My face was that pitiful interface between the frigid upheaval outside and the warm turmoil inside. It was melting the hail-snow mixture as the particles whipped onto the surface. When the gust became great, I realized my face wasn't numb enough to feel the stings of the bullets.
All that for walking in the snow. I wanted to walk in the snow with a girl, and there I got it. It was beautiful. It wasn't what I expected, not the calm romantic walk, fraught with tension and gossamer hope, but rather, two people braving through a world that was transforming into a beauty like no other. I had never walked on virgin snow; not a single footprint, save those made by the wind. And I wasn't alone.
I won't be writing much about my sentimentality anymore. I only mention this to say I was happy that life gives you what you didn't expect but with an open mind you can be happy with whatever it is.
I am not happy that my best friend is suffering. Her Dad's situation has deteriorated. I called to wish her a belated happy birthday. But we spoke nothing of that. She was getting ready to leave for her paradise island that was far from being a paradise for her. She and the family were told to expect the worse. I was sad to hear that the man I had known, gotten to know, one of the few men in the world that I had gotten to know, would never appear before me again. I have said once that this has never happened to me before: losing someone I had gotten to know, permanently.
But I was heartbroken that I couldn't be there for my best buddy. She sounded worst of all the eight years I had known her. No crying, just hopeless. I wish I could be there for her. I despised this distance between us. I almost despised myself for caring too much about my own life and not risk losing my job by joining her. Of course, the reality is that I will probably be more of a handicap for them than a help. I don't speak Spanish enough to offer comfort. But whatever the wall, I felt helpless in being the friend I wanted to be for her.
On this week's topic of "love" I felt strangely stronger having talked to her. I was even more convinced that in this world what really, really counts is love, whatever the kind. What moved me, what made me so sad, was that I loved my best friend immensely. That feeling is inexplicable but easily identifiable. There's nothing I want from her, just everything I wanted to give her. It's what I have been reminding myself all along: to love is to give.
On this snow day I worked from home. In a few days I will say goodbye to my computer. I still don't know what I will do after that in terms of writing in my blog. My morning routine will be different: I won't be able to write in the morning.
I started writing poems. I mentioned that that movie inspired me to write better poems. So far I have written poems that I almost never reread. Just whatever was in my mind. But now I have a little drawing book where I have been putting in poems and drawings sporadically since 2003. I looked at some of the drawings, not too bad. But, being a bag of memory that I am, they reminded me of many events in the past, mostly involving that same best friend. We spent a lot of time together. So much drama, even breaks. And now how close we are. Strange how life works. Strange how I continue to worry and be uptight about love.
Being at home working meant I couldn't interact with the people at work. It's an interesting place. The trading floor always fascinates me. I would never be a trader; I am not even sure what qualifications you need to be one, but such a person doesn't seem so different from a car salesman or real estate agent: aim is to make a sale, maximize profit, and push your moral boundaries, if necessary. But then when I see these people, they seem so human. Sometimes they play football by their computers with lots of graphs and numbers, sometimes they just walk around with a cup of tea, looking very calm. I walk by to get to the fridge, and I always wonder about all the multi-digit numbers that animate in my mind, all the money won and lost by these people.
I eat a lot. Well, I eat very often. I have two breakfasts, one in the train, one an hour after I start working, then I have a snack around noon, so I don't have to eat a big lunch until after the rush hours in front of the three microwaves servicing the entire floor, including those traders. And around 4PM I have my afternoon tea (usually with a biscuit or an apple). I am basically eating every two to three hours. And at home I only have a salad. I started eating salad in Buenos Aires, of all places (it is know for its beef, and only for its beef). I never ate so much salad because in the Chinese cuisine I grew up with, I never ate anything raw. If you know me, you would that for such a revolution to occur in my life, a woman was involved. I wasn't involved with a woman, though, just that the tango dancer I spent most of my time with was an avid salad eater.
Another brief chapter in my life.
I am still very impressed by the building where I work. It's beautiful, it's very environmentally friendly (at least I have been told that it won some prize for being the most friendly in Connecticut). There isn't something dreadfully serious about it, as one would expect from a place where serious money was made. The avant gard art is cheesy, but at least they aren't some Ayn Rand kind of minimalist coldness. After I found out that my best friend was leaving on an emergency to see her dying father, I felt suddenly panicky. I wanted someone to talk to, someone to cry to. But I couldn't. There was no one and the building suddenly put on a giant sign in the lobby just for me: No Crying, keep working. So I went to the eighth floor where there is a roof that has trees. I looked at it, stared at the snow, the bare trees, and the distant houses on a small hill. My eyes became watery, and I felt the building closing in on me. So strange. That feeling.
Of course, I felt also stupid. What was a grown man in a finance services building doing with watery eyes unless he had just lost a billion dollars and would go to prison for that.
I always wonder about that roof interms of a jumping board for a suicidal trader.
Tomorrow is Friday again; I look forward to the weekend. But equally, I look forward to going into work, doing work.
And for whoever you are that read this, your participation, your curiosity, your caring about the strange and minor dramas in my head, keep me writing, thereby helping me now, and in the future. Many thanks.
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