On Walking Through Fire

Put the glasses on.  Set the font to Garamond, size twelve.  Line spacing 1.3.  This is how I write.  I’ve written this way for years now.  My old Sauconies, the black ones with the black laces, I keep them by the door.  The two pairs of new ones, black on charcoal and red and black on white, I keep them in the opposite corner of the room, next to this ugly dresser that my landlord had here when I moved in a year ago.  I keep my running shoes next to my hamper in my room.  I eat the same breakfast every morning.  One cup of coffee.  Egg whites with spinach and mozzarella cheese.  Oatmeal with peanut butter.  Another cup of coffee.

It’s always interesting when I realize how much I try to control the little things.  The form I write in, the placement of the shoes, they don’t change.  And it’s when life changes dramatically, out of nowhere, unexpected, that I realize why I do these things.

Bukowski once wrote that “what matters most is how well you walk through the fire.”  I’ve had the book on my shelf for years now and read it many times.  But I’d never taken the time to think about that sentence.

Today, I was running in the Marina.  About five miles into the run I decided to turn and go down the pier.  The wind suddenly shot into my direction, blasting my face and pushing against me.  It shocked me for a moment, but I pushed back against it.  My feet were heavy, my steps were short and forced, my breath wasn’t coming easily.  I started to look around at the people.  An elderly couple stood at the railing watching the water crash against the rocks.  A family was throwing line from a fishing pole into the water.  The kids sat and watched with childhood eagerness and wonder.  Another couple was walking their dog.  The wind pushed the dog’s skin back and I could see his teeth.  I giggled to myself as I ran by, and thought about how different each moment is for each of us.  The kids in awe of a fishing pole, the old couple staring at the water reflecting on a long life, the dog antagonized by the wind.  And me, running, pushing myself against the wind, cramps in my calves, cramps in my side, pushing myself again.  The pier seemed to go on forever.  I ran into that wind for what seemed like hours.  Every muscle, every ache told me to stop.  And then I got to the end, did a half-circle and turned to head back down the pier.  Now, the wind was guiding me, pushing me from behind.  My feet felt lighter, my steps got easier.  I was able to relax and breathe.  And that line came to me out of nowhere.  What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.

I had big plans for the rest of the summer.  I was going to take the GRE on August 16^th, next Thursday.  I’ve been studying hard, and I’m ready.  I was going to finish my grad school applications.  I was going to be here, in Berkeley.  But, as usual, there’s something quite different in store for me.  A random twist of events have foiled my plans.  A fear is becoming reality.

But on that pier today, I had a moment of clarity.  One of those moments where I really know everything’s going to be fine.  How many times in life are we not going to get what we want?  How many times are our plans going to be stripped away by some unexpected twist of events?  How many times will we be faced with our fears?  How many times are we going to have to walk through the fire?  Countless.  Change is immovable.  But yet I’m still so scared of it.  It pushes so many old buttons.  So I keep different pairs of shoes in different places, I type with the same font and same spacing, I eat the same breakfast every day, in the same way.  And I know why. And that’s fine with me.  I get it.  I’m not going to lie and say I don’t.  But none of that matters.  Because we do what we can.  Because what matters most is how well you walk through the fire.

On Change

I was walking to my Psych 101 class today, headphones in my ears, and I looked up at the giant Valley Life Sciences Building on UC Berkeley’s campus. I remembered, last Spring, walking through the same exact campus for the first time, staring up at the same exact building, wondering if this was where I’d live the following Fall.

The image of myself walking through campus, arm around the woman I was sure I’d still be with, flashed before my eyes. I tried to put myself in that position again; scared of what the next year would bring, wanting to move to Berkeley but scared of what the separation would bring. But I was so excited…. I was so proud of myself that I even had a chance to go to a school like Cal. And I just stared up at that building….

And now here I am, exactly one year later. I now know all the little things that I was so unsure of. I know that the girl is gone, has been for a while now. I know that I can do well here, that I can succeed in a place like this. I know that it’s okay to move away, to make myself vulnerable again, in a new place with new people. I know that I can survive and do well despite things not having gone exactly how I planned since I moved up here. I want to be able to go back, to go back to that image of myself, with the girl, walking on the campus, and whisper to myself all of these things that I now know. I think that somehow that will protect me. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned since moving up here, it’s not to become too attached to any idea, or any person. These moments are fleeting. People, perceptions, what things mean to you, they all change. Now, when I walk by the Valley Life Science building, I no longer am filled with wonder and accomplishment, but rather disdain at the fact that I have to go listen to a terrible lecturer talk for an hour and twenty minutes about a subject that I could much easier learn on my own. And some of the people I thought I’d be close to forever, are gone. Things I thought I knew, I really didn’t know.

But just because things change, doesn’t mean I can’t still be attached to the images, the moments, the memories. Those don’t change. And I’m so incredibly grateful for all the images, all the moments. And in that moment today on campus, so many images flashed in front of me. From climbing castle walls overlooking the coast of Nice, to trying to drive a rental car in a foreign country, to jumping off of a waterfall in Big Sur, to walking the medieval streets in Eze, to watching boats dock in Monaco, and when I ran for what seemed to be hours on a beach in the Bajamas with no shoes on at sunrise. Oh, and in Ojai, when Burt placed a small rock at my feet to represent our friendship, and told me, very simply, “be patient.” And in Catalina, in 7^th grade, for our school trip, when I was the only kid in the entire class that couldn’t make it up the rock climbing wall. Everybody stood at the bottom and watched as I fumbled around and kept falling. And then the following year, in Arizona, the class had to climb up a pole and reach a bell at the top. And guess what? I fuckin’ did it. And now, when I’m running, and I want to quit, and I’ve hit the 6^th mile, and the wind is blowing against me hard, and I’m pressed up against all that is pressed up against me, I think about that wall in Catalina, smile, laugh, and keep going. And high school, ahh, high school. The 72 hour days without sleep, the people that came and went like a dream.

There’s so much, too much. And just because the meaning changes, and just because my perception changes, doesn’t mean the images do. They stay the same.  They stay real.  They stay just exactly how I always remembered. Ha. It’s funny how we get so flustered, you know? We get so caught up in how we appear to others, or if this person likes us, or that person doesn’t, what we’re going to do next year, or the next five years, or even tomorrow. It doesn’t matter. I know who I am. I’m proud of all of the images, all of the memories. The good, the bad, and the ugly. And when I remember that, it doesn’t matter how I appear to you, or if you like me or not, or if I’ll go to grad school or not, or how much money I’ll make. Because I’ve got all that I need.

It’s like my buddy Alec said to me, in his car outside of class my senior year of high school. I was upset about something, my grandmother’s death or some surgery I was about to have. He hit the blunt that I had nicely rolled, blew a little smoke out of his mouth, sucked it back in through his nose, and with a cool exhale, said some of the wisest words I’ve ever heard. “It’s all good homie…. It’s all good.”

On A Cold Berkeley Morning

I wake up at 7:30, hit snooze, and finally get out of bed 9 minutes later. The sun is creeping in through a small crack between the blinds and the bottom of the window, yet somehow it’s so cold in my room that it feels like my bones are going to snap as I walk. In the morning, I’m a robot. Four eggs, two whole-wheat English muffins, whey protein, vitamin, toothbrush, toothpaste, clothes, backpack, door.

I walk to the bus stop on Shattuck and Ashby. The freezing Berkeley morning air whips my cheeks as I put my hood over my head. And here I wait, for 17 minutes, no matter what time I leave the apartment, with my headphones in my ears and backpack over my shoulders, a Berkeley student, an East Bay local.

On the bus, I move to the back. People’s mouths are moving, but all I can hear is my music. Their expressions change, they move their limbs, their bodies change positions, they smile, they nod their heads, “yes.” I am the observer, in a different world, hearing different sounds. I am part of the iPod generation. In our own worlds, we are in control of our destinies. We are the authors of our own destruction. We put headphones in and forget about everything. We rebel against time and space. We send cries off rooftops to disturb the peaceful population. We close our eyes, and lose our fear of falling, of losing, of living. We’re together but alone. We’re blissful but dead. We’re harmonious but broken. We’re held but isolated. We’re lovers of life. We’re enemies of normalcy. We laugh in the faces of those who judge us.  We form a perfect union, conjure up a balance, create light, poor gasoline on old stomping grounds, set them ablaze and watch giant wildfires pierce holes through the night.

It’s time to get off of the bus. I mutter the words, “thank you,” to the bus driver. But I hear nothing come out of my mouth. Back to the whipping cold of Berkeley air. Gray smoke bleeds through vents in the sidewalk. Welcome to the University of California at Berkeley. I look up to see the large clock tower presiding over the morning, and a large signpost, saying, in big letters, “POSSIBILITY.” Other signposts line the walkway, with pictures and quotes of Cal students.

“I feel like I can do anything here!”

“Cal taught me that it’s what’s on the inside that counts.”

“Who knew you could be 55 years old and be a Cal graduate!”

Once I’m in class, my headphones still in, again I marvel at the moving mouths, the gestures, the motions. It’s a beautiful dance, a give and take. I take my headphones out and I’m blasted with sounds of voices, snippets of conversations. My ears pick up on the one directly behind me.

“She’s the kind of girl that like, when you first meet her, she’s all quiet, but when you get to know her, she’s really fun. She’s actually pretty amazing.”

I take my books out, put my eyeglasses on, and reflect on all of the little moments, all the little movements that have brought me to this seat, in this classroom, in the Valley Life Sciences Building at the University of California. I can’t help but smile. And then that smile turns into all out laughter. The girl sitting next to me glances at me, but doesn’t say a word. I look back at her, shrug my shoulders slightly, and say, “You know what I mean?”

But to her,

it was just a random moving mouth

with no sound.

It was just a gesture,

a change of expression,

and nothing more.

On Home

I’m in an airplane. I look past two strangers, out the window of my southwest flight. Dense tribes of light–red, yellow, orange, green–flicker like billions of fireflies. Welcome to L.A. Welcome home.

I’m in my father’s car. The familiar smell of leather. It creaks as we shift positions. The same car, the 1985 Mercedes, the one I grew up in, the one I went to AYSO soccer in, to pee-wee basketball, to piano recital, to drum lessons, to the hospital. Nothing has changed.

I’m in my old room. This is the window I used to blow cool smoke out of. This is the closet, where my mother cleaned up empty liquor bottles, stuffed them into trash bags. These are the steps, the steps where she would carry the bottles loudly down to the kitchen. These are the sounds of my house. Those are my shelves. You could still see all the papers, stacks upon stacks of poems, drawings, my screaming youth. And these, these are the floors, the hardwood floors, spilt wax, burned incense, my shedding skin. This is where my heart broke. These are the walls, the walls I grew up with. They whisper to me at night when I’m sleeping. This is your home. This is your home. This is the bathroom, the cold white tiled floor, the shower rack where I hung the IV bags, where I used to stand myself up gingerly, quietly, carefully.

I’m outside now, staring at the sky through the trees, on the cold pavement where I used to lay down, look up, and breathe. And this is my family, a dancer, a piano-player, a runner. That’s where we sat during Christmas. That’s where I poured out my stockings. That’s where I rollerbladed, back and forth, back and forth. Here, here’s where I sat at dinner. Yep, right there, staring down at my plate, watching it become empty. And there, right there is where I shot baskets, hour after hour, til there were blisters on my hands and on my feet. Oh, and that’s where I swam, where I dumped pennies in the deep end and tried to collect all of them in one… giant…. breath…. And there, that alley right there, that’s where I lit fires, smoked cigarette butts that I would find on the street, drank my parents’ liquor. And that’s where my Grandma lived, that’s where I would bring a tray of dinner, to a woman sitting alone at a table, knitting, singing, waiting for me. And here, at the top of the steps, here’s where we sat, when I would call her over, when mom and dad were out late, and she would read me my dinosaur book, the same one, over and over again, until mom and dad came home. There’s where we used to play gin rummy, and when I cursed she would wash my mouth out with soap. That’s where we would watch Magnum P.I., and I would ask her during every scene, “What’s that mean Gram?” And she would tell me, every time. And that’s where she sat, in her wheelchair, one of the last times I saw her, listening to my father play the piano.  A calm and peaceful smile on her face.  Here’s where I stood, watching.  And here’s where I walked over to her, bent over, kissed her on her forehead, and inhaled deeply through my nose so I wouldn’t ever forget her smell.. This is my father’s office. The fluorescent light, the picture of my mother when she was young, Harry Chapin, Mark Twain, two guitars, a kazoo, Radiology journals, a magnifying glass, measuring tape, two cardboard boxes of pens and pencils, a record player, Nat King Cole, Bonnie Raitt, Tracy Chapman. Here’s the downstairs bathroom, where I used to douse toilet paper rolls with lighter fluid and cast them ablaze. Here’s the hallway closet where I got into the Amaretto and Drambouie. Here’s the TV room, where I watched Van Damme movies, and kicked the shit out of the couch pillows, and played basketball with a small rubber ball. I was Van Damme.  I was Magic Johnson. And here’s where the piano was, where I would sit and listen to my father play, Chopin, Mozart, Beethoven, with my bright blue pajamas and little padded socks, so I wouldn’t slip on the hardwood floors when I walked. And my parents’ room, where my sister and I made a spaceship out of a rocking chair. The closet where I would steal pills, Ambien, Vicodin. And my parents’ bathroom, where I sat with a good friend, and begged my father not to shave his mustache. This is my house. This is Los Angeles. This is what I call home, this now liminal space, in-between where I was and where I am going.

Now I’m back in Berkeley, where I’m greeted with a colony of fucking ants in my kitchen, and a forty-eight degree living room. I get a call from a close friend. “How was your flight? Are you home?”

“Yeah, I’m home, well, I should say, I’m back in Berkeley.” Remembering the liminal space.

Now I’m in a new place, this place that I also call home sometimes. Text books, text books, text books, notebooks, highlighters, pencils, pens. This is where I sit. This is where I read. This is where I write. This is where I dream. Home is now a phone call. Home is a computer screen, a network, a dynamic and fluid space. The rug has been pulled out from underneath me. I’m falling again. I’m grasping again. I’m empty again. This is my new home. This is the home that she built for us, with beige area rugs and beautiful cherry blossoms; only, without her, and not really home.

Time is a burnt wick.

Somebody turned over the hourglass,

without asking me if it was alright.

But I like it here.

I like who I am.

I’ve got new rolls of toilet paper to set on fire.

I’ve got new skin to shed.

I’ve got a new heart,

that breaks just as easily

as the old one.