After enduring the check in and boarding process at Paris’ Charles de Gaulle airport – the Tenth Circle of Hell – and weaving between the folks depositing their carry-on and sundry gifts for friends back home into the overhead bins, I found my seat, 27A, in the front row of the rear Economy section of the Airbus A330. I got myself organized and took my seat, immediately subjected to small talk from the business-travel-guy in 27B.
When the attendant came to check on our willingness and ability to operate the door in an emergency, he interrupted her, reciting the required questions she was about to ask, ostensibly to impress her, or me, or both with his innate knowledge of FAA safety procedure. Clearly, he didn’t know who the fuck he was sitting next to. But I digress…
Continue reading The Old Man and the Pee
In the days that followed her passing, during the grim perfunctory tasks that come with cleaning up after a life, my mother’s handwritten journals made their way into my hands. There were five books in all, each one spiral bound with a very Hallmark-esque pastel flowery cover. Newspaper clippings and hard copies of emails received rained from the books when handled.
Mom told us, my sister and I, before she passed, that she wanted us to read them; indeed, our eventual reading of them was her sole purpose for writing them. She wanted her children to know her, as an adult, in a way she never got to know her parents. My sister grazed through them immediately after her funeral; I read through a couple of the books during business trips over the Pacific in the subsequent months. I think subconsciously, neither one of us was ready to absorb any of the words – not yet.
Continue reading An Investment in Peace
The plan was hatched back in December, months before I put my two week’s notice in :
- Wait for my bonus, and quit in March.
- Spend April in Paris to get inspired, enjoy the city the way it was supposed to be enjoyed, and scrape all the crap from the previous 16 months out of my head.
- Come home for May, connect with friends and get some writing done.
- Spend June in Rome, volunteer at the Torre Argentina Cat Sanctuary, maybe find a new inspiration or stumble into another epiphany among the splendor of Rome.
Continue reading Love : Letting Go and Holding On
She can’t hear anything, but she can sure as hell see.
Her name is Micol, she’s ten years old (give or take a kitty year), and she’s deaf. She’s also FIV positive – roughly akin to the HIV virus in humans.
Continue reading Rome : Day IX – Proof of Existence