Now:

An unsettled reality. Or a settled false one…
which in itself, does not fit within common sense’s parameters of “reality.”

When denial is the easiest option, the quickest one, the one that most efficiently pushes down the heaviness seeking to surface.

When accepting the truth is not a possibility.

When the words of truth you so dreaded before come out now with a slight laugh, with ease, accompanied by a happy anecdote of the past
told in a confidently optimistic,
and entirely deceptive,
tone.

When nothing is enough.

When normal schedules cannot be, so abnormal ones are created… consciously? Subconsciously?

When normality cues your mind’s repetition: He’s gone – It’s not real – He died– Nothing happened – Cry – Sleep – Get up – Sleep in – Move on – Grieve –

When normal habits and normal conversations mask the incredible instability that shakes the mind as it deals with the
uncertainty
of each day’s
progression.

When all options are now available, but normal parameters, devoid of meaning, are likely best.

When no one talks.

When happiness still seeps its way into the cracks of each day, holding the minutes and hours and tasks together.
When the resiliency of the human spirit holds depression’s full-blown attack at bay, though in an uncomfortably imperfect way.

When complacency can only be
wrong.

When What do you want to do? or What should we do? results in the truest expression of “I don’t know” ever told.

When talking is not possible…
because nothing yet has happened and nothing yet is real and no one yet has died and everyone will once again sit around the kitchen table
in the absolutely familiar tradition of
tea
and milk
and cookies.

I wrote this post just a couple weeks after my grandfather, Stanley Francis Cordes, passed away unexpectedly on a hill, hiking San Bruno Mountain: one of his favorite hobbies. One year later, the feelings of his loss are still incredibly real… and yet the “reality” of his passing seems an absolute fabrication.

I haven’t seen my grandpa in a year now, but I know I’ll see him at the next family gathering, or talk to him when we need advice on the next medical appointment, and I know he’ll be at my parents’ house every week for tea or sandwiches so that he can keep an eye on my mom and make sure we are all nursing her back to full health, so that he and my mom can be strong for one another.

And of course, I know I’ll find him on that corner of Powell and Geary, waiting for me, or I for him, to go to another play. We’ll probably eat at Lefty O’Doul’s again, then go see whatever show is on the program, because, as it turns out, that season after Granne passed wasn’t meant to be his last. His daughters and granddaughters filled in, kept the tradition going one more year….

One year later, I still can’t notice a piece of trash on the sidewalk, an interesting building worth exploring, or a motorcycle parking sign somewhere without thinking of him. I can’t help the thought of ‘We’ll talk to Grandpa’ cross my mind in an absolutely calming and reassuring way when tough medical issues come up. And the universe must have me the butt of some joke because I still can’t look at any white-haired old man in a hat without having an uncomfortable, too-familiar and yet too-foreign feeling arise in my gut.

I am beyond lucky to have had grandparents – both Granne and Grandpa – who provided me only with memories of love. I am beyond blessed to have been the recipient of that love. And if this… this momentarily unsettled reality is my only payment for that love, then I accept it with open arms.

I am beyond lucky to have the opportunity to continue building a life worthy of their love.

Discovering the happiness in each day, appreciating each moment for what it is, seeing the world through a child’s eyes… those are always the clichés with which I begin the day, hoping, knowing that the mind overpowers the body. Knowing that perspective matters, that optimism counts, that every moment of laughter and joy can color the day in a way of which sadness knows nothing. Each day begins with the optimism, the “self-brain-washing,” that tells me this day can be good. This day has potential. I have potential. I think these thoughts, knowing their power and believing in them… wanting to believe in them.

But often I think these hopeful thoughts in response to the heavy feeling that has just awoken my body from its rest. They are reactionary. The heaviness, the weight pressing onto my chest, comes first, optimism second, struggling barely to catch up with the negative emotions that already are championing the morning.

The heaviness somewhere has its origin, whether in a dream or carried over from the former night’s tears, now disappeared into the threads of a pillow. The heaviness’s origin is veiled, uncertain.

And uncertainty, despite the hopeful protests against it, reigns supreme in my mind, commanding all else to surrender. From somewhere within, it rallies its gloomy warriors to come from all corners of my body and center themselves, heavily, on the middle of my chest, where they can there threaten the high castle of my peaceful mind. Their jabs are more powerful than optimism’s walls are strong. Somehow, despite every happy moment which, brick by brick, creates an optimistic resistance, the depressed notions reach my mind’s inner sanctuary, distressing the heart before it even has a chance to feel the sun’s morning rays.

Each breath is a miracle. Each bird’s song, a symphony. Each gust of wind, the whisper of an angel, passing from one corner of the earth to the next. Every moment is precious. Every minute, a new baby born. Every day, an anniversary.

But today, in my room, in the small piece of the universe where I can reveal my true being, the morning’s tears taint my mind’s vision, staining its sight long after the salty streams have run their course down cheeks and chin. The tears stain the day with a gloom that persists, beneath moments of happiness, waiting purely for the opportunity to present painful remembrances of life’s hardships.

Uncertainty bids sadness to wait for a moment’s weakness in the castle’s walls, remaining vigilant for when a guard may leave his post. Then it commands the tears to flow inward, like waves rushing to fill a child’s carefully dug sand moat before going back to the sea… and when they retreat, they do so only to come back with more of the ocean’s force, knowing the moat has diminished and the castle stands vulnerable.

I wish for a sanctuary from this war.

So I will make one. I will keep building up my castle’s walls through the acknowledgment of each happy moment, through the acceptance of each ray of hope, and through the help of those kind architects who come to help me build.

I will begin each morning by saying thank you and bid each day farewell with a kiss. I will love having lived each day, knowing that even if my end was a bit rocky, someone, somewhere had a birthday, someone took his first step, someone wished upon a shooting star, someone held a new child in her arms, someone welcomed her first pet, someone finished his favorite book, someone sang a new song, and someone, somewhere greeted the day with a kiss and bid it adieu with the words: thank you.

I wrote this post awhile back in reflection of how sadness can claim one moment, and optimism the next. How those two feelings coexist with one another in our minds and, on those emotional mornings or nights, exhaustively compete for our attention, so that we might attribute a day ahead or a day already passed to sadness or joy. The feelings aim to tint our perspective – the result? Depression or gratitude.

This post is dedicated to viewing every yesterday with gratitude so that we can greet each tomorrow with joy.

It had only been one moment, and just this one time. A “crime of opportunity,” they call it, and I suppose that’s exactly what it was. I’m not a thief. I never meant to take it. I’m not that person. I have watched over laptops, phones, purses, car keys that have been left on coffee shop tables for full hours, oftentimes when I have not been asked. Supervising these personal objects of complete strangers, just to make sure they were safe from greedy fingers. Surely no one would dare when I was on the defensive, not while I was the private detective working on behalf of Good Citizens Anonymous. I believe in a sort of mutual morality… responsibility, even, between men. If someone drops a dollar, you pick it up and give it back. If someone leaves their headlights on after parking their car, you tell them. And if someone temporarily leaves a possession behind at a neighboring table as they order a drink or use the restroom at a coffee shop, you watch it for them until they return.

I’m not a criminal. But the “opportunity” was there, and I blame that chance itself for what happened. I’m no thief.

But here I am, typing away, on a laptop that is not mine. One with pictures of someone else, with music belonging to someone else, with emails all intended for someone else. And with a research project aimed for someone else.

The topic: cancer. Five Internet tabs all point to the same kind. A roughly typed cheat sheet is open, with information compiled from various sources.

“General facts about ACC,” reads one section.

“General info about stages and diagnoses,” states another.

“To look up further,” leads still another.

Then there is a list of questions, perhaps for the student to ask his teacher? Or to ask an expert? Perhaps an interview-based report….

But then, there is another section, and this one throws me off. A list of clinical trials, all numbered out, each with numerous bullet points beneath it, randomly stating this or that: qualifications, procedures, doses, drugs, biological requirements. Perhaps the research project was about existing cancer treatments and methods more in their experimental phase? But stranger still, next to each title exists a set of parentheses that somehow only serve to further emphasize the words between them: DO NOT QUALIFY for some. QUESTIONABLE QUALIFICATION for a couple others. Each trial is being compared against something specific… Or rather, a specific subject. Or – I take a deep breath, staring at the stolen screen in front of me – at the project that, through a fateful plot twist in life, has now become mine… at the research intended not to inform but to save someone specific.

And here I am, alternating between typing on the laptop and reading through a research project that was never academic to begin with. It was personal.

I’m not a criminal. I didn’t ask for the opportunity to present itself. I’ve never taken anything before. But somehow… somehow it seems I’ve taken not someone’s item, not someone’s $800 piece of technology. But someone’s information – hope perhaps or – chance?

I continue to type because thought without some tangible evidence of the process is too muddled now, too confusing. I must continue to press fingers to keys on this stolen laptop. Within a digital document that, with a simple click of the button, I can maximize to cover up the research “project” behind it. But then a moment seeps into my fingers, making them realize every now and then, making – them – pause…. Depressing my WPM to something even my 1^st grade teacher would have been embarrassed by.

I wonder if the moment – the realization of what has been taken – is more painful to me, here, in the safety of my parked car, outside the shop, or more painful to the guy who surely has returned to his coffee table and discovered something missing.

The person who perhaps was just at that coffee shop needing a space in which to think. Someone wanting to escape from whatever reality in which he lived and went to the coffee shop for a few minutes. Not to be by himself and oriented to his own desires. But to be in a thinking environment apart from his school life, where he could focus all of his intentions on a research project that could save a life – a life he knew. Or lived? And now the research is here, in front of me. Or rather, just beyond this digital document, kept safe and most importantly: hidden now from my eyes.

His crime? Choosing my favorite coffee shop at which to escape.

My crime?

I cannot be a criminal. I have never stolen before. I am too moral to be a thief. If anything, it was a “crime” of fate. And yet, the unwarranted punishment, guilt, already seems to be imposing itself upon my thoughts.

Perhaps I will finish the research project. I will log onto his Facebook, which surely is just a click away, password stored in Google’s memory. I will become motivated by guilt and will finish the research project, as best I can, add to its contents, and then notify the laptop owner anonymously. I could do it – leave a message from his own Facebook account on his own Facebook wall. And leave the stolen device somewhere for him to find. I could do that.

But that would be an act of good will rooted in guilt, and guilt is punishment for a crime I did not commit, and I cannot accept punishment when I am not at fault. For someone else, that would be a good answer: research, notify the owner, leave the laptop. But for me, with no intention of stealing in my life, with a life built around and committed to morality, I cannot be at fault. I am no criminal. So I must not punish myself by finishing the project. I must not accept the guilt when fate claimed the laptop for me through presenting the opportunity. I did not commit the crime. I – am – no – criminal.

So I will minimize this digital document on which I am typing. Just for a moment. I will close out of the academic research project. I will pull up Facebook and log out of his account and into mine.

I just need – one moment – to ensure my reality stays intact. To define these past few moments with another.

One moment.

…

“Refurbished laptop for sale – IM for details!”

Done.

One like. Two. One comment. Two.

Imagine…

You are seated outside at the World’s Cafe. Your waiter approaches with a tab. But where should be food and drink listed, are your life’s worries instead.

The troubles magnify on the paper,
Anxieties intensify as you read,
Growing stronger each passing second,
Planted by some invisible seed.

You thought you could escape the hassle
By wining and dining somewhere nice.
But now your worries are listed on a lunch tab-
Each solution marked with a set price…

[Enter, stage left: FRIEND #1. He sits at the next table over from you, picks up a menu, opens it and, without looking at you, speaks].

“So this one’s gonna be on me,
Don’t give that bill another care.
I’ve had some good fortune as of late-
Now have got some extra to spare. 

[FRIEND #1 looks over at you as he closes his menu. His gaze is warm, yet purposeful, making his persona remain vividly clear as the remainder of the café and seated guests appear now in a haze.  Their image continues to blur in comparison to the man’s striking clarity].

“I see you’re having an ‘off’ day
I can reset that for you-
Let you recharge and restart
Til your energy reboots.  

[FRIEND #1 stands up and sits opposite you.  His posture is comfortable, his actions familiar, as if he has taken the chair across from you at another meal.  The blurred quality of the café’s surroundings intensifies, transforming guests into characters from a Monet watercolor, until all at once, they disappear, leaving empty tables in utter stillness.  FRIEND #1 speaks]. 

“This one’s on me now.
I’ll take today’s bill,
I’ll shoulder your worries,
Until inner storms quell.  

[FRIEND #1 rests hand on check].

“You worry about your health,
Your test, your career.
Put those fears aside
[FRIEND #1 reaches hand across table and takes yours].
I am with you, my dear.

[FRIEND #1 looks down at his bare wrist.  You watch as a ray of sunlight reflects through his water glass and onto his arm, producing the magical illusion of a shining golden watch where before was bare skin].

“There’s plenty of time left-
Life’s watch did not break.
You are on the right track.
You will not arrive late.

[FRIEND #1 leans his head back toward the sky.  He inhales deeply.  As he draws in new air, the clouds move in compliance with his breath’s request.  They float backwards and forwards as he inhales and exhales their fate’s direction].

“Stop to take a deep breath.
Just smile at the clouds.
Soak in the quiet moment.
Anticipate the loud.  

[FRIEND #1 pauses, leans earnestly forward again.  His gaze is intent.  His connection is only to you.  He whisperingly implores].

“Then trust your thoughts to me
Though you may feel scared.
I know your thoughts are fragile-
I will handle them with care. 

[FRIEND #1 draws cash from his pocket, as the hustle and bustle of the surrounding environment slowly returns.  A waiter drops a fork; a guest’s water glass clinks against her ceramic plate; a laugh floats over the crowd from a distant table].

“Dare to de-stress
For one moment or two.
Smile an extra smile.
Let laughter renew.  

[FRIEND #1 stands up and walks back to his own table.  The café is just as it was in the beginning.  FRIEND #1 sips on a glass of water, lemon wedge floating inside].

“For life often serves you lemons
Instead of sweet lemonade,
So today just tell your waiter
To pass the check my way.  

[FRIEND #1 reaches out open hand, asking for the check].

“Send your worries on over
Dare to be stress-free.
I brought some extra cash-
This one’s on me.”

——

This poem/post/story is one of those random products of a daydream that was lucky to meet with enough intentionality to actually be recorded in the endless storage space of my computer.  It has been in that hard drive for a few weeks already, so I thought it was at last a good time to make its “public” appearance.  One of the stranger things I have written over the years- I don’t even know if it is a poem, a play, or just an intermittently interrupted string of thoughts.  But all-in-all, those titles don’t actually matter here.  After all, if it’s something I feel like sharing while at a coffeehouse, I suppose it has every right to start a Coffeehouse Conversation.

This post is dedicated to all of my friends- here is a short daydream to break up the day’s reality. 🙂

I created this blog a few weeks ago and since then have been wondering what on earth I should put up as my first post.  Though I began this site as a space to which I can commit my ideas, my writings, and my thoughts, setting pen to paper (even fingertips to keyboard) has been incredibly difficult.  I hope to discover and share some insights into the communities around me and the people and ideas that inspire me, but I suppose in order to start doing that, I literally need to start.

That’s when I came across this: a poem that I had written back in 2010 during my undergrad at UCLA.  It seems strange to think that this was 4 YEARS ago.  Time passes so quickly, but what’s absolutely fascinating to me is the continuity of ideas over time.  I wrote this 4 years ago, and upon discovering it again in my email’s “sent” box, I wasn’t sure with how much of the rambling poem’s sentiments I still agreed.  Then I read it again.  The words pulled thoughts, feelings from somewhere in the back of my consciousness up to the forefront of my mind- ideas that I used to know, beliefs I used to hold so dearly.  In a way, my past self is instructing my current self on how to think, presenting my current mind with my own forgotten ideas, and allowing me to now decide all over again how true these past theories ring.

This is why I would like to record my thoughts.  This is a live journal, an open forum for my present self to instruct my future self.  Not all the posts will be self-reflections.  Many will be explorations of all that is around me.  But some “diary” entries are worth recording, if only to provide some food-for-thought for those future “selves” out there in tomorrow-land and to see which ideas truly stand the test of time.

Marbles

I don’t want to give up my naïveté;

I don’t want to give up the comfort,

The peace I have always known.

People see it as oblivion, as innocence-

Even as ignorance…

But I don’t see it as a bad thing-

Not completely at least…

I find that the naïveté spurs confidence,

Drives dreams-

It creates that perfect world-

Even if only one theoretical-

Where anything is possible,

Where everything is possible.

No one thinks of stopping a child

From dreaming of a happy future…

At what age must he grow up?

At what age must he end his dream-

Recognize it as impractical, unrealistic, ridiculous-

Allow reality to absorb such visions

Further and deeper:

Marbles rolling down a funnel-

Their paths’ radii shortening- soon to reach zero-

Soon to be nonexistent-

Soon to no longer be worth mentioning…

There is no excuse for ignorance-

For blind oblivion;

But an argument remains for its counterpart:

If a goal is strong enough to drive a being,

To fulfill potential, to pursue worldwide interests, global needs,

Does it matter that its roots originated in a young child’s dream?

Who would tell him, then, that he was naïve?