she who blogs

Midnight Musings: Javier Arias & The Lady in Red

About 17 years ago (during that time, cause my husband was still alive) I took a business course, and sat next to this young man. I believe he was from Equador…and his name was Javier Arias. Spoke broken english, and as we sat in class, we developed a friendship. He had long wild hair, curly…We became good friends, and the teacher ended up separating us because we were always giggling. As we began to learn about each other, I learned that he was gay…and that was okay…because we were friends…never anything more…loved laughing with one another. We were on the telephone ALL the time, as I learned stuff about the guy he was living with who was horrible to him. And about his mother who practically disowned him because of his lifestyle.

Our conversations and sharing stories about one another is very important - because, well…you’ll see in a moment.

My husband didn’t feel threatened by Javier, used to laugh at us cause we used to sit on the couch like silly school girls…and I would just run my fingers through Javier’s hair…and all we really did was laugh…at life, at his mother, at his horrible living situation with this guy who was really treating him like ish, but he had nowhere else to go…ergo, the business school so he could make a better living for himself.

One day, Javier just dropped off the face of the earth. About two weeks went by - and I didn’t know where he was - until a phone call awakened me from my sleep - and it was Javier’s voice…asking me who I was? I kept saying to him, Javier, it is me..Andrena…and he didn’t have a clue. He didn’t even know that Javier was his name! Told me that he woke up in the hospital and was told that he was found on the subway platform. And that he was at this woman’s house who told him that she was his mother…and that he was calling everyone in his phone book to try and find out who he was.

Javier had amnesia! It was the most amazing experience I have ever had! I couldn’t believe it.

We began from scratch…and this is where all the stuff he told me came in handy…because I was able to tell him about everyone in his life that he had told me about…it was simply heartwrenching. We became friends all over again…

and he would call me and sing: Lady in Red….”all the time” At least once a week…he sang that song to me.

We remained friends until my husband got sick and I became so overwhelmed in hubby’s sickness and my own diagnosis…and somehow I lost track of Javier….but I always think about him and where he is.

Visit Andrena at Getting a Grip On Grace where she often Muses at Midnight

The Value of a Diary

 I am blessed to have many good friends that I have known for a long, long time. They can best be described as falling into a couple of different groups, one of which I refer to as the “Delta Drama Gang” because we got acquainted when we attended San Joaquin Delta College in the mid-1970’s and participated in the drama program there. We performed together in numerous productions before transferring to four-year colleges, getting married, and establishing ourselves professionally. We have wonderful shared memories — and a few photographs — about those crazy times.

In recent years, we have made a deliberate attempt to be better at staying in touch and spending time together, a direct reaction to losing a couple of our members far too early.

I know that I am getting older, as evidenced by the increasing frequency with which I have “senior moments.” Those are the very frustrating times when I simply cannot remember something — usually it is a name, but it could be a date, occurrence, or even appointment if I neglect to note it on my calendar. Last year, I apparently had a major “senior moment” and my friends are still teasing me about it.

The first time I got serious about writing in a diary was when I was in high school. I had a good friend named Kathy who was a gifted artist. She carried a sketch book everywhere she went in which she not only logged quick pencil sketches of anything and everything, but also wrote about daily events and her feelings, thoughts, and dreams. She was eccentric and introspective, so when she urged me to begin writing in a diary each day, I complied.

And for several years, I recorded details about anyone and anything in my life. However, I eventually became too busy and fell out of the habit and when I went away to college, I left several volumes of journals behind. I distinctly recall the day I was home for a visit and my mother asked me to sort out some of my belongings so that she could make use of some shelf space. I was horrified to realize that my journals were still here in my parents’ house and wondered if my mother had read any of the entries. Rather than take those diaries back to my apartment with me, I ripped them up and threw away the pieces (we did not have shredders in those days). At the time, I thought the detail I had recorded so diligently about my high school days and the couple of years immediately following was pretentiously immature and would hold no interest for me in the ensuing years.

Boy, was I wrong! Because if I had those diaries now and could refer back to them, I could prove to my friends that I never had a crush on our friend Steven. They insist that I did which would have been ridiculous because, even then, it was common knowledge that I would never be his “type.” We were simply very good friends and spent a lot of time together, so I think that our friends merely misinterpreted the parameters of our relationship.

Increasingly-frequent “senior moments” prohibit me from remembering many of the details about those 18-hour days spent attending classes after which every evening and weekend was devoted to rehearsing the latest production.

But a crush on one of my best friends? A core member of our precious little gang? Surely I would remember that, right?

If only I hadn’t destroyed those old journals . . .

Do you maintain a diary? How long have you been writing in a journl? Have you ever destroyed an entire or portion of a diary? Why?

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Goodnight Mariannina, until tomorrow

Mariannina Letta and Nino Paolini were to be married.

One evening in 1915, they said good night, probably sneaking a kiss, excited at the thought that they would be travelling to Sulmona the next day to buy the confetti, the sugared almonds for their wedding.
At dawn the next morning Mariannina’s house was destroyed by an earthquake.
Nino dug with his bare hands for hours on end until he found her, wrapped in a sheet, her arm over her head as if to protect herself.
They buried her in her wedding gown and Nino played his violin for Mariannina as they buried her.
For years afterward, every night at the same time, Nino went to Mariannina’s tomb and serenaded her with his violin. And every night he left her with these words:
Buona notte Mariannina, a domani
When after many years, Nino’s destiny took him away from Celano, he had a statue made that immortalized Mariannina, wrapped in a sheet, her arm over her head as if to protect herself.

Goodnight Mariannina, until tomorrow.

Visit Joanne at Frutto della Passione & Much Ado About Pictures

Dona Nobis Pacem

It's that time of year again!  On June 4th, 2008, hundreds of bloggers around the world will be blogging for peace.  Visit Mimi's to read about how it got started, read about what others have said, and then get your own globe, send your globe in and join others in blogging your desire for peace....

here are a few links from the previous years that I have participated:

http://heavenlyankh.com/public_html/?p=1133

 

http://heavenlyankh.com/public_html/?p=1069

 

http://heavenlyankh.com/public_html/?p=1052

 

http://heavenlyankh.com/public_html/?p=987

--
sheep beget sheep & are cared for by the shepherd. .

 

Visit Andrena at Getting a Grip On Grace

Saved SMS Messages

Most of the time the SMS messages we either send or receive are to organise our lives. “Let’s meet at 7pm at the movies”. “Running late. Be there soon.”

However, occasionally we get SMS messages that we treasure and those are the ones that we never delete from our inbox. When Lelak and I first got together, we sent each other lots of lovey dovery SMS messages. I kept almost every single one of them and would read them when I was feeling down or upset. Then, one horrible day four years into our relationship, my phone ate them. I have not a single one of them left. For me it was like having my love letters destroyed. I still mourn their lost.

Unfortunately, I think Lelak also lost her collection of our love SMS messages, including the one from our friend Michelle when we first got together basically telling us that we would go blind if we didn’t come up for air. Since our relationship developed slowly over time, there was never a day that we could pinpoint as the day we got together and thus have anniversary celebrations. Our anniversary is sometime in July, but we would celebrate it on the day that Michelle sent that SMS. Now with the loss of that SMS and our terrible memory on exactly what date that message was sent, we have no idea when to celebrate our anniversary.

Today in my SMS inbox, I have only one lovely dovey SMS from Lelak which simply says “P.S. I love you.” The rest are all important information like the password to Lelak’s laptop and where my parents live (they keep moving and I gave up remembering exactly where they live about 8 years ago).

So, what is in your SMS inbox on your mobile phone? Do you have romantic SMS message from your loved one? Or from a secret affair? What secrets would be revealed if someone happened to take a peek in there?
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Paris - Day One

Reverie...

I can still see my feet walking down the Rue de Lancry, about to discover the bridges, bars and leafy walkways of the Canal St. Martin. I can still smell that distinctive odour of boiled rice emanating from the labyrinthine Métro corridors. The other smells are best left forgotten. The sound of exuberant schoolchildren playing soccer on a dirt pitch bounces off the remnants of a 12th century fortress bordering the field. Even under ominous storm clouds, the Seine is magnificent, proudly reflecting the city's glory in its leaden waters.

Sorry for that unbearably poetic rant. Feel free to vomit now. But I just can't help it. Every single time I visit, Paris does something to me. It turns this sarcastic bitter old broad into a mushy pâté. I'm feeling more than a little nostalgic this week. I had a wonderful weekend and while my body is back home, my spirit is still wandering around the arrondissments. Ok, now I sound like a freaky French ghost. What I meant to say was that my on-again off-again love affair with the City of Light is back on with a vengeance. Oh oui!!

But let's start with the facts:

We arrived late Thursday night at Charles De Gaulle airport and when we finally managed to get a train ticket (not easy if you don't have a French credit card), we took the RER down to the city. It may not be glam but it is by far the fastest and cheapest way to get to Paris from the airport. By the time we dragged our sorry suitcases and selves to our hotel in Place d'Italie, it was past midnight. But I didn't want to miss one minute of eating Parisian food so I forced my exhausted hubster to take me to the nearest café (a place called O' Jules). Despite the late hour, there were quite a few people having dinner, including a table full of boisterous Spaniards. Mimmo and I both had omelettes: mine with potatoes, his with ham and cheese. Not the best I've ever had but more than satisfying after our tiring journey. And get this, our waiter was actually pleasant to us. He even smiled once in a while. Un miracle!

So with our stomachs full, we made our way back to the hotel, dodging the occasional stream of pee or pan-handling drunk. One of them wanted to get a lift in a taxi and was flatly refused. Monsieur le Drunk couldn't understand why: "Mais pourquoi tu ne me veux pas? Pourquoi!?!" Despite those episodes, I was so happy to be back in Paris. I went to bed with visions of tiny sugar plum Sarkozys and Carla Brunis dancing in my head.

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