Finance Guy

He is sort of my supervisor. My manager, the one I make request for human resources things like taking half a day off to see my friend's art critique, hardly talks to me, though when he does, he's smiling and asks me how I am doing. He doesn't really know what I am doing.

This man, on the other hand, explains everything to me, everything I need to know for projects.

(When he doesn't know, I go to another man, more of a "customer", who tells me more than what I need to know about projects. It is from that man, a younger man, that I am learning a lot about financial theories and practices. More about him another time.)

This is the British man I have mentioned in the beginning. Some days he seems very sad, and almost all mornings he seems sad. Discouraged. I never really know if his lack of smiles is due to my coming always later than the rest of the group or that he is simply tired of this job. Today he spoke multiple times in a joking fashion that he was quitting. After he got his famous "review" that determines the famous "bonus" of each employee of any finance company, he was sullen and put a rating box on his monitor, reminding himself what his worth was to this company on a given day. Today, he was on an all time high of 5+. (I think the highest you get is a 5 so that "plus" might be a sign of sarcasm.)

As I have mentioned before, I think he is in his late forties (as I am in my late thirties, in about a month). He has a wife that forms what seems to be a very functional relationship with him. She drives a Volkswagen Beetle while he drives some American SUV. She goes to the hairdresser only to find their son asking her afterward "Is the hairdresser closed today, Mummy?", while he thinks a lot and talks about about golf. (I realize that finance people love golfing, not sure why.)

I know all this because I sit next to him. I am the quiet Asian man and no one notices me when they let their personal life seep into work, especially when they are so disillusioned about it. Plus, I am the type of people who notice everything. My best friend often still think I work for the CIA.

In any case, there are times when he is genuinely happy, even in a sarcastic way. I much prefer when he's sarcastic and smiling than sullen and quiet. I feel sorry for him. I don't know how long he has been working in finance. He knows a lot, has built great programs for the firm. But I imagine this isn't where you want to be the last decade before retirement. (Or decade and a half.) He feels helpless a lot of times, including with his higher-paid higher-ranked wife who seems much more upbeat than he is (perhaps because I find female British voices sexy, except that of my former roommate, who was annoying). He comes early, and leaves after me, and often he works on weekends. I wonder if he cooks. He wants to lose weight, but the closest he got to the gym in our building was bringing his sneakers in to his cubical but never managed to put them on and march into the gym. His excuse is that he has too much to do. Supposedly that is my job: to relieve him of his work. Sometimes, I think, he is jealous of me.

He knows I code well. He jokes about how I was doing too good of a job. He knows unlike others in the group I am a professional programmer, as opposed to a finance person who spent much of his programming time hacking stuff together. What he is jealous about, or might be, isn't that I am better than him. I don't think I am better. But that I am not cynical.

I am a newcomer and I still leave slightly earlier than others because I have to catch my train. I can get stuff done very fast and in a clean way. I have an attitude that shines among so many jaded faces. It's true. I am happy at work. I don't really care if I really get fired tomorrow. It will hurt. I will cry. But unlike being in one of these many crazy quasi-relationships, I will know I have been happy, even for three months. I am learning a lot, and I am bent on learning even more about finance, no matter when I am leaving this company. Today I got excited when that younger man mentioned in the parenthesized paragraph above gave me a huge, black book on "Fixed Income". I didn't even know what "fixed income" was, except that it included bonds, which themselves I am unfamiliar with. But I have been writing a program for "cash" which was demo'ed today to an impressed crowd over there in London. So when I got the big fat "bible" on fixed income and was told to read four chapters, I was never so eager before, not in high school, not in college. I wanted to know everything about bonds, how they are traded, what kinds, why people trade them. Part of my excitement is also from reading this book (still reading it) that explains what happened a few years ago when the housing marking imploded and unscrupulous people made the economy even worse while putting billions of dollars in their own pockets. Mortgages in that story had everything to do with bonds.

So this digression is to illustrate how excited I am. I don't see half that excitement in the faces of other people. This company is probably the most laid-back investment bank I will ever encounter or learn about. People don't work sixty hours, unlike the animals over there at Goldman Sachs where working eighty hours a week was encouraged with a free cab ride home. Here most people are married, most people have a life outside, most people are older than me, most people take lunch breaks in the lunch room, not at their desks. (I remember when I was at Goldman I was nearly alone in the dining hall during what should have been rush hour. Here between noon and 1:30 the place is jam-packed.)

So that's where any jealousy would come from in that face that oscillated between sadness and sarcastic smiles. I think he's proud of having me help him, even if I made the company lose about ten thousand dollars yesterday for which he had to try to clean the mess. I think he wished life wasn't what it is now, whatever it is. He plays an important role in the company, which is probably why he still has a job after causing some bad ripple a month ago when some of his abuses of the IT system were exposed. He didn't abuse it for money; the bank's IT rules were too tight for him, and he had been going through backdoors for a while until now. That probably caused even deeper depression for him. Coincidentally, or not, it happened around his review.

I see his face. I look at the many lines. I look at his small eyes that made Asian eyes look big. I see the different shades of red on different parts of that face. The lips that seemed so faded and weak. I wonder what makes him want to look forward to another day even if he doesn't always look forward to another day. I look forward always to another work day. I wish I could say the same about weekends when I dread waking up alone. (Less now, but still.) What strange differences we have in our desires. He has a wife, charming and even beautiful for her age, and a shy little son he calls a "wimp" but still adorable when he got him in once for unknown reasons. Me, I complain about not having any of that, not even a girlfriend, and yet, I look forward to everyday except the weekend while he looks forward to the opposite set.

I wanted to talk about this man because I wanted to put a human face in finance. I know I should be enough of a human face on finance. I am not an "outsider"; I am becoming a geek in finance. I am listening to a semester-worth of lectures from a Yale Open Course called Financial Markets. I want to read more and more about the finance industry. And I am not embarrassed to say I want to find a way to make a lot of money.

The trouble is, by saying that, especially the last bit, I am reinforcing this stereotype that, in particular among my circle of leftist/progressive friends, many people have against the financial industry. There's, I believe, a deep and unrecognized hypocrisy in those who chastise the financial industry as a whole as opposed to the specific elements that have committed at least moral wrong to the world. Those who are disgusted with the finance people forget that every human being wants to make money. Some wants it more than others, some, and you'd be surprised how many of us actually want more money than we really need. There is therefore nothing wrong with wanting money. Before castigating those who want to maximize their personal capitals, it's worthwhile to visit the demon of jealousy and look at the mirror first.

It's interesting that at the beginning of the third lecture from this course on the Financial Markets, the professor addressed specifically this point. Hollywood never showed financiers under any good light. People's attitudes are exactly that, financial people are these soulless creatures thirst for more capital, even at the expense of other human beings. I think that most of these people who carry this common misconception have never been exposed to any education in the financial market, let alone worked at a financial services institution. None would really be able to say in what ways financial markets are important and ideally important to the growth of the world. It's far easier to say it breeds greed and causes one depression after another. It would surprise many detractors of the financial market that this professor actually believes the goal of finance is to address the problem of economic inequality through "risk management." And to my own surprise, he declared that socialism, even Communism, is a form of risk management because the goal is for those who are at risk of not being rewarded financially from their less economically usable talents, for these people to minimize the risk of poverty by having others who are more fortunate provide them with the resources. I won't dwell into this further since it is undoubtedly a very debatable subject. But I do want to say that it shouldn't have to be as debatable if the other side actually gained some experience learning and even working in finance.

So in many ways I am accomplishing my main goals when I decided to work in this "evil" world. I wanted to learn finance, its seemingly foggy and obscure forests. I believed that there are few things in the world I would fail to learn (such as the violin). And finance was never going to be too complicated for me. I wanted to learn for the sake of learning, and if I get rich, it would be a bonus, but unnecessary. The other goal was to understand the stereotype of this industry. I remember when I found out my ex from college had been working for Credit Suisse for a while, I sort of insulted her and the rest of her gang by saying, "There's something naturally dangerous about exposing yourself to all this money; all this money surely would corrupt a person." I didn't say it such harsh terms, but close enough. I guess partly I was jealous like a lot of detractors of the finance industry, but also she was my ex and I still hated her to some extent.

Now I sound like an advocate for the finance world. But before you jump into that obvious and obviously wrong conclusion, I wanted to paint the face of a man who has worked in finance longer than any of you have worked in anything you're doing now. He is not an exception, but he is the one person I know the best. But he is human. The professor of that lecture said that people he had met in the finance industry are indeed human, and they work not only to maximize their own capital, which really is what most of us do in our jobs whether that's our principle goal or not, but that these people also believed in the ideals of the financial industry, which its detractors probably don't even know. Those ideals encompass in risk management that holds a very socialist ideal of redistribution of not so much wealth and capital but first and foremost risk. He added that those who do actually make a lot of money, have only one thing to do with all that excess money: philanthropy. Philanthropy is something detractors of finance do not talk about, or if they do, they brush it aside as some justification for the abuses of capitalism.

I think that wherever the truth is about finance, to truly talk about it one needs to go past the movies, the documentaries, and really understand what the human faces, all of them, not just the greedy and immoral ones, do in this sector so often vilified.

Silent Departures

Before a quick story, I want to say that this weekend was quite interesting (which is better than "fun" or even "exciting"). I went to a thrift store and bought a bunch of plaid shirts, with the influence of my artsy friend. So funny, a thirty-something year old man working at an investment bank combing through second-hand clothes in search of gems. But that's really how people make money on Wall Street, combing through all the junk to find gems, except that they make billions out of that scavenger hunt while I got to spend invaluable time with one of my favorite people. But putting love aside, I was amazed how these shirts brought out so much color in me. I am happy to be going in that direction, direction of color as a means to reveal more of ME!

And, oh, today I did something bad at work, probably cost the company over ten thousand dollars. I mean, that's nothing compared to how much I am sure some traders lose on a day, but presumably, if they still have their jobs, they also make millions more. Anyway, let's see if I still have a job tomorrow!

Now, some private reflection through the eyes of an observer.

In his new shoes, his new clothes, in his new attitude, he walked in to the milonga. Wow, so many people, he thought. He didn't really want to come. He had just returned from a stressful meeting that made his transition out of his little town even more stressful. But he came because a friend of his was DJing, and he felt he had to come. But was it really for his friend, only? Or even for his friends? What does it mean, "friend"? Who was he counting? His usual dancers weren't there. But he sat down anyway, looked around, and saw a woman who used to be his friend. They were close. They went hiking together, he sang tango songs to her, told her what they meant. She did a lot for him, more than most women did. Somehow they were just friends, and even less explicable, they stopped being friends.

But when he saw her, he felt love. Love that was for the community in general. He was leaving them, leaving them all. In fact, he didn't know if he would see them again. But it didn't matter. What mattered was that he felt love, starting with this woman, who had been shy to look at him, the big snob who didn't dance with people from his own little town except with his closest friends, the snob that didn't do more than just say "hi". But that armor of snobbery was laid to rest tonight. He felt love. He asked her in the most enthusiastic way he had felt in a long time. Her face brightened up like the sun in this otherwise very dimly lit hall. He didn't question if she was any "good", didn't ask why she couldn't follow. He held her in his arms and moved to the music knowing how much for those fifteen minutes they were enjoying each other's company.

When the set was over, she asked, a little uneasy, "Are we done?"

Without thinking second thoughts he said, "I'd love another one." He was on drugs. He was in love with this community he had not really felt connected to for a while. He was sorry only that he had come so late because of that meeting, and now there wasn't much time left. There were all these people he wanted to dance with. Some were new, but those he had stuck around with, and abandoned a little recently, meant a lot to him. Compared to New York these people were decent, were simple, were loving. He knew that they didn't love him because he has improved immensely. He has been with them for over five years. Even if he weren't the treasurer of the club, an organizer, and just a frequent dancer, they would have still missed him.

However, what mattered now was that he would miss them. He didn't want to. He didn't really want to come tonight, not because he felt too important for them, but because he didn't really want to reconnect with a community that had left also bitter memories in his heart. Too many women have failed to see him for more than just a tango dancer trying to be better. And in his bitterness he wanted to avoid everyone altogether. But somehow, something else a little more powerful than cynicism reigned and brought this love to his battered heart. He felt close to this woman, and the women after her. He held them truly in the most loving way he could imagine tango was about.

He left the milonga feeling grateful for whatever impulse had let him go beyond his cynicism. While he has been looking forward to moving to New York, becoming a part of the tango community there and continuing to improve his tango even more rigorously than the past five years, he was tonight reminded of the simplicity of tango that transcended beyond practicing, beyond improving, beyond showing off and competing. This little town, this community, reminded him that it is always through simplicity in life that love rises most readily from the ashes of cynicism and hatred.

After he had already changed his shoes, a dancer he almost never danced with asked if he would be in the next practica. Instead of seeing a woman who never kept her balance and therefore made the dance very uncomfortable, he saw someone he would miss, someone whose personality he found peculiar at best now he thought he would miss. So in his rubbery new shoes he invited her to dance and in those same shoes they danced. If you don't know tango dancing, you should know that even for a man (and much worse for a woman), rubber-sole shoes are hard to dance with. But none of that mattered. He was again in love. She told him that the community will miss him, that it would be a loss. There was no sentimental "Oh, but I will come back!" or "Oh, you're just saying that." There was a sincere, "Thank you, that means a lot to me."

Simplicity also means about the present. Never about looking at the past, at the demons, especially, that have whipped the scars on your heart. And neither is it about the future, when he would come back, perhaps next week, perhaps not. For him, his ebullience of love was felt because he was present, because he appreciated with nearly a bottomless well of love the connection he made with this simple community. He thought about other people who used to dance here a lot but have moved to New York too. He hoped he would never feel "free" of this community, but rather, keep it, its people, forever in the rhythm of his heart.

Singing Along

Friday we went to this milonga organized by a local tanguero (who wasn't there, but that's a different story) in some middle-of-nowhere place. The dances were, as expected, sad sad sad. And to make it worse, I had to dance with these old ladies who talked up to me just to get a dance. One might think me arrogant, or at least be grateful for the attention. Well, I am arrogant and not grateful.

But I got to dance with my art buddy. Moreover, I was happy to just not really be doing tango in the usual tango scene. Whether here or in New York, at least for this past week, and more, it was one depressing thought after another that tango has offered me a lot of women who didn't want anything from me besides dances (and in the beginning, not even that!). One goal I have in reaching New York is to get to know some people better, outside the tango context. And hopefully, I will meet people who aren't even tango dancers. I went to the movies last night (bad movie, don't go see "The Adjustment Bureau", very lame) with a tango dancer, and she told me that it would nice to have a partner who doesn't share the same obsession as you; yes, even if, or especially if, it is an unshared obsession. There are close to 5 million women in New York, perhaps a third within my connectible age, making that, hmm, about 1.3 million, and only maybe 300 dance tango; so I have a pretty good chance connecting with someone with no tango background besides having perhaps watched movies with tango dancers kicking around with a rose in their mouths.

Anyway, the evening started out in a very cute way. I hopped into this tanguero's car (the only male friend I really have here), and he and my art buddy were singing to "Dejame Ser Así", one of the songs I gave him a month ago that was now arguably his favorite. So much so that he learned the words even though he doesn't even speak Spanish. I felt a great sense of camaraderie. I didn't really know the words, but I hummed along, participating in their merriment. There's something to be said about this little community where I started dancing. However many rejecting-women it has supplied me with in the past five and a half years of tango dancing, I am still grateful to it. I sometimes claim that I made the greatest progress after I started dancing more in New York and going to Buenos Aires, the people who were most encouraging came still from this community. It was here I took the most classes, it was here I became serious with practicing with my art buddy, who I still think is better than just about all the non-professional New York dancers. So sitting there listening to these two buddies sing that cute song made me very happy, even though the start of weekend has for more than a month now always put me in a very upset and hurt mood. It would be yet another weekend away from that tango-adventure that recently ended, and the feeling of camaraderie helped me feel safe.

What was the song they were singing about? This time it isn't about some self-pitying man complaining about unfulfilled or lost love. It's still about love. But it's about a man who wants to be free to be who he is, to be understood for his past and not be judged for his present. The title means "Let me be like this". It has very poetic lines, like "I am like the thistles in the paddock [which is a new English word I had to look up to mean a field], which are scorched by the wind, the drought, and the sun, but are also capable of giving flowers." It reminds me of what friends are like in my life, how we treat each other without judgment, letting each other just be the way he or she is. That's one of the compelling reasons people often have to stay being friends.

It's the weekend, I will take a break from writing a story. I am tired. I didn't sleep well. My new friend, Jealousy, visited me this morning before the sun rose. I was angry. I fell back asleep eventually, but woke up just after the sun rose in the same state. So I did what was least destructive and still doable: wrote my frustrations to a friend. I can sense that the end is near. I can sense that the jealousy is waning, the rational me is becoming more powerful. It's like the turning tide in the civil war in Libya now; the tyrant of the past and its minions of demons are starting to lose, and the rebels of love and reason are advancing.

I spent quite a bit of quality time with my art buddy yesterday. We discussed philosophy, and I loved it. I love discussing philosophy with someone smart and aren't afraid to be wrong. But toward the end we decided on something unrelated to philosophy. It was time for both of us to stop letting romance and its fairytales to govern our lives. It was time to seek out the beauty in life that the hopes for the fairytales have pushed behind their curtains of empty promises. It was funny that I thought of the same thing the previous day. Now I heard someone verbalize it in a clear manner. The world has so much more to offer than the unfulfillable promises, the jealousies within me, the stubbornness of those who can't see me. To focus on these petty things is to look only at some dying flower and forget the green field, the rivers, the mountains, the sea all around. I don't see God the same way my sister sees, but she's right, I should feel lucky to be alive, to be given the gift of life, and more importantly, the gift of what is around me. Focusing on episodes, broken relationships, and past demons that poison this view, is spurning a unique gift that encompasses everything I love about life.

Fortune Cookies

What does yours say?

Close your eyes first as I read it to you.

He walked by the fortune cookies "factory" in the heart of San Francisco's Chinatown. He had been there twice before. Supposedly this is where the country's fortune cookies come from. An invention of the Chinese immigrants that most Chinese back "home" had never heard of.

The first time he went was before they were charging visitors a dollar to take pictures of the women making the cookies before sending them off to the oven. He remembered being cynical about Chinese being so business-oriented. What was the point of charging that dollar? It was more to challenge the tourists to sneak pictures rather than really making extra income.

Before that annoyance was that first time when he was there. It was crowded, with tourists taking pictures without having to pay yet. It was novelty. Looking at the few women generating billions of fortune cookies to Chinese restaurants around the universe. Or so went the propaganda. The room was small and dark, just like any sweatshop. Why didn't sweatshops invite visitors to come and take pictures (after being charged a fee) of the decrepit working conditions of immigrants? They do that in the slums around the world. He wasn't thinking about that. He was enjoying not the view of the source of the universe's luck, but the woman next to him. He was close to her enough to feel her warmth, feel her smile, feel her excitement that didn't need a camera to reinforce.

This fortune cookie came directly down the block, I guess!

What he loved about her above all was her enthusiasm. She was never cynical, never bitter, never sarcastic. She was full of life. She radiated light.

There are coals and there are diamonds. You are a diamond, while the coals, being made of the same thing as you, suck out energy.

He said to her once. He didn't care whether he himself was a diamond or a piece of coal. He loved being with her.

But did she see him?

Close your eyes.

Why?

I want you to see me. Without your eyes.

That's ridiculous. I see you. You have beautiful brown eyes, your smiles are sincere and free.

He asked her again but she refused to close her eyes. There was something risky about closing one's eyes in front of someone who asks for it.

You don't trust me.

No.

You close your eyes when you dance with me.
You close your eyes even when we were dancing by the river, outdoors. Remember? Even after we had a fight, you danced with me, you closed your eyes. You joked that if I threw you off into the water you would be mighty upset.

I wasn't joking.

You don't trust me.

He realizes now that when someone doesn't see you, she can't trust you much.

What do you want me to see?

He was saddened by that question. Not only because it was tinged with frustration from someone he wanted to be able to see him, but also it obviously meant she didn't see him. She didn't want to try. He wanted to tell her that she needed to close her eyes and open her heart to see him. He had imagined her closing her eyes and touch his face with her hands. No one has ever done that before, touching his face (besides trying to wipe off something dirty). The touch of the fingers would be the first electric connection to the heart. But she just smiled and shook her head.

You're being silly. Just read that fortune slip to me.

He cracked open the fortune cookie without opening the plastic wrapper. She looked amused.

Why do you not open it like normal people?

He didn't look at her. He wasn't normal. He wanted to tell her that he believed it was possible to see the words of fortune without opening the obvious. But it sounded too cheesy, or at least she would find it cheesy. He just shook and smiled, admitting partially that she was right, that he was weird.

What does it say? And add "in bed" at the end, remember!

When was that? Five years ago. The first trip to the fortune cookie source of the universe. The place where the cracked open fortune cookie he beheld in his hand must have be born. They were in a dingy little Chinese restaurant around the corner. It was a very cheap place. She didn't have much money and they had established long ago that he would never pay for her. That meant they had to go where she could afford. Just dumplings. Hot, big, fat dumplings. Her hands. He remembered her hands. They were gorgeous. But the ivory fingers would never know the texture of his virgin face. He knew how her wrist felt. He knew what her scent was. He knew the feel of her hair. And of course, the glow from her eyes. He knew what her existence felt like in his arms.

What are you doing?

In the darkness, total darkness, in the silence punctured only slightly by the sporadic cab nine floors down on the vacant streets of the Mission District of San Francisco, in that darkness he saw her, as if they were on the beach in full sun. He could see her eyes were closed when she asked that question. He knew where her face was and gently touched it. He could see she smiled a little upon that touch. He could see how they could not be together much longer. In that darkness she didn't see him. In that darkness, the world simply went to sleep.

It says, "May your journeys, however long, be traveled always with an open heart."

It's worse than mine, listen....

He can't remember what hers said. The sweet egg smell from the fortune cookie factory was nearly gone as the distance between him and the center of the universe's fortune grew. He had only been to the factory twice. He had been to San Francisco five times, each time with a different girl. But this first visit to the city, when he first visited the factory, made him open his heart a little more to a lesson in the journey of life: the most amazing person in the world has little to do with qualities to admire, but simply has the heart to see him. This thought precipitated in him again as he sat before the Oakland Bridge, watching the clouds move in great hurry through the San Francisco Bay.

The Empire Strikes Back!

So sleet and snow have returned. Odd. But really not unexpected.

I am still eating salad for dinner. My weight is not decreasing but I look at myself sometimes in the big mirrors at work and feel a little sad at how gaunt my wrists are. Or thought, at least, how unmanly. But why care about unmanly?

There's this man who almost always gets off the train with me at the small station near my house. He is often carrying his little PC laptop, still open, as if he could still do one more second of work on it while he walks up the stairs and through the passage way before exposing his laptop to the unfriendly open-air. He did the same today. He is so odd. When he is not holding his laptop open, he is running in a hurry. I have never seen what he is in a hurry for. No bus. No one waiting for him. He is a middle-age man with a salt-and-pepper ponytail. His eyes gaunt, sunken. He seems even thinner than me, if you can believe it. He smiles at me when he actually makes the time to make eye contact with me, during that split second before running up the stairs or returning to his computer being carried. I wonder about him. What does he do? Why does he run? Whom does he live with? Or alone? Does he have friends?

People who are always running around find it more difficult to notice things, such as other people running around.

Today my buddy told me again she loved me. I realized what she says means something new, too. It helps me stop feeling guilty. When an unhealthy relationship ends in my life, it often ends in a nasty way, prolonged, dragged out in a torturous manner hurtful to both people. I always feel guilty playing a role making the other person feel miserable. I feel guilty that I am petty, demanding, needy, manipulative, etc, etc. And to hear a friend tell me how lucky she is to have me in her life repositions my guilt a little better. Maybe I am not such a cynical, manipulative, pessimist if someone I respect greatly repeatedly tells me I am a great person.

So enough about me. For the rest of Lent I will do my best to stop talking about me. It's a blog about my new life, but not necessarily about the old hurts, the old wounds manifesting themselves in new situations.

He is a little startled by the sound of broken glass under his feet. He hates broken glass. He remembers the many cuts he had when he was a child because no one told him to be careful. Or when his dad told him, it was always in a mean way that made him feel guilty about not already knowing the dangers of life since birth. The sound of broken glass always startles him. He is careful not to do anything to make the broken glass on the broken windows fall down, maybe cutting him, but just the sound of broken glass would make him uncomfortable.

This used to be a bakery. Now abandoned. There are many windows, all with half-broken glass now. There is no light, though the fixture above him remains familiar. He steps away from the windows and sinks a bit into the darkness, away from the reaches of the sunlight.

A gust of wind blows through the broken windows. He remembers sitting here ten years ago. Where was that couch? It's not here anymore. Now everything is in a mess, and the darkness with its accomplice the blanket of dust, makes it difficult to orient oneself. He used to come here a lot. But the one evening he remembers was when he came, as always, after the bakery was closed and he sat in the couch that was somewhere in front of him now, and there he watched the second of the old Star Wars movies with the baker's daughter.

It was a winter evening because the sun had already gone to its rest even though it was not so late. The baker, an old Polish Jew whose only sign of Jewishness was his nose, always welcomed him and left him and his daughter some unsold baked goodies while he went off somewhere he never asked about, that his daughter didn't know either. He can't remember her name. Just that her last name was impossible to pronounce. It's only been ten years since that evening, since he had last seen her.

He walks over to the a pile of broken furniture, after his eyes got adjusted to the dimness of the the area near the door to the bathroom. It must have been not too long since he had last seen her that the bakery closed down, abandoned, and that no one else came to make it something else. He gathers this from identifying a lamp that used to be next to them when they were watching their movies, that second Star Wars movie being their last one. It was a lamp from some garage sale, its signature is the big chip on the base that hasn't grown since being tossed to this corner many years ago.

He doesn't know what happened to them. He never cared until now. Maybe he should have cared. Maybe things mattered even if they take a pause for a short while. Unless that isn't a short while. Sometimes he would look her up on the Internet, but he couldn't remember her name. He had so successfully erased it. He did it by giving her a different name that night after he left. He called her Persia. He thought he was clever. Playing with the word "persa", "Lost" in Italian. Was she lost or did he lose her, or something. In his bitterness he wanted something funny to remember her by. That night of Star Wars Episode V, was a week into Lent. Every morning, very early, for the rest of those forty days, he walked by the bakery, before she would be awake though the smell of Eastern European baking would be evident from miles away, he would walk past by, mutter her new name, and picture the interior of the baking room with the couch and TV without looking through the big windows. He wasn't Catholic; like her and her father, he wasn't religious. But the austerity of abstinence during Lent inspired him to rebel against all his feelings for her, rebel against her treachery, against all the disappointments. It helped too that she never called him. Now he thinks perhaps it was because she understood. They were young, she was even younger, but she seemed, from the present retrospect, more mature than most women he had met since then. She gave him the distance. Or perhaps she simply was too preoccupied to care anymore. The pain, somehow, is still felt, to him, as if all the glass cuts from more than twenty years ago still feel fresh.

He turns around and sees the pouring of sunlight into the dusty baking room. The machines have been removed or stolen. The emptiness, or the chaos in it, makes this portrait of a past seem mournful. He takes out his smartphone, places it between his eyes and the past before him, whose dust helps the sun's illumination, and he clicks on the camera button. Her name is still lost. Her face is a blur. The glass cuts are actually not so acute, probably just made up in his mind, artifice like the dust here that comes from the unknown exterior. And his regrets, betrayed by the sunlight, but still, the dust will settle one day, and probably soon the whole building won't be left abandoned much longer before the bulldozers come. He steps toward the hole through which he had come in, stepping on broken glass every step or two, not heeding to the memories of glass cuts.

Beating Yourself about It

I took half a day off today. First vacation day I took off in just three months. Well, half a day, not the whole thing. It was strange coming back with so much sunlight out and so few people on the train. I wondered who these people were. Were they all going to a friend's critique?

I have never been to an art critique before. Most of what was said was very interesting. The experience helps me continue my admiration for art people. True, they don't seem to have very much else to talk about when they are together, at least, besides art and philosophy. But what they do talk about within this narrow spectrum interests me greatly. I don't know why. I think they are so perceptive. They see things with such minute details that mean a lot, and this appeals to me as an amateur photographer, amateur writer, and an amateur poet. What brings me, personally, peace and joy is noticing the small things in life, and making sense of life from observing these small details. I notice when someone steps on a half-eaten bagel when no one else notices. What's the big deal? For me, it reminds us the peculiar human nature of finding the obvious and grabbing it, like children who must touch everything new they see. For most people that still is no compelling reason to care. But it isn't only because I find something deep about the simplest details in life, but also it brings me, and I think it brings us, a lot of peace if we just stop and smell the roses, as the expression goes.

Peace is what I crave, I guess. Another weekend went by. It was again difficult, but I got through it. I didn't spend any of the evenings alone, but I spent all the nights alone. There's undiminished frustration surrounding that repeated theme every weekend. And every morning I wake up feeling still bitter. I shouldn't. But it's worse feeling bad about feeling bitter. That's what a friend of my art friend noticed, that bitterness, when we met up briefly after the critique. I was telling her about my new job, and when I told her it was between this little town and New York City, I remembered suddenly the reason I picked that job. One of the reasons, and was a main reason before I started enjoying the job when I realized it was the perfect place to start a new path in finance (not too stressful, very knowledgeable people). I told her the reason was that I wanted to work half way between New York and here so I could spend some nights in New York and some nights back here. "Some nights" obviously not with my friends. In looking back I felt a pang of deep regret. What a strange fantasy I lived in, to think I would have a girlfriend here who would let me stay over some nights and come visit me some other nights.

"Don't ever do anything for anyone else's sake, make decisions for yourself only," I told her in Spanish. (This Mexican friend prefers speaking in Spanish.) She tried to say that sometimes when you could make your decision based on yourself and the other person. I wanted to rebut, but simply gave up and said, "I have become cynical." My art friend agreed, and told me, "Don't beat yourself about it." True, worse than having made a mistake is feeling guilty about it. It's true. We all have fantasies, as the conversation continued on to the private lives of the two ladies. We have wishes, "sueños", as I said, hopes that are very far from the reality we are faced with. It's OK to have these wishes; it's even OK to be heartbroken when we fall from these "sueños" onto the concrete floors of reality. There's no point beating yourself about it.

I've wanted to just write stories, even stories about real events in my life. But I guess peace hasn't offered me much room for that, and it's late. Perhaps tomorrow I will have more time. Tomorrow I will meet the broker, the broker here, to start the next mammoth project: selling the house. I have made some calculations, some minor soul-searching, and decided that for the price I want to sell, the past five years of being a worrying landlord was worth it. I doubt I can sell it for the price I want, but if I do, I will have money to buy an apartment in New York with cash, not to settle down, but at least I will have the freedom not to work and still have a place to live. I very much enjoy my work, learning a lot. But I know, that road to peace is still dark and full of snow and ice from yesteryears. Sometimes selling a house seems less difficult than melting away the past, soothing the bitterness, and forgetting those who have refused to be part of my ideals.

Junior High

There was a girl named Neslahan. I think my sister might even remember that name, though never seen the girl. My sister and I used to play role-playing games, and in my foggy memory I probably used "Neslahan" as a character to play out my fantasies. None of this is known to my sister at the time (guess you know it now, Sis'!).

I finally found out the name of this young woman I danced with last night and also last Sunday. She had a very unique face, her smiles very American, but her features very foreign. She was Turkish, half Turkish? Or at least, her name was Turkish. Her name was "Nesle" ("Like the chocolate minus the 't'"), but when I finally found her on Facebook, it was that name, Neslahan.

That was from junior high. So long ago. Why did I like her. I think because she was pretty, and she had really dark eyebrows. What is up with me and dark eyebrows? Anyway, I remember little about what our relationship was like, how often she even bothered to talk to me, even how I felt. I just remember that moment when a Turkish boy insulted her and she started crying. At that moment I wanted to be closer to her.

I wonder if there's this chivalrism in me still. Wanting to be close to a woman in distress, a dame in distress, as they used to say. Maybe.

Today is the middle of the weekend. I stayed at another hotel last night. (Don't tell our parents!) It was just seven-dollar cab ride from the milonga. It was a traditional one, not like the ultra-modern iPod-setup one a month ago. And this time, I was alone. I don't know if I should keep allowing myself to be alone; I end up forgiving even less those who have abandoned me. Before going to the milonga I went to a tango friend's piano recital. She was dancing, as it seemed, with the piano. It was amazing. I have never really had a musician for a friend (my roommate, unfortunately, isn't my friend). This woman is, like many musicians who can actually afford to live alone in New York City, extremely talented, based on her bio and also on the solo and the duet pieces she did last night. It would be nice to have her as a real friend, upgrading from tango friend status.

I bumped into two tango friends at the same event, and we went out for dinner together. Nothing to complain about. Bonding, getting to know people that might become real friends. But then, when I returned to the hotel at 3 in the morning, the feeling of "unforgiving" returned. I need to get out of this rut. I need to really start fresh, forget all the troubles.

And here's the story. Quick one because I have a guest coming. Someone to celebrate with me because today I signed my first lease to my first apartment in New York City. No one is around to celebrate with me except, ironically, someone who is too depressed to celebrate. But in the end, it doesn't matter how depressed, how unprepared, how inept you are in life; what counts is a connection. This woman always makes me laugh, even when both of us are depressed.

He played that song again as he watched the old factories of Bridgeport go by on a two-dimensional canvass called life. He wanted the previous day to send her a text message with just the title of this song. She would understand. A few months ago he translated the lyrics from Spanish to English to her, for her to understand. They were talking then. Talking a lot even though an ocean divided them, an ocean full of high waves, unpredictable sentiments, and the saltiness of each soul's past. He wanted to text her the title, for her to know that deep down, somewhere, he was looking for her. "Buscándote", "looking for you."

"It's so you. You are looking for that girl." That was what she told him a few months ago, on the phone, still talking, still divided by their own oceans, internal, real, figurative, insurmountable.

But now he was a viewer of the landscape turning from the wealthy west to the the poverty-stricken east, divided by this depressing looking industrial city.

"You are such a romantic. You still believe in finding the one." That was a different voice. The saline smells different from that ocean. That woman has disappeared from his life. Not because he wanted to, because time had revealed to them both the false bridges that had bound them before. That was a woman from college, so many years ago. And who is this now? He felt a surge of anger after the train past the river that opened to the polluted estuary swallowed up by the Long Island Sound.

No, there was no looking for anyone. Except yourself. Find yourself.

That was why he didn't send her that text today. He could still be a romantic, still wanting "The One" to find him (not the other way around), still believe in happiness. He was going home now. He watched the transformation of the landscape from the safety of this rickety train that felt as if it would derail any moment and fall, along with all these useless souls, into the gray waters below.

"I am afraid of bridges," he confessed to a girl. Was it the same girl? Same as now? Then? Which number?

Whoever she was, she said, "That's weird!"

Was she being mean spirited or did he take everything too personally?

He wondered if it mattered if he did fall into that chemical-filled water below.

He closed his eyes and rested his burdened head against the window pane; the movie was over, he had to stop it. His potential for joy and laughter and light-heartedness was also taking a slight break. Today was the first time since he started his tango that he was actually going home instead of going to the monthly tango event. He opened his eyes, but only internally. He remarked this peculiarity. Why was he going home? What a strange thing to do, to be leaving New York when every month this day he was going to New York. Every month he was in the country for most of the past five years he was driving with friends, sharing memories, building new connections, on their way to the biggest monthly milonga of the continent. Today, he was "reverse-commuting", back to his little village.

The City today was too much for him. He had gone and paid for his connection for a future he can't really control.

"The thing I love about going to tango in New York has nothing to do with the milonga there. I love it because of the car ride and the listening to tango and the talks we have."

That was what his tango buddy, the art buddy, had told him a few times.

With his internal eyes still open, he watched the joyful moments unfold in his heart. Happiness is from those connections, deep, ones you actually have to analyze to understand but at the same time easy to feel if you open your heart to them.

The train was still shaking, on the verge of rolling over on the side and crashing into one of these less expensive houses and factories by the railroad. The landscape was still changing quickly. His eyes still closed to all this. In the vastness of his inner world, he saw again that same choice of being happy or being angry. He closed his internal eyes once more.

Attempt at a Story

The weekend is near. Instead of my usual round of complaining about spending the weekend alone, and trying to comfort my cabin of anger, I would rather write a story, perhaps as a way to connect to the sources of that anger.

I do want to add a few things. That singing to tango songs alone makes me happy. That hearing my sister tell me my little nephew named me as one of the things in his life he is grateful for makes me feel life isn't that bad at all.

So here goes the story.

The alarm had gone off half an hour ago. He has settled in his usual nest in the usual seat on the same diesel engine train every work morning since his new job. He watches the city slowly waking up along with the sun on this wintry day. Snow was still visible. His mind was still with her. His mind was in different temporal spheres, one inside another, like one of those Russian dolls, separate but form one.

After the alarm went off he returned to bed. He had purposefully made the alarm go off fifteen minutes earlier than usual. He wanted to spend those many extra minutes being aware of her presence, enjoying her presence. She had stirred when he had gotten up to turn off the alarm. But now she seemed at peace again. Her eyes closed in a serene manner easily invoking angels in the cheesy hearts. There were no walls, for those 15 minutes, no arguments, no anger, no frustrations. There was silence of the matutinal air, connecting their lungs, connecting them to the world that often seemed so uproarious between them. She was probably waking up too, but she was not stirring, not a single muscle tightened, like they would when preparing for a fight. He put his left hand gently over her temple and barely stroked her hair.

The air was much colder. It was probably freezing. The silence punctured occasionally by the birds in the trees surrounding them. The sun was already out on this summer day. It was hard to believe that in the middle of summer snow could still be found. But this was in the bone-chilling Pacific Northwest. At least the sun was out. He sat up and quietly unzipped his cocoon of a sleeping bag. It was more like a tomb, its shape, tomb for mummies. They were inside this thin tent where both cold air and sunlight could easily pierce through. There was a bug crawling off, he could see, from the other side. He looked down on the same sleeping beauty he would many months later be stroking the hair of, and he saw the same tranquility he would later on that time. She had given him a hard time about setting up the tent, about the mosquitoes, about, in general, not really knowing much about the outdoors after bragging about having camped or at least hiked in the desert and many other places in the world. His found ways to make her feel bad as a retaliation. They were on this roadtrip together that already had started out with the usual drama. Now he was here, in the tent that she made him question his capability as a man. At least an outdoor man. But the harsh words exchanged vanished like the morning fog on a freezing morning like this. What was left was this silence, augmented by the morning bird songs. What he saw was not the person who made him feel small, but a beautiful woman he took a chance to go on a trip with. She wasn't the first for whom he would take a chance, and like many others before, nothing of what he wanted would happen. They would continue fighting after this morning. They would continue this tug-of-war that would eventually end in nothing.

But that morning, at the foot of a dormant volcano, far from any town, even farther from any city, he saw the woman his heart would never regret embracing. There were no words, not words to describe how beautiful she was, inside and outside. There was just affection. Her ruffled hair covered her face partially. He could see the texture, the details on the skin of her temple. He brushes the few strands of hair covering that, not only to see her face better, but also to feel the warmth of her presence. There she was, a human being, a woman, a friend, a sporadic lover, but most importantly, someone he felt the greatest tenderness toward at the moment. There were no why's and what's.

He pulled his arm back inside the cocoon, still remaining sat-up. The air felt even colder now. He decided to surprise her.

What was the surprise? It didn't turn out to be a big surprise. He had stopped stroking her hair now. He merely rested gently that same hand on her covered shoulders. It has been such a long way since that morning. Six months. Much of that time she was absent, it was as if winter had come much earlier, swallowing autumn altogether, meeting summer when her absence started. The dim light of the room was even weaker than that morning, though the air was much warmer here. Leaving his hand on her shoulders reminded him of that feeling he had when he brushed her hair back in that tent. That connection to a human being, so free of walls, free of distress, just knowing that he existed because he was touching another human being in the simplest, most basic manner. Knowing that in this grand space of the universe, he was not the only one occupying a piece of it.

When Prometheus gave men fire, he had given them, among many things, a bond to unite otherwise very lonesome beings. The air between them, around them, dividing them, was too cold. He wanted her to wake up to warmth, wake up to light that he would be responsible for. He remembered a few years before the feeling, the exhilaration, of reproducing Prometheus's gift. So he crawled out of the tiny tent, leaving the only other warm being in his heart behind, and went gathering small, dry fallen branches and combustibles.

She slept longer than he had hoped. But the fire was still burning when she came out. She was dazed after a rough night sleeping on the flat ground in the cold air. The heat was not on now. He didn't go out to turn on the heat. He forgot. He just wanted to sit next to her after the alarm went off. Today might be the last time she was here. Like every day of the past year between them there was never certainty, hardly any hope, and at least he wondered much more often why they still interacted with each other than about how connected they were.

But here sitting next to her, listening to her gentle breath, to her silence, watching her invariant serenity, he felt connected. There, sitting in front of the fire, finally the big log they had bought the previous day was burning, he wasn't thinking about how she made fun of him trying to make a fire, but rather, he felt the warmth of the fire, he felt the bright colors radiating from it as if it were the life-giving sun. He felt her presence in this light, in this warmth. He wasn't alone, even though she was not sitting next to him.

A stir. But not from her. He looked up and saw a deer looking at him at a close distance. Must be very tame, one of those that frequent campsites. He wanted her to see it. She would comment on it, say something about it he hadn't known before because, in reality, she did know a lot more about nature, particularly mountainous knowledge, than he did. He wish she would be awake now, see this gentle creature watching them in the silence that pacifies any petty arguments, any insults, any of those many chasms that divided them. He sat a little closer to the fire, and resumed being hypnotized again by the fiery dancer in the pit.

The second alarm would soon go off. The world would shift back to its normal gears. From his nest in the train he looked out into memories. He felt again that connection, that simple connection. The depressing buildings among which the train cut through were transforming in the brightening sunlight into her features. For the first time in a while he thought about what she really looked like. He was starting from scratch, having torn away the messy, scribbled canvass, and on this new white canvass before him, outside his nest, out there in the cold, he was tracing this human being that didn't have to be the woman he was trying to win or trying to prove anything to. But rather, a human being who existed next to him for fifteen minutes, allowing him to feel for that brief moment how luck he was not to be the only human being in this universe. And just as he had felt in the tent, tracing the texture and forms of the part of her face exposed from her own cocoon, he felt hope in life. Her existence, her simple existence, made him want to start making another gift of Prometheus somewhere in his life.

Listening to Hope

My mood swings a lot. I don't mean like in the past where one week it's good, one week I am grumpy and dramatic. It's daily.

But not unpredictable. I am only unhappy when I am jealous. The unknown makes me jealous. The raw pain of rejection makes me jealous. If I could just throw away the past, I would stop being jealous.

My sister says I am not alone.

That helps a lot. She's cool. She speaks like a Christian preacher, but I can read beyond the religion that I don't feel too attached to.

But it's Lent, the Catholics are fasting, either from food, as it is traditionally so, or from whatever they feel disconnects them from God. And me? What do I do? Every Lent I try to be a Catholic, find something that disconnects me from my happiness.

Jealousy and all the drama surrounding it. And the thought of another weekend alone.

I was able to overcome these "sins", the problems that blow up the bridges between me and happiness. I was able to build at least a temporary bridge last night. When I stopped caring how much some woman rejects me, and started caring how much I love life. That's the me I want to express. Not the jealous me, not the insecure me.

"Whoever ends up with [him] is a really lucky girl."

That's not words of a comforting friend or my loving sister. I am always touched when a friend or family member (really just my sister) reminds me how great a human being I am, and what a great catch I am as a man. But to have these words come from someone I have only met three times, never really talked to. How does she know?

While I was in the gym, I understood the answer.

She's the best friend of my art friend. They were on a roadtrip, and somehow a song came up and my art friend was reminded of me. That's when her friend said that. I was very moved when my friend relayed the words. This time, however, I didn't feel self-pity, didn't say, "Why then all these girls reject me?" I think it's because I understood by now.

"Why do we let people who are way less cool then us get us so down?" A friend said. She was talking about her own recent huge disappointment with a guy. Being a great person doesn't mean most people will see us. Most people won't, no matter how much time we spend with them, they won't see us.

My question remains the same, why do we let those who are "way less cool" make us so miserable? I don't know the answer to that. Not yet. I have a hunch. But nothing concrete yet.

But I do know how that woman knew me enough to make that prediction about the lucky woman who does "see" me. I don't know her well, but from the first time, and every one of those three occasions, that I have seen her, she wasn't someone trivial, not someone "average".

"The average woman won't see the gems you have," my art friend told me. A year ago, she was the one who said that it would take time for someone to discover how wonderful I am. For some time now I thought it meant I was hiding too much, too scared, too self-conscious.

No.

I took my time to blossom, and that's the right way and the right rate at which I show myself. I don't need to go looking for those gems for a woman. That's her job.

And that's how this friend of my art friend knows enough about me to make that bold statement. She is mature enough to see those gems of mine before I fully open up my curtain.

"You don't want an average woman. You want someone who is mature and self-confident enough to look for those gems of yours."

It's true. I have been settling for just any woman, preferably someone cute, someone beautiful so I can at least show off to others that I have a beautiful woman. But really, that's quite ridiculous. I have not really opened my eyes up in my search. The search isn't for just any woman, including the majority of whom are "average", even if they have above average looks. I need to be pickier, but not in terms of looks. Pickier in terms of someone who really wants me.

"I know now that for me to really be serious with a guy, he has to really work hard!"

That's same for me (swap the word "guy" for a "girl"). I don't need a girl to be paying immense attention to me, but rather, a girl who can "see" me. There aren't many out there, but when one does discover me, we are both the luckiest people in the world.

It's easy to just fall for someone by his looks, his flair, his charisma, his intelligence. That's what average people do. That unquenchable heart doesn't have to settle for someone attractive on a logical basis. Falling in love can happen in many ways, but maturity helps one fall in love with the right person.

That is perhaps the greatest lesson I have learned from my most recent drama. It is a lesson for myself, not only from the seemingly arrogant perspective of someone falling in love with me for my so-amazing gems. But also a lesson for myself. If I want to claim maturity, that next level of maturity, I have to stop looking for just cuteness, beauty that is easy to draw and forget. I need to be more connected with what I want, and that connection helps me to refine what I find beautiful. I told my confidants about this woman. She has a sexiness and beauty I find very rare. And until now I didn't understand what I find so attractive about her. She has that amazing maturity shining out like the sun from her big eyes. And when she speaks, to me or to anyone else, I can feel how connected she is with herself. That's what I need to do. For this Lent, the greatest weapon to deal with the annoying demons of jealousy and other things that keep me in an unhappy state is still the same old way: constant reconnection with myself. I hope the next woman I reach out for is that lucky woman who has the eyes needed to see my gems.

Fight for Sleep

So tired. Four hours of sleep. Less than that, even if not discounting the insomnia. I don't think I will get much more sleep when I move to New York. Not on a Monday, at least. I could hardly keep up today at work.

I spent more than an hour, nearly two hours, preparing for my final DJing for this little city. I don't know why I put so much effort into it. Did I agree to do it because I wanted to make a final impression for the city (of just a few dozen dancers). A final connection? Was it a way to connect with that girl I am having so much drama with but now it seems the drama is way bigger than even tango. Was it my love for the music so that I would spend these precious two hours going through some of the new stuff and listening through the old ones, instead of sleeping?

I wanted to write about my conversation before the milonga yesterday. A conversation with hopefully a new friend about the many facets of modern day "relationships". But I am too tired. The bed is screaming at me. I say goodbye to my iPad, the final night it will be with me, waking me up for the last time.

It's always sad to say good bye, even if the future is beautiful. It's therefore even sadder when the future is rather murky. I am more scared than I realized about this move. Especially now when my life is so full of dramas and unexpected problems. But if I can get through this alone, with my friends' support, I will feel stronger.

Now, strength needs rest!

Sleepy Beginning

I still wake up with this burden of sadness. Why? I am tired of it. Can I choose to be not sad? It's a choice, of course, but whence comes the strength? And frustratingly puzzling, when will this end? Is it really because everyone morning of sadness is correlated with waking up alone? It's perplexing, it's vexing, I need to get up.

And I did. It's the weekend when we lose an hour, an indication we are entering spring, making the first cold step into a warmer future.

"Spending time with you is more important," I said to this girl many years ago. I wanted to spend the weekend with her, or at least a part of it, instead of going to the tango festival held in our community here. That was the first festival, I believe. In one month, it will be another one, fifth one, reminding me that I have been dancing for five years. I said this to that girl because? Why? Because I wanted to wake up finally with someone? I don't think I was feeling this frustration and helplessness back then. Perhaps I had more hopes back then of winning the heart of a woman. I was already tired of waiting for someone girl, and I can't believe, looking back, that there would be so much so much more to learn about life and women and everything linked to it. Or perhaps, everything is linked to something deeper. Why else are my most angry moments in a "relationship" about my ego.

How do I strengthen that ego? How do I not let rejections bother me so much? Or minimize the jealousy?

These are my bubbling thoughts in the morning of this Saturday, not a "normal" time for my blog. I am hungry and I have no milk. When I move to New York, I would put on my jacket and some pants quickly, run down across the street, or even around the corner, perhaps, and at least grab a quart of milk. Maybe pick up some veggies and make a fresh lunch, as opposed to making a huge collection for the week that becomes boring very quickly.

You, the reader, especially if you have been following this, what are you thinking? I wonder what you think in the morning. If you're fortunate enough to wake up and think about more practical things like eating breakfast, buying milk and other things, and maybe even looking forward to this beautiful day. If you're reading this it's because you know me, you care, at least. And I wonder what you think.

I spent the evening with my friends. One I haven't seen in ten days. She seemed exuberant to see me. I am lucky to have people in this world who are exuberant to see me. Perhaps it's one reason I like seeing my little nephew, who hasn't built too many of these trashy useless walls we adults build. Who demands attention without making the demand complicated, so complicated that we end up feeling weird, if not hurt. And I myself can demand attention from him without feeling that the rejection means something. It's simple. He is always "exuberant" to see me, even just to hear from me. Why can't things be this simple with a woman I want in my life in the terms of love that is even more enriching and rewarding. Really? The toll for the path of romance must be paid with all the dinars of your soul? Really? It's a little ridiculous.

This same friend, the art friend I have mentioned sometimes, commented on my new jacket and new hoodie. She thought I could almost be an artsy boy, looking super hip. I was super-flattered. I didn't need her compliment; I already felt great deciding on my own fashion. But hey, that's what friends are for, giving you gifts you don't need but make you extremely happy. I laughed a lot last night with my friends. I made them laugh. The dance sucked for all of us (except when we danced together, of course!), but it's all right. We had each other, we complained about the dances, the milonga, love, men (for them) and women (for me), and the imbecility of life in general when we have to deal with all these trenches and barbed wires and walls we find ourselves in.

Is that another facet of the "Connection"? I have been wondering about what it means to connect to someone I am interested in, even in love with. The physical attraction. But not only. A friend was telling me the other day about her complicated non-romance romantic relationship with a no-longer-platonic close friend. Wow, why is everything so complicated? How is she connected to him? Really? Just friendship plus wild sex in bed? (Not even wild, most of the time.) She told me that ideally it would be like tango. You are friends when you are sitting down, chatting, but for those twelve minutes of dancing, you lose yourself in the romance, in the craziness, and then, you're back. But life doesn't seem to allow these clean, definitive boundaries when it comes to sex. But if it did, is that really fulfilling?

I think about the women who have left me. Whatever connection we made was not enough to overcome the walls. I mean, I went to India for a woman, we went through some extremely deep experience together. And now, I haven't talked to her at all for almost a year. Really? Sounds like a joke. Do I have to experience an earthquake and a tsunami in Northern Japan with someone for them to see how ridiculous the walls are? But not blaming them, only, if blame is what I want to do. My ego always gets in the way, wouldn't tolerate seeing them with another man or even the thought of it, wouldn't tolerate the simple act of desertion. It wouldn't even tolerate a rejection in the beginning. Walls are immediately set up. But if I could reign in on the childishness of my ego, would we really connect? I wonder if it isn't the very same ego that convinced me to be with these women the first place (when they said "yes"). They are always beautiful in the way that other men would find beautiful, and I always found some excuse to make me think there was some connection. Was there really any substantial ones? I don't know. But it was clear that when the ego was battered, I stopped seeing the connection, whether there really is any or not.

I know I feel connected to my friends. Through talking about silly or important stuff, through laughing, joking, exploring deeper topics together (not necessarily philosophical, might just be hard topics personal to us), or simply the fact that we spent time together, telling each other every now and then we loved each other. Is any of this relevant in a romantic relationship? Or when you strip away the idealism, a romantic relationship is just really about attraction, fulfilling biological urges, and pretending your fantasies about love might partially be realized. I like my friends. I haven't ended up liking any woman who has left me. I wish that weren't so. I wish after a "breakup", we could explore really how we can connect if all the walls barred us from driving down the romance road. But usually, the woman feels bad, guilty, and doesn't want to deal with this, doesn't want the "cycles", and me, my ego can't get over their rejection, or worse, of course, worst of all, seeing them with someone else. Sounds so depressing for a Saturday morning, ah!

Now let's start the weekend, with doing some taxes. Joy.

Grand Central Turmoil

"Did he just say Grand Central turmoil?" asked the character by the window, with a big grin. He very much resembles a character in a movie, so expressive, so much personality on his middle-age face. Even more so when he smiles, in wonderment in this case. Yes, the conductor did say that on the PA system, instead of the obvious "terminal". That got a few other people smile too on this gray morning.

I see the usual people every morning. Mostly they are men. The one with the Soviet hat. The black man with the gray hat, often smoking on the platform. The young man with the crew cut and deliberately half-shaven face, who has been standing with a woman I haven't seen before this week. There's the Asian man, probably of Southeast Asian origin, never looking at me, but why do I notice that? I bet none of the others look at me either; in fact I am probably the only one looking at anyone. There are two young women, always there before me. One always wears the same outfit: white hat, white scarf, white leg warmers, and everything else black, unless sometimes she decided to show off a bit of her rather average legs. The other woman I can't remember much since she doesn't wear anything spectacular. In this winter season, most people just wear black. Like me!

Once the train pulls into the main station, other usual suspects file in, like this stocky and rather cherubic man with the goatee sitting in front of me with his own iPad. I wonder what he does, another software engineer? He wears this Yankee cap, average glasses (meaning, utilitarian), and always, without fail, a black sweatshirt. I can imagine him sitting in front of his computer all work day, slouching while coding. Or reading the latest tech news.

I could be way off, but on quiet mornings I sometimes let my fantasy play out a bit. The innocent kind of fantasy, not the kinds that get me all dramatic and heartbroken.

And on my way back, I decided not to draw, not to read, but just to listen to some music. Be spontaneous, even if it's a small wavelet in the normalcy of my life. But really is my life that normal, that predictable? Not at all. Still, I got to do something different from all the other evenings going home. I decided on some slow songs from my tango collection.

They aren't tango songs. They are what we call "alternative" songs, for those needing a break from the traditional Argenintian songs or just aren't used to them yet. I personally don't like dancing to these alternative songs, but tonight, I wanted to listen to to them because they are really beautiful. And I was taken back on the memory lane again. I remember being much more involved with the tango community here. I was the treasurer of the main tango club here, for three years. I was DJ for longer, though not consistently. And when I used to DJ a lot, I would throw in some alternative songs. Less and less so as I became a better dancer. But the memories seemed fresh.

The first song I listened to was actually a Polish song. I didn't mean to pick a song specifically in Polish, but it happened that way. And I remembered. I remembered being seductive with this Polish woman. I remembered seeing the seductive response. That was the first time I felt seduction, felt the strength of flirtation. I have no idea what the words mean, but I remember her singing to the song when we danced. And while Polish is definitely not in my mind one of the most romantic languages, while listening to it, I felt that seduction, a tiny, fossilized remnant of it. I remembered being in Poland, being with her, but by then we weren't seducing each other anymore; I was the one causing the pain. But before, between the nights in a Communist-era apartment in a city hardly anyone outside Poland has heard of, and the night in some milonga organized by a common friend where my first seduction started, between those two nights, a chapter, brief, but still a chapter of its own, was written. And now that I listened to those Polish syllables, I remembered that chapter. What a crazy world. Another woman who couldn't bear to lose me but had convinced herself that she felt nothing but friendship for me even as she stumbled through confusing signals to herself and to me. She would be the first but not the last woman to do that.

Then other songs came up. They gradually put the memories of that woman back in the cabinet of my past and replayed the less confusing, happier times when I was trying to be a better dancer. I still try to learn, but back then, I was growing up all over again, trying to know what I was in the context of tango. I was interacting with so many people, being disappointed so many times but also being elated just as frequently. All those connections. Whether at the level of moments or at the level of people. How could I leave this city without gratitude? If I had been in New York I would never have found tango, and I am doubtful I would have found something equally rewarding in a world of so much coldness. I learned in this city to not let other people's walls bother me. I am still learning, just like with tango, but I am much better at it. New Yorkers walk with thick armors, but once they put their defenses down, they are beautiful. I am not so different, I guess. One of my closest friends told me once that it takes time to find my beauty, and there's plenty of it.

That Polish woman. She saw it, barely. She couldn't let it go. But she preferred to lose it than to come close to it.

As my move out date approaches, I am saying goodbye to this city. I knew I have learned a lot from it. I tell myself I owe nothing to it because I learned everything on my own. But at the very least, I am grateful the city has given me the space to learn, to figure out how to connect, to figure out how to listen. To figure out how to love when knowing love given might not be received. I am still learning, but I have graduated and am ready to face a less conducive environment. I now don't feel desperate for my friends' assurance of being there for me. They have proven more than enough times that I could call them whenever I wanted and I could cry like a baby without being judged. All this happened in this little city.

Yes, there will be more turmoils waiting for me over there in Grand Central and beyond. But finally, I am ready. Whenever I listen to these songs I used to play so much as a DJ here, and even danced with love to these songs on several occasions, I would unfold my gratitude to the city that doesn't need to be compared to New York.

New Love, Old Love

Last night a new, old love. But a little more of that later.

A beautiful musician invited me to her concert in New York. My heart was tickled. Not that anything would happen, but for my ego fresh from the blender, that is a nice blanket for the wounded.

She and others can't wait for me to move there. I have never felt so welcome by a city with such a harsh reputation.

I am loving my new clothes. My new woolen coat, something I've always wanted. A black woolen coat that kept me warm without hiding my body. I am shooting for bright colors, however, which is why I bought a green down coat last month even though winter is nearly over. And anything red, like my umbrella and a new shirt. I am trying to learn what my personal fashion is, definitely a new step in the new direction of self-love. I can't help but copying fashion from male models on magazines and on the Internet, but I need something to start from. It is becoming an art for me, like my daily drawing on the way home. The difference is that this art has everything to do with my identity, my self-discovery.

I owe part of this direction to my art friend, but even more so to the girl I had to say goodbye to two nights ago. It was terrible how she couldn't accept me for how I dressed, but at the same time, her provocation made me realize I didn't know myself enough to know what colors would go well on me, what style and combinations would help me express my identity the most. So far, it has been a beautiful experience to try and figure out how to bring out the inner beauty in me. When I decided on an impromptu shopping visit to the clothing stores in Midtown before my Sunday milonga last weekend, I got excited, and it was a great experience discovering ideas. For example, while I want bright colors because I don't want to hide myself in black and gray, I also know that certain kinds of brown brings out my eye color, and my eyes was the first body part I remember loving when I first started to appreciate my body that didn't look like the conventional white man's?

I mentioned that girl, the one that left me and would never talk to me again unless I meet her terms of being just friends. The whole fashion thing is an example of one of the strange dynamics we have. She had a way of making me feel bad about really superficial things like looks. But then, whether she intended or not, often her complaints provoked me to think deeper about myself. Often they led to very positive changes, positive in making me ultimately happy. I miss her, though it shouldn't be surprising since she left me only two nights ago (on the phone!). While I am still angry at her for not trying to figure out some new and creative ways to interact besides her narrow dictum of a "friendship", I miss her in a loving way that I hope will allow me to smile at her next time I see her (we both dance in the same milongas). The smile wouldn't be for anything to change between us, not to convince her to talk to me without her winning her terms; the smile would be for me, for me to move on, leave my anger and hatred behind, and go forward with my love for life.

To both her and the previous woman I tried to explain something really important about what I think a partner is for. Not someone to save you from loneliness, but rather, someone to discover new connections with. Constantly. No boundaries, or discover those personal boundaries together and even help the other push beyond those boundaries. Sure, I'd love to have someone to spend Friday night with, just as well as being seduced, playing the romance game. But the glue that holds the two together, the amazing feeling that helps the bond overcome all obstacles, is this partnership for connection. When I told this to both women, they gave me blank look like I was speaking Martian. Perhaps that was the clearest sign that they weren't for me.

That's all old stuff, even old love. A strange old love rose in my heart last night. Or was it new? For some reason, last night and even today, I felt great! Very happy, very enthusiastic about life, about living. I felt loving to everything around me. I don't know what drug I inadvertently ate, but I felt great. And in my euphoria I realized something. I have complained about leaving this little town with so much sorrow, a bad way to end this long chapter here. But didn't I have control over how I leave? Couldn't I choose to leave with joy?

So I did something I didn't expect at all. I actually went to the Tuesday night milonga, knowing that the people I usually danced with weren't going to be there. That include that girl that wouldn't talk to me unconditionally. I didn't go because of their absence; I would have been happy to see all of them, even her. But I went in spite of their absence. I went because I wanted to spend some time with this city that deserved less of my bitterness and more of my warmth. I went with the same attitude I usually had for going to a milonga to dance, not just to achieve the best dances. So I put on my nice hoodie, my favorite jacket, and most importantly my nicest smile. And when I got there, yes, I was apprehensive, a little, to see her there, but also a little hopeful. I wanted to give her a smile, to show myself that at least for a moment, I could walk past her giant, cold walls and not build mine in the front. For a moment, my walls were not there. Still, when I didn't see her there, I was fine. I danced with these beginners I rarely danced with, and I had a great time, and even a greater time seeing their smiles, their appreciation of my invitation to dance and doing my best to make the dance beautiful.

And when I wasn't dancing, I talked to the people. They miss me, it seems. One guy, a great womanizer, used his charms to tell me how I was killing the tango community by moving to New York, devastating the women of the entire state of Connecticut. I thought he was silly, but it helped me feel closer to this city. I talked to the only real male friend I have in this town, finally paid him back for what he spent on feeding me when I was sick with food poisoning. And we chatted. I invited him to stay at my new New York apartment once I move there. I have never invited a man over before, not even male partners of my sisters.

And so that was what I have decided, not only about the city, but about life. I am putting up too many walls, especially in reaction to others putting up their walls. I think it is never the end of the world to put down your defenses, at least not in the safety of the developed world. I always have a choice to be closer to something or someone, or not. At least for this city, I choose to be closer, to care about it more, to leave it with a sense of joy, even gratitude.

Was this new love or old? Not sure.

Morning After

The people at my former work decided they didn't need my help, so I am returning the broken computer and this iPad. Goodbye!

A tiny step toward breaking from this place. It's a real pity I must leave with sorrow. No, not sorrow from parting the equipment. The usual sorrow I can't seem to extricate myself from for too long. I may not be attached to this city, but the sorrow now, the past sorrows it reminds me, are not the best way to remember the city by, to remember this ending chapter by. Most people leave a place with a lot of sentimentality. But everyone I know leave with good feeling. Missing the place.

Like I've said several times, I get over seemingly impassible anguish and then I don't remember the pain, just the feeling that I'd not pass the pain. I don't know if that's good or bad for getting over present and future sadness. I remember feeling hopeless after the previous episode, some one and a half years ago. After she left my house I felt the world had collapsed. I associated my house with this sense of abandonment. I couldn't understand a lot of things at the time. I couldn't understand why she left. Or rather, why she couldn't give us another try. Why throw away all that we had. It's funny how remembering these things makes me realize now how trite the drama is. Everyone goes through these feelings. Psychologists long ago had written down patterns of people breaking up. I don't know what they wrote down, exactly, but perhaps to the effect of false hopes, refuse to accept reality, needing to understanding, hatred, and finally accepting at the end. Something like that. I remember sitting down with an older man and I don't know what I said, something I thought was very unique to me, that I was special, and he smiled and asked if I didn't bleed if I was cut, if I didn't feel pain if I was hurt. The point, he added, was I was no different, I was human, I would have the same reaction as everyone else if the same stimulus had applied to me. He is a doctor. He had his own challenges with women. But he was also the first man who told me any woman who didn't want me was the real loser. It was one of those rare moments in my life where I didn't know what to say, do, or feel.

That made me feel, eventually, better. What I was going through was normal. And like normal things, I would get over it, get through the last stage and move on.

Or not. I still don't want to know anything about that woman. I avoid her on facebook, and that one time I found myself standing behind her by coincidence, I felt the world had fallen apart.

I also know it's not about her. A lot remains unresolved. I still can't understand why we threw away all that.

That's only the foolish heart speaking. My mind knows the answers. When I am not emotional, I know the explanations, I know what the rit things to do are. And that's where I need to really understand, not the details of an unhealthy relationship, but the barriers within me that keep me from moving on, from truly not caring. From truly feeling lucky I have friends to support me, to have a new life to move into, to be alive. From feeling relieved that a bad relationship is over, that I could finally breathe, stop arguing, being angry all the time, becoming some demon that isn't me. These barriers, I see them this time, after tearing away the self-pity, the anger, I see the barriers that stop me from moving on. I need to resolve them. I think they are about ego, about pride. It was especially difficult last time because the woman got the strength to break with me when she found another man. A hurt ego no one, no family, no friend, can help mend. But at least now I know the barriers have something to do with it. When I feel better, I will look into it.

For now, I will just let time heal me. Let my clever brain limit my exposure to reopening wounds.

It was hard to say goodbye last night, but at least it was the last one with this woman. I again felt the house collapsing. It was dark, I was still in my jacket. Every time the house collapses on me, gets dark on me, I remember being a teenager in my parents home, especially when my sisters weren't around; it was the first period in my life where I felt lonely. Where were my parents? My sisters? My ego?

I have a month before leaving this town. Hopefully, something beautiful, the opposite of sorrow, happens, and I can leave without such bitter taste in my mouth.

Unexpected Connections

My weekend, never too dull, best if left for the surprises life wants to offer.

I always want to watch a movie with a girl next to me, in my arms, falling asleep to the idiocy of some cheesy Hollywood flick.

That didn't happen. Instead I cooked dinner for a girl, made her laugh, let her make me laugh a lot, being reminded in the process that one of the best attributes I have is my sense of humor, too often silenced and shoved into the background in an unhealthy relationship where I become a grumpy old man, sullen with the disappointments that seem to define all these relationships. So I we laughed. There was some crying too, on her part; she was too nervous about her future. I listened. Then I remembered another attribute of mine: a listener. It's funny that after the movie (I'll get to that), I made us teas that has these fortune cookie kind of advice written on the paper tip. Hers was "the greatest tool you have is listening". She thought that made no sense, but I was reassured of this quality of mine. It's another quality that becomes invisible when I am in a unhealthy relationship; I often want so much attention I no longer listen.

The movie was really weird. It was an artsy movie about disconnections, lost opportunities, love and cruelty. It is beautifully beautifully made. A third of the conversation was in Cantonese, but interestingly i didn't feel too self-conscious in front of someone who knows little about Chinese dialects. Instead of holding a woman I my arms and enjoying her dreamy scent, we were chatting and stopping the movie because we were so confused at certain points. It was a very nice experience, lacking all the cheesiness of my fantasy regarding a woman on a movie night.

The woman's visit was not planned. It turned out to be a sweet evening in its own right. Then why the constant complaint, "Oh, no one wants to be with me, my fantasies won't be fulfilled, such a sad life." blah, blah, blah. The best prevention and cure for disappointments is to let life be, let it surprise me, let it show me that my fantasies are not as wonderful as what life has in store for me. Of course, if I hadn't taken the step to invite that woman, the night would have been like last Saturday, when I watched a movie alone, being resentful of my loneliness. Life opened a door with this woman in it and i simple walked through. I had to walk through it, but also I had to notice the door being open. Fantasies have a way of closing our mind, preventing you from seeing other doors. Other opportunities.

I said something similar to a friend this weekend: when you make yourself stay in an unhealthy relationship, you miss out on connecting with people that could give you the happiness you deserve. But I also understand at human beings often don't act in their best interest, even more rare they don't act rationally. In my case, too often I bet my hopes and my heart in some slim slim chance of something happening, and I convince myself that all the pain is worth it if only I keep waiting for that slim chance to happen. I finished listening to that lecture series on Death. One interesting point toward the end regarding suicide is if a person has a very very tiny tiny chance of recovering from a terminal illness that causes constant pain, should he just kill himself and forget that tiny chance, or should he continue to endure the unimaginable pain for that sliver of hope to be realized.

The main difference with my case is that the very process of waiting actually diminishes the chance for that already tiny chance to be realized. My lesson seems to be, cruel as I think it is, that fantasies don't happen unless you forget about it; women who stubbornly don't want me only start reconsidering when I stop giving them love. By then, the game is actually over, the fantasy usually has dried out of interest.

The friend I made a comment to about staying out of an unhealthy relationship wasn't really a friend until this weekend. (not the same woman as the movie buddy). That's my unexpected connection. She called on Saturday to see what I was doing, since she hadn't seen me in a while (she's one of those tango people I see only if I go dancing in this little city.) I was touched that she cared, and didn't think much that she called because she was lonely (which is my suspicion when someone calls me out of the blue). It was a her birthday the next day, so out of nowhere, I told her to get together for birthday dinner in New York before dancing. For some strange reason I felt I cared about her, someone I sometimes even avoided. She's a really bizarre person. In any case, part of the motivation must be a connection that came from no one. She asked how I was doing, and instead of saying "Finethankyouwhataboutyou?", I said, "I am struggling a little." I couldn't believe I said that. Was that desperation for someone to hear me complain? Or divine intervention for me to connect to someone? She was receptive, asking me without pushing me what happened. I didn't explain details, only that I needed to avoid someone, and the process of avoidance was hurting me a lot. To say this to a person I often considered at most an acquaintance was a process in itself very liberating. And after that I felt actually quite positive about celebrating her birthday with her the next day. And when I danced with her, I really felt great, felt I wanted to be with her. I normally don't like dancing with her, but something changed, something made me want her, want her the same way I want the best dancers on the floor. To really understand this you need to be a male tango dancer: to hold a woman and dance with her to the music you love.

Again, I don't know why. Maybe she always cared about me but I always pushed her away, feeling unable to connect with her. But she caught me at the right moment, perhaps. I was feeling a little sad that another Saturday was here and I got to do the fun fun thing of taking my car for servicing. And all the while trying not to feel the broken nerves of a heart re-emerging from a blender.

So that was how my weekend ended, having a simple dinner with a new friend, talking to her not about me anymore, but about all sorts of random stuff. True, we don't connect as well as I do with others, but others also had a head-start. I don't know what will happen between me and her from now on. But I enjoyed talking to her, exchanging ideas and advice about relationships. She also is going through a tough time with a relationship that should have ceased to exist in all forms, but now it exists in a worse form than nonexistence: one where she wants him but he just simply enjoys her attention but gives nothing back. I felt sorry for her, but not disdain, which I often do with people in stuck relationships. I wished she could get up and leave. But I listened. I used my tool.

My weekend also ended great because my favorite dancer showed up at the end, just when I was about to change my shoes to face the cold outside. I mostly went to the milonga to dance with her, and I was more than happy to miss my train when she showed up the last minute.

The pain isn't gone. It's slowly ebbing into the ocean of memories. But it is still felt. I need to get through this. I need to be strong by exposing myself to all this. The train ride back was tough, only alleviated briefly by my fatigue and listening to the last lecture on Death. Despite all this complaint about pain, I actually learn a lot. There remains a huge unanswered question about me: why do I require someone to offer me a specific kind of relationship if what we have learned in this blog entry is that spontaneity brings the best kinds of happiness and connection of any kind is what counts more than any conventional expectation. I mean, if the reason I want a girlfriend is to have a warm body to lie in front of a movie with, then I would have missed the opportunity to connect with that girl. What drives my stubbornness? Cultural. Biological. Not sure.

Music and Night

"Vincerò" is the strongest word in the aria, "Nessun dorma" from Puccini's "Turandot". I think it was the last opera I saw. A little surprising since I have seen so many and this one is one of the most popular and best known. The aria is one of the most heard by those not interested in opera.

What I want to say here is "Vincerò", which means "I will win", or more like, "I will conquer...." I will conquer, what? For me, that was the the power from the Pavaroti's voice when I heard the aria this morning as we passed by the midpoint of Bridgeport, as the poverty steadily turns into posh. I will survive this latest round of pain, and not only that, with what I have learned, I will be more ready for the future. I will conquer those demons that have held me back, made me a coward, made me wait for simply more anguish.

I miss opera. I miss the power of the human voice, more powerful than any instrument just because it is directly human, and when it is used as an instrument, it has the concurrent effect of controlling the emotions it wants to elicit. For that reason I always prefer the opera over other classical music. But classical music, in general, I miss listening to, and miss just as well attending concerts of. It is another reason to move to New York, to freely go on a Friday or Saturday or even Sunday matinee and enjoy something human.

It also reminds me of my best friend, who first introduced me to the opera, got me to see Mozart's "Zauberflüte" with her before seeing better known ones. Each time I meet someone, even if she caused a lot of misery, I always learn something practical if not simply intangible about life. With my best friend, I learned a lot. It is not without some confusion that I try to make my latest lesson without thinking about her as my first case. What I mean is that yes, I learned to not wait, ever. At least not for someone I am not in love with, not for someone who makes me wait for so long, not for someone who doesn't respect me. And even if she does all those things, I should not wait. I waited for my best friend to change her heart, but she didn't, not until I have changed mine away. If I hadn't waited for her, we wouldn't be such amazing friends now.

But what is done is done, and I prefer to make judgments on what I have now and now should have or not have happened in the past. Now I don't wait. Now I move on for my own sake.

I talked to my best friend today during work. She seems to be doing well, better than I feared because of the recent passing of her father. I did most of the talking. She is the only person I am still friends with that I feel I can trust to listen to me. It doesn't mean no one else listens; the point is that I feel she is the only person. I told her my frustration with myself. I wanted to be passionate about what I really like, but whenever I want to follow a passion, I feel so disabled by some mess I find myself with a woman. I felt I have wasted so much time with one woman or another. (Did that include her?) I felt I was sick or something, had to take some wonderdrug to snap out of this stupid "broken record", as I said. I am happy about everything else in my life, including the tough issue of my family, but the greatest misery in the past several years has been with women. With romance, that is. My closest friends are women, so I am not risking becoming a misogynist. Now I am so sick of this issue that I am not interested in developing a relationship with any woman. My art friend, my closest friend here, told me I should just start flirting around, even go sleep around (my Protestant sister reading this will love that), as a form of liberation. There's some truth to that, I believe. I have been so beaten down, my heart, my ego, my mind, by one woman then the next, that I need a liberating way to stand back up. Maybe not sleep around, not that I am such a Don Juan that girls are lining up outside my bedroom. But I think there's a point to feeling free instead of feeling lonely. Free from the drama, free from the inadequacies of those too blind to see what I have offered, free from their own walls. It's bad enough I have my own walls; it's so much worse to enclose myself even more with theirs.

So "Vincerò", I will conquer these obstacles. I was going to spend tonight watching this Hong Kong movie, a sort of sequel to "In the Mood for Love". But my Italian friend, another really close friend, called me up to meet for dinner. I knew that whenever I see her it would be a one-way conversation: her talking. I was really tired. I was glad that I wasn't in that tiring self-pitying mood. But still, I knew there wouldn't be many chances left to see her, so I agreed. And it was as I expected: her talking most of the time. She's not the best listener in the world, but somehow I love her. For the simple, simple reason that we are still talking, we, being such different people, always felt the other would be around. Isn't that enough for two human beings to love each other? To know that the other would be there?

And when we said goodbye, she told me I really should call her more. It's true, I never call her, not since she got together with the man of her dreams, of her live, the man that had caused so much anguish in her, caused her to talk so much to me; I know all the details, from the minutest of their sex lives to the big fights. It's true, I haven't called her since they got together. It's my fault. I am too engrossed in my own self-pity that I often avoid couples, even if they are my best friends. But she expressed how much she loved me, how much she would miss me, how much she would like me to join them at least one more time. I was touched. I was touched that thanks to her my Friday wasn't alone. I was touched that even though we saw each other about once a month we still loved each other so much.

I told her nothing about me, of course, not about my current mess that I am getting out of, not about the search for apartment. I did talk to her a little about how I want to dress, getting some fashion tips from an Italian woman I consider the best dressed in this town (which really doesn't take much, but still). I told my best friend today about my move. One thing I like about talking to her is to hear the absurdity of my self-pity. I asked her if she looked for her apartment on her own, and she said, "Of course!" "You mean you didn't drown in your own self-pity knowing that no one was looking for apartments with you?" She laughed and said, "So you are feeling sorry for yourself that you are going to look for apartment alone this weekend?" We both laughed. She's a strong woman. I look up to her. I want to be at least as strong as she is. I know I am. I not only have looked for apartments alone before, always, in Boston, in Switzerland, even searched for a sale in New York. I have also traveled a lot alone. What I lack isn't courage, but a way to circumvent that one mystery that hinders my courage. That mystery that comes out in the form of self-pity, of fear of loneliness. I don't know how to explain it. I know I will be happy and very smart about finding an apartment on my own. I am even happy I can go shopping for clothes that make me look great, alone. I have proven over and over again that I end up enjoying and learning a lot from traveling alone. I even live alone now, with my roommate rarely showing up. And I enjoy it. But if you read my blog, especially during the times when I am in a "mess", you'd think I am the weakest pathetic person ever lived. I complain a lot in writing. But I do feel also a lot of pain, and however inconsequential that pain seems, it often stops me from taking the first step that eventually lead to a lot of joy and learning once I take it. But something, not simply cowardice, not simply weakness, something more ineffable, stops me before I take the first step. I don't know what it is. It is very painful. It comes out when I am rejected, when I am jealous, when I feel unwanted, unloved. I hope the answer comes to me someday.

For now, I had a great start of the weekend. I don't know how many apartments I will get to see. I will be making calls tomorrow morning. And tomorrow perhaps I can do my taxes. The mundane things of the world when you stop thinking about passions, about women, about romance, about the mysterious impediments in life. All I know now is that I am brave, and my friends, my true friends, love me for that and other reasons.