I was so sleepy sitting there listening. But I was listening. I was alert to the story, brief as it was, just two sentences, about how one of my art friend's visitors met her grandfather who despite having suffered stroke before that meeting he still managed to behave like the man so of life before the incident that left him speechless. The gentleman was defined by his exuberance and love for life, he was always talking but not talking in the way that he was trying to get attention, but in a way of sharing love with others. Through my art friend I learned all the crazy stories he had experienced across the Americas. Though I was quiet there, tired from just a single sip of whiskey more than an hour earlier, I was re-inspired by a hero I had never met (and never will, sadly). He is a hero since I got to know him for the simple fact that he loves life, he was crazy about it, and even having been struck down by a stroke, he showed all the love he could to a stranger he had never met before.
I thought about myself (of course). I can identify with him. I love to laugh, to make my friends laugh, love to take things easy, while trying to learn everything I can about life, whether it's pragmatic things like investment or understanding ways to be close to people, like listening. I know I have trouble when it comes to romance, an area that manages to provoke the marginal but significant piece of me that makes me the opposite, the dark person who is sullen and never smiles, the Mr. Hyde that is paranoid and petulant. But it's all the more reason I was happy to be reminded of this hero, because a piece of me is that hero, and the challenge is to make the rest of me like that. I am not trying to be someone else; I am trying to be the good of me all the time, everywhere, with everyone.
So I didn't move to New York. I wanted to. I was a little anxious when my friend who said would accompany me disappeared for the afternoon. I got upset with myself for relying on anyone, for trusting anyone besides myself. Moreover, I was upset that I needed anyone, that I couldn't be like most people in the world who do have to move alone, who have no one to count on. I remember that night, the night that inspire that crazy short blog entry a couple of days ago, the night when I just walked away from that woman, never turning my head, let alone saying goodbye or giving her a hug. The reason I was so upset with her was that she gave up on life, on me, and decided to move alone, that life really sucked and it was best to rely on yourself. I was there, waving my arms crazy for her to see that she wasn't alone, but she refused to see me. She saw life as it was: a desert where the only shadow was your own.
I didn't want to be like her. She is someone who has always been lonely and likely remain so. I admire her for being a survivor, for overcoming many obstacles in a life of poverty and as a woman that needs to work harder for the same recognition as men just because she wears a bra. But this individualist mentality is closely knit with the defeatist ideology that you must rely only on yourself and trust no one. I don't want to be like that.
But this afternoon I saw myself starting to believe it when faced with the perspective of driving to New York alone. I would have done it if no one told me they would be supportive and come with me. Now having gained that confidence and then just lost it inexplicably, I felt resentful.
But life has its little tricks. Good tricks. I had a mini-epiphany. I wondered, why was I rushing to get to New York. Why was I setting myself up for anger and cynicism. Where is the love? I took the day off mainly to be there for my art friend's critique. Her final review. It didn't go so well, it seemed; they were very harsh on her. I could see on her face how nervous and upset she was. I know her enough now to read her face. But when it was over, I realized she had to be at other critiques, until the end. I couldn't talk to her. So I hugged her and left to what I thought was the start of my move. I felt a little empty leaving the gallery where the critique took place. I came home and felt disconnected. And only after I vented to another friend about how I should never rely on anyone to be supportive, I realized I didn't have to rush, but rather, spend as much time as I could with those I loved. So I invited myself to spend time with my art friend and her visitors, most of whom I knew. And that's what we did. I didn't say much, partly because of the one sip of whiskey followed by half a glass of weak beer, but partly they were all talking mostly about art. But I felt good being with her. I could see why the critique was a very sensitive event for her, explaining why she is always very hesitant about inviting friends over; it's a tough moment that only those she trusted or wanted to trust more should show up.
One of the things her friend, the one who saw her grandfather, also said was something like this. "When you travel with someone, somewhere tough, and they stick with you, you know you have someone special in your life. You don't find someone like that often. Somewhere tough, not like in Paris, though the French can be very mean. But like in India." I thought about that girl again, the one that I didn't say goodbye to. We were in India. We stuck together. Not long before we parted without a goodbye, we were sitting by her new air conditioner. She said to me, "Here we are again, by the AC." Yes, in India we were being boiled, I got sick for two days from a minor heat stroke. The electricity came on about ten minutes every half an hour, and the heat rushed in after each shutdown of the AC within one minute. We both sat in front of the AC because it was too weak to cool even our bedroom. We survived that hell hole. Together. I was touched that she remembered such minor detail. We went through a lot without killing each other, but rather, helped each other. But then, look where we are now, how we couldn't even garner the courage to turn around and run across the street to the other person and give that person a hug. What keeps people from loving each other? What is the price of pride we are willing to pay? My friend's friend was a little wrong about French being mean (just to tourists, I guess), and probably wrong too about how a tough trip could prove the endurance of a friendship.
For now, I have my art buddy. Thanks to the absence and flakiness of the other friend, who disappeared because she got a huge headache, I was able to take a step back and see what really counts in life. Cheesy as it might sound, what really counts in life is love. Love not only for your friends, but more importantly, for life. It's that love that makes me love laughing, love listening, love to love. Someone told me she used to give $20 to charity even when she was a poor student who could use that money for a minor luxury like concerts that would make her happy. But she understood that that same amount of money would make someone out there even happier. That's love for life, manifested in the love for someone even more distant than a stranger. So next time I want to feel grumpy and upset about something related to romance, I hope to remember that at least I am someone who loves life, that nothing is worth taking that away.
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