beautiful, funny, sad & true

This entry is a combination of two entries that I combined into one, and I’m re-posting them from my MySpace blog. This happened last summer, by the way.

I was out walking around yesterday, and I overheard two womens’ conversation, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. One said to the other, “I’m such a bitch in a relationship.”

The other person just took that in stride. “Oh, I KNOW. Relationships are SO hard. . .”

I wanted so bad to just turn and ask the first person, “Why?”

What’s the point of being in a relationship if all you’re going to do is make the other person miserable? Or allow them to make YOU miserable? Like the second person said, relationships ARE ‘so hard’, even under the BEST of circumstances. Everybody’s got issues. Yes, even me. har har

But at least I can say that I genuinely want the best for myself and whoever I’m with, and it makes me so sad to hear about people who seem to want nothing more than to leave a trail of destruction and heartbreak behind them.

Remember that you’re with the person you’re with because you LIKE THEM. And they LIKE YOU TOO. Why be together otherwise? Reinforcement of each others’ pathologies? Is that the basis of love? I have to believe it’s more than that, but sometimes I wonder. . .

Genuine deep connections with other people are extremely rare, and it seems to me like so many people don’t appreciate that, and they take the other person for granted.

And who am I to comment on all this? I have plenty of faults of my own, but I’m just sayin’. . . I want a real person to care about me for the Real Me, and I want to care about and connect with the Real Them in return. It seems like such an easy request. . .

and here’s part two:

Upon further reflection and re-reading, I felt the need to say that what I wrote earlier sounds more ‘intense’ than I meant it. I meant all that as a bit of questioning, not as a diatribe, which is how it kinda comes across. :) But that wasn’t my intention, or what I was feeling when I wrote it. More confusion than anything else.

Her phrase had been buzzing around in my head, and you got to witness my thought process, that’s all. LUCKY. :)

But anyway.

Man, is it a beautiful night or what? I wish my building had a roof (meaning one that people could go up onto; it obviously HAS a roof), or at least a fire escape, ’cause it’s the perfect night to sit out and look at the stars.

And for gawd’s sake, if you’re with somebody, appreciate them. Give them a hug or something. Try it now. . .go outside together, look at the stars or the city lights, and just hug for a while.

:)

Since I’ve been re-posting things from my old MySpace blog, I’ve been having a blast revisiting some of these old entries. It was particularly fun to come across this beautiful dream I had back in May.

* * * * * * *

So last night I crashed at about 11:00 p.m., after wanting to do nothing more than lie on my bed most of the day. At about 1:00 a.m., though, my eyes popped open, and there was no closing them, no matter what I did.

Finally, about 5:30 or 6:00 this morning, I drifted off to sleep. I’m glad I did, too, because I had the most amazing dream. . .

When it started, I was walking beside a lake with three friends of mine, two women and another man (nobody I knew from ‘real’ life). One of the women was handing each of us a little balloon full of a particular kind of tree sap and explaining to us that we should drop the sap into the lake, and either ask a question or make a wish. I chose to make a wish; I wished for Real Love. As I did, and the sap dripped into the lake, it created bubbles, the membranes of which were brightly illuminated either red or green, and that stayed illuminated for quite a few feet as they descended.

So then the dream changed and I found myself in the middle of a hilly, rocky dirt landscape. I walked for a really long time, until a boy named Tzeki showed me the way back to the village, and we talked and became friends. He showed me how he was learning to use a special kind of gun to send messages. This sounded intriguing, and I asked him to tell me more about it.

“Okay,” he said, “we’re having practice right now. Come on.”

So we walked over to this huge field, where three or four groups of boys were learning how to use these guns. The youngest were about 5 years old, Tzeki’s group was middle-school age, and then there were the mid- to late teenagers. I was my normal age in the dream. They all saw me as a traveler, and were quite happy to take me in and show me around their little village.

So I watched them all practice shooting, and then it began to get dark, and everyone seemed to get really excited. They took me to a gigantic cement building, and when we went in, there was a large swimming pool inside, and the ceiling was a pool. I hadn’t known until then that this civilization existed UNDERWATER. So the kids said to look up, that these bubbles would come floating down to us. As I watched, sure enough, a myriad of bubbles, each of which had either a faint greenish or reddish hue, started to descend from the surface, high above our heads. Before long, the room was filled with swirling bubbles, and each person was trying to catch one in his hand.

Tzeki said, “These are wishes and questions. . .if you’re lucky enough to catch one, you can answer it.” As soon as he said that, I realized that I had been on the other end of this scenario, with my friends, along the edge of the lake. I started trying to grab a bubble, and caught one in my hand, but was unsure of what to do with it. “Think of a response, and it’ll float back,” Tzeki said. So I tried that a couple of times, with a little bit of success, but I could see that it would take a bit of practice.

This lasted for a while, and when it was light, I walked on my way again, under a clear blue sky, amazed by what I had seen. I walked back to the shooting field, and suddenly understood that the bubbles were ‘generic’ messages, but the messages that the guns would fire were meant to communicate directly with a certain person of their choice on the edge of the lake. All the boys had been cheering each other on and trying to shoot a message to my friend, the one who had explained to the rest of us how to dip the sap in the water. They saw her as the leader, in a way, and wanted to be sure to communicate with her if they could.

I ran in the direction they had been shooting, and saw that the younger kids had barely shot more than twenty feet or so, but that Tzeki’s had gone hundreds of yards. I wondered if he realized that his bullets hadn’t been received by my friends up above. I ran on until I found myself in the same dirty, rocky clearing that I had started in, only now I saw it for what it really was; the dry lake bed. I found the older boys’ bullets all over the ground, almost to the edge of the lake, but their shots hadn’t made it either.

I started to run back to tell them what I had learned and seen, and that’s when I woke up.

SUCH a beautiful dream! I’d say the sleepless night was worth it, to have such an amazing experience like that.

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo’s fashionable Harajuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she’s not that good-looking. She doesn’t stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn’t young, either – must be near thirty, not even close to a “girl,” properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She’s the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there’s a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl – one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you’re drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I’ll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can’t recall the shape of hers – or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It’s weird.

“Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% perfect girl,” I tell someone.

“Yeah?” he says. “Good-looking?”

“Not really.”

“Your favorite type, then?”

“I don’t know. I can’t seem to remember anything about her – the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts.”

“Strange.”

“Yeah. Strange.”

“So anyhow,” he says, already bored, “what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?”

“Nah. Just passed her on the street.”

She’s walking east to west, and I west to east. It’s a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and – what I’d really like to do – explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we’d have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

“Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?”

Ridiculous. I’d sound like an insurance salesman.

“Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?”

No, this is just as ridiculous. I’m not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who’s going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. “Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me.”

No, she wouldn’t believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you’re not the 100% perfect boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I’d probably go to pieces. I’d never recover from the shock. I’m thirty-two, and that’s what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can’t bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She’s written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she’s ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She’s lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started “Once upon a time” and ended “A sad story, don’t you think?”

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

“This is amazing,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you’re the 100% perfect girl for me.”

“And you,” she said to him, “are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I’d pictured you in every detail. It’s like a dream.”

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It’s a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one’s dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, “Let’s test ourselves – just once. If we really are each other’s 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we’ll marry then and there. What do you think?”

“Yes,” she said, “that is exactly what we should do.”

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other’s 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season’s terrible influenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence’s piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fourteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don’t you think?

Yes, that’s it, that is what I should have said to her….

___________________________________________
by Haruki Murakami

Buy it here:

I had a bit of a nightmare the other night.

I don’t remember how it started, but I do remember that I was hiking along a steep, mountainous, curvy trail, like a fire road, along the top of a mountain range. When I looked behind me, I noticed that a person in a very fake-looking gorilla suit was following me. He was running up behind me, and I started to be a bit afraid, so I ran.

Every time I my dream’s location changed, the gorilla would appear in the new location. I don’t remember the other locations, but the last thing I do remember is that since he’d been following me and threatening me for such a long time that I decided to turn the tables and find out who was beneath the mask.

The next time he came at me and started attacking me. I grabbed hold of his neck and pushed him away, at the same time I was pulling at his mask to try and get it off. Underneath the mask was an even scarier REAL gorilla, who had his teeth bared and kept trying to bite me. I was terrified, and as I grabbed his head in my hands, his face began to change into that of a very old woman. It seemed to be a spirit of some sort. I said, “Leave me, leave me,” as if to say, “Spirit, leave me alone.” I was so terrified that I woke up and STILL SAW HER THERE, six inches from my face. I said again, barely audibly, “Leave me. Leave me.” After about five seconds, her face gradually disappeared, like that of the Cheshire cat, and her eyes were the last thing to fade.

I was so terrified, there was nothing to do but cry.

I’ve never had a dream like that before, particularly one that carried over into my waking state. If you’ve never had it happen, I don’t recommend it.

* * * * *

p.s. – I had this dream in January of 2006, but I just now copied it over to this blog so I could complete the “OK, All You Dream Interpreters” series. I thought I’d already posted it, but I hadn’t. So there you go.

While I was out eating sushi the other day, I saw a car that belonged to one of my neighbors from two apartment buildings ago.

She was the one who, when my cat would catch a mouse, would knock on my door and say angrily, “Katrina’s caught a MOUSE.”
“Of course she did, she’s a cat.”
“Well, you need to train her or something.”
“How am I supposed to do that? She’s a cat. She eats mice.”
“Well, she’s torturing it. . .playing with it and teasing it.”
“They all do that. I cant train that out of her, it’s cat nature.”

or this:
(knock knock knock) “Katrina’s caught a BIRD.”
“Oh, good for her. . .she doesn’t have any claws.”
“. . .”
“I’d rather she didn’t do that, but I can’t really stop her.”
“Well, maybe you could TRY.”
“OK. (lol) I’ll try.”

Yeah, so I wasn’t looking forward to seeing her today. Luckily I didn’t have to.

That was a great apartment, too, by the way. 1915 Tudor-style building with French doors, 11-foot high arched ceilings, and hardwood floors; nice courtyard where we’d all sit outside drinking wine and talking until late into the night. . .such a nice place. Sure was a shame when some of the original people moved out and were replaced by older, slightly more neurotic people.

Like the lady who would shift every conversation into one about rats. More specifically, HER rats. You could be talking about the AIDS epidemic in Africa and she’d say, “Oh yeah, and I heard that too and it reminded me of something the rats did. Rats are very susceptible to disease, and if you feed them blahblahRATSblahblah–” You’d just want to strangle her. You may think I’m exaggerating, but she would really turn sentences around that fast.

Anyway. . .that was about five years ago, and it feels like a completely different life ago. I wasn’t playing in a band or anything, I had ONE crappy guitar, ONE crappy little amp, and a couple of cheap keyboards. Every time I’d play one of my songs for someone, they’d kinda go, “Enh. . .” And I’d say, “Yeah, the sounds suck, but the melody sure is nice. What about that? And y’know, I played everything on there. I was thinking of this French movie I saw recently. . .” “Yeah, well, it’s not really my thing or whatever.”
So after a while I’d just stopped sharing that stuff with people. I had my little regular job, and just was going about my life. And if you’d asked me, I’d have told you I was happy.

Until one day, I made a new friend who would turn everything upside down and change things for the better. . .