Journal : OpenRoadWorks

Sitting at dinner on a Friday night, I met the owner of a restaurant who wandered through the major Asian cultures - Chinese, born in Korea, married to a Korean that was born in Japan, ultimately finding her way to Chicago and now running a successful Chinese-sushi place in Lincoln Park. Her grandfather fled to avoid the Japanese occupation of China. Her father fled the communist take-over of North Korea. Her ex-husband, the Korean who is Japanese by culture, emerged from a coma last month in Osaka after heading there to make his way out a mid-life crisis. He will most likely return to the US to live with his ex-wife, being that his brain hemorrhage has erased memory of the last three years or difficulties with her - as far as he knows, they are still happily married - and her compassion carries past the present into all those years of memories and three kids. In the midst of the storytelling, I realized again that this restauranteur was just another person in the big city with a ...

I just cannot stay awake, the sleep hangs heavy over myself, especially my eyelids. They fall like stones thrown into a lake, rippling into interlocking eyelashes and smoothing out into relaxed cheek muscles. Then, with a start, I try to open my eyes again and lift the weight. There is some success, but the victory is hard-fought before the eyelids try to shutter the eye again under darkness. This seems like an easy thing to do, just keep the eyes open, but lack of sleep will force one to waver; besides, later evenings bring judgement to not only the eyes but also the hands, legs, and head. Judgement comes every day and reaches the same verdict every night - whether the body is ready or not. Here I pose, heavy eyes, trying to fight the inevitable and it is a losing battle - the hands give out to produce a sprawl of d's across the computer screen. It must be time for sleep...

I cannot seem to graduate from the travel, planes, and rainy days of the east coast this summer. Torn between San Francisco and New York City on a cross-country tug-of-war (NYC is pulling more strongly at this moment in time), somehow I wandered into Pittsburgh, then Chicago this week. On a Tuesday night when rain lined up every plane on the runway at Laguardia airport in NYC like a Wal-Mart parking lot, I waited 1.5 hours in confined space with nazi flight attendants and snoring passengers boxing me in. This was after 3 hours sitting in an airplane terminal, looking for ways to creatively pass idle time (as if I needed any more time to do that). Then, I arrived in Pittsburgh. I could recount the late-night check-in, the smoking room once at the destination, the three hours of sleep, the awkwardness of acting as one of the "Two Bobs" of Office Space during the day at the remote meetings, and ulimately, the delay in getting out of Pittsburgh. I am better apreciating the...

There are days when fate intervenes and offers another chance to resume former possibilities. Projecting what could have been, people return from long absences to mark new terrain in one’s life, settling into a different pattern unlike the one that was experienced before. New circumstances but old faces, as if to challenge what might have been with what actually is and could be. This weekend was the start of a hypothesis on past encounters painting fresh lives. Saturday was V*****. V***** was a girl that I had met almost one month before at a bar – and then later at an after-hours party. We both had a bit to drink and found ourselves together much later in the night, intertwined at the lips and hips. I was pretty sure that I had given her my contact details, but she disappeared without a trace. It seemed a one-time encounter of a great New York night out, but she re-emerged that Saturday evening on the bottom loop, same classic smile shining through the mid-evening light. She ...

On a clear, brilliant Saturday evening, when the big sky held court to intermittent blinking planes and the Big Dipper, New York’s Central Park celebrated its 150th anniversary. The night was a beautiful finale to a celebratory day of events, as New Yorkers arrived throughout the day, 250,000-strong, to show their appreciation for the planned, 843-acre park that Frederick Law Olmstead and Calvert Vaux built. The president of the Central Park Conservatory estimated that 25 million people enjoy the park annually, a stunning figure for any tourist destination; the park, though, is quintessential New York City. I enjoyed the Great Lawn’s culminating concert with a friend on this fair evening; Marcelo Alvarez and Salvatore Licitra promoted their new album “Duetto” by showcasing their tenor voices on several famous arias and other songs from the album. Customary for a New York summer evening in the park, we brought a blanket and some food (sandwiches and fresh fruit), then wandered the ...

It seems that the day just rips along like a motorcycle race; somedays, I just pause at 7:30pm and think what exactly I did for the day. Perhaps it is because my job does not feel particularly useful at this point in time, so progress does not translate into satisfaction, only consumed hours. My only reprieve is spouting some written drivel before I go home from work - which is when I am writing this little puffery. So it begs the question - what exactly did I do today? There was a lot of wasted time, but it was wasted because I was not motivated. I was not motivated because I was tired (and not quite passionate about what I am doing), so I was slow in finishing what I needed to finish. And the internet is a great distraction. Now, I am listening to Belle & Sebastian for a little angst. That pretty much sums it up. Oh yeah, and I talked to my team, had a meeting with some Marketing folks, reviewed two documents thoroughly with some revisions, uploaded 6-7 photo albums onl...

So much time is wasted waiting for the subway, and it is never clear how or when the next train will arrive. The anticipation kills the mood for efficiency and pace, so one waits in a cloud of lethargy. Looking both ways for an omen (or a train), the trick is to listen for the pulsing tracks. This is closely followed by the searching flashlight of a glare that winds around the corner (for some reason it seems that every train rounds a corner to center itself at a subway platform), and then the head of the subway rushes out of the darkness. The train arrives - this is when the excitement begins. There is a sniggling to the closed doors that pause and open; the standers-by approach the doors in wandering rates of emergence from lethargy. A knife line marks discovered terrain for the exiting passengers; they open that incision for a brilliant second before the swarms close the gap. The energy ripples away from the train, old passengers rushing off and driving the hopeful new pass...

I don't like to work so late, It's something that I kind of hate In the office half past eight - I hope to Petey it's not my fate That every night I'll have to sate My other Desires with this crate Of crap, working - perhaps debate With others drivel of this...oh, i'll berate The ones who piled this on my plate!

I never receive any good mail anymore. I realized this after receiving a postcard from a great traveling friend - Le Maroc (or Morocco to non-French speakers). In the structured compartments of images on the postcard's front, there was another world foreign, displaying itself in sandy and flowing robe fascination. The more amazing part was flipping the postcard to find a person's handwriting - so rarely seen in mail received today. Magazines and credit card solicitations are too pinpoint perfect to even have a soul (not to mention that computer-generated, emotionless typeset), but in the penstrokes on the back of a postcard, I see imperfection and excitement. More important, I see care and affection in the extra thought required of a friend who happened to remember me by sending a small placard with collage of mosques and white beaches and turbans. Refreshing - and quite an infrequent pleasure - to receive something more than blah mail.

On a weekend morning, after the sun claims the sky - but before the tourists claim the streets - San Francisco and its bayside playground beckon runners to water's edge. Some do not hear this call over the din of their morning-after headaches, others dare not tempt the hills on foot for fear of falling; a few, though, give chase to big chunks of asphalt and parkland for benefit of their heart and lungs. The benefits are spiritual, too, when the morning light bathes the Golden Gate Bridge in a nostalgic yellow tone (remember, the Golden State?); introspection happens in the moment when the lungs conquer the fear of running and gain a second wind. For me, this moment happens on the Marina Green. To get to Marina Green, I start at the fringe of Fisherman's Wharf, jogging down Columbus Street to Beach Street. On the corner of Beach and Hyde Streets is the Buena Vista Cafe, famous for its Irish coffee; the Hyde Street cable car line ends opposite the cafe. I pick up pace to w...

There is a certain energy that winds through the office near happy hour on Friday late afternoon, like the feeling of the last few minutes of school before summer break. The work is done for the week, the bags start to pack with computers and pens and notebooks, and people start to smile again. Sometimes, there is actual laughter in the office. Outside, the sun is shining in San Francisco today. The bay sparkles something special, if one can avoid the snarled traffic painting the bridges. For me, this is no worry - I walk home, through the Financial District and down Columbus Street through the middle of North Beach. I know I am close to home when I hear the Powell-Taylor cable car clanking down the hill, last stop headed for Fisherman's Wharf at the base of Bay Street. Now, it is Friday late afternoon; my bag is packing with its own pens and notebooks (soon, computer too). I am smiling as well. I can feel happiness soon to think of the sun at my back walking past Vesuvio ...

A-lle...alle, alle, alle...Fi-toooo, Fi-toooo...A-lle, alle, alle, alle...Fi-toooo, Fi-toooo... The chant forced itself throughout the 300-strong crowd, gaining momentum as the majority-Argentines surrendered to the passion of a piano-playing rock legend from the homeland. It was a Wednesday, typical New York night, and Fito Pae'z was playing SOB's. I had not heard of this cultural icon before my evening with a co-worker and her father; her four friends - all Latin Americans - knew, though, as their lips shadowed the Spanish words spitting from Fito's microphone. The crowd, too, transported themselves beyond the streets of Manhattan into the leafy avenues of Buenos Aires, with the magnetic Fito in all-red suit (and bright red lace-ups to boot) pounding away on the keyboards and performing his time-honored repertoire known to all by rote. Even as it was discovered that some of the set was culled from the his newer albums, the front row did not stop their-arm lip sync to...

Today is a day like many others; there was some work activity, a time for reflection, desires that ebbed and flowed before finally catching an unlikely, forgotten interest, some rest (but not enough), and general cleanliness. It could have been another day, maybe yesterday; it will probably be tomorrow. From proximity, it seems hardly remarkable, faintly contributory, and grossly routine - and I don't even technically live in New York! Yet behind the day, there are several days combined that begin to tell a story, with countless small acts that compile a colorful mosaic of experiences; the accretion is the thing, for under the weight of a sack of days (months and years strung together) is a more meaningful story. Lost in the minute contribution of a day is the magnitude of the journey, a more substantial revelation than is found in the action item list and email box of a day-to-day office job. Can every day be its own journey? Perhaps if one has the proper attitude to assembl...

Again, the heat blankets New York City, just like weeks past as the summer finds its traditional mid-point after the early-July national holiday. This is the summertime for which everyone waited long months piled under snow, blasted with rain, winter never losing its grip even through April and May. Suddenly, it is summer's apex, and all the memories of whiteworn avenues have dissipated into the sweaty haze of an underground subway stop; I am dreading my march into the depths of the city for the train uptown. This heat provokes reflection on Louis Celine's book, "Journey to the End of the Night", whose protagonist (himself as the author) forgoes return to WWI (he was on medical leave from the front) for a one-way ticket to French West Africa. Sent to one of the interior outposts, he lives a few months as a sloppy, malaria-ridden public administrator in the middle of Africa. His description of the oppressive heat, bugs, sickness from exhaustion and bad water (if t...

The fatigue that lowers Monday morning becomes especially acute while waiting for an airplane at the city terminal. In the departure area, with others sitting by, chatting idly, sipping coffee (mostly Starbucks), anticipation cannot shake the drooped eyelids and weariness that binds arms and legs in chains within a Houdini box. Slowly submerging into this closed box, chains all around, tiredness drags the body down by placing assured pressure on the temples and forehead. There is little chance for escape except for taking more sleep; unfortunately, the long march through day is deterrent to such pause for respite. The only hope is for the wait to pass more quickly, anticipation giving way to work activity, distraction from the fatigue and heavy eyelids. Distraction loses for a moment the Houdini box that still binds one in fitful turns, until one can allow submission to the bedchamber for pitiful rest. After full night’s sleep, plane far behind, Tuesday becomes a better day, an...

A ripe bunch of dreamers, writers are. My aunt gave me a collection of essays written by contemporary writers (Joyce Carol Oates, Saul Bellow, Alice Walker, etc.) from the New York Times, essays from the series, "Writers on Writing." The "big contemporaries" write about inspiration, dialogue, fictional forms, "the craft", motivation, phrasing, teaching english, loving literature - anything and everything about writing. Being brave, excellent writers, they traipse through random thoughts with extreme clarity and use functional words when big ones might do better. They take minutiae and exalt its detail, then swing through "big-ticket items" of purpose in a sentence and leave the lessons in the barrel of details. They do this in a matter of 3-5 pages, whose genesis is either hand- or type-written (not so many computer users among the big contemporaries). They do this sporadically when the mania of storytelling takes its deathly grip and does ...

Living in the United States, 4 July represents the birthday of America and associates patriotic feeling with notions of liberty, freedom, and the like; the catchphrase from the Constitution - "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" - sums the essence of American values. Peculiar, though, the happiness thing - America is the only country that explicitly states this pursuit in its constitution. Why is happiness an inherent right? What sort of happiness is protected? How can happiness be protected when one person's conception of happiness almost always overlaps and conflicts with many other people's conception of happiness? Inevitably, Americans must be unhappy so that happiness can be pursued (pursuing happiness means desiring happiness, which suggests that happiness is something that has not yet been attained); ultimately, it is our own personal happiness that really matters, damn the rest. So we are protected by our American values to be ourselves at whate...

It's lucky that work offers a bit of a pause to walk around the block - NYC is great on a calm summer afternoon, mid-80's (high 20's celsius), sun, and sundresses, short-sleeve shirts, and sandals. Union Square after lunch was a bazaar of people (when does NYC stop being its bazaar of people, really?), others with the same idea to enjoy some basking before the thunderstorms rejoin the skyline at the end of the week. When you look up to the sky and see the Empire State Building gleaming sun rays like a Jazz Age dream (never mind that the tallest building in the city was built in the middle of the Depression), what else do you need except a summer afternoon siesta?