Today I'm grateful for

• NPR.
• choosing sleep over fixing my hair in any way this morning.
• not needing caffeine anymore to get through the day.
• learning new and useful keyboard shortcuts at work (literally a highlight of my day).
• the end of Blockbuster's late fees.
  
• the coconut lotion in my desk that magically transports me to a sunny beach with hot sand as I sit in my cold office.
• inexpensive plane tickets.
  
• a long conversation with an old friend where I get to hear about the wedding plans for a couple I watched fall in love years ago.
  
• my quiet apartment.
• being able to devote an entire night to reading without feeling the least bit guilty.
• you, lovely reader

Roger. And Writing.

This weekend I was asked point blank if I consider myself a writer. I hesitated, hovering somewhere between humility and embarrassment that this person may actually want to read something I'd "written." Next blunt question? "When did you last write something?" No hesitation here. "Today," I say. And then I realized.

I don't spend nearly enough time writing, and pretty much everything I write is awful and I either throw it away before it can reach another pair of eyes or stuff it between the pages of a forgotten journal. But regardless of its value, I write something every day. No matter what. Most of the time I don't even look at it as writing, but merely recording. During the week I come home from work with stacks of sticky post-it notes covered with my loosely scrawled thoughts from the day (such as the ones this blog entry is being written from). I carry a small green notebook with me everywhere, and in between the grocery lists and appointment reminders are poems and bits of overheard conversations and sometimes simply a word that perfectly describes the light on these tall mirrored buildings. I don't think I know how to fully understand what's happening in my life until I write it out. So yes, I think that makes me a writer.

And what I'm trying to understand tonight, dear reader, is how to deal with watching a close friend accept that he is dying. This sounds selfish, I know, because after all, I'm not the one having to deal with my death. But there is something powerful and scary and important in listening to a person you love come to terms with the idea that he is at the end of his life.

I suppose I should explain a little about my friend. I met Roger last Christmas and have spent the past year growing close to him. Roger is a Catholic priest and like all good priests I've met in my life, he isn't offended that I don't go to church. He doesn't argue when I complain about the conflict I feel over the hypocrisy in religion, and he doesn't judge me when I tell him that there are days I am faithless. We talk about literature and travel and the sadness of family and the hope in everyday. When it was discovered that Roger had brain cancer last year, our conversations were altered slightly. The fact is that Roger is dying, and he needs to talk it out, the same way I need to write things out. Sometimes his acceptance of the situation is unnerving. He jokes that while he's hopeful that the experimental treatment will work, he's not about to rule out the large chance it won't. He calls it keeping his options open. At this point in our discussion, I become quiet and incredibly focused on my cup of tea. I call this denial.

In my typical selfish fashion, I usually ignore the possibility that this might be Roger's last year, that when I kiss him goodbye he will battle many serious odds before I see him again. I haven't written about Roger before now, and therefore I haven't really accepted the reality of his illness. And I'm not sure what this entry is doing other than allowing me to acknowledge that this is happening and that I don't like it or know how to deal with it. I realize this doesn't make for a very interesting read, but don't worry, I have plenty of material for another day. So stay tuned.

There are different wells within your heart.

Some fill with each good rain.

Others are far too deep for that.

hafiz

I never by accident. I only on purpose.

The scene:

I'm sitting cross-legged next to my window on my living room floor, sipping champagne and craning my neck to hold my tiny cell phone to my ear without unplugging it from the wall charger for fear it will die in 2 seconds (which it constantly does), while a robotic woman from Time Warner Cable exclaims repeatedly (for 24 minutes, to be exact),
"Turbo charge your Road Runner!!"
"Who's everyone's favorite Ogre?!?!?!!!!!!"
"Another great idea from Time Warner Cable!!! Caller ID on your TV!! Now you can see who's calling without getting up from your couch!!!!!!!!" (Seriously. That's their great idea.)

The exclamation marks are audible. It's a bit disgusting. And I endure 4 transfers to different departments before I am connected to the right person for the big, complicated job of securing my wireless network, which takes approximately 2 minutes with a nice boy who speaks with the normal, human amount of exclamation marks. All the people in my building will probably hate me now for taking away the gift of free internet. But at least now I'm not constantly worried someone is stealing my music, pictures, personal information, and soul.

My New Year is off to a....well, a start. Despite my persistent cough and the recent spider issue in my apartment, I feel just grand. I'm finally content here, or at least I'm getting there. I think this has a lot to do with having goals and challenging myself to more than the routine in which I had easily fallen. I'm reading 6 books, all different and lovely and I switch them out as often as one might switch the channels on a television. I'm contemplating grad school in a more serious way, and beginning to prepare for the GRE. I'm also pursuing a new volunteer opportunity, disciplining myself to write daily, drinking water more, eating out less, and taking care of all the little things I've put off for the past months, like calling Time Warner Cable....Check.

...some invisible star had risen to eclipse the sun and release the coldness of space.
M. Fusco

Stay warm out there.