friend-type things

I'm elbow-deep in work today, but need to take a moment to mull over some naggling thoughts concerning my social life...

I'm not particularly gifted at the whole friendship thing, so I need to take a poll, here. Ok, here's the question: how many times can you initiate an "activity" with a friend or acquaintance without receiving any reciprocal invites? In other words: should you continually keep initiating? Some of us are better than others with things like brainstorming and planning and whatnot, but still. Still!

If the "offender" is a good friend, the clearest path is simply to smack them (lovingly) on the head and say "hey, what's the deal?" But what if it's someone you're not entirely secure with? What if the friendship's still incubating? What if you're not sure the person wants to be your friend at all? Do you simply keep asking, figuring that they will say no if they don't like you?

Or do you pave the way with an open-ended thing, like "if you ever want to ______, just let me know" and figure if they never get back to you it was intentional? Or do you just let them float around in that "gray area" of your relationship corral forever, tormenting you on the odd occasion that they pop into the forefront of your social radar?

I'm finding this particularly troubling today because there are occasionally specific things I like to do that not many of my "good" friends enjoy. Now, I'll do plenty of things alone, if necessary. The beach. Church. Shopping. Moving heavy furniture. Movie theaters, even. But there are some things that just can't be enjoyed solo. So what's a girl to do? Keep nagging for company? I can do that. I'm a good nagger. But...

But it'd sure be nice for my company to be sought, every once in a while. What to do, what to do.

the day of birth

Twenty-seven. Geesh.

I'm starting to bank into that second corner already. Not that it really matters. I don't particularly feel too old to do what I want in this life. I don't feel like "it's all slipping away" and I'd better hurry up and get depressed because clearly my chances have passed me by. Pah. (Noise of dismissive disgust, if you're wondering.)

What I do feel, however, is a twinge of regret that I have gotten this far without doing anything particularly awesome. I've got that whole independent stability thing down. I'm self-sufficient and debt free and responsible and living at a comfortable standard.

But I positively stink at risks. Well, I might be good at them. I don't know. I don't generally take them, at leat not the big hairy ones. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? I don't know that either. There are definite plusses to my current life. I'm secure. I'm stable. I get to do what I want most of the time.

And yet...the sense that something's missing remains. Haunting me just about every day--not simply on my birthday. A tickle in the back of my brain. And itchy sort of "what if" that sneaks up on me in the middle of my morning coffee.

Well, bring it on, life! I may not be a great risk-taker, but nor am I one to back down and give up. Let's see what this year has in store--and if I do go down, let it be in the midst of a grand adventure, both guns blazing.

poetry

There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
-Mark Strand

What shall I do with this book I love
so much I'd like to eat it? Meeting
the poet at a reading, I would cast
my eyes down. I'd walk behind him,
not stepping on his shadow. If he told me
I was half blind, I might lose sight
in both my eyes. At home, everything
I write becomes infected with his
wildness: for instance, this, which
I never planned, which has no ending.

Where shall I put the book, so full of life
my car could barely stick to the Expressway?
When my cold encyclopedias sense
its goofy brilliance, they climb and hang
on one another like Chinese gymnasts.
I must subtract to make a place
for the book to live. I lift out histories,
then other listless volumes. I toss my boring
files, erase the answering machine,
renounce the desk, computer, pens.

Only the illumination of St. John stays.
In my study's scooped-out heart
I wait beside the book, which glows
with light borrowed from some distant star.
I look at St. John's face. He gazes from
his throne, his eyes blazing with love
and understanding. Tongues of flame
play over him, sent from the Source
who is both arsonist and fireman,
and in his right hand, he holds a book.

~Jeanne Murray Walker

always makin' a splash

If anyone wants to know how I spent my labor day weekend...

Yeah, this is it. Let me tell you, those lovely Lake Mich waves didn't know what hit 'em.

happiness is...

Tonight, after work, I'm going to ride my bicycle to the library.

And browse like it's going out of style.

I'm an unashamed and regular library visitor but lately, it seems, I'm usually in and out, picking up and dropping off DVDs and books and flying off to my next destination.

But not tonight. Tonight I'm going to linger in the stacks, letting my fingers run over all the various-sized spines, picking and choosing books with a liberal hand, stopping to read chapters here and there, hunting for something new and worthwhile. Maybe tonight I'll even break my tendency to dismiss a book based on its cover art, and will actually take the time to skim before rejecting. (Contrary to the old phrase, you can almost always judge a book by its cover. Case in point: Harlequin.)

Then I'll ride home, in the golden light of a clear August evening. Sigh. Bliss.

deep thots

There are those among us who never make mistakes.

They're rather dreadfully dull.

ahh...icy hot!

On Sunday, I had the wonderful opportunity to play racquetball for the first time since...umm...January-February 2003. I'd been missing the game something fierce recently, and was able to hook up with the coworker of a friend to try out the beautiful new facilities at the downtown Y. We had a great time. I was pretty extraneously rusty for a few minutes, but as we warmed up, it all started coming back. Ish.

He creamed me the first game, but I made a comeback. Well, ok, I still lost, but he had to work for it. I enjoy playing with guys--the intensity they tend to bring prompts a similar reaction in me, one I don't often get to cut loose. Let me put it this way: when your opponent is shouting and whooping, it frees you up to do the same. Ha. Really. I have sound effects. I can reign those in if it doesn't feel appropriate, but on Sunday I didn't have to. I didn't have to tone it down or take it easy or worry about running someone over...not that I didn't nail the guy a couple times, but when you pretty much bounce off the other person, it's impossible to feel at fault.

There was certainly nothing tentative about our play. We were whaling the ball--I was caroming off walls and diving onto the floor. We played for a solid hour. I was hot-fuchsia-faced and literally dripping with sweat and...I already knew I would be catastrophically sore.

And I sure am. My racket arm did not want to hold the blow dryer up this morning. I'm all rubbed up with Icy Hot--hopefully, anyone coming by my office will simply think I've got a thing for peppermints.

Still, it's a beautiful thing. Thank God for little square rooms, short handled rackets, and blue rubber balls.