Vulnerability

I've been feeling pretty lonely lately.  Though maybe that word isn't accurate because I am actually surrounded by people.  What I've been longing for is a sense of community.  I guess that more accurately describes it.  This feeling isn't necessarily new, it's just been hightened the last little while.  A few weeks back I got the news that the world lost an old friend of mine.  As we are prone to do when this happens, I started trekking down memory lane of the time of my life in which he was a part. 

The truth is that I hadn't seen him in years, actually since I was in college in a small mountain town in Colorado.  This time in my life was richly filled with great friends and gatherings filled with comforting conversations.  We would gather each week for potlucks and just talk and eat and laugh.  And whenever I was feeling anything at all I could be with a good friend in a matter of minutes.

Fast forward to my life now.  The city is rough. Being with friends means long drives made longer with traffic.  Everyone has jam-packed schedules making it near impossible to make time for even a quick lunch of a cup of coffee.  So much of the time when I try to make weekend plans I am told that their week(s) have been so stressful they don't want an "obligation" for the weekend.  Mostly the only opportunities I have to see the people I call friends are at loud clubs watching their bands...but never having the opportunity to talk.

I find it odd considering I've always considered myself completely independent.  I guess I'm learning that "independence" isn't synonymous with "alone".  Maybe after being so sick last year I've discovered a desperate need to surround myself with people I love; to take advantage of every second together.  I'm frustrated and inevitably hurt by the idea that our lives are so busy, so stressful that the idea of seeing friends is found to be an "obligation" and a stressor...rather than a welcomed relief.

The bf and I make plans and hold potlucks to try to initiate community.  The simple fact, and I know this is harsh, but Los Angeles (is it limited to my city?) folks tend to be flaky.  Several times in the past year I've had plans ranging from lunch to a girls' night dinner to a group trip to the drive-in theater only to have people cancel at the very last minute, or simply not show up at all.  Our monthly potlucks turned into me cooking all of the food and most of the guests just seeing how drunk and loud they could get.

Perhaps I'm overly dramatic, or overly sensitive, or just an outright bitch.  Perhaps I'm totally coming off as desperate.  But maybe that really is what I am - desperate.  I am desperate for community.  For people to make plans, and show up for them.  For conversation to occur against a backdrop of good music, and not the other way around.

I'm the first to admit I can be totally awkward.  I'm pretty guarded with new people, and that guard certainly doesn't drop easily.  I'm absolutely open to the idea that these traits are off-putting and far from welcoming.  I know this problem of mine has a two-way street solution.  But just what are the solutions for lonely?

Verisimilitude

Verisimilitude.  It means a slice of life; an event so real it appears to defy reality.

Since I first came across this word years and years ago I have aimed to let that word define me, define the chapters of my life.  I lead a colorful life.  I have a natural curiosity that leads me into sometimes extreme situations.  I travel.  A lot.  And when I do it is typically to places not frequented by tourists because I love experiencing cultures so far from my own that they appear outright alien to me...at first.  This presents my favorite challenge - finding a way to relate to someone who seems completely unrelatable to me.  There are some who call my innate curiosity naivety, and some who call it fearlessness.  I guess I understand both views, but I still go with simple "curiosity".

What does this have to do with "verisimilitude"?  Well, throughout my travels and my colorful little life I've collected a series of stories that, I feel, exemplify this word to it's fullest.  And I plan on writing about them in posts to come, so this is the "intro" so to speak.  It sounds silly, but when I picture this word I see a rainbow with pie-piece-shaped slices removed, and each of these slices is one of my memories; one of my stories.  I'm a very visual person...

What's to follow in these stories of my sometimes surreal life? Here are a few previews:

• That time my guardian angel (or whatever you wanna call it) saved my life;
• That time a mob of Muslim extremists swarmed around me screaming "you will die today";
• That time I met a life-long friend while wandering lost 100 yards out to sea;
• That time I ate some magical mushrooms and demons came out to play.

Stay tuned; I'm excited to share!

Crossfire

This is about an event I witnessed a few years back.  Though I scoured the newspapers, I never found out what it was about.  I still recall this event every time I drive through this intersection in Hollywood...

It's Monday night, and I am driving home from a going away party in Los Feliz. Back at the party, the guest of honor requested a photo with me, and I fell apart in sobs just as the flash popped. My behavior signaling that my time at the party had come to an end, my soon-to-be-missed friend announced "why don't we walk you to your car now." Driving along the darkened city street, my sobs have subsided into a sort of disconnected melancholy. The "Cure-ish" playlist on my iPod providing an apropos soundtrack. The first chords of Modest Mouse's "Invisible" prompt me to turn the volume up. Red light at the corner of Western and Melrose, I have allowed my eyes to glaze over until I am greened, and I whisper "You're not invisible inside your car/No matter what stupid sort of mission you're on..." like a depressed backup singer for Isaac. My listless eyes register the light has changed, and I offer them bribes of a future sleep sleep to focus on the road.

There is only one car ahead of me, but I have yet to move. I am searching my steering wheel to locate the seldom used horn when a white sedan swerves from somewhere behind me at about 80 miles per hour, careens across the street, up onto the sidewalk and screeches to a halt narrowly missing a storefront. A nano-second later the passenger jumps out of the car and escapes down the road on foot. My eyebrows have barely had time to form themselves into a furrow when swarms of cop cars come from every direction and surround the errant vehicle. Cops emerge from everywhere, guns drawn and ominous, some of them close enough for me to touch through my car's open windows. I am suddenly reminded of all the newspaper articles I have read about similar situations in which innocent bystanders were shot in wayward crossfire. For some reason I have never been able to fully picture this; somewhere in my naive mind honestly believing those not involved were ushered to safety before the bullets fly. How foolish I have been!

It is so surreal, like I am watching some new-wave technology television that puts the viewer directly in the action. I am literally surrounded by rifle-wielding cops using the doors of their cruisers as shields. But I am not in a movie. This is live action, totally real-life drama happening all around me. My car is locked in; I can't drive away, and there is nothing in this world that will get me to leave my car on foot. It is a coping mechanism I have had since pretty young to try to escape "unpleasant circumstances" by viewing them as though a distant observer, and what is happening right now is no different. I know that doing so is quite dangerous as I won't be focused enough if I need to act in an emergency, so I struggle to maintain focus now amidst the shouts of officers, the echoing of gun shots, and the roar of the helicopter circling above.

As quickly as it started, it is over. Our good vs. evil scene has concluded with the falling of a fugitive, his lifeless body crumpled in the spotlight of my headlights. Weapons are sheathed as our players exit the stage, and I, the audience, leave the auditorium.