Promise

Handmade, Hannah Whitaker

Today while standing in line at the post office–something I seem to be doing a lot of these days–I overheard a conversation in the line ahead of me. A woman and her teen-age son were trying to mail a large box marked "dress outs" to a prison. I am assuming the abbreviation stood for "outfits", but I can't be sure. The woman–and again I am assuming this woman was the younger boy's mother–was explaining to the postal worker that the last box they had send had been returned. And that this time, she wanted to make sure her package arrived to its intended destination. The postal worker had to call her boss who then had to call another postal branch in order to determine exactly what-sized packages could be accepted by the prison. Apparently, the box was too big. They were instructed to buy a smaller box and roll the clothes inside, "military-style" so they could all fit.

I guess it was a mundane enough interaction. But I couldn't help wondering how the person to whom the box was addressed was related to the two standing at the counter. Daughter? Husband? Pen Pal? For some reason, maybe because it said dress, I kept imagining it was a woman. A woman in need of some outfits. It reminded me of a story a friend of mine once told me. He was working on an art project with a group of juvenile sex offenders. When engaging with them about their ideas for any projects, it became clear, that the daily hygienic products we all take for granted, were here, in prison, imbued with special significance. Shampoo, lotion, nail clippers were all highly prized objects...up there with cigarettes and other illegal items. The only time they ever had a moment to themselves was in the shower and the only thing they had any control over, was how they cleaned their bodies. That ritual–and the indulgence in that ritual–carried a significance beyond what any of us not in jail could imagine. Perhaps a reminder of existence. Of importance. Of visibility. What perfumed soaps and enriching lotions can promise, is that our body still remains.

I don't know. A moment to oneself. A moment with oneself. A moment alone. A moment of being valued and cared for, even if only by oneself, is a moment much needed. No matter where we are. And what we've done.

Things to do when it continues to rain and not even the dog wants to go out on a walk

Stefan Ruiz: Kaydee Nelson, Miss Rodeo Utah 2004, Las Vegas, USA, 2004

Unemployment. Sort of. Unemployment while sending in resumes. Unemployment while trying to raise money for new film. Unemployment while trying to sell old film for which one is in much debt. Unemployment while not qualifying for unemployment. All equals something that doesn't much feel like unemployment.

Freshly Butchered Meat

Freshly Butchered Meat, Emily Eibel

Things have been pretty spotty–I'll be the first to admit to that–and at this point I can't commit to anything regular, but...[stretches her arms and cracks her knuckles] it feels good to be typing in this tiny box again.

So there. The soup simmers on the stove and Piazolla accordions on the iPod. The rest of the house is quiet save for the occasional clanging pipes from the heater. It's Valentine's Day...or to be precise Valentine's evening. I've showered and changed to pajamas. This is it. And this is perfectly enough.

Well, there's more. A little bit more. My boyfriend is in bed. Watching telly with the wireless headphones on (how kind of him!) He, too, is in his pajamas...or whatever it is he wears to bed at night. The dog (all 60 pounds of him) is curled next to him. Around the bed are newspapers, comic books, empty water bottles, a couple dishes and some now-empty pill bottles. You see, this year, this holiday, is one of recovery, one of celebration-just-to-be-alive, one of transition from who we were to the better, stronger, more compassionate people we will become.

Because nothing changes one's perspective more than a hospital stay: with the rotating cast of characters even more sick and alone than you, with the never ending intrusions of staff whose full time job it is to equitably distribute the most intimate care to strangers, for the loved ones who sit by the bed quiet and inwardly anguishing, but holding hands and holding hands and holding hands until its all through.