Midnight Facial Mask & An Empty Sink

Hudson and I are two very different people, yet we're so similar at times. We both destroy the kitchen while cooking. He's an early bird; I'm a night owl. It's not that I don't like worms, I do, I'm just not programmed to awaken easily. Ask anyone who knows me, especially Hudson, my brother, my mom, Mark Hall and Bubba. They'll confirm. Needing to look my best tomorrow for NYE 2010, I've slathered a potent white cream all over my face, covering every pore possible, hoping for magic. Beauty sleep is also very important. But there's just something about an empty sink. I need an empty sink. We chopped up our entire CSA bag today, plopping the fresh, organic, local produce into a steaming pot of vegetable and tomato broth. Our soup. Was awesome. Is awesome. There's surprisingly still some left. The counters are covered with unwanted segments of vegetables - the bruised, dehydrated, undesirable ends and stems. A heap of dirty dishes awaits me in the sink. I could go to bed. I should. Yet the wonderfully rewarding feeling of productively scrubbing all of those dishes, of finishing today today, beckons me. I don't want to wake up tomorrow and be burdened with yesterday's destruction. Let's get on with our lives. And I actually enjoy washing dishes. I haven't had the luxury of living avec dishwasher for the last five years. Someday it will be a requirement. But until I have bigger things to worry about, like children or ailments, I think I'll manage just fine. Strapping on my yellow gloves, I conquer the sink. I even scrub it down, then move to the counters, then to those few chunks of runaway veggies on the floor. Tomorrow I can focus on my nagging to-do list, whether it be the one in my phone or the one parading around in my mind.

There's just something about washing dishes and an empty sink...

Point Mugu - Post Valentine's Day 2010

The sinking sun was still lighting our way back on the trail at Point Mugu yesterday. We'd conquered the trail. We were sore. Well, I was. When we reached the supposed end, no trail beckoning us, we turned and ran. We ran the whole way, only stopping when the decline grew dangerously steep, the incline grew impossible or we were crossing yet another stream. We ran and ran, Hudson chasing me, shouting quotes from my most current workout craze. And it worked. We ran together through the wilderness, and I laughed almost the entire way. I realized during our trot that we were meant to be together. And I suddenly felt halved, and then fulfilled by him. And then I saw her. A sad, frumpy woman, startled by humans. Nature probably does not startle her. Perhaps this is why she chose to hike that day. To escape from her dark, stale apartment, the dust dancing along with the swinging door. We made eye contract for a brief moment, and my heart, once inflated by our hike, sank. It sank at the thought of her. Because in that moment, I saw her life flash before me. It flashed in between us. She has no one. The previous day was one of love, probably reinforcing how singular she is. She probably spent the day indoors, curtains drawn, eating and weeping, surfing the channels, surfing waves of depression. But today something picked her up and shoved her outdoors. Something inside of her recommended a venture with nature. Something inside of her would not allow her melancholy to grow. I felt so bad for this woman. Yet I quickly looked away, perhaps shamed by my rapid judgment. Who knows. Maybe she's perfectly happy and just wanted to take a stroll. But her eyes did not say that. They screamed nothing, and that's what struck me.

Ideal Interaction

I had one of those awkward shared laundry facility experiences the other night. The kind where you look at the clock and leap up in a slight panic because you fear you're really burning up a fellow laundry doer right at this very moment. And sure enough, I entered the room and saw both of my dry loads, neatly placed on top of both dryers. Then I saw a male neighbor, one who I've never seen before, standing there, pressing the ON switch to his load. It's awkward. It's awkward because you both feel like jerks. I'm the jerk because I let my dry clothes sit in the dryers, unfetched, leaving him with no other choice but to reach in and pull out a stranger's clothing, a stranger's intimates. His heart was probably racing, hoping to avoid the confrontation. And he feels like a jerk because he knows I know he touched my underwear and now knows what size jeans I wear. I apologized. He apologized. He said something about that's just the way it is, no big deal. He hesitated, seemingly wanting to fold my laundry for a second, or at least arrange it better. It was the most human and perfect interaction. This is how people should treat each other. With a smile and a shrug. He left. One of his socks peaked out from the dryer door. Glancing back to make sure I was alone, I quickly opened the door and shooed him back inside.

The Poopsmith

I ride my bicycle along the narrow neighborhood streets of Venice, CA to work every morning. Last Tuesday while en route I witnessed a man, tasked with scooping up poop from a recreational field, smiling and singing. It was a stellar reminder that you are ultimately responsible for your happiness.