dreams

a friend of mine cut me out of his life almost two years ago now. it was the weirdest thing: we had recently talked on the phone while i was in prague and he knew i was coming to the US in a few weeks. when i arrived and called him, i got his voicemail. he never returned that call or any of the other messages i left during those weeks.

i kept giving him the benefit of the doubt that he was really busy or something...but he was usually good about calling me back.

then i talked with a mutual friend, who said casually, oh, he's cut you out of his life. he did it to me. i never thought he'd do it to you.

neither did i.

in an episode of 'friends,' the subject of cutting friends out of one's life comes up. it's played out through secrets revealed, hurt feelings, reconciliation, and through it all...humor. i have to say, i haven't found any humor in this.

i've been friends with this guy for almost eleven years. he was the first high school student i met when i was in the process of going on staff with the local church youth group. he was a senior then and lived close to my parents (where i was living) and struck me as a very intelligent, savvy kid. so the youth pastor suggested he help me and another friend plan a game that was to be our big introduction to the youth group.

we were immediately buddies. there wasn't anything inappropriate about our relationship, but we were very close. we understood each other. we'd talk about his girlfriends, culture, God, the future, my desire for life in prague, everything we were going through. he'd sometimes show up at my office in san francisco. i loved that. he would never sign in at reception--he'd just walk in like he owned the place and surprise me at my cube.

he shared a lot with me about his struggles pleasing and being understood by his parents. we had a lot of long, deep conversations. like i said, we were close.

then he joined the marines. i was part of the group that went to his boot-camp graduation in san diego. we were so proud of him standing there like a post in the pouring rain, shouting back to his drill instructor.

i was with him the day he sold his little black honda prelude. he called it negrito and he was sad to sell it, but he was shipping out for hawaii. that day he gave me the drum key from his own keychain. he wasn't going to be playing the drums much anymore.

while he was in hawaii i spent about 9 months in prague--through a very cold winter and difficult work and living situations. i discovered a cheapish way to call him and we spent lots of time on the phone through those long months. we understood well each other's loneliness and separation from the life we knew. he was a lifeline for me then.

by the time he finished with the marines i had spent a year in the US and was already back in prague, living here full-time--with a great job and a good place to live. his last year in hawaii he'd become less communicative and, by the time he was done with his four years, only rumors about his whereabouts moved through the groups of people who knew him.

i, and others, completely lost track of him.

then, about 4 years ago maybe, a friend of mine heard he was working in a restaurant in the town where my mom lives. so, while i was in town, we went to the restaurant. sure enough, there he was. and happy to see us. at least i thought so. i knew i was ecstatic to finally see him again.

over the next two years, we'd get together every time i was in town. we'd go for coffee; i went to lit. class with him once (he was getting his degree on the GI bill); we'd have long philosophical conversations. during one of those visits a mutual friend killed himself. my friend and i were, like everyone we knew, shocked, and we talked a lot about it together. there were times he'd be less communicative, and i'd have to show up at his place in order to talk with him.

i knew my good friend wasn't really happy. he always seemed to be, but also sort of not, to me. his years as a marine had, naturally, changed him tremendously. he didn't see the world or people the same way he did when he went in. he didn't think about God in the same way, either. he was determined (and said this to me) to kill the person he'd once been. it wasn't who he wanted to be. this made me sad, because i had dearly loved that other person, and i still saw him in my friend--it wasn't going to be easy to erase him away.

from prague we would carry on long discussions about life, relationships, philosophical ideas. i on my balcony looking at the stars through the long night hours, he at juice bars, coffee houses, wherever. we often disagreed, but in a friendly way. even when he got freaky about something and spent some months without communicating, he'd come back, and usually share something he'd written with me.

so the cutting off came as a surprise.

the mutual friend who named what he had done theorized that things had gotten too real with me: my dad had cancer and it had really changed our relationship for the better, but it wasn't certain how he would respond to treatment. i talked with my friend about this regularly.

i thought that strange, considering our deep conversations, but let it go.

i actually think that cutting me out was part of the necessary process to killing the man he had been. i was a close reminder of that. and i kept believing he was still there and encouraged it. but that's not who he wants to be. he wants to be a man without friends (maybe a couple marine buddies still, but not the married ones)--just drinking partners, bodies to share a bed with, co-workers, whatever. not anyone close, and not anyone who knew him when.

he's an asshole and that's who he wants to be.

i ran into another mutual friend the last time i was in the US and we talked about the marine. this other friend really misses him, too. i'm going to see him and his wife when i'm in town this winter. i'm hopeful we can track the marine down again.

last night/early this morning i dreamed about him. it's slightly hazy how the dream went. i know he kept disappointing me with his actions in the dream. he was wasting his life, his talents (of which he has many), his love on unworthy things in my dream. and i was sad. finally he talked with me. wrapped his iron-like arms around me and talked with me.

i would give a lot for a moment like that: to hug him and talk with him. listen to him and love him.

and my keys are still held together by the drum key.

chocolate chips and marriage

i love the internationalness of life in prague. tonight i went to a friend's place to make christmas cookies. we made chocolate chocolate chip cookies (too sweet for me), sugar cookies (we frosted them with nutella!) and vanilla crescents, which are czech, and very similar to russian teacakes (which is what my family called them), but shaped like...crescents. delish.

the friend who hosted the evening is karla. she's costa rican. a lawyer educated at duke, she works for a multinational company and has been in prague for 9 months. she loves to text me at 8pm, asking if we can meet for a drink at 9 or 10. invariably i'm in my pajamas early that night. but i love her so i drag myself out again. and we always share some good laughs.

[this happened last night. but i had to go out anyway to pay a bill i'd neglected to pay while the regular post office was open--that's where i pay bills--so i had to go to the all-night one in the center. which put me in the two biggest squares of prague just as the mikulaš stuff was winding down. i totally forgot that the čerts (see yesterday's post) are all ratty and raggedy AND done up in a sort of crude blackface. they are scary. i waited in line for a langoše--like a funnel cake but not sweet and with garlic butter, ketchup and cheese on top; sort of a poor man's pizza: yum--behind one and i could see where the screams come from.]

anyway. it was really funny to me to hear karla rail about the lack of chocolate chips for sale in stores here. apparently she scoured her grocery store for one and was miffed that they didn't have any. honey, nobody has them here. ok, except culinaria, but their prices are highway robbery. so i told her we'd just do what everyone always does: chop up good chocolate.

the other guests were colleagues of hers. three czechs, a young woman recently arrived from the philippines, and a czech-canadian who was born here but raised in toronto. fun!

we talked about all kinds of things and someone asked my opinion on the war. i hate being asked this.

[this reminds me that i went to a new class at the high school today. great class of 15- to 16-year-olds. one student asked if i had any friends here. this is in the same breath as acknowledging that i've been here about 7 years. and i'm always incredulous when asked that question. seriously? do i have friends? where i've lived for 7 years? do you think i'm going to say no? what if i did? would that be ok with you? would you have friends if you lived in a foreign country for 7 years? yes, yes i do. i don't think i could survive without my friends. i'm ALWAYS curious at the rationale for that question. i want to scream at them for some reason. i never do. i'm always nice.]

anyway. we talked a lot about czech culture and american culture and for some reason i got defensive of the US on certain things. i think i hate when people point out the ignorance world-wise of americans without considering their own (example: most europeans have no idea what state chicago is in). we're just a bigger target, i guess. but it wasn't meant meanly or badly.

and then i was asked the question i am always asked: so, are you going to stay here forever?

this time, it was followed with the option: or do you have any plans? i like when that's there, because that's my answer: no, i don't have any plans. i figure there has to be something between 7 years and forever. if something better comes along i'll consider it. for now, i'm doing what i love....... my answer is usually something like that. maybe just in a different order.

and then.

ahhhh, one of the czechs (a married man--the only married person in the group; only male ,too) says. you want to fall in love with a man, get married and.... and here he trailed off.

no, i said firmly, there's no man in my decision-making equation.

what? exclaimed the czech-canadian with alarm, as she spun around to face me (she's engaged). you don't want to get married???

i didn't say that. i'm just not waiting to plan my life until i get married. i'm not waiting for a man so i can do something.

*sigh*

why is it that a woman--generally of a certain age, although this has been happening to me for years, and i KNOW no one in that room pegged me within 5 years of my age--can't make a comment about not basing her life and decisions around whether or not she is dating/engaged/married/looking hungrily for a mate without a cry of alarm and the nearly verbatim wide-eyed question: you don't want to get married?

*sigh*

why can't i celebrate my freedom, time, spontaneity, healthy relationships, etc., etc., while i have them as a single woman? most of my honest married friends realize they didn't enjoy their singleness as much as they wish they did. they didn't realize: they still get lonely, they can't just do what they want when they want, marriage is hard, they don't have time for things they used to have time for, etc., etc.

i have nothing against marriage. on the contrary: it's a miraculous, beautiful thing. but. i have a huge thing against the married folks who think everyone needs to be like them to be their friend. i have a huge thing against those who secretly think my singleness is my punishment for something or because i'm lacking somewhere spiritually or emotionally. i have a huge thing against anyone who doesn't realize that the relationships i have with students wouldn't really be possible if i were married with a brood of kids.

it's not that i don't want to get married. i actually find that question absurd and unanswerable. one doesn't marry in the abstract. one marries another person. the only reasonable question is: don't you want to get married to ______? or: why aren't you married to _____? when you feel confident inserting a name, we can talk. i'd be happy to tell you why i'm not married to mike. or steve. or erez.

so why not celebrate where each of us finds ourselves in life, huh?

bake some cookies and enjoy the sweetness. don't ask why the hands that made them don't have a certain ring on them.

st. mikulaš

since it got dark this evening, at around 5, i've been treated to sounds of firecrackers and shouts echoing around the walls of my sidliště.

before i continue, bear with me as i discuss this word, sidliště. it is most commonly translated as 'housing estate,' which might make sense to a person from the UK, but makes no sense to a North American. i hear the phrase 'housing estate' and i think Tara or something similar: some sprawling compound like the bushes have in kennebunkport or the kennedys have in massachusetts. or, yeah, like scarlett's home. anyway, that's not at all what sidliště means. it's the word for the groups of prefab concrete blocks of flats that mar the landscape of most central and eastern european countries. built up primarily in the 80s and 90s and touted as living utopias, many are now in major need of repair. mine's mostly fine, although the old windows let in mighty drafts and the walls tend toward major cracks. but it's standard living conditions here, and many are extremely nice inside, thanks to money poured into renovation (God bless my landlord for making mine very comfortable). but they look like the projects of North America's big cities from the outside.

don't you agree? (this is a view from my balcony...mine is a mirror of this)


anyway. it wasn't my intention to discourse about sidliště today.

the fireworks, yelling and general commotion are because today is St. Mikulaš day here in czech. i suppose i should like it, since it's the closest thing the czechs have to halloween (one of my very favorite days of the year--what's not to like about a costume and sugar OD?). but i'm not sure. this evening, all over the country, young people dressed as St. Mikulaš (looks like a pope, tall hat and everything), čert (a devil-looking character) and anděl (an angel) walk around together in their rather odd groups of three. they go to the homes of small children (usually homes of family friends, but there have been papers around advertising triplets for hire for a couple weeks), or they congregate in town or local squares (most commonly the center squares of prague).

this is where it gets fuzzy for me what exactly their purpose is. i'm pretty sure candy is given to the little ones. the čert is meant to scare them; the anděl either just looks pretty and Mikulaš gives them the candy or the other way around. i don't really know how it goes. but sometimes only Mikulaš shows up--the čert is usually pretty scary for young eyes and parents don't want to provoke screams if they can help it. (here is where i'd like to give kudos to my wonderful niece kaitlyn, who apparently wanted nothing to do with the santa claus at the mall where my mom took her. only 2, and already knows what's up.)

i mention all this because it's yet another sign that God was, at some point in the not-too-distant past in this country, a significant part of how they did things. i realize i don't know the traditions surrounding the Mikulaš stuff, but my bigger point would be: neither do the czechs i know. everyone just knows it's a time to dress up, scare a couple naughty kids, give candy to some nice ones, and maybe do a shot or two with the parents before heading to the next flat. or at least make a hundred crowns or so ($5-ish) for your trouble.

but you can't tell me that there isn't huge religious (read: Christian) significance behind a motley crew of a popish saint, a devil and an angel. no one else lumps those guys together.

like other things, the tradition has remained. bastardized though it may be, it is still recognizable in its roots.

the czechs may think they're done with God, but holding on to such traditions, secular now though they may seem, says something different to me. they might argue that point and they're welcome to it.

but God's definitely not gone, and he's definitely not done with them.

which reminds me: welcome back, jan hus! i'm glad to see the škoda screen gone, for christmas anyway. i've missed you.

so much hate!

i had a subscription to vanity fair magazine for a few years a while back. i loved the hollywood issue and lots of the fascinating articles. i still have the one from 1997 with princess diana on the cover--one of the last shoots she did before her death.

that's where i first encountered christopher hitchens. i wish i could remember examples of his articles i liked, but i can't. i'd have to do a little research for that and i don't feel like it. i do, however, know that i read enough by him to recognize his name when i saw it.

and when an article appeared in the new yorker reviewing his book God is not great, i remember having a positive initial response to seeing his name. that review, if i remember correctly (again, too lazy to hunt it down; but i would if i knew the date), didn't have a lot of nice things to say about the book. not that the new yorker is God's latest champion by any means; it was a fair and balanced (huh?) review of a book the reviewer didn't deem, well, great.

i haven't read that book. and it's not just because i happen to think God is, in fact, pretty great. i'm just not interested.

i did, however, just start reading an article by hitchens in today's slate. you can click here to read it. i admit, i didn't get very far. in fact, i got partway through and, instead of finishing, clicked on over to firefox to blog about it. and i don't think i'll finish it.

why? you ask.

i don't know what got hitchens so riled up these last few years, but he's got a serious problem with religion in general and it's getting ridiculous. i'm fine with people writing books based on their beliefs. it's healthy and promotes great discourse, in many cases. but he has reduced himself to a whiny, crabby little boy given to histrionics. he throws around words like 'supposed' and 'alleged' before pillars of the Christian, Jewish and Muslim faiths, and takes every opportunity to make unsubstantiated low blows and snarky swipes at each.

it's laughable. and i'm sorry that slate got in on the action. i'm disappointed that they would print such a poorly written piece, regardless of its author.

while i'm airing disappointments, i've been looking for frank's email address so i can complain about the porn on this week's postsecret. i don't mind nudity or sex shots when there's a profound secret involved, but the postcard he posted this week is blank. just a girl in a bra on her stomach, offering herself up (seriously!) to be taken. what's the point of that? where's the secret? it seems to me someone out there is cashing in on a bet. and instead of being let in on a secret, i'm faced with gratuitous sex, a secret not meant to be shared.

shall i keep going? i can...

lots of visitors to prague comment on the nudity and sex in advertising. after all, would home depot advertise with a topless woman on a newly tiled floor boasting, 'i did it myself!' ?

the other day i was traveling by metro to physical therapy and went through the mustek station, as usual. h&m has been buying up the wall space in the hallway of the station so i'm used to seeing models stare back at me as i walk from the trains to the street. i wasn't prepared, however, to see nearly naked ladies eyeing me coquettishly, clad only in bras and panties, as i followed the mob of commuters through the maze.

it's a victoria's secret catalogue, blown up bigger than life-size.

and, lest we think it's inappropriate, or pornographic or something prudish like that, there's a price tag next to the languidly posed beauties: the price of the bras. (the price of the panties isn't shown. which begs the question: couldn't they be wearing a little more down below?)

this frustrates, saddens, and angers me. how lovely, on a Fat Day or a Bad Hair Day (or any Crap Day) to have one's self-confidence punched down a bit lower by the sight of the heroin-thin but buxom models in the ads. and even more wonderful to feel the eyes of the men on the platform, killing time as they wait for the next train. not an appraising glance, mind you, but a wolfish up-and-down and perhaps a little linger here, and here. for some women it may truly be wonderful, but only because these women don't understand that such objects are not cherished, loved, appreciated or admired. they are savagely used without interest and discarded immediately. or maybe they've already been beaten down so far they're ok with being used. something is better than nothing, right? ...right...?

*sigh*

amazing to go from hitchens' peevish ranting to porn on the metro, but the trail is there. sad that apparently he feels there's enough in religion to prompt such spewage, while a land that wholly rejects religion glorifies such degradation. no wonder so many girls and women here, no matter what age, desire to look a way that seems to them sexy, no matter what the cost.

too much perfect

outside the local grocery store a guy in a motorized wheelchair once tried to communicate with me. i don't always understand when people speak czech to me out of the blue, so when someone who has difficulty speaking addresses me, i sort of freeze. and that day, i did. i just didn't know what he wanted and i didn't know what to do, so i turned away and climbed the stairs to the post office. which allowed me to see someone else heading through that walkway moments later who stopped, listened to the man and, to my shame, took simple action.

all he needed was for someone to use his key to open the outer door of his building. the door opens out, not in, so he's unable to do it himself. i watched the other man unlock the door, hand the man in the wheelchair back his keys, and both continued on their way.

i didn't see the man for a long time, and then a couple months ago i saw him asking passers-by for help. now, this is a high-traffic walking area. the grocery store is right there, the post office and a bookstore are upstairs, there are a few smaller shops about 10 meters away, and the metro station is very close by. so it wasn't for a lack of people that he wasn't being helped, it was the same fear i experienced with him showing up in others. i saw him ask a couple people for help before i reached him, and they all sort of ignored him and moved on past. just like i had.

but this time i wasn't afraid. i knew what he wanted, and i knew i'd be able to communicate with him. his keys were in his hand, and i asked if he wanted the door open. he smiled and said thank you. i think he has cerebral palsy. i'm certainly no expert, but he strikes me as the kind of guy whose body just doesn't do what his brain is telling it to. it must suck to have a rebellious body. mine does pretty much what i ask it to. not that i demand much from it, either, but it's nice to know that i can stand up when i want, lift my arm to grasp something when i want, type cleanly and write legibly whenever i'd like. i have no idea what it's like to be at the mercy of a body that follows its own directions, with a mouth and tongue that don't cooperate the way they're told. this man is probably smarter than i am. and he lives alone--at least he doesn't have a caretaker with him all the time. hence his need for help from strangers.

it took thirty seconds of my day to open the door. maybe less. i asked if he needed anything else and he said no. i have to admit, helping him out brightened my day tremendously.

i saw this man again today. i was on my way to the post office to pay my rent. and i saw someone edge past him when he asked for help. as usual, i guess. so i went right over to him, smiled and took his keys. asked if it was the one with the blue rubber thing or the other one. the other one. i loved how happily he thanked me. Děěě-kuuuuu-juuuu, he sang. and a huge smile. took me a bit longer than thirty seconds this time. the key wouldn't turn. i started to try the other one and he said noooo even before the lock rejected it entirely. back with the other one. it won't turn! i tell him. he waits patiently and finally the key turns and he can go in. another thank you and the door closes behind him. how is it possible that my interactions with him make me feel so good?

i don't want to be self-congratulatory for helping this nice man out, especially because of my first experience with him. but i genuinely feel better for having done such a small thing as opening a door.

it must be very hard to be helpless in this country. or at least unable to open the outer door of your building. he has to humble himself and ask strangers for help every time he goes out! this, in a country where, to be a stranger is one of the worst things you can be. strangers are suspicious. strangers are outside (oh, by the way, the word for foreigner doubles for stranger). strangers aren't trusted. on top of that, he's in a motorized wheelchair with limbs flung every which way and he talks funny. no wonder they're scared.

one of my best friends is due to have her third child any day. her youngest is 12, so this will be sort of like starting over, i expect. during some tests last month it was apparent that the baby's head is larger proportionately to his (yes, his) body. they have informed the mother that there is a 10-20% chance that the baby has Downe's.

i was talking about babies with my physical therapist, šarka, this morning. šarka has a very soft heart. i mentioned my friend and the possibility of Downe's to her. she was startled and asked, didn't they do tests on her? i said well, yes, they could, but it's so close to birth, what would be the point. she'll just find out when he's born. šarka told me that here in the czech republic, pregnant women are tested twice for Downe's. aha. i then asked if most women terminate the pregnancies if the test is positive. her first answer was interesting: she said very quickly that it was a private decision for the woman. i said yes, but did she know if most women terminated. then she said yes, she thought so.

during the communist years, she said, children born with disabilities were shuttled off to institutions and kept out of sight. for all anyone knew, they didn't exist. now things are different, but only sort of. i see very few Downe's children here. very few. i could count on one hand the number i've seen in the seven years i've been here. she said it's different here than in the US, where they are assimilated as much as they can be, and a visible part of society. there are more articles in newspapers and documentaries on tv about families with Downe's children, but it's very new.

and that made me think how sad to live in a culture of perfection. my body doesn't look very perfect to me and i know most people live in that state of mind, but my body functions perfectly most of the time. but don't we lose something as a society if we don't include those who aren't perfect? people with Downe's have big hearts. they are enthusiastic, open, loving people. far more innocent than the rest of us. i have heard people say how tough it is parenting a Downe's child, but that they wouldn't change it for anything.

it seems to me, the imperfect people around us remind us most clearly of what it means to be human. helping readily. listening carefully. thanking cheerfully. laughing freely. forgiving deeply. we have to be people of mercy and grace when we interact with those with imperfect minds and bodies. but if we don't have them, all we are is a bunch of impatient people who can't believe they picked the slowest line at the grocery store. AGAIN.

two years from kristova leta

already it's two years since i wrote about the kristova leta, the Christ years. time sure flies. i don't feel much different. but i know i am. twice recently i've had close friends, who don't see me very often because of many miles between us, comment that i'm softer than i used to be. i'm not sure i would have come up with that particular word on my own, but i agree with them. that change is pretty miraculous.

i watched a tv show recently where a character insists to another character that people don't change. she was speaking specifically of a marriage relationship, but it got me thinking. because at first, i agreed. yep, that's true, people don't change. or do they? i realize i have. so if i can, why couldn't anyone else? i'm not that special.

but what makes people change? is it a determination inside of them? is it an ultimatum from someone else--parent, spouse, boss? is it an outside force? all of the above? i tend to think it's often a combination of all three and possibly more. external forces exerted on a person don't make change happen unless there's a willingness inside that person to change. and sometimes the inner willingness needs an external kick in the pants.

i know one thing: change becomes easier and more possible when there's an agent of change present. like someone or something we desire to be like, who actually works to make that change happen in us--who influences us from within. prompting change and inspiring it.

hmm. that wasn't what i meant to write about.

i realized and verbalized something recently that just sort of slipped by until a friend pointed out how significant it is.

a new friend asked the other day if i want kids. i paused and out came a somewhat unexpected answer. i said i can't really think of things in those terms anymore, because i'm past the age of desiring something and having the luxury of plenty of time for it to come to fruition. basically: in two days i'm 35 years old, without a boyfriend, fiance, husband. (and i'm not interested in making myself into a single mom on purpose.) healthy women can give birth into their 40s, sure, but...it seems overreaching somehow to continue thinking as i did in my 20s. it's an interesting place to reach when options sort of run out because of circumstances beyond our control. i can't control my age, that's for sure. i usually feel much younger than 35. i'm told i look about 27, which is super cool. but time marches on.

yes, i could get myself married if i wanted to. don't kid yourself: anyone who wants to get married, can. it's not that hard. ah, but marrying the 'right' or 'compatible' or whatever person, at the right time, well, that's another story.

the US is not the well of eligible, hungry-for-marriage men some of my friends believe it is. how do i know? i have several amazing, beautiful, loving women friends in their 30s (who would love to share their lives with someone) who are single. and they, like me, are pursuing what they are passionate about--in most cases, some form of a life of service to others. so, returning to the US determined to find a husband would have to mean, most likely, putting aside my passions and desires in order to be, well, desirable or marryable. i know, there are exceptions, blah blah blah. but be honest. i'm looking at the big picture and the examples i already see.

dating sites like eharmony exist to help those who are frustrated at not meeting enough people to choose a mate well meet more people. [i am so curious what the divorce rate of folks who met all those compatibility markers will be in 10 years.] i've been asked if i would do something like that. i did, once, for less than the money-back guarantee time of a week.

i decided that marriage would be, i hope, a lovely thing. but if it means forcing myself out of the calling and life that i'm pursuing now, then that's not for me. i would happily move into another phase of life if it happened naturally, but i'm not searching for it. i would rather not be seeking the next big thing, and instead living life well exactly where i am, and following this calling with excellence.

there's just too much to do right now without focusing on the future. sure, i have hopes and dreams. but should i sacrifice the opportunities in the present for them? i think i shouldn't.

all in the perspective

oh it's been so long again.

i had meant to blog all about my old landlord and the move and all that. oh yeah, i moved in february. (new place=amazing: beautiful, luxuries i NEVER imagined in a panelak, and a wonderful landlord.) there was a lot of hate in me for a while. it was really bad. poison. but from the beginning, sort of, i knew i was going to need to forgive my landlord for how he treated me. (and for keeping my security deposit. long story i'm not going to tell. sorry. more poison.)

the reason being that i consider myself a follower of Jesus. and it's not that there is some list of what you have to do as a follower, but part of the gig is caring for my soul. i believe we all have souls, that we are all eternal beings who will eternally live or eternally die. which direction we go is up to us. get busy living or get busy dying. it's true. we all instinctively know it, too, whether we admit it or not. anyway, caring for your soul is part of the eternally living thing. and that's what i'm about. so holding on to hate toward someone is not what someone who wants to lives will do. because hate and unforgiveness are all about death. death of the soul.

the crazy thing is, forgiveness is all about dying. not death, but dying. dying that leads to life. because some does, you know. i had to let die that part of me that knew i was right, that knew i hadn't done anything wrong. that knew i had in fact been wronged. i had to take it out back and shoot it so that my soul could live. because that need-to-be-right thing is poison to the soul. it's the ego or the mind or the sin or whatever. once the need to be right and reminded how right i was was dying (and it's always dying--never, in my experience is it completely dead. it's like kathy bates' character in misery. takes WAY too long to die. which means it can keep popping back up and you have to keep stabbing at its throat or smashing its face with an iron or something. because give it some air and some food and it will regenerate so fast--i know, we're past the misery reference now--that before you know it it will be strong and influential again and you're going to have to go through the whole process of dragging it out back again.), i could get on with living.

i left for the US in early march, still not having forgiven Mr. J. for what he'd done. but, lucky (or God, whichever you like to call him) for me, i arrived at shelter, my church in cali, in time for Lent. and one week i had a chance to nail my hate for Mr. J. to a physical piece of wood in the shape of a cross with a physical nail, and to write his name and actions on a piece of paper that i placed into a fire, burning up for all to see.

from the outside these may seem odd things to do and weird sort of ritualistic voodoo. well, i'll give you that it looks that way. but for me, those actions symbolized the path to freedom. i didn't walk out of church with a lighter step and a song in my soul. no, the real work had just begun. but i used those actions to claim the forgiveness of Mr. J. that i knew Jesus would provide for me if i acted in faith that he would do so. sound convoluted? maybe. but it was like, i knew it was time to start acting like i'd forgiven him. because that way, when the 'but i'm right! i was wronged! i'm going to let myself get worked up about this' thoughts came up (that kathy bates character) i knew that if i squashed them with the power of saying, 'nope, sorry, not going to entertain that because i forgive him,' they would lose strength. no food or air to aid regeneration. and even though they came up a lot at first, they would come up less regularly after that. and, pretty soon, i would find that i had indeed forgiven him. and my soul would be cared for and living. not easy. but possible through the faith that the strength and the impetus for it all came through Jesus.

he's the inspiration, after all. if he can put from his mind all the reasons he shouldn't have died for me (i'm not generally worth dying for) and focus on his love for me instead, i can forgive Mr. J.

and i have. well, it's in process. the way life is in process.

but back to perspectives.

i have really liked most of m. night shyamalan's movies. the ones i don't like are the ones i haven't seen yet because i heard they were no good. i need to stop listening to people. some people.

my friends amy and justin recommended lady in the water to me and i was so surprised they liked it. but they stressed that it's a fable. that was important to them. so i bought it and got around to watching it last weekend with a houseguest/friend. we loved it. i thought it was magical and rich and real. the way all of night's stuff is real because he recognizes and deals with the world beyond what we know and see and touch in creative, inventive ways. he knows it's there and he wants us to talk about it. and that makes his stuff more real than the average writer/director's. i don't know what kind of label he might give his faith, but he gets it.

i was so excited to show it to movie club. after all, if thank you for smoking could get us to a great conversation about purpose and meaning in life, how much deeper could a movie about purpose take us?

they hated it.

they thought it was stupid, with a dumb plot that didn't get more complicated but just stretched the movie minutes out more and more. predictable. dumb. one to one-and-a-half stars (out of five).

so we talked about it. we recorded our conversation and i hope it will reach the internet at some point as a podcast. then i'll link it for you. but i recognized (again) how everything, even how we see movies, is affected by our perspective, our world view. what one person sees as God, another sees as coincidence, fate, luck (all not-so-fancy names for God, by the way) or human endeavor.

i think there are two categories of people concerning fairy tales. 1) those who long for the happy ending, for the hero to win and for it all to be too good not to be true. 2) those who have had it with dreams of happy endings because the world just doesn't work that way so it's all bullshit to even entertain such notions.

these movie club students are in group 2. they know it. and i talked with them about how the movie appeared to me as metaphor, a joyous metaphor of the truth of life: the interconnectedness of people and how magic happens when we work together for a common purpose. justice that comes not too early nor too late. a world that we know from glimpses and stories and dreams. and one of them commented that it is similar to how i see the world and God. and he's right. i'm predisposed to believe in the fairy tale because i know that i am part of the greatest one ever.

and we all are. we can rejoice and live in it and drink of it and soak in all we can and let it heal our wounds and bring us together, or we can fight it, rationalize it, be cynical about it, and die as a result.

it's our choice. it's always our choice.

i can't stop showing movie clubs the movies i see as life-giving, even when they hate them. because it's about the conversation, the journey. i have tremendous hope for them on their journey to believing and living the fairy tale. not because of being right or wrong, but because of life or death. i long for them to live.

landlord, LANDLORD!

it was either a dramatic reading of a poem or a line from a play i heard in high school, but i can still hear the voice saying that word, more insistent and righteously angry the second time. i can relate.

landlord troubles are, i think, a universal problem. most of us have or have had landlords in the past. it's a rare soul who has traveled through life without encountering a landlord who made life difficult.

i'd lived in prague on three separate occasions before moving here to stay in october 2001. different housing situations each time. the first time i was in a panelak, or panel building. they group them together here (and throughout eastern europe) and so the sidlistes, or housing estates, as the brits like to call them, really just look like the housing projects you'd find in any major american city, constructed circa 1950-60. only here, they were constructed circa 1990-95, and it's not just the low-income types that live there. it's anyone and everyone. anyway, i never met my landlord that time because the language school i was working for arranged it. and i was only there two months, anyway.

the second time i was in another panelak, this time in one that had received the smallest bit of reconstruction. the three-plus-one (three rooms plus kitchen) had been changed into a five-plus-one when a room from the adjoining flat was added and the living room was split into two rooms. two of us lived there and our landlord lived next door. we never had any problems with him. and nothing major happened with the flat. we were only there five months.

stay number three i lived in a family home. this was not so fun. two rooms on the main floor had been set aside for renters. one was a long, narrow bedroom and the other a living room that led into the tiny galley of a kitchen; this living room was also my roommate's bedroom. and then of course a bathroom and toilet, which was situated so that it shared a wall with the family's living room. i saw that landlord most every day and had to ask him many a time to unclog our ancient toilet. not fun. but again, no major problems. there nine months.

each time i left a flat i simply packed my stuff and left. the furniture was never mine and i don't recall ever doing a major clean-up.

so, october 2001. i'm in the US planning to move to prague. my sole co-workers at the time, bill and lori, find a three-plus-one (the size i'm looking for) in a panelak right next to a high school. actually, in the same building where i lived on visit 2. it's the only place they look at but they really like it. partially reconstructed: tiled floors in the hall, bath and kitchen, and tiled walls in the bath and toilet. plus some storage areas. they suggest i take it and i do. on the way from the airport we stop at the flat, i meet the landlord, and i agree that it looks good. first hint of problem: when i ask the landlord if i can paint the walls he asks why i would want to paint the walls--what's wrong with them?

second sign of problem: when i'm moving into the place a few days later and a bunch of friends are there to help me, the landlord grills each of them on where they live, what their job is, why they are there. everyone thinks he's weird.

as the years pass, the problems with the landlord increase. he raises the rent by over $100 after the first year, and another $100 the year after that. and that with negotiation. he does some shady accounting to cover for the fact that he hadn't thought to include payment into the co-op fund in my rental agreement and demands $500 from me for it on the spot, berating me severely for having to run to the ATM to get it. (i learned later how illegal and outside our contract all of this was.) he was like jekyll/hyde when he came to town (his living in switzerland and rarely making visits made life a little easier). first he would be friendly when he walked in the door, then he would criticize my choice of decor and living style, he would be abusive, aggressive and belligerent when it came to dealing with money, and when the financial part was done and he had gotten what he wanted, he would be all smiles again and uberfriendly.

i dreaded his phone calls announcing that he was in town. he never gave much warning of his arrival on my doorstep. usually just a day. i learned to fear interaction with him and would jump when my apartment phone would ring, thinking it might be him.

at one point a few years ago i considered moving out. but the market at that time wasn't so good and i discovered that the price i was paying was pretty accurate for the area. besides, i liked where i lived a lot, and didn't really want to move. for one thing, now i had furniture!

for three years i didn't hear from my landlord, except for the occasional visit from his wife, who was always sweet to me. she would sit on my couch and we would chat and she seemed so decent and normal, i couldn't imagine how she managed to live with such a psychotic man. (i realize there is no way that i am the only person in his life who he treats this way.)

then came december. i have to admit, i don't remember the whole conversation. my czech friend/supervisor was there with me to help me with translation, because the landlord never had any tolerance for my less-than-perfect czech. funny, his wife and i would speak czech together and talk about anything with no problem, but he decided i was impossible to understand and couldn't really speak the language.

he was immediately scornful of how the place looked (never got the part about me paying for the place and therefore being able to keep it as i wished as long as i wasn't damaging anything). berated me at length about not keeping the place up to his liking (?), said he wouldn't sign the paper for my visa because we needed to renegotiate the lease contract (more $$$), and said he wouldn't replace the old windows unless i agreed to pay more money. it was an awful meeting. i really don't remember much about all that was discussed, but he and martin, my friend, left together. martin called me minutes later and his first words to me were: 'you have to move.'