Enrique’s theory

I have a very cool writer friend, Enrique, who has the most brilliant theory of life. I feel so honored that he’s given me permission to post it.

Thank you, E!

As best as I can encapsulate the idea with my puny, nonscientifically-or-theologically trained mind, it works something like this: All humans – and possibly/probably all living things – are physically and intellectually/mentally/consciously connected by an invisible “life force” (probably electromagnetic in nature) that gives us a common touchpoints of psychological experience, and which allows us to “feel” the feelings of others and sense changes in the life force of others in ways that in past times have been mistakenly been described – in our pathetic human efforts to describe the indescribable – as “religion,” as “ESP,” as “intuition” and other manifestations of metaphysical weirdness.
 
I came up with this theory as a college sophomore, sitting in my bedroom on a Saturday afternoon listening to The Who on my stereo. As my mind wandered here to there, I suddenly felt a sharp, gripping pain in my chest. It lingered for about a half hour, and was intense enough to cause some worry for my immediate survival, but not enough to distract me from The Who. About a half hour later, the phone rang – it was the floor nurse at a major hospital in Phoenix, Ariz., where my father lived, telling me that he had just had a major heart attack and was in dire condition. We were told to fly ASAP to Phoenix, and my pains were soon forgotten.
 
Later, the experience caused me to wonder – was it mere coincidence that I felt chest pains stronger than I have ever experienced at the exact moment my dad was having a myocardial infarction? What could explain it? At the time, I was studying some science in school and on my own, and was familiar with a couple of scientific laws that could help explain such a phenomenon, and also show how physics might underlie a lot of the spiritual and metaphysical concepts we have developed over centuries as humans.
 
The first scientific law that seemed to be relatable to this “sympathetic” pain in my chest was the law of gravity. Here we have a force (not really a force, but stick with me) that literally is smeared everywhere in the universe, which touches everything in the universe, and which (more importantly) allows everything in the universe to instantly push or pull on everything else in the universe. It’s a scientific fact: Everything with mass has a gravitational pull that is felt by everything else with mass. When the moon passes over the ocean, its gravitational pull lifts the water toward it by a few inches – we call these tides. When you hop a bit into the air, your gravitational pull is literally pulling the ENTIRE PLANET EARTH toward you just a little teeny bit. Your gravity is felt by everything, everywhere – even the farthest star in the universe “knows you’re there.”
 
It’s like we are walking in a matrix – a force field – a sticky plasma — of gravity that embraces everything, senses everything, allows everything to impact everything. What if similar forces are in effect for life and living creatures, and we just haven’t “discovered” them yet?
 
It just seemed to make the most sense from a scientific basis, and explain so many things that we have found to be inexplicable. Since nature has provided a force that can be pervasive enough to literally connect everything in the universe to everything else, it didn’t seem outlandish to me that some other related force could serve to connect living things. When my dad had his heart attack, that pain caused “ripples” in his own life energy, and because life energy is connected (in my theory), I felt those ripples as they spread through the “life force field” like a wave, a wave that was most directly connected to me because my life force was a product of his life force.
 
The second scientific concept that seems plausibly wrapped into this whole “life force” phenomenon is energy. Weird thing about energy is that it cannot be created, or destroyed. The energy you feel in the morning, the energy you “run out of” during the day, had to first come from somewhere else, and it will go somewhere else after you throw your exhausted body into bed. Energy inhabits different forms, rides a sequential series of hosts, going from the sun to the sea to a plant to our bellies to our laughter to our dreams and then back out into the world, to be ceaselessly reused, remaining forever alive. So it seemed clear to me that the since life is essentially harnessed energy, the energy that is/was our “life” will never go away, and will simply move on to other forms. We take our last breath, and the energy of our soul simply re-enters the “life force field,” joining all the passed-away others who have added their energy to this overall force field (“Hi, Dad!”), and becoming a jumble of unseen once-living energy, full of former lives – something that that religion has come to call “Heaven.” When a new life is created, some of the energy from this field – possibly including some of the energy that used to be you – pops out of the unseen force field and again inhabits some body – a physical occurrence that humans have come to call “reincarnation.”
 
And, when many millions of humans sense (as I did) this seemingly spiritual connectedness, this churning matrix of birth and death and everlasting life, they have over the centuries come up with words like “God” and constructs like religion to explain it all. Look at how many stories in religion echo one another – not because of a shared God, or even God-driven teachings, but because of a shared sense of how life energy connects us all. We are God, all of us.
 
The life force/sustained energy theory can (if you squint a little) also be useful in explaining such mysteries as séances (since energy cannot be destroyed, my Dad is “still out there” somewhere), and could also be what’s at work when we “get a feeling that something’s wrong” with a loved one, or “believe this house is haunted,” or “feel like Mom is still with me” though she died last year, the nature of “the soul,” etc. etc. I suspect the force is especially strong between related people, but my thinking is hazy on why this would be – possible because your energy flowed out of the same original sources as their energy (same ancestors), their “wavelengths” are similar or something.
 
God, I’m crazy.
No way, dude.
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My birthday poem

Thank you, Mr. D, for another gorgeous birthday poem. You are my favorite writer of all time, and I love you more than words.

The first thought to come to my mind as I sit, and ponder my love for my partner is this (a smile makes its way to the tip of my lips, and I think): “I’m the luckiest guy to exist!”

So I guess it makes sense to compose me a list. To enumerate reasons why you are the shit. But it seems, as I think, that I always do this. So let me just give it a bit of a twist.

I’ll give you some insight, a window into, to the way that I feel, when I’m feeling on you. My thoughts as you do all the things that you do, and how your mere presence can improve my mood.

The touch of your skin, so soft and so smooth, immediately sets all my thoughts on the move. Progression from my soft and comfortable groove, to hot and excited, my dick’s hard and BOOM

We’re off to the races, I feel so alive! A second to breathe, then I race down your thighs. My thoughts at this time are admittedly vile, I wanna fuck now and not stop ‘till you cry.

But after I think, as you lay by my side, that I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect ride. Day in—and night out—with you by my side; my lover, my goddess, my sex toy, my bride.

I can’t help but think, as I ponder our love, that we are so blessed, from inside and above. The way that your body fits mine like a glove, sets my mind to spinning, I reel with thoughts of…

Your body, our passion, your sex and our love. Our time spent together seems sent from above. So pure and so precious yet filled with thoughts of, the hottest and nastiest, sexiest love!

Besides thoughts of loving (which I must admit, take up a good portion when thinking a bit), I can’t help but think of the way that you sit with our goombas, the joy on your face plainly writ.

My heart starts to swell up, the joy is legit. There’s nothing more special or precious to it, than the feeling I’m granted whenever I get, to be with my family, a bliss that won’t quit.

But back to my baby, the queen of the hour. My succulent, beautiful, delicate flower. The woman—the only one—who holds the power, to influence my mood (whether happy or dour).

But even at times when the mood has turned sour, and beneath the weight of her anger I cower, I know that it won’t last that long because our, love is the strongest, most beautiful flower.

A flower that blooms with the passing of time, that each day gets sweeter inside of my mind. Yet all flowers wilt when compared to my bride, mere candles compared to her brilliance of mind…

…the depth of her spirit, her beauty divine, her ageless persona much finer than wine; her aura, her presence, her passion, her drive. I pray that our sprits entwine for all time.

More often I think of our spirits this way. Moreover I realize every day, “I’ll do it tomorrow” cannot be the way. We need to live life to the fullest. Today.

But what does that mean? Should we go away? Should we practice yoga or meditate, pray? To find inspiration outside the mundane? Or embrace that mundane and fuck what they say?

For what is mundane when it’s me and my bay? Togetherness, both mind and body at play? Happiness, laughter and family? Hey—if this is mundane then I’ll take it all day.

‘Cause family is happiness, wouldn’t you say? Regardless of locale, at home or away. Together with you, and Big A/Litle A, that’s home to me, and that’s where I will stay.

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My sunshine

To my little A,

You are the light of my life! I saw a sign the other day that reminded me so much of you. It said, “There are very few who possess something of that spirit that will brighten whatever they touch.”

That’s you!

I love you so much. Thank you, universe, for letting me be your mom (and yours too, big A!).

Thanks, Mr. D

I probably don’t say it enough, but you are the best thing that ever happened to me.

You’re an incredible father, husband, lover, friend, life coach, writer, IT business analyst, therapist (my own personal!), comedian, reciter of esoteric quotes (“Who’s the Boss is not a food!”), and so much more.

You make me and our monkeys the luckiest girls in the world. Thank you for being you.

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To my artist

Big A, my love, you’re such a beautiful artist. Tonight I asked about your favorite kind of art form—painting, coloring, etc., and you said writing.

“Yeah,” you shrugged. “I do some of that.”

We have so many great artists in our family. Seema, Sunil, Yamboo. Ada knows languages; Nani is a brilliant chef. I write. Pretty well, I’m told. Daddy will never agree, but he actually blows me out of the water. The thing about writing is even when you feel you’re good, you always know you could be better. Or maybe that’s just the way you feel about any job you love. And I love being a writer! (I hope you and A2 will both keep a handwritten journal. It’s such a beautiful way to preserve your memories.)

But anyway… You were explaining accents to me tonight. What does that mean, I asked. You hummed in the same steady note and then squeaked. That, you said, was the accent. It was brilliant and funny and loud in the awesome way only you are. Then you explained what it means in art—something about big lines and then small ones? (You showed me as you brushed strokes on the page, and I must admit, despite my affinity for recreational herbal substances, I didn’t really get it.). But you did. And you draw SO beautifully. I don’t think I tell you that enough. I absolutely love your rendition of George Washington and Honest Abe. I love that you’re fascinated by history and that you think critically about the subject.

Tonight, in bed, you said you loved India. I assumed that’s because it’s the only foreign country you’ve visited, but no, you said. You told me how once everyone wanted to go to India because it was the land of gold and jewels. And how everyone there has beautiful dark skin. But you don’t like that there’s a lot of litter there. I said the water is also very dirty, so dirty that people who drink it can get terribly sick. (I thought of Flint). I said things aren’t very good for girls there either. (We talked about how Nani wanted to come to America, how she wanted a better life for me, how this is a place where women like her can become successful.)

“What’s success,” you asked. And then you answered it before I could. “Happiness?”

“Yes, my love. That is exactly what it is.”

“You’re very successful, mommy.”

I am. Undoubtedly.

The bartender fucked me!

The $3 bartender fucked me! I’m enraged! Indignant! And also a tad bit vindicated. (I knew it was you all along!)

Ugh. There’s nothing I can do about it now. But blog. So here’s the story:

My gift card is for a hospitality group, which owns a handful of high-end restaurants in the state. I went to one near my job and asked if they could check the balance on my gift card. Lo and behold, there was a $50 credit. I asked the manager if my credit card could be retroactively reimbursed. It could not. I called the restaurant to see if I could work any sober magic. I could not.

So now I’m just the victim of a bad financial buttfuck. Or is it just my own bad karma? I don’t even know.

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Date Night chronicles

I usually feel “on” when I’m high. Like I can win a game of chess, or dice an onion, or respond to temper tantrums with patience and respectful intolerance.  Not last night though. Last night I was that uncomfortable, out-of-my element high that always makes me on edge and anxious. It’s been a few months since I’ve felt like this.

But yesterday Mr. D and I went out on one of the first dates we’ve had in a while. Fridays have actually newly become “our nights,” since the kids sleepover my parents so we can volunteer at a farm on Saturday mornings and receive fresh produce in return (win-win!). Anyway, this is only our third week doing it, and we haven’t really been on a date in forever. Like I want to say a year. Which, if true, is totally nuts. (Is it just we’re too busy working, parenting and “life-ing” to carve that time for ourselves? I think that’s definitely part of it, but things have also been getting better for us, in so many ways. The girls are going to bed beautifully and independently–and as parents of notoriously needy sleepers, this is a Joe Biden BFD. Anyway, we’re finally at a good place, where we can theoretically enjoy alone time on weeknights. But by the time 9, 9:30 rolls around, I’m beat. He is too. We’ve been on almost a month’s dry spell, and my literary erotica has suffered as a result! But I digress…)

So last night I picked a fancy restaurant (where we also have a $50 gift card) and got dolled up. But I forgot to make reservations. (Big mistake. Huge!) After dropping the kids at my parents, I called and asked if we could do an 8:15 but are told to come at 8:30. When we got there at 8 and saw a packed restaurant with a 4-person table, I wondered if maybe we could take that seat. As I’m about to ask (or perhaps right as I did), a four-person party waltzes in, just in time for their reservation, and Mr. D and I, freshly high, make an awkward and abrupt run for the door.

We decide to kill time at a bar down the street. I’m overdressed, not in a ballgown way, more in a little-too-fancy-for-a-place-where-sweats-are-totally-acceptable kinda way. Which is funny because I would gladly live in sweats if I could.  In hindsight, I wish we had just stayed there. The bartender was great. The food is always delicious–and would have been cheaper.  The glass of wine was generously poured and absolutely perfect for a cold night, going down like warm water. And the bar even had a sign with Texas trivia (A literal sign! Texas! My favorite state I’ve never visited but am going to for the first time in two weeks!). But the whole time we were there, I felt so unnaturally rigid, like there was a giant stick in my ass wedged too deep to remove. I even asked about the Texas trivia in a way that came off annoying. (Oh my God, I thought, as soon as the words came out. Am I annoying? I was genuinely confused because Google seemed to give two different answers to the question of which US president annexed Texas. The answer was John Tyler, but for some reason Mr. D and I only saw the name of John K. Polk, who technically signed the bill accepting Texas as the 28th state of the Union, so…).

Anyway, when I told Mr. D about the stick in my ass, he  laughed. It was already 8:20. We should go back, I said. This was clearly the kind of restaurant where people kept their reservations.  We paid and left, the half-drunk glass of wine causing me even greater anxiety. Though when I get like this, the last thing I need is to down alcohol too quickly. Not a good combo.

We had a quick smoke before heading back to the fancy restaurant. When we arrived, we realized there were still no open seats. So we waited and finally snagged a place at the bar. The wine we ordered had this sour taste that reminded me of the two-month-old Black Box in our cabinet. When I finally got the bill, I ended up leave an embarrassing tip: $2 on a $20. That’s really not bad for two glasses, but here’s what makes it obnoxious and uncouth: I originally wrote 3, then scribbled 2 on top. Cheap as fuck. My one girlfriend is probably reading this in shame for me. And yes, I know it’s wrong, but here’s my meager justification: These little dollar savings here and there are part of a larger effort to save money by not eating out, or only doing Happy Hour meals/drinks/etc. Anyway, I was immediately taken aback by sticker shock. I was also annoyed by the sour, overpriced wine.

And I was high. Uncomfortably, not-my-best-self high.

But I immediately regretted the tip and spent a ridiculous amount of time during dinner wondering if I should give the guy the lone $5 in my wallet (which I’ve been reluctant to spend because having cash, even the smallest amount, has miraculously kept me on budget!). Anyway, my plan was just to approach him with the bill and a “sorry, I’m a bit too high” apology. But Mr. D, who suffers from social anxiety far more severe than my own, advised against this, and really, I was in no position to be talking to strangers.

I’m finally able to let it go, and Mr. D and I end up having a great time. The food was good, but no match for the company. I’m so lucky to share my evening and life with a man who loves me, flaws and all, and keeps my crazy brain as sane as possible. It doesn’t hurt that he’s hilarious and can relate the most absurd, absolute best stories. (Like when I went to the bathroom and the host, upon seeing my crumpled napkin on the seat, slowly leaned over with textbook OCD and proceeded to fold it back up, working in abject silence while never breaking eye contact with Mr. D).

When the check eventually came, I handed over the gift card and my own credit card, ready to not fuck up the tip this time. Then the waitress returned to the table. Apparently the gift card we never used had a $0 balance. Which is nuts because my mom actually received it in a swag bag for a recent “women in business” recognition.

At this point I’m no longer high, but I may harbor some residual stoner paranoia and wonder if this is the bartender fucking with me. Or maybe it’s just my karma. Actually, I totally think it’s my karma. I had this negative energy that I needed to shed. And somehow I finally did.

And perhaps this inner peace came from a realization that we need to redefine date night for ourselves, finding joy in the mere presence of each others company. Nothing fancy. No need to feel trapped by societal convention! (the 1:30 mark for anyone clicking the link). Let’s just be our socially awkward selves, Mr. D. I don’t need a decadent meal or a perfectly folded napkin. I just need you. And the D. And the precious warmth of your love, which I want to bask in always.
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