Nothing good happens after 2am?

So, I'm not really the going out type.  I'll go out with friends on occasion, but mostly, I like staying in, reading books, listening to records, watching movies, drinking (not too heavily -- don't worry) alone.  So, Friday night started out a typical night for me: reading some Camus essays, enjoying a glass of Jameson.  And then a friend from work texted, and she and some friends were going to play pool.  I suck at pool.  I don't like doing things I suck at.  I don't like pool.  But, I haven't been out-out in a long time.  I haven't been out to a dive bar since I moved to Northern California, so I went.  I drank some more Jameson, watched drinks, watched an awful 80s rock cover band in wigs, watched people play pool, watched people, who are so so so so so entertaining, especially when they're trying to put the best version of themselves on display for others.  The little things they do, adjusting their clothes, looking at other people but trying not to get caught, trying to look so cool so people will like them.  So amusing.  I love people.  Of course, I mean, I was doing those same things, and maybe someone else in the bar was watching me with amusement.  But, somehow, I doubt this.  As much as I love people, and as much as I will deny it to your face, I think I'm special.  Anyway, the bar stopped serving around 1:15, and we all packed up and left, heading back to my friend's apartment.  Some of her friends stopped by the store to pick up more alcohol and food.  And this is where the love comes in.  One of her friends bought eggs and potatoes and avocados and jalapenos, and when we got back to my friend's place, she cooked a huge meal for like 8 people, hash browns and scrambled eggs with veggies and jalapenos and avocados.  It was so delicious.  I love breakfast anytime, but breakfast at three in the morning with a belly full of whiskey might be one of the more delicious things ever.  She wouldn't let me help, so that's a bummer, but still... love.

When you're loved by someone, you're never rejected; decide what to be and go be it.

So, my mind is going all the time, and it just goes and goes, and it thinks thoughts, my own thoughts, and it runs through the thoughts of others too: friends, poets, novelists, songwriters, etc., things they've thought and said, and they mix with my thoughts and become my thoughts too; they become a part of me.  And so I was listening to the Avett Brothers the other day, their newest album, and the name of this post is a line from one of their songs (Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise), and it reminded of the ability of love, genuine love, to free and empower.  The statement above, in a real loving relationship of whatever type, should be true, and if it's not...  I'll just stop there.  And these thoughts led me to the thoughts of Max Frisch, in I'm Not Stiller (which, if you haven't read, you should; if you want to borrow it, I've got a copy with your name on it):

"--not for nothing does it say in the Commandments 'Thou shalt not make unto thee any image' ...Every image is a sin. When you love someone you leave every possibility open to them, and in spite of all the memories of the past you are ready to be surprised, again and again surprised, at how different they are, how various, not a finished image."

This is a passage that I've internalized, and this is something I try to live.  I try to love like this, to give love in a way that is freeing and empowering and accepting.  Anyway, this isn't really a coherent or complete thought, just a bit of sharing, and I'm done!

Three words that became hard to say: I and love and you.

First, an update on my the last post about Andy and Beatrice.  A friend of mine, who, for some reason, didn't want to comment on it, suggested that the "call out" is the river speaking, which, by extension, I think is nature or some other outside force/Force, speaking to both of them, telling them both to call out, so they can find each other.  I like this too, and I wish I'd thought of it myself, but I didn't, but she did, and that's good too.

Second, this same friend who had this wondrous interpretation and I were talking over the weekend, a lot actually, old friends, catching up, which is always amazingly lovely, and we talked a bit about how it's hard to say I love you to a friend.  And it is hard, and it's sort of disheartening, I think, that those words are oftentimes reserved for use in familial or romantic relationships.  It isn't hard to say them to your parents or siblings or grandparents or your significant other, but it's usually sort of awkward, especially the first time, to say to a friend.  Most of the time, I'm pretty sure friends that I love know that I love them, and I know that they love me, but there's still that awkwardness to saying it.  I don't like this.  It doesn't have to be awkward, and I don't want it to be.  So I told her I loved her, and she told me she loved me.  As it was the first time we'd said it, even though we've been friends for many years, it was still a little awkward, but it was more freeing, empowering.

And, if you're reading this, I'm almost certain that I love you.  So, here: I love you.  I'm not expecting or asking for reciprocation.  I'm just giving it to you.  Not that my love is some magnificent gift or anything, but it's yours.

I can't find you. I am lost, my love. Call out.

When I was wandering Portland with friends, we ended up visiting several art galleries, which seem to be everywhere there, which is lovely.  We were waiting for an old friend and two new friends to meet us for brunch, and we went into a little shop/gallery on Mississippi, the name of which escapes me, and upstairs there was an installation with birds, birds, and more birds.  There were little paper birds clipped to strings running across the room, just low enough for me to hit my head on them, and pictures and prints of birds and maps of where birds lived, and there was this huge print on one wall, part of which is here.  I took a picture and focused on the words because I wanted to remember them.  It was this sort of kitschy print that looks like something from a kids magazine from the '50s, one bird in flight and one bird sitting on a rock or on the river bank (I can't remember) and then the words above.

So, we've got two birds, let's call them Bird A and Bird B, or how about Andy and Beatrice?  Okay, so Andy's flying to the right, and Beatrice (not pictured) is sitting, facing left.  (I don't know why I chose the male bird to be the active one, but I'm pretty sure it has to do with which bird I identify rather than any sort of latent sexism.)  There are two lines of text, thought or speech, though I guess thought fits better because birds don't speak, at least not these birds, not in a language we can understand, but I suppose it could be some sort of birdspeak...  Anyway, the speakers or thinkers aren't identified, and though you can't see it in the picture I took, the birds are pretty much equidistant from the text, but there are, like I said, two lines of text, and then there's a change in the color of the text for the last two words, which could be another indication of a change in speaker.  So this gives us many possibilities as to which bird the thought/speech belongs to (though it's also possible they belong to someone or something else entirely, but as the birds are the only things present besides water, rocks, and trees, I think it belongs to them) but I think these are a few of the most likely:

Andy: I can't find you.
Beatrice: I am lost, my love.
Andy & Beatrice: Call out.

Andy: I can't find you.
Beatrice: I am lost, my love.
Andy: Call out.

Andy: I can't find you.
Beatrice: I am lost, my love.  Call out.

Andy: I can't find you.  I am lost, my love.
Beatrice: Call out.

Andy: I can't find you. I am lost, my love.  Call out.
Beatrice: ...

While I think it's fairly safe to assume the bird in flight, Andy, is the one to whom the words "I can't find you" belong, as he seems to be searching, they could almost as easily be Beatrice's.  And while it might seem more likely that "I am lost, my love" belongs to Beatrice, as she is sitting, waiting, seemingly lost, I think I like the possibility that they're Andy's more.  In fact, I think I like the last of the above possibilities the best.  The idea that Andy is flying around, searching for Beatrice, and that he is the one that's lost only because he is separated from her and is just hopinghopinghoping that she calls out, so much so that he speaks or screams or squawks it aloud or thinks it so very forcefully, so that he can find her, just feels right to me, perhaps only because I see a lot of myself in Andy.

And so now, you, like me, can think of Andy when you see a bird flying alone, and hope for him, that he will find his love; and when you see a bird sitting alone, calling out, you can think of Beatrice and hope for her, that she will be found.  I know this is only the second post here and that I have few, if any, readers, but if you, dear reader, are interested in thinking about two birds stuck forever in time and the love they share (or the love one feels for the other; both possibilities are there), like I am, please share your interpretation of the saga of Andy and Beatrice, or let me know if you like any of the above possibilities better or see another interpretation that you prefer.

Love was a promise made of smoke.

So, this is my first post here, and I'm hoping to make this a place to keep a record of happy things. Horrible and awful things happen every day, but there are also so many things to love and admire and be awed by. And that's why I'm writing here: to record them (along with various other thoughts, randomness, ramblings, and conversations with myself), for me and also for anyone who happens to read. Last night, I had some good conversations with a few friends regarding love: what it is, how it works, whether or not romantic love can last and whether it's worth the risk. Thinking about love, being intentional about it is important, and that too is a reason I'm writing here.

The name of this blog comes from a passage in Siddhartha, by Hermann Hesse: "Love [...] seems paramount to me. Seeing through the world, explaining it, despising it may be crucial to great thinkers. But all I care about is to be able to love the world, not to despise it, not to hate it or myself, to be able to view it and myself and all beings with love and admiration and awe." When I was thinking about starting to write here and centering this writing on this passage, I was reminded of a verse, which turned out to be 1 John 2:15: "Do not love the world or anything in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him." I remember hearing that verse when I was younger and worrying about whether god's love was in me because I did love the world. At that time, the world was friends and family and Ninja Turtles and breakfast cereal and Christmas and birthdays and bicycles, all things worth loving and all things that I loved and still do, except for maybe Ninja Turtles. But, it turns out John wasn't talking about those things but, instead, greed and lust and pride and the things that lead to those things, which are also in the world. I think god wants us to love the world but to be able to separate out the things worth loving from those that are not. And that is yet another reason why I'm writing here: to separate and sift, to find the wheat among the chaff.

Yesterday was a grey day. Rainy and windy, cold and dreary. But, for just a few precious minutes, the sun came out. So I walked out of my office, down the stairs, and I stood in the sun. And though the chill of the wind negated any warmth the sun might have provided, it was a moment of brilliance and beauty. I love the rain, but a moment of sun during days of rain is something special. When something happens to break us out of the normal and the usual, it's good to pause and take it in and appreciate the difference. I was in Portland over the weekend. Portland has a lot of grey days, and it was grey and drizzly most of the time that I was there, but on Monday morning, the sun broke through for a bit, and I went outside to enjoy it then too. Sun in the midst of the rain, both literally and figuratively, is something worthy of love.