everyone's asleep but me

After a fun but crazy game night slash "Welcome, special guest K." party, our dining room table is strewn with napkins, crumbs and junk. Tomorrow morning, I will have to reckon with the mess. Now, all is (finally) quiet in our little house.

I can hear K. breathing and tossing at the foot of my bed. I love her. How absolutely lovely, to have friends with whom one can rest, even after a long separation. I have maybe four of these friends. When you're with them, you don't have to talk; you can just enjoy one another's company. There is no pressure to "catch up" or have a deep conversation. Without straining or striving for understanding, both people experience it. Silence is deep and rich, not squirmy - or awkward.

Heaven knows, I love words. How ironic, then, that the friends I value most are the ones with whom I talk least, the friends with whom I can sit for hours, saying little or nothing.

Michael Phelps: what he eats

From the NY Post. After reading this, I thought, "Heck. I work out. You know what? I'm going to Wendy's." And promptly did. Michael, you inspire me. Read here

Phelps lends a new spin to the phrase "Breakfast of Champions" by starting off his day by eating three fried-egg sandwiches loaded with cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, fried onions and mayonnaise. He follows that up with two cups of coffee, a five-egg omelet, a bowl of grits, three slices of French toast topped with powdered sugar and three chocolate-chip pancakes.

At lunch, Phelps gobbles up a pound of enriched pasta and two large ham and cheese sandwiches slathered with mayo on white bread - capping off the meal by chugging about 1,000 calories worth of energy
drinks.

For dinner, Phelps really loads up on the carbs - what he needs to give him plenty of energy for his five-hours-a-day, six-days-a-week regimen - with a pound of pasta and an entire pizza. He washes all that down with another 1,000 calories worth of energy drinks.

Phelps remains on course to at least equal Mark Spitz's record of seven gold medals won at the 1972 Munich Games.

the "complexity of mankind": wise and gracious words for J. Edwards

I haven't read much of this blog, but this thoughtful post makes me eager to read more:

I also find it difficult to understand why many conservative bloggers can't entertain the possibility that Edwards feels genuine remorse over his conduct. To be sure, Edwards is a phony, and I've made that case in virtually everything I've ever written about him. Had this affair not been revealed, I'd have always remembered Edwards as the man whose phoniness, according to Bob Shrum, offended John Kerry.

But to have lived in the world, and to have understood the complexity of mankind, is to recognize that phoniness is not the same thing as an inability to have genuine feelings. To pretend frequently that one has extraordinary sensibilities is not evidence that one lacks ordinary sensibilities. A person with anything remotely resembling ordinary sensibilities would feel genuine remorse, and indeed shame, over the conduct involved here. Though we can't know whether Edwards possesses such feeling, those who assume he doesn't may be telling us more about themselves than about Edwards.

Piling on public figures after they are brought low by their human frailties is unseemly whatever the political affilation of the offender and whatever the ideological affiliaton of the critic.

Paul Mirengoff

Thanks, D.S. for the link.

failed but honorable gestures

"A certain sartorial intersection of glamour and trash, a louche but lovely address at which reside faux leopard anything, cloches, art deco jewlery, silk scarves worn as head wraps, tiny black dresses worn with a black leather jacket. Lynda looked wonderful, and she loved looking unlike anyone else; she wanted her unlikeness to be seen and appreciated. Her style, as her body fell apart over time, became more and more the sort she admired, a panache which triumphed over difficutly without exactly concealing it; she adored Frida Kahlo, Marianne Faithfull, Lotte Lenya, women made more beautiful by a certain broken quality about them, by the acknowledgment of that quality ... the artifice of making oneself be whomever one liked always revealed the reality beneath, and therein lay both its failure and a good part of its charm. She was a lover of appearances, of performance, of bravura, of failed but honorable gestures toward beauty.

Because the world was ruined, wasn't it, and how could its children not be ruined as well?" (96)

Doty, Mark. Heaven's Coast. New York: HarperCollins, 1987.

opportunities and muscular love

When I am burdened, it helps when people come to me with their own troubles. I am so thankful for the chance to listen to another's life for awhile, instead of just thinking about my own.

What a relief it is to extend love to another person by listening to them. Rain "dropping as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath." Sweet, sweet mercy.

In the last few days, a few people have shared their burdens with me. Each of them has been distraught, unable to work/study, and has apologized profusely for making things a Big Deal. Also, each has ended her heart-rant with, "Whatever." And then apologized more for taking up my time, for dumping her problems, etc. etc.

"No," I say. "Thank you for trusting me."

When we run to God with our burdens, all babbling and weeping, I am sure he weeps with us, too. Yet I wonder if he also smiles a bit - because now, finally, he can show us how much he loves us. Now, he can squeeze us in his muscular love. Now, he can unleash rivers of his mercy to wash away our sins and sorrows.

In the midst of our weaknesses, God shows us who he is. His name is Love. And he also shows us how we are Loved -- powerfully, tenderly, eternally.

space between: modesty, writing and intimacy

Today, I went to lunch with two coworkers, A. and K. Both are beautiful women: one has long, blonde hair. The other has short black curls. We sat on a blanket in the grass, ate our yogurts and sandwiches and talked about our weekends. I mentioned I'd been to a hip hop dance class with two friends, and that my favorite part was watching a lady in a Moslem headscarf break it down. Or, "rock the boat," as my friend Mel said. This particular woman closed her eyes and grinned as she danced. She relished every step … like she had been waiting her whole life to move. Instead of dancing myself, I found myself watching her, so buoyant, yet so burdened in her long-sleeves, long pants and headscarf.

This in turn led to a discussion of Islam and burquas. A. actually studied religion and politics at the University of London. For her graduate thesis project, she had to interview Muslim women. Some of them, she said … not all by any means … actually liked wearing burquas. I began to (hotly) protest, but A. coolly explained. She meant that these women felt they were more free to be themselves with their bodies hidden. When the complications of having a woman's body were removed, they felt they were actually listened to instead of gawked at. And they felt valued and protected … intact … in those caves of cloth.

I don't know what I think about this, I said, splaying my arms wide in the grass. Actually, I do know. Burquas are awful; they put the burden of lust on women. Who would want to walk around swathed in heavy black cloth? I, personally, am glad to be able to walk around in shorts and a t-shirt. Aren't you? I asked A. and K.

Now, reflecting on this conversation later, I think I actually understand that distance - cloth, miles, or time - can be both freeing and intimate. I have experienced this through letter writing. Through receiving carefully-wrought letters, I've gotten to know both men and women really well ... differently than I would have face to face.

Similarly, you can draw closer to the truth of an experience after you've gained distance. Time away from the heat of the moment can help focus our minds. The advantage of hindsight helps us trace the shape of our lives. To understand.

So maybe, oddly enough, I am more with you when you are not with me.

And perhaps, paradoxically, distance helps us to better see each other, and allows us to love or desire the best parts of one another ... not just the obvious ones.

after the opera: thoughts

When you hear love soaring in the effortless form of Italian aria, you begin to believe that your own love can take on that depth, breadth and richness. Art makes life bigger, reinforces our sense of our own uniqueness while connecting us to other lovers and strivers and strugglers and people longing on this Earth.