why better than chocolate cake

There are too many things in this life that go unrecognized or unqualified. We slip by them. I too am guilty of this.

Chocolate cake is not the best thing… it might not even make it to the top ten on my list… but for many it is, so it is a starting point.

Today, a short entry.

Today, what is better than chocolate cake:

Getting caught in a memory… I mean the kind that snatch your breath, make your heart pound more deeply, and make your stomach twist to your thighs. For instance, the memory of the light that diffuses through the window onto your lover’s naked form. The landscape of the bedclothes. The smell of sunheat. The dizzying swirl of dust motes as you lounge together in the warmth. No words; breath and heartbeat. The ease of your skin against theirs.

And then gone.

Which was more thrilling: the memory or the experience?

First Day

Last week held the first day of class, and first days are always gilded in importance.

I am an adjunct professor. I have been an adjunct professor for eight years now. I never meant for a “part-time” position to last this long. Eight years. And eight years seems to imply a necessity to qualify it as “full-time,” but in my defense, I have finagled multiple “part-time” positions concurrently that have ended up demanding more time and attention than a “full-time” one. So there you have it: part-time title, part-time wages, and part-time benefits for a full-time commitment. You do the math.

Back to my point (that is if I indeed have one!) Last week was the first day of class. Originally I was going to philosophize about the first day of class, but since this is actually a thought expressed on now the fourth day of class, I figured I would allow the first week the ability to have the power of the first day. And because I have the part-time luxury, I have been able to teach at multiple facilities and more often than most full-time professors… so I have, for only eight years of teaching, witnessed the blossoming of many first weeks of classes.

For me the process is a painful one. I am a horrific ball of anxiety for about a week before about whether I’m prepared enough, is the textbook good, will the classroom suck, will the class hate me, will I hate them, will I embarrass myself, will we learn anything? The list drones on. The twenty four hours before are agonizing; I do not sleep. (Imagine if I had I high stress job!) And inevitably, all my fears are for naught. Not that those fears were unnecessary, the classrooms have sucked and the textbooks have been much less than desired, but fortunately the class hasn’t hated me and I haven’t hated them, and I have always been good for at least one whooper of an embarrassing moment… I survive, they laugh, and I usually do too. And we learn.

I think that is why I like the role of professor… the learning. Sure, I have spent more time, energy and focus than most of my students have on a topic. I have more experience with the subjects that I teach than they do, but WE learn. I am as much a learner in that classroom as they are. I have learned a wealth of things from my students. OK, some of the things I’ve learned really only confirms that potty humor crosses the age gap uniformly– I’ve had nine year old students who have been lost in the mirth of poop and I’ve had eighty two year old students who have been lost in the mirth of poop, and every age student in between. But then I’ve been witness to some of the most profound moments that illuminate our common humanity.

The pleasure of friendship

I have the unfortunate experience of spending about 95 percent of my life alone. Literally. However I can counter that alone-ness with my friends.

Even as a child I was never one to have huge groups of friends. I preferred intimate, intense friendships. Ones that ripped into my life like a lightening bolt. I always had friends, but I have been particular in my definitions of them. This of course invites problems. It is not easy to be my friend and I do not welcome many into that title. Many have chosen to not give me the title in return, and I thank them for that. Nothing is worse than being a token friend.

I have been lucky enough to have developed friends– an interesting concept in itself, developing friends– to combat the disenfranchised feeling that being an intelligent, sensitive soul who leans towards artistic sensibilities seems to foster. I embarked on a mission of purpose: build my circle of friends.

I feel I have always been very discerning or discriminatory (it’s archaic definition, please!) in my choice of friends. My choices never stemmed from whether they were rich or not, educated or not, attractive or not, but rather from the quality of the person they were.

Well, I am sure many of you are scratching your head over the term “quality” — presumably people of “quality” are rich, educated, attractive and a host of many other things. People of quality should be able to offer you “stuff.” They may be able to give all those things; however, I beg to differ that those are the real elements of quality.

“Quality”, when applied to people, describes a fineness of being. They are honest. They are genuine. They do not assume the worst of the world and humanity; they are surprised by the diversity of it. Unfortunately, many of us are in development of these characteristics. I include myself in that category. We are often stymied in recognizing and or are deceived in the process of creating a fineness of being because we often have to sift through so much to decipher what we know to be true of our self. Because, if you remember, the first thing I said when describing “quality” in terms of people in fineness is they are honest.

Many of us fall into the trap that “honest” implies some finite resolution of truth. That is just impossible. Philosophers, psychologists, historians, scientists and religions have all tried their hands at defining “truth.” The people who I call my friends are not defined through that path of honesty. They are honest with who they are, they are never someone else… even when they are struggling to define “who” they are they are present in that struggle. I think that it is because I am willing to look beyond many behaviors that can be misinterpreted that those who are in my heart get frustrated by my “allowing” many members of my circle of friends to remain there– those who love me still struggle with seeing “truth” as a part of honest. We are all in process.

I have deceived myself for short periods of time into believing that some people were friends when they were not. Luckily those periods were short. And although the damage was painful, the exorcism of their toxic care was easy. There was no honest exchange, so they were not my friends.

And that is the crucial part in friendship– Exchange. You have to want to be, share, listen, and care to be a friend. There is a recognition that we are two souls sharing part of the journey together. And when there is no recognition, well, why foster growth where there is none?

Fortunately, I recently shared an incredibly enjoyable time with someone who has become a good friend. We shared stories of our youth, laughed at our own spasmodic antics, revelled in our inspirations and cheered our risks. We shared mirth. She has been a friend who has been honest and genuine and fine. She lets me be my best me, and I only hope I return the favor.

What has been phenomenal about the people who have catapulted into my life and “developed” into friends is that they are always seeming to give me that gift.

Many years ago another friend had described me as a hedonist. He was right to an extent. Conversation with a friend, laughter and exchange, is better than any fine wine or rich chocolate. An honest encounter with a friend can make magic– it transforms into a memory, painted with loving brushstrokes and attention to color. An evening with a good friend is better than chocolate cake.