Rainy Sunday in a Café

6.55pm 10 August 2008, @ Café Grumpy

Try as I do, I cannot write something meant for public eyes and still remain detached enough in my writing to be like some of my friends who are better and more successful writers. They state their realities, discuss their actions, and accept the outcomes, whether these please them or not. Topics I consider too personal for publication are presented with no more than a shrug of their shoulders: c'est la vie. I envy the ease with which they allow the words to flow, and the freedom from fear of criticism. Whoever is spending enough time to read through these blocks of text obviously has a reason to, so if he finds it to be a waste of time, he can readily leave the page. Yet, understanding all this, I cannot write without backspacing, without hemming and hawing over each word and its delicate connotations. Rustiness. I can punch out dozens of unfriendly work-related emails within an hour, yet I cannot write what I am feeling and why I am feeling it half as easily.

Perhaps, it is because I do not know myself that well anymore. In the years after college, time has become so precious that none of it is spent on self-reflection anymore. The more important things suck it all up: proving myself at work, finding snippets of the day to spend with my boyfriend, sleeping. It's not hard to find myself greatly changed, but it was surprising. The things that once consumed my days do not once make an appearance in my days now. During finals, I used to dream in Latin, and depending on the testing schedule, in Chinese. It was crucial to know why this tense, this voice, this mood were used in this ode, and now, it is similarly crucial to understand why this tone, this manner, these words were used by a work colleague. Transferred into real life, what was once grand and poetically nuanced becomes petty.

So as I pull down all that I had once elevated to such great heights, something inside me is increasingly frantic to find a way out.

Bad Luck with the Blind

As a dog lover, I am drawn to dogs of all sorts, old and young, pure and mutt. Except for Whippets. During a recent visit to Zibetto, the neighborhood espresso bar around the corner from my office, I encountered a seeing-eye dog attached to his companion. He was a full-grown male German Shepherd, all fur and panting virulence. His human counterpart was sipping a Pellegrino Limonata, my favorite soda, ankle anchoring the leash of his bodyguard. With the sun shining gloriously through the shop window, it seemed like the right time for me to ask to be acquainted. To the dog, of course. Fellow coffee drinkers have already fondled, cooed, and departed, without so much as a Hello to the Man; I am not so ill-mannered. I approach Mr. Limonata and ask, "Hi, may I say Hello to your dog?" Finishing his sip, he stonily replies, "No. He's working."

Stunned, I turned back to my own companion, and furiously whispered, "I am mortified! He said no to me!" My logical companion inquires, "If you were not prepared for the answer to be no, why did you ask? Why didn't you just go and pet the dog?" "Because I extended the question as a matter of courtesy. I didn't ever expect his answer to be no! Surely, I wouldn't pet a child without asking his parents for permission. Why should petting a dog be any different?" I muttered.

My mind reeled and memories swirled to try to find some relevance to my current situation. I took myself back to a few summers ago, to Cambridge, Massachusetts. It was a hot summer day, made hotter after my fifteen minute stroll across the Mass Ave. Bridge, blazing, uncovered under the summer sun. At the crosswalk of Mass Ave. and Vassar, a Blind Dude (I'm done walking on eggshells, goddamn it), was trying to cross, and the volume of the chirping Walk signal proved no match for the trucks rumbling past. I approached him, and asked, "Excuse me, are you trying to cross?" Apparently, my naturally low speaking voice was also no match for the trucks, so I made a second attempt. I placed my hand gingerly on his forearm and reiterated, "Excuse me, are you trying to cross?" My hand was flung off as he yelled, "Please, DON'T touch me!" At that, he rushed across the thankfully empty street, and walked briskly away. I stood and looked around furtively to make sure no witness misunderstood my intentions and assumed from this outburst that I was molesting a blind person. Upset, I walked on and took myself home, vowing never to offer assistance unless it was begged from me.

Perhaps my voice is grating to the ears of the blind? My tone too plaintive, my actions too bold and violating? Why do blind people hate me?! Silly egoist, I know. But this has spurred me to apply to Lighthouse International to be a reading companion for the visually impaired. If chosen, I would spend a few hours a week reading to whomever would enjoy it. I can't think of a better way to improve my blind-person-karma. And maybe, he'll even have a dog.