Stolen Moments

The lake was deserted on that late autumn day, with no one around for miles. Stark and desolate, sunbleached barren branches rising through the water, weak afternoon sunlight, a single bird picking at weeds along the shoreline, and not a soul except the two of them. He pulled his truck as close to the water as possible so that when they looked through the windshield it appeared they were floating, pointing towards the sharp rocky outcroppings in the distance.

He kissed her, again and again and again, opening her heart like the wide expanse of water before them. Peeled off clothes, foggy windows, yearning, satisfaction and love.

Afterwards they lay tangled, hot and breathless watching the glare of the sunset on the surrounding mountains through the steamy windows. She rested her head on his bare chest, listening -- howling wind, water lapping against the rocky shore, all drowned out by the pounding of his heart. Life.

Yoga

Stretch, twist, hold. Untwist, hold. Push, further, breathe into it, push further on the exhale, hold.

By the end of the hour, I am exhaltant. It sounds like torture, but it’s the closest to nirvana I’ve experienced outside of sex. Yoga is much, much more than a physical exercise; it’s a spiritual release.

Most of us live with little spiritual momentum, and most of those who do, do so within a rigid, judgmental structure. Yoga is a small part of a bigger way of life, one that connects us to the earth, to each other, to Divinity, and back to ourselves.

Because here’s the thing: you’re the one that saves your soul, in the end. That line about how you could be a serial killer, but if you say you love Jesus you’ll be saved bullshit is just that, because if you wait until you’re dead to be saved, you’ll be dead your whole life.

All this bending and stretching leads to enlightenment. Who knew going to the gym could save your soul?

Wood Fires

Fall is a season of crackling: the crackling of dry leaves beneath our feet, the crackling cooking noises of hot breakfasts returning after a summer of fresh fruit and toast, and my favorite, the crackling sound of a wood fire.

I live in Phoenix, Arizona, where we don’t have a very long season of fire-worthy weather -- or, I should say, purposeful-not-burning-down-houses-or-forest fire-worthy weather. (The latter lasts for the hottest four months of the year.) Since we have a short window of opportunity, we take every advantage.

We have a stainless steel fire bowl in our backyard that gets ample use starting right about now. Nights are spent sitting around our mini bonfire with a bottle of wine and a warm sweater -- always one that can be thrown in the washer that night, because it will smell of smoke the next day. The cat casts a wary eye towards the flames and stays far away, knowing that fluffy + sparks = no fun. We watch the flames and embers float towards a sky full of stars and enjoy each other’s company.

A carefully chosen selection of songs is piped out from the living room, usually something martini lounge-ish. Or songs we’ve learned of from the alien ambient station on iTunes radio, just loud enough so as not to cover the sound of the crackling fire. When a bottle or two of wine has been finished, we retire. That’s the nice thing about being a freelancer -- you can help finish off a bottle or two without worrying about staying awake and alert at the office the next day!

We have a gas fireplace in the living room, and we use it often in the cooler months, but it’s not the same as being outdoors with that wild wood fire. As long as I don’t have to carry any wood, that is.

Postsecret

At the very end of the movie American Beauty, Kevin Spacey's character says, "...it's hard to stay mad, when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst... And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life."

That's how reading Postsecret makes me feel.

If you're not familiar with Postsecret, here's the rundown: This man started a blog and suggested to the public that if we had anything we'd like to get off our chests, we could write those things on a postcard anonymously and mail them to him. He in turn would post them in his blog, respecting our anonymity.

This idea has literally become a lifesaver for many. The blog, and the books spawned from it, have raised money for the National Suicide Prevention Hotline, enough to keep it "in business", so to speak. It makes people see that they are not alone, that no matter how dark and ugly their own secret is, someone else out there shares it. And they are set free.

I've been reading Postsecret for several years now, and each week it serves as a reminder of the fraily of the human condition, the realities that tie us together, for better or worse, and how beautiful life can be if you just let go.

Craigslist

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that you can't find on Craigslist. Couch? Vespa? Wedding gown? Lead singer for your garage band? Trombone lessons? Casual sex? Balenciaga knockoffs? A new roommate? A $1.5 million house? A new job in marketing? All on Craigslist. Never actually bought anything from there, but many bored hours have been spent perusing the awesome listings, people sharing little bits of their lives, shedding light on the varied and highly entertaining society in which we live.

For example:

1. Fun-loving midget
Fun neighborhood bar, celebrating 14th bi-annual anniversary. Looking for a little person who knows how to entertain a crowd and is not offended by being called a midget. Our event is happening April 30th and we would like a fun-loving midget to get in on the action between 6p and 11p.

2. Dirty Scummy Clown
Fun neighborhood bar, celebrating 14th bi-annual anniversary. Looking for a dirty, balloon making clown. We don't need you to juggle or be nice to people, but you do need to be funny and not a rude-cock-sucker. Also a plus: if you can make balloon vaginas. Our event is happening April 30th and we would like our dirty clown between 6p and 11p.

Midgets and balloon vaginas, people. I MUST FIND THIS BAR.

Old People Holding Hands

Have you seen that diamond commercial showing couples walking in the park? There’s an old couple and a younger couple. The old couple is taking their time, having a leisurely stroll, holding hands. The younger couple is rushing along in the cold, arms crossed at their chests, ignoring each other. They separate to pass the older couple, one on either side, and when they do, they look back and see how their walk really should be going. They reach out and hold hands, seeing how it could be for them in 30 or so years if they try.

I think the moral of the story is that if you buy your wife diamonds for 30 years, she’ll still hold your hand when even the Viagra doesn’t help anymore.

Old people holding hands gets me every time. All we hear about relationship-wise is divorce, divorce, divorce -- Britney and Kevin, Reese and Ryan, Jessica and Nick, all of the supposed fairy tales falling apart. Old people holding hands means it doesn’t always happen that way.

And of course it doesn’t mean it was a fairy tale for them, either, but they made it. I recently had the pleasure of meeting the grandparents of my significant other, who are in their 80’s and have been married since time immemorial. We went for a day trip around town and stopped at a little river with a walking trail. The two of them walked slowly and carefully ahead of us, hand in hand. I commented on how sweet it looked to Significant Other’s mum, who relayed that someone once told them the very same thing in the grocery store and it turned out that they had gotten into a bitter argument earlier that day, but Grandfather was having difficulty walking because of a bad knee, so Grandmother was only holding him to help him stay upright.

They seemed to have gotten over it by that day at the river. We caught them smooching later.

Halloween

I love Halloween. I love freckle-faced mini witches and baby ghosts that can barely walk. I love pumpkin spice lattes and peace signs carved into jack o’ lanterns and the thin veil between the living and the dead on Samhain. I love candy corn and individual peanut butter cups. I love seeing grown men dressed like they have a mental condition for the sake of winning a bar tab.

I had no idea how many kids live in my neighborhood until last Halloween, because I never see any of these children playing outside. This leads me to believe that they are all sitting on their butts playing video games all weekend, and thus candy is the last thing they should be eating, but whatever. It’s Halloween and they aren’t my kids.

Adults on Halloween are even better. Not the ones taking their kids trick-or-treating - you know they’d rather be with the other grown ups, the ones attending their own costume parties, the ones winning those bar tabs. I think you can tell a lot about a person by whom they choose to be on Halloween. For example, the people who dress up like incredibly scary clowns of death. WTF? How is that fun or enjoyable for anyone? It isn’t, and that’s the point. People who dress up like incredibly scary clowns of death revel in making others uncomfortable. Avoid them.

Then there is the ubiquitous gypsy/priest/homeless guy/recent dead celebrity/insert-other-cliché-here costume. This is for people who are out of either time or imagination. Booooooooooring. Avoid them, too.

What you want to do is find the people with the funny, unique and interesting costumes. Like the guy dressed as Lt. Dangles from Reno 911. The fat Richard Simmons. The Mormon missionary (just make sure it’s a costume).

Now I know you are dying to see my costume so you can judge exactly how smarty, amusing and clever I am. Bless you for that. Guess what I am?



Okay, it was a great excuse to prance around a bar in little more than my underwear and a skanky blonde wig.