I used to think it hurt dogs to bark. When I was a kid I would bark, just for fun. In short order, my throat would feel chaffed. Poor dogs, I thought. They are torturing themselves. But when I grew up I met more dogs and put that notion aside. They must bark in a way that doesn’t hurt them, anymore that it hurts us to talk. But there have been times I’ve spoken so much my throat hurts. I talk less now. However, I’m still working on the listening part.

Now I just nod yes when a dog barks. They are onto something.

Dear Binda,

I know you’re going to be shocked so here goes:

Last night I interviewed a prostitute in Central Park. We sat on a bench near Bethesda fountain and I asked her very innocuous questions. I paid her for her time.

I’m telling you this Binda because I have never listened better until that moment. I can see, hear, taste, touch better. I catch things earlier. I listen to prostitutes like their human beings. It makes me feel like a human being.

The idea of the bucket list. We all have them. Buckets and buckets of unfinished business. You can just pull out one and decide to focus on that One. But the other items get jealous and call out. They yell “Stockholm Syndrome!” and “You love her better than me!”

You can’t win. The South of France is so far and you’re not learning the language as well as you might. You prefer zwieback to learning German. You suck at English and that’s your first language.

Oh Binda, where are you? What country are you in? Stop sending me buckets. Just send postcards.

I went back to that coffee shop and there were people there. The three chandeliers were still there. Business as usual.

Dear Binda,

I was passing a coffee shop I hadn’t gone to in a long time.

And let me just preface this by saying that I was in a good mood (I know, right?) . I was swelling with appreciation that morning. I even appreciated those white pebbles filling their planters outside. Then I looked up from the planters, through their storefront window and realized the coffe shopt had not one, not two but THREE chandeliers hanging from its ceilings. What kind of coffee shop was this?

I went in. And there wasn’t anyone there. I mean no one. No one behind the counter. I stood there blinking and just sort of enjoying the whole experience. Me alone with the chandeliers. After a full minute, I left. I felt even more appreciation. For the solitude, the beauty. It made happy to go to work. And it’s not even Friday yet.

No, it’s my Tuesday–the week is still short. I have to start early nevertheless. I gotta get a handle on things. Small things. Places I already am. Good places. Good people. I am blessed on Tuesdays. Little Tuesday; little by little.

You’ve always had it. The germs, the bodily functions, the raised eyebrows, the sense of humor–a mixed bag. But it’s all there. You can shake the bag, dig your hand in the bag, throw a towel into it, ask others about their bags, find the tricks in it, let the cat out of it. Barf into it.

The bag is the bag and it works because you’ve got it. Always will.

Un-Papered Cats who acted on television–forget film–were a rarity back in the 70s. But Starry Knight had made it. She ended up on Every Morning I’m Me, the number one soap opera for a very brief period in the mid-seventies.

Originally, there was marked aggravation from studio execs who were never to keen on banking on un-tested felines. Oh but Starry had been tested in her short life. She’d been through a helluva lot. And she showed it on camera in a sort of stoic believability that drew viewers–not right away, but over a period of time. She ended up t-shirts, lunchboxes, and was seized upon by mattel.

Unfortunately like most animals in this business she turned to drugs and sex and her career ended early.

Or had it? For she certainly wasn’t over the hill, still in her prime most would say.

Someone decided to give her one more shot.

You used to be a cheerleader. I try not to judge you about that fact. But I can’t help it. You were one of those girls. Beautiful, popular and bold.

You could flip in the air and land with the greatest of ease. You still do that, but not in a gym. At the office, at home, on a farm in France. You are a cheerleader for your family. For me. I pulled out this letter you sent back in college. Who says you should stop looking in the past?

Dear Peter,

Things are great here in Miami. I’m engaged! Yes, that’s how great things are. But I’m concerned because he’s poor and short and Lebanese. So, then, how could I have fallen in love with him?  Is it possible to be in love with this man and still be racist? I’ve never used the N word and he’s not African American. But if I fell in love with one, well it would be this all over again.

Well, I’m just engaged so there’s still hope for me, I guess. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Love Binda

Well, Binda,we know how it all turned out. You married Brian and you have it all. And I don’t think you’re racist. Not very. I look around the world and think you are the least racist person I know.

Love,

Peter