people? Or, would it suffice to only study one person really deeply?

Science tells us that the key to knowledge is repetition. On a macro level, a given study is only of ‘scientific significance’ if it can be replicated over and over again. On the micro level, a given finding is only of ‘scientific value’ if it is couched in a large enough sample to counteract the effect of outliers. Freed from practical concerns, a scientist would, ideally, study every single element in a set, then replicate the whole study over and over again ad infinitum.

Applying the scientific paradigm to life would lead to the following result. If you wanted to learn how to be a good friend, you would need to have lots and lots of friends. Want to be a good boyfriend? Have lots and lots of girlfriends. Want to be a good son? Have lots and lots of parents. If you have just a handful of friends, girlfriends, or parents, you could never be sure whether or not the ones you had were outliers. Even if you sure that what you were doing was ‘right’ with respect to this one, you couldn’t accurately predict whether or not it would work with the next one.

This whole line of discourse makes the assumption, though, that there is such a thing as variability in human behavior. Of this fact, I’m not entirely sold. Are we really all that different, you and I? Or, would it be fair to say that what holds true for me will largely hold true for you, too?

Or, put the question in another way, suppose your relationship with friends, girlfriends, and parents had less to do with them than it had to do with you? And would it then be fair to assume that the ‘you’ stays the same, always a constant. And if we concentrate our study on ourselves, would it then suffice only to gain self-understanding, singularly, variation being impossible with a set of one?

Or, should the distinction be drawn between knowledge and understanding rather than between you and them? Can understanding be more easily accomplished with only one?

If so, could it be said that everything we ever needed to understand about a relationship could have been gained from the first?

One of my dad’s favorite stories is of my first day of nursery school. Upon picking me after my first day, he asked, “So, how was it?” He reports that I stretched my arms real wide and exclaimed, “Dad, now I know EVERYTHING!” Maybe I was on to something.

The Good Samaritan

This evening I went to the ATM and withdrew $60. On my way back to my car, this guy approached me and said, “Hey wait a minute, can I ask you something?” My first thought was that he might try to mug me. I was in an off mood, sized him up and down, and concluded that I could take him. Then it occurred to me that it was still light out and, though there wasn’t anyone in the parking lot at the moment, there are lots of people in the area. So, either he was an idiot-thief or he had intentions other than stealing my money. Still, I sort of widened my gait, puffed out my chest a little, made my alertness and badassness evident, the same strategy I might employ to ward off a hungry bear.

He was dressed in a polo shirt with blue horizontal stripes and baggy khaki colored pants. He was white, probably in his mid 20’s, and had his hair cropped close. In his right hand, he was holding a half-empty cup of water. Or was it half-full? No matter. He had narrow teeth which were slightly misaligned. A dentist would recommend braces or maybe a retainer, but it wasn’t something about which he was likely to feel self-conscious.

“I’m having a terrible day,” he began. “My car broke down and I’m waiting for a tow truck. I need someone to help me out. The only cash I have on me is $37.34 and my ATM card is at home. I need someone to give me either $13.66 or give me a ride home, so I can get my card. I’ll pay you back tonight.”

He could tell that I was hedging. I was trying to determine if his mathematical mistake made him more or less likable.

“Listen, no one will help me out. I’m asking you because you look like a really nice guy. I’ll give you my phone number or you can give me yours and I’ll pay you back tonight. Look, it’ll be really good Karma for you. If I was in your shoes,” he continued, pointing at my sandal-clad bare feet, “I would help you out.”

Sensing still that I was unconvinced he persisted, “I’ll give you my house key as collateral, whatever man. I just really need someone to help me out and no one will. Everyone’s being an #@%$%*^ and I’m asking you, because you look really nice.”

My first instinct was so tell him no. Maybe the best thing to do was to just walk away. Due perhaps to a character flaw, I couldn’t just walk away, I first had to explain myself.

“Look buddy. I’ve had so many people come up to me and tell me a story just like yours and you never know who’s telling the truth and who isn’t. I just don’t think…”

He interjected, “Look, you can come to my car and wait with me. Or, if you don’t want to give me money, can you just give me a ride home.”

“Where do you live?”

“Down past Cole Park Plaza. Do you know where that is?”

I did. It was about a 10 minute drive from where we stood.

I was a little uneasy giving him a ride home, so I thought I would help him troubleshoot. “Isn’t there someone you can call? A friend? Family?”

“My mom lives in Raleigh. And my girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, goes to UNC, but she’s my ex, and hates my guts. I don’t’ know anyone else in the area.”

“Why don’t you use the cash you have to take a taxi home to get your ATM card? Then you’ll have enough to pay the tow truck driver.”

“Uh. But by the time I get back, the tow truck will be gone. And also, that’s such a hassle.”

Well, I suppose you all know how the story ends.

I told him, “No,” apologized, re-puffed my by-now-deflated chest, and walked away.

About what was I apologizing? Partially, I was apologizing for my philosophy. I don’t believe that I have a positive duty to help total strangers. I’m not sure if that’s right, but it’s what I believe at the moment. I do, however, believe that I have a positive duty to recognize each and every person’s humanity. The end result of this is that I will listen to your story, I will look you in the eye, and I will give you my earnest reply. Of course, you can’t spend my ‘I’m sorry’ but I imagine it’s better than being ignored completely. I was also apologizing for my determination, based on who knows what, that if the situation were reversed, as he suggested, that he would not, in fact, help me out. I was sorry that I didn’t have more faith in this man that I did not know. But more so, I was apologizing for human nature. The trouble with giving handouts is that it only encourages people to seek them out. The more handouts that are available, the more people will be willing to lie to get them. It’s a big, ugly downward spiral. And because so many people are trying to take advantage of the situation, those in real need end up being disadvantaged.

I distinctly remember the last time I made an exception to my rule. It was almost 3 years ago. I was in Victoria Station in London waiting for my law school friend Bill to arrive. He was coming to England to visit some relatives and we were to grab lunch. This guy approached me with his story. He was probably in his mid 30’s, skinny, his skin was brown. He told me he was in a bind. Through his spotty English, he explained to me that he was here seeking political asylum. He was to take a train to some other station to pick up a transfer, but he got confused and got off the train too early. He now stood in Victoria station without enough money to get back on the train. He was on his way to a hearing that would permit him to stay in the country. As it was, he was going to miss the trial due to an honest mistake, which would lead to his deportation. This story was completely ridiculous! Then he says to me, “Can I have some of your water? I’ve been traveling all day and I didn’t have money to buy water on the train and my lips and mouth are so dry.” This harkened back images of The Good Samaritan story from the Bible that I had heard growing up. I was sold. If he was scamming me, then so be it. I took the guy across the street, bought him the largest bottle of water they had, bought him a train ticket and sent him on his way. Maybe I played the fool. If so, I’m out 10 or 15 bucks.

But what if he was telling the truth? What if he took that train ticket and rushed as fast as he could to the hearing. What if he ran up the stairs and burst through the doors only to find that he was too late, that his case had just been adjourned. But, then, what if he told the judge his story, how he made an honest mistake and got off the wrong train. And what if he relates the story I just told you. But, then, what if the judge didn’t believe him? And if so, do you think the judge would give pause right as he was stamping the deportation orders if he happened to see, just then, out of the corner of his eye, that large 2.5 litre bottle of natural spring water this man now held in his right hand? And if so, wouldn’t I, through elegant circumstance, be part of the rest of the story, too? The part where he gets a good honest job, meets an honest woman, starts a family, and relates to them this very story, time and again.

Then imagine that there was no judge, no honest woman, no kids, no retelling of the story. Imagine that your suspicions were dead-on. Imagine that it was a scam, that the whole lot of it was a lie. Imagine that the last thing you see before the credits roll is the villain's wry smile.

Then rewrite the story so it took place in a world where stories didn’t end like that.

I guess the bad thing about not knowing the truth is that you don’t know anything. The good thing about not knowing the truth is that it allows you believe anything. Bound by knoweldge of what actually happens, a writer would simply be a reporter.

As I got into my car, I heard the guy in the blue striped polo approach a girl getting out of her car. “Hey miss, can I ask you something?”

She snapped, “No.”