A Relationship in 5 minutes

From Atlas Shrugged

Francisco and Hank:

"Do I strike you as a man with a miserable inferiority complex?"

"Good God, no!"

"Only that kind of man spends his life running after women."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you remember what I said about money and about the men who seek to reverse the law of cause and effect? The men who try to replace the mind by seizing the products of the mind? Well, the man who despises himself tries to gain self-esteem from sexual adventures—which can't be done, because sex is not the cause, but an effect and an expression of a man's sense of his own value."

"You'd better explain that."

"Did it ever occur to you that it's the same issue? The men who think that wealth comes from material resources and has no intellectual root or meaning, are the men who think—for the same reason—that sex is a physical capacity which functions independently of one's mind, choice or code of values. They think that your body creates a desire and makes a choice for you—just about in some such way as if iron ore transformed itself into railroad rails of its own volition. Love is blind, they say; sex is impervious to reason and mocks the power of all philosophers. But, in fact, a man's sexual choice is the result and the sum of his fundamental convictions. Tell me what a man finds sexually attractive and I will tell you his entire philosophy of life. Show me the woman he sleeps with and I will tell you his valuation of himself. No matter what corruption he's taught about the virtue of selflessness, sex is the most profoundly selfish of all acts, an act which he cannot perform for any motive but his own enjoyment—just try to think of performing it in a spirit of selfless charity!—an act which is not possible in self-abasement, only in self-exaltation, only in the confidence of being desired and being worthy of desire. It is an act that forces him to stand naked in spirit, as well as in body, and to accept his real ego as his standard of value. He will always be attracted to the woman who reflects his deepest vision of himself, the woman whose surrender permits him to experience—or to fake—a sense of self-esteem. The man who is proudly certain of his own value, will want the highest type of woman he can find, the woman he admires, the strongest, the hardest to conquer—because only the possession of a heroine will give him the sense of an achievement, not the possession of a brainless slut. He does not seek to … What's the matter?" he asked, seeing the look on Rearden's face, a look of intensity much beyond mere interest in an abstract discussion.

"Go on," said Rearden tensely.

"He does not seek to gain his value, he seeks to express it. There is no conflict between the standards of his mind and the desires of his body. But the man who is convinced of his own worthlessness will be drawn to a woman he despises—because she will reflect his own secret self, she will release him from that objective reality in which he is a fraud, she will give him a momentary illusion of his own value and a momentary escape from the moral code that damns him. Observe the ugly mess which most men make of their sex lives—and observe the mess of contradictions which they hold as their moral philosophy. One proceeds from the other. Love is our response to our highest values—and can be nothing else. Let a man corrupt his values and his view of existence, let him profess that love is not self-enjoyment but self-denial, that virtue consists, not of pride, but of pity or pain or weakness or sacrifice, that the noblest love is born, not of admiration, but of charity, not in response to values, but in response to flaws—and he will have cut himself in two. His body will not obey him, it will not respond, it will make him impotent toward the woman he professes to love and draw him to the lowest type of whore he can find. His body will always follow the ultimate logic of his deepest convictions; if he believes that flaws are values, he has damned existence as evil and only the evil will attract him. He has damned himself and he will feel that depravity is all he is worthy of enjoying. He has equated virtue with pain and he will feel that vice is the only realm of pleasure. Then he will scream that his body has vicious desires of its own which his mind cannot conquer, that sex is sin, that true love is a pure emotion of the spirit. And then he will wonder why love brings him nothing but boredom, and sex—nothing but shame."

Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged, p. 455 - 456



Has any one read this book before? This excerpt has piqued my interest. I've been trying to figure out what sex means to me, how I think people value sex, and how one may judge someone else based on sex.

My sister gave me some advice as I was giving her the details of everything that bothers me with a guy-

You're a grown woman. You repeat all these situations and although I recognize your point of view is skewed and I don't fully know him, what are you looking for me to tell you that you don't already know? I think the issue is that you recognize that this isn't a relationship, yet you have issues with accepting the fact that you're in the relationship just for sex. You don't want to be associated with the stigma that women who do this are sluts.

I think it would have hurt to hear this a year ago, but I couldn't help but crack a smile with her candid and on-point remarks.

With most casual relationships, I always sought to make it more than it was- falling for the "fake spark," and thinking that it would be different. This was one of the first times though where I went in with the mindset that this was nothing. With my casual relationship experience, I'd be able to spot it and run with it. But with this, there was something about the way he looked to connect with me after, the sensuality of it that made me once again think that this was different. Or most likely-- I had been fooling myself all along, deep down thinking-- this would be the exception.

It's the concept that there's a prince charming out there- the fairytale notion that every girl/woman still has in the back of her mind-- and that men will prey on. It's also the idea that to be worthy, a woman must have standards. Based on the way I viewed myself, and how I judged the quality of my character, I wanted so badly to convince myself and everyone that I would never sleep with anyone just for sex. I had to make something out of it-- even if it meant extreme rationalization to the point of even fabrication. And while I'm trying to do this, I'm sure it's a great ego boost for the guy who sees the girl struggling to create this sense of something- wow, she must be so into me.. he must think.

We didn't talk much- and we didn't have similar hobbies- I found my favorite book in his apartment "Letters to a young poet" and got excited until I rummaged further and found a book on Tips and Tricks to picking up women. And gradually I amassed these inconsistencies with where he said he was Friday, and him not remembering places we went to together, and thinking that I've met his friends when I didn't, and the way we would part and never make plans for the next date.

In a passive, aggressive haste, I would call him out on certain things and half joke about it, awaiting his reaction. Last year, with the guy I was with, he would have gas lighted- deflected- and then dismissed me as "you're thinking too much." It was terrible since I started to seriously believe him. This year, this guy noticed the small jabs but would stay silent and then change the topic- and I wouldn't press. I think what I expected him to do was ask why I would say that and ask me if something was wrong, which he never did (I knew deep down he could read the situation as I had laid it out- but he chose to deflect silently, and I cowardly chose not to speak further).

That was the process-- and I never asked him where this was going-- always claiming it was too hard to bring it up in conversation. This was another lie to myself. I knew that regardless of the answer, nothing would nullify all the little things he got wrong. If I was in his shoes, and I confused which girl I was with and the conversations we had, and I got the sense that she was on to me, and then she asked me if I wanted to be in a relationship with her, I think I would write her off as retarded.

I've been struggling recently with the two buckets I would classify all dating prospects: (1) Attractive (2) great resume but no attraction. It seems like I am grossly oversimplifying-- but my ideal person would be be (3) attractive, intellectually attractive, great resume, similar values. There's no bucket for that as I have not found such a person. The other bucket which I didn't mention is everyone that doesn't pass the first date sniff test.

Trying to deal with what my two dating buckets- I've concluded earlier this year that when there's no spark- no matter what the similarities in values, in hobbies- I would only be able to talk to the person but not really break the touch barrier or have it lead anywhere. My friend told me that "spark" can be artificially generated and not mean much at all. Could "spark" really be artificial? Is it in the Tips and tricks to pick up women book?? Is there a book for women on creating "spark" with guys that I have similar values and hobbies but no attraction? If so, seems like I really need to look into that.

With the attractive bucket, when summer started up, and I met someone super hot, my experiment was to use that spark and try to convert it into relationship potential. I tried to identify similarities and values and hobbies after confirming physical attraction was there. What I learned was I'm very good at rationalizing- but ultimately nothing was there on the mental, emotional connection side.

Experiment complete- By now, I do recognize that you can't settle on one or the other- you need both intellectual/emotional and physical. Rand would say it's a process- and the physical is an expression resulting from the appreciation of the intellectual/ emotional capacity of someone. That threw a further wrench into my history- making me question the metering of past relationships and what is deemed enough for success. I think Ayn Rand would probably call my experience "the ugly mess which most men make of their sex lives--- [full of] the mess of contradictions which they hold as their moral philosophy."

And I guess my next question would be--- does everyone have this much trouble in converting dating prospects into relationships/ love? I feel like there are some people who are always in relationships... and while not all are perfect... some people are much more relationship oriented than others. If that's the case, can the traits or basis for that be developed?

OCD

Neil Hilborn's spoken word performance @ Rustbelt. He has OCD and shares what it's like to fall in love as a person with OCD.

Why do you Run?

It's rare to see a successful distance runner come from Alaska due to extreme weather limitations but Trevor Dunbar etched his name in Alaska running history by becoming the first Alaskan to run a sub-four-minute mile.   

The first Women's Olympic Marathon saw a courageous move by young Joan Benoit of the Unites States. A few months removed from surgery she dared the field (and herself) to follow an early blistering pace in the 1984 LA Olympics. No one came close.

Dathan Ritzenhein won back-to-back regional (Midwest) and national titles in the Foot Locker high school championship races in the fall of 1999 and 2000. There was major build-up to the 2000 championships due to the impending clash between Ritz, Webb, and Hall. Ritz scored a resounding victory over Webb and Hall. Defending Champions never have it easy.

In one of the most memorable races in Olympic history Derek Redmond of Great Britain finishes his 400m Semi-Final crying on the shoulder of his father.

Prefontaine set the American record in the 5000 meters race, the event that took him to the 1972 Summer Olympic Games in Munich. In the finals, Prefontaine took the lead in the last mile and ended the slow pace of the first two miles. He held the lead until the last 150 meters before battling for first against Lasse Virén and silver medalist Mohammed Gammoudi. Britain’s hard-charging Ian Stewart moved into third place within ten meters of the finish line, depriving Prefontaine of an Olympic medal. He was the United States’ best hope in Distance running. He died tragically in a car accident in 1975 before he could make it the next Olympics to fulfill his dream of setting the world record in the 5000 meters.

The Ironman Triathlon tests every physical and mental limit in an athlete and then some: 2.5 mile swim, 112 mile bike followed by a 26.2 mile run. Some don’t finish and some crawl over the finish line.  What is the difference between 4th place and 5th place? ….Everything.

Gebrselassie was born as one of ten children in Asella, Arsi Province, Ethiopia. As a child growing up on a farm he used to run ten kilometres to school every morning, and the same back every evening. This led to a distinctive running posture, with his left arm crooked as if still holding his schoolbooks. In the 2000 Sydney Olympics, Gebrselassie came from behind to win Gold in .09 seconds in the 10,000 meters.

From the dictionary of obscure sorrows

 Lovely definition

http://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/

Before Midnight

What happens after the “happily ever after” in life? 

You meet someone. You have that “chase”, bouts of passion maybe, and then slow down to connect on a deeper level. 

You think about the future and can’t help but smile as your head is high in the clouds. You have your doubts and some set backs but you happily start a relationship.

You get married.

You live happily ever after. 

That’s what is scripted in all the movies at least. A clean and happy ending. Loose ends are tied neatly into bows. 

Before Midnight is all about that post “happily ever after” phase. After that honeymoon phase, you slow down. Reality creeps in. Passion slowly seeps out.  The real testament of that relationship you built when you were high on your brain pushing dopamine is now being tested in the most banal situations of everyday life. It can get ugly and it may be depressing but it’s reality.

Before Midnight isn’t for everyone but It’s a film that is so refreshingly honest because Ethan Hawke and Julie Delby give the audience a unique experience with their well written & well delivered dialogue. The conversations between the two characters are relatable to anyone who has been through a long term relationship and this is where the audience engages and connects. Though the dialogue can run a little dry at some points which makes the audience question if it’s going anywhere but if you pay careful attention - there’s a direction and purpose.  

This is the third installment of Richard Linklater’s trilogy (for now); a unique triology which starts in 1995 when Hawke’s and Delby’s characters first meet on a train in Before Sunrise. 

Where Before Sunrise observes the inherent hopefulness of young love and Before Sunset examines the evitable disappointment and regret of adulthood, Before Midnight just as masterfully highlights the intricacies of making a long-term relationship work, and the impasse most couples face when the very things that made them fall in love in the first place begin to drive them apart.

“Watching these two characters walk and talk feels a hell of a lot more interesting — and true — than watching characters in a big-budget romantic comedy rush around obsessing about their wedding. Before Midnight understands that long-term love never comes easy, and romance isn’t always about long walks in a Viennese park.”

The most poignant part of the film for me:  

Celine: If we were meeting for the first time today on the train, would you start talking to me, would you ask me to get off the train with you?

Jesse: Of course.

 Reblog

This is Water

you have the conscious choice to control your attitude in less-than-stellar situations & essentially how you experience life, day in and day out

19 Things To Stop Doing In Your 20s

I was so glad to read this because I can say I'm not alone!! I guess no matter where you are or what you've been through, at a certain age, you wise up to a certain set of universal truths. It's actually quite amazing that we have reached an age where we know what we should do to better ourselves, and if we put our mind to it, we can actually execute it. I no longer feel like I'm paying my dues.. 30 is very empowering.

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2012/19-things-you-should-stop-doing-in-your-20s/

1. Stop placing all the blame on other people for how they interact with you. To an extent, people treat you the way you want to be treated. A lot of social behavior is cause and effect. Take responsibility for (accept) the fact that you are the only constant variable in your equation.

2. Stop being lazy by being constantly “busy.” It’s easy to be busy. It justifies never having enough time to clean, cook for yourself, go out with friends, meet new people. Realize that every time you give in to your ‘busyness,’ it’s you who’s making the decision, not the demands of your job.

3. Stop seeking out distractions. You will always be able to find them.

4. Stop trying to get away with work that’s “good enough.” People notice when “good enough” is how you approach your job. Usually these people will be the same who have the power to promote you, offer you a health insurance plan, and give you more money. They will take your approach into consideration when thinking about you for a raise.

5. Stop allowing yourself to be so comfortable all the time. Coming up with a list of reasons to procrastinate risky, innovative decisions offers more short-term gratification than not procrastinating. But when you stop procrastinating to make a drastic change, your list of reasons to procrastinate becomes a list of ideas about how to better navigate the risk you’re taking.

6. Stop identifying yourself as a cliche and start treating yourself as an individual. Constantly checking your life against a prewritten narrative or story of how things “should” be is a bought-into way of life. It’s sort of like renting your identity. It isn’t you. You are more nuanced than the narrative you try to fit yourself into, more complex than the story that “should” be happening.

7. Stop expecting people to be better than they were in high school — learn how to deal with it instead. Just because you’re out of high school doesn’t mean you’re out of high school. There will always be people in your life who want what you have, are threatened by who you are, and will ridicule you for doing something that threatens how they see their position in the world.

8. Stop being stingy. If you really care about something, spend your money on it. There is often a notion that you are saving for something. Either clarify what that thing is or start spending your money on things that are important to you. Spend money on road trips. Spend money on healthy food. Spend money on opportunities. Spend money on things you’ll keep.

9. Stop treating errands as burdens. Instead, use them as time to focus on doing one thing, and doing it right. Errands and chores are essentially rote tasks that allow you time to think. They function to get you away from your phone, the internet, and other distractions. Focus and attention span are difficult things to maintain when you’re focused and attentive on X amount of things at any given moment.

10. Stop blaming yourself for being human. You’re fine. Having a little anxiety is fine. Being scared is fine. Your secrets are fine. You’re well-meaning. You’re intelligent. You’re blowing it out of proportion. You’re fine.

11. Stop ignoring the fact that other people have unique perspectives and positions. Start approaching people more thoughtfully. People will appreciate you for deliberately trying to conceive their own perspective and position in the world. It not only creates a basis for empathy and respect, it also primes people to be more open and generous with you.

12. Stop seeking approval so hard. Approach people with the belief that you’re a good person. It’s normal to want the people around you to like you. But it becomes a self-imposed burden when almost all your behavior toward certain people is designed to constantly reassure you of their approval.

13. Stop considering the same things you’ve always done as the only options there are. It’s unlikely that one of the things you’ll regret when you’re older is not having consumed enough beer in your 20s, or not having bought enough $5 lattes, or not having gone out to brunch enough times, or not having spent enough time on the internet. Fear of missing out is a real, toxic thing. You’ve figured out drinking and going out. You’ve experimented enough. You’ve gotten your fill of internet memes. Figure something else out.

14. Stop rejecting the potential to feel pain. Suffering is a universal constant for sentient beings. It is not unnatural to suffer. Being in a constant state of suffering is bad. But it is often hard to appreciate happiness when there’s nothing to compare it to. Rejecting the potential to suffer is unsustainable and unrealistic.

15. Stop approaching adverse situations with anger and frustration. You will always deal with people who want things that seem counter to your interests. There will always be people who threaten to prevent you from getting what you want by trying to get what they want. This is naturally frustrating. Realize that the person you’re dealing with is in the same position as you — by seeking out your own interests, you threaten to thwart theirs. It isn’t personal — you’re both just focused on getting different things that happen to seem mutually exclusive. Approach situations like these with reason. Be calm. Don’t start off mad, it’ll only make things more tense.

16. Stop meeting anger with anger. People will make you mad. Your reaction to this might be to try and make them mad. This is something of a first-order reaction. That is, it isn’t very thoughtful — it may be the first thing you’re inclined to do. Try to suppress this reaction. Be thoughtful. Imagine your response said aloud before you say it. If you don’t have to respond immediately, don’t.

17. Stop agreeing to do things that you know you’ll never actually do. It doesn’t help anyone. To a certain extent, it’s a social norm to be granted a ‘free pass’ when you don’t do something for someone that you said you were going to do. People notice when you don’t follow through, though, especially if it’s above 50% of the time.

18. Stop ‘buying’ things you know you’ll throw away. Invest in friendships that aren’t parasitic. Spend your time on things that aren’t distractions. Put your stock in fleeting opportunity. Focus on the important.

19. Stop being afraid. 

Travel Diary: Costa Rica

In early December, I booked a volun-tourism trip so that I could start 2013 off by making a dent in my new year's resolution: to give more. I had been bit by the travel bug, but what I desired was to experience not just the touristy sites, but to understand people better. It's ironic how I felt the need to travel 4,000 miles to understand people better, especially when I live in a city teeming with people at every corner. True to my expectation though, connecting to people doesn't even require knowing the same language. Connecting does not require a computer, a TV or a facebook like. In seven days, I felt a tremendous warmth and sense of giving towards the families that we ate dinner with, and the volunteers and coordinators I met on my trip.

Thanks to Iris who sent me to Costa Rica with a care package that included a travel journal, these are some of the thoughts I documented on my trip. I wrote some more too, but it's so odd writing thoughts out on paper... It's so slow, and it gets messy to erase, and it's definitely not as fluid. I guess actual literal writing with pen and paper is a certain exercise that takes practice too.

January 18, 2013- Dinner

Frommer's recommended Jalapenos Central in downtown Aljuela for dinner. It was the only place they recommended and I could tell why after strolling the streets. There wasn't much in terms of attractions, and streets were lined with local supermarkets, Mickey D's and a scattering of small restaurants. I should have chose the adventurous route and ventured into some place with an entirely spanish menu but instead I had Tex-Mex fajitas for dinner. The menu was in both english and spanish, and the beef was over-cooked and quite overrated. I'll stick to Lonely planet guidebooks from now on. Another volunteer mentioned how disappointing it was that Frommer's recommended Asian fusion restaurants and sushi in San Jose, when all she wanted was to eat local Costa Rican food.

The strangest thing happened during dinner and the owner said that he'd never seen anything like it in the 10 years that he owned the restaurant.

Seemingly out of no where were two sets of bongo drums, placed between the parked cars in front of the open aired restaurant. Three dread lock, possibly pot smoking, "new-age" (as the owner called them) teenagers started beating on the drums, while one guy started juggling and balancing this glass ball across from one arm, rolled it across his chest and slickly onto the other arm (not sure what such a feat is called). It was quite entertaining and then when the performance was over, the bigger dread locked hair dude passed his cap around the restaurant for tips. Then with a hard cart, they loaded the huge drums in search for their next audience.

The owner says that there's been an influx of the new age hippie kids in town. On the last Wednesday of each month, they show up in Parque Centrale to play bongos and smoke weed. Recently cops were capped to the event and they them to disband, but they pleaded their case to the mayor who let them congregate legally since they didn't technically bother anyone. I think the hippie ski bums in Colorado should summer in Costa Rica (good surf waves too).

January 19, 2013- Breakfast

I went the adventurous route this morning and ventured to Trigo Miel bakery for breakfast. I figured it was easy since I could just point to the pastry I desired and cappuccino is the same in english as in spanish. When the bakery lady asked me if I wanted it "Ahora" and "aqui," naturally I nodded. The other words she spoke outside of that was totally lost of me. She kept talking though so clearly I was missing something. After a series of confused looks, a kind gentleman behind me explained that if I were to eat here, they would serve me and I would pay later. Dang it, my 97 in Regents level Spanish from 15 years ago has been useless in Costa Rica thus far.

While eating my second meal alone, I noticed how conscious I was when the flaky pastry broke into tiny crumbs all over my face and when the steak and onions from my fajita sloppily dropped from my mouth to the place. It's okay to eat alone. I have no issue although I may need a book or I may need to fidget with my i-phone while I wait for my order. The only thing I worry about is having a juicy morsel of food at the side of the mouth and not noticing, and not having anyone I trust around me to give me a heads up. It's okay to eat alone, but when you have food sloppily left on your face, people will make judgments. They may wonder if it's the sloppy eating habits that have scared your dinner companions off. Breakfast: Empareados- Chicken sandwich with lettuce and tomato

January 20, 2013- Villas Alas Azules "Villa of the Blue Wings"

Summing up Costa Rica requires only one word: verdant. I will bet half the photos on my camera and iPhone are of the lush jungle landscape of Orosi Valley. The scenery is beautiful no matter what the weather is like. When the sun is out, the jungles are uniformly golden, when it's grey out, a mist covers over the mountains and the sky seems to be almost within reach, and when it's cloudy, the mountains capture the beautiful contrast of sun and shadows. Each morning, afternoon and night, I feel the need to take photos of the view from the Villas Alas Azules- just to capture all the amazing sights that I've seen from the place I will call home for the next week.


Other than what's above, here's also a more well crafted piece edited by Iris. I wrote it for GlobeAware's volunteer of the month feature. Read it before they take it down April 1!

http://www.globeaware.org/volunteer-month

Public Transportation's Worst Nightmare

The train was running late. Really late. It was also packed. On top of that, the outside temperature wasn’t inching over that freezing mark. As the 1 Train pulled into the 168th Street Station, the collective mood of the passengers was a resounding “blah.”

Then a group came onto the train. They were all in running tights and matching jackets. Something about Mass Transit Racers. Contrasted with the other riders of the train, they were ecstatic.

One of them started yelling like a homeless person asking for money over the whacking and whooshing of the train: “Yo, we’re Mass Transit Racers, y’all! And we’re about to race this train!”

Another acted as his hype man, taking the looks of doubt cast from those seated as challenges to the race, he said, “And we’re gonna beat it too!”

Eyes rolled. Grumpy old men looked to the train cars in front and behind to see if there was any room to get out of this one. The Mass Transit Racers kept on talking—not only to excite the crowd, but to liven up their legs for the fast approaching race.

The train emerged from underground as it pulled into Dyckman. The sun was starting to set, peaking through the apartment buildings of the Inwood neighborhood. Elevated now, the train moved on to 207th Street. “It’s about to be go time!” Mass Transit Racers fidgeted and shook their legs in the sardine can packed train. “Thank God,” the other passengers seemed to think, still not quite sure what these runners were talking about.

The train pulled to 207, the doors swooshed open, and the racers bolted through the turnstiles, down the stairs, and out of sight.

A buzz started to build for those who stayed on the train. There was something going on here. 

Once the train got moving, the Mass Transit Racer Official looked out the window and saw the Racers floating along pavement below: “You can see them!” 

The group shifted and tried to get a view out the window. Some peered around the other passengers, others smushed their faces against the window.

Sure enough, there it was: the group with the jackets was running along against the damn train.

As the train slowed and creaked into the 215th Street Station, the runners were nearing it as well. When the doors shot open the Race Official rushed out and ran down the stairs. A group of high schoolers jumped out as well. They ran up to the ledge and looked down at the sidewalk. A roar erupted as the runners started filing in.

They cheered wildly as Paul Corcoran beat the train and moved his record to three for three. Knox Robinson also easily beat it as Will Guzik tied it to go two for two against the train. 

Patricia Barry became our first woman to defeat the train as she was 7 seconds late, well in front of our 15 second handicap. Barbara “Babs” Powell came in just under the 15 second barrier as well, giving two women wins on the night. 

The group of high schoolers came down for a round of high fives and more yelling.

Five racers beat the train. And one train car was hopefully a little happier because of it.

(Source: www.masstransitracers.com)

The Human Race

“Look at us, running around. Always rushed, always late. I guess that’s why they call it the human race. What we crave most in this world is connection. For some people, it happens at first sight. It’s “when you know, you know”. It’s fate working its magic. And that’s great for them. They get to live in a pop song. Ride the express train. But that’s not the way it really works. For the rest of us, it’s a bit less romantic. It’s complicated, it’s messy. It’s about horrible timing, and fumbled opportunities. And not being able to say what you need to say, when you need to say it.”

(re-blog old post, summer 2011)

Something to think about

Read Quote of Anon User's answer to Wealthy People and Families: What is it like to be discreetly wealthy? on Quora

Dating Advice: Avoid the Southbound Train

"you in the corner of the cafe"
Seen at TeaNY, Lower East Side
(photo:  http://chirp.tumblr.com/post/593134520)

Some dating advice from Charles Warnke and why I should date an illiterate girl:

(Excerpt)

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in a film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love…

…but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent of a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, goddamnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so goddamned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life of which I spoke at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being told. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. Or, perhaps, stay and save my life. 

The Race Grows Sweeter Near It's Final Lap

By EVE PELL

Sam and I dated for two years. Then, when I turned 70 and he 80, we had a joint 150th birthday party and announced our engagement. We married a year later.

We came from very different backgrounds. Sam, a Japanese-American who had been interned in the camps during World War II, worked his way through college and was happily married to his Japanese-American wife for more than 40 years until her death. I grew up as a fox-hunting debutante whose colonial New York ancestors were lords of the manor of Pelham. Typical of my much-married family, I had been divorced twice.

We belonged to the same San Francisco-area running club. He was a rarity — a charming, fit, single man of 77. I wanted to get to know him better.

I devised a plan. Our mutual friend Janet had in her house a small movie theater that seated about a dozen people; she often had parties there. I called her. “This is very seventh grade,” I began. “But I’d like you to invite Sam to one of your screenings. I’ll come to any movie he’s coming to.”

Soon after, she called. “He’s coming on Thursday.”

There were 8 or 10 of us there that evening. After the movie, as we were all standing around and chatting, someone mentioned “The Motorcycle Diaries,” a new film about Che Guevara.

“I’d like to see that,” I said.

“I would too,” Sam said. Short pause. I held my breath. He looked at me. “Would you like to go?”

Squelching the urge to high-five Janet, I said yes. We set a date for the following week; he’d meet me at the theater. But when the day came, our movie was sold out.

What to do? We looked at what else was playing and chose “Sideways.” I have only a vague memory of some plot about men and wine, but a sharp memory of sitting next to Sam. And when “Sideways” was over, we decided that since we hadn’t met our objective, we’d see “The Motorcycle Diaries” another day.

Sam and I began running together. Early on, however, I was faced with a dilemma. At a half-marathon in Humboldt County, he went out fast and was way ahead. But as the miles went by, I crept closer and closer and I could see, from the way he was running, that I had more energy left. What to do? Should I beat him and risk his being resentful? Some men really hate being bested by a woman.

I could slow down and let him beat me, but that would be patronizing to him and make me resentful. Then I thought, “If he gets annoyed that I ran faster, he’s not the man for me.” So I sped up, patted him on the behind, and said, “Come on!” I ran on to the finish and, as it happened, he couldn’t keep up. But I needn’t have worried. Sam didn’t get upset — in fact, he seemed pleased I had run well. And so we grew together.

Sam and I often ate at Chinese restaurants where I received some fortune cookies that truly lived up to their name. Two of my favorites:

“Persevere with your plans and you will marry your love.”

“Stop searching forever. Happiness is just next to you.”

One evening at the movies, after we had been seeing each other for several weeks, I felt his hand on mine. If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can recapture the moment: the dark of the theater, the warmth of his hand, my happiness. One might not expect an old grandmother to feel a surge of romance, but I did, and I knew that his reaching out was a brave gesture. I reciprocated, inviting him in for tea when he took me home. I have a narrow, uncomfortable sofa in my living room, poorly designed for intimacy, but nevertheless that was where we sat, and that was where we kissed before he went home.

There was a complication: I could feel that Sam was conflicted about our budding relationship because of his loyalty to his wife, Betty, who had died six years before. In my younger years I would have felt competitive, as if his love for her meant less for me. Now I knew differently, and one night I spoke my mind.

“I know that you loved Betty very much, and I have great respect for your marriage,” I began. “But I think you have room in your heart for me, too.”

He hugged me and went home.

Several days later he asked, “Are you going to run the 5K in Carmel next week?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like to go together?”

“Yes.” I had no idea what he had in mind, but that became clear a few days later. We were talking after a run; Sam looked bashfully down at his shoes as he said: “I have made a reservation in Carmel for a room with one bed. Is that O.K.?” It was.

I realized that the last time he had been dating was in the early 1950s, before his marriage, and he had entirely missed the change in customs of the ’60s and ’70s. When he began staying over at my house, he always stopped the newspaper at his house so the neighbors wouldn’t know what was going on. But for all his adherence to decorum, he was a true romantic.

A few months later, when we were both in Europe on separate trips, we met in Barcelona. This was a leap. Traveling together in a foreign country would be a more exacting test of our relationship than our jaunts to movies and races. But in this, as in almost everything else, Sam was perfect. When I arrived at our hotel, he was there with wine, chocolates and flowers. For all our anxiety about traveling together, we meshed. On the flight home, Sam declared, “We must never travel separately again.”

From then on, we were well and truly together. We had few outside pressures: He was retired with a comfortable pension; I was a freelance writer with an outside income; our middle-aged children were on their own. We had nothing to do but love each other and be happy. Sam and I did things younger people do — we ran and raced, we fell in love and traveled and remodeled a house and got married.

After the ceremony, we flew to Hawaii. “You must never call this a honeymoon,” he told me. “That way no one can ever say that the honeymoon is over.”

We traveled to Italy to compete in the 2007 World Masters Athletics Championships (what I fondly call “The Geriatric Olympics”), where we both won gold medals in our respective age brackets: 70 to 74 for me and 80 to 84 for Sam. At home, we planted a garden; I finished writing a memoir. Every morning we did push-ups; every evening we sat on the rim of our bathtub and flossed our teeth. He called me “sweetheart.” He never forgot an anniversary, including our first movie date. I gave him flowers on Betty’s birthday.

OLD LOVE is different. In our 70s and 80s, we had been through enough of life’s ups and downs to know who we were, and we had learned to compromise. We knew something about death because we had seen loved ones die. The finish line was drawing closer. Why not have one last blossoming of the heart?

I was no longer so pretty, but I was not so neurotic either. I had survived loss and mistakes and ill-considered decisions; if this relationship failed, I’d survive that too. And unlike other men I’d been with, Sam was a grown-up, unafraid of intimacy, who joyfully explored what life had to offer. We followed our hearts and gambled, and for a few years we had a bit of heaven on earth.

Then one day the tear duct in Sam’s right eye didn’t work, and soon his eye began to bulge. One misdiagnosis and failed treatment followed another until there was a biopsy. A week later his doctor called to say Sam had stage 4 cancer that he would not survive.

There was the agony of Sam’s fight to live, which he waged with grace and courage. Desperate to lessen his suffering, I learned to give hospital nurses $20 Starbucks cards to get special care for him. Every day I brought him bowls of his favorite watermelon balls. But one morning he couldn’t eat even those, and a few hours later he died.

Not only was I happy during my short years with Sam, I knew I was happy. I had one of the most precious blessings available to human beings — real love. I went for it and found it.

I yearn desperately for Sam. But the current pain is very worth it. He and I often told each other, “We are so lucky.” And we were. Young love, even for old people, can be surprisingly bountiful.

Eve Pell lives and writes in Mill Valley, Calif. She is the author of “We Used to Own the Bronx: Memoirs of a Former Debutante.”