Madelyn’s Neighborhood

So, I've been using my Typepad account instead of VOX, and whenever I come back over this way I have shit loads of spam comments to delete. Surely, VOX, if you delete a spam account, it should automatically delete all of the spam comments they've left as well?

We interrupt our regular programming ...

*except for the Japan crowd like Expat: また

Energies are needed elsewhere. Vox'll be fine without me for a while.
 

Intermission

Here’s a surefire trick to add 50 years to your age: Shop for shoe inserts.

I don’t mean the orthopedic sorts, I mean the plain ol’ basic run-of-the-mill insoles to replace worn ones.

Or the paper-thin cheapos because the shoes were made in China, as was my case.

Here are my shoes. I bought them some time ago at Ross for 20 or 25 bucks:

sneakers - display only

They’re an adequate shoe whose best features are the pink laces and water-repellant leather, an asset if not necessity in this wet climate.

However, the outer soles are thick and like lead, while the inside cushioning measures .0002 inches in thickness, give or take .0001 inch. I walk a lot and the emergence of knee problems led me to suspect the shoes.

So where better to go than Walgreens, the consummate drugstore abundant with all things helpful to the gerontology circle public. In perusing the insoles, I nearly keeled over.

There were certainly plenty from which to pick! Men’s insoles and women’s insoles. Gel insoles, air-cushion insoles, full insoles and partial insoles. Insoles for boots, insoles for heels. Insoles for those suffering knee pain - depicted by red lightning bolts around the kneecap that looked pretty painful - and insoles for those desiring cooling relief.

Yet not one package was below 8 bucks!

Some were as much as $15! That's nearly what I paid for my shoes! Heck, that's even the price for a new pair!

Clearly the last time I bought insoles was in the last century because I had it in my mind that they were around 3 bucks. So I studied near every damn package wondering how anyone can afford 'em and would the free newspapers at home work as an alternative.

Defeated, I returned home with aching knees and empty hands. Then, resourceful girl that I am, a brilliant idea struck. I dug deep into my Doc Marten boots, extracted the insoles bought like eight years ago when they were 3 bucks, and inserted them into current footwear. Problem kinda sorta solved, according to wallet and knees. Way I see it is that insoles that old with even a wee bit of padding can't be anything but Dr. Scholl on steroids.

Yesterday’s breakfast: chocolate.

Dinner: chocolate.

And for dessert: chocolate.

All in a 30-minute span.

There’s a church in my hood that I attend occasionally -- not for religious purposes, rather the cool blues vespers.

Last evening was all things chocolate. Chocolate and music from 6 to 8 p.m. I arrive late and to my dismay have missed the music.

But not the chocolate - praises be lots of it glistening on tables draped in white linens.

Since I've not eaten all day, I begin of course with breakfast: small drop cookies topped with a dab of dark chocolate.

But what kind of breaking of fast is that?

Pretty insubstantial, I say. So I skip lunch and proceed directly to a more substantive dinner:

chocolate mint brownies
Nanaimo bars
German chocolate cake
chocolate brownies
chocolate-covered raspberry candies
fresh pear dipped in chocolate
chocolate chip cookies

and for dessert:

frosted chocolate Bundt cake

Not a lot of anything, mind you; even little portions add up.

Thank god for the red wine. Not only does it provide nutritional value but sedation because fueled by sugar and caffeine I'm ready to race home and vacuum like the wind. Not only my apartment, which is super clean as it is, but my neighbors' too if not the entire 5-story building.

We're encouraged to take the leftovers so I tuck as many wrapped Lindt truffles and a couple dainty cakes in pleated white paper cups as my small black bag can hold. Hell, if I'd known that all that chocolate would've been for the taking, I'd have left the little bag at home and hauled a box of Tupperware.

Back at the apartment I boil up a giant bowl of spaghetti with sausage links for protein. Followed by a late-night snack of, you guessed it, petit fours.

You may call all that gooey dark goodness sinful or you might call it heaven; I call it a miracle to escape a coma.

I confess. My mind's jam-packed with all sorts of knowledge, useful and useless facts and bits of information ranging from the astronomical workings of the universe to expert bedmaking with military corners to safe removal of a broken bulb from a live socket.

Yet I've no idea on which day or channel American Idol falls. {Shame on me}

And I'm gonna try to find out 'cause I wanna see what's got everyone talkin. I mean, it's like scientists cracked the DNA code or sumthin', they're that passionate.

Despite yesterday's QotD, I still don't know what the show is, no one explained it. Best I gathered is it's a talent show for singers. But quite a number of you didn't think too highly of it. Is it schlocky? Lame? Imbecilic or infantile? Cutthroat or cutesy?

I'm determined to find out - IF I can figure out when it's on!

On a parallel note, I'm ever in culture shock post-Japan. After some 11 years there, I still remember "re-entry" and one of the very first changes I'd noticed in the United States was the growth of reality TV and how mean-spirited programs had become. Shows like Survivor - which I did force myself to watch and *did not like* - and on.

Suddenly -- to my eyes following an extended and complete disconnect from U.S. culture and society - shows pitting people against one another dominated the airwaves. There was no kindness in them. They felt so competitive ... ones trying to outdo the others ... clawing their way to the top of the heap and not caring what it took or who got stepped on along the way.

How did America get to that place of mean-spiritedness and, more disconcerting, its TV popularity? It made no sense to me. I remember feeling acutely at that moment how changed the country from the one I'd left.

Something else I remember vividly is the first time I saw Paris Hilton on a magazine cover. I'd heard the name but had no idea who she was. I saw her picture and thought she was a porno star. Turned out I wasn't far off.

I miss living abroad. It brings for me such sharpness and clarity to the consciousness, psyche and issues of a country.

And, frankly, for as inane and infantile as Japanese television can be, I still prefer it over its mean-spirited American counterpart. And if I *do* figure out when American Idol's on in my area, I'll certainly share my view. For its enormous popularity, it'd best knock my socks off!

What's American Idol?

And why does everyone talk about it?

signed,
an American only by birth oblivious to TV pop culture

Strange is life sometimes.

On the very day I wrote of a sweater, a shirt, a shoe, of lost items found on the street, I came upon another.

It is a little tale of magic, the power of timing, of kismet.

I’m walking the long stretch of sidewalk that hugs the waterway  - a popular walk not only for its restful views but a site of boat dockings, condominums, the glass and history museums and one expensive seafood restaurant.

In the afternoon’s bright sunshine, the glint of an object catches my eye: a bracelet that has fallen into the crack of the sidewalk.

I retrieve it and examine it. It is gorgeous. Small angular clear crystals intersperced with delicate soft pink beads. In the sun the bracelet sparkles, a strand of feminine glitter.

I take a seat on a nearby bench to contemplate my action. I am torn. Do I set the bracelet back on the sidewalk, outside of the crack, with the hope that whoever lost it will come looking for it? And what are the chances of that?

Or do I take it home to hang it and appreciate its beauty? To wear it and appreciate it? For the past week, coincidentally, I have been looking for a gemstone bracelet. Is this the Divine placing it in my path?

However much I may appreciate the bracelet, I cannot shake the feeling that taking it is stealing.

Yet putting it back on the sidewalk, or on the bench, seems like a potentially worse fate, depending on the next finder.

I latch the bracelet onto my left wrist. It’s clear why the bracelet is lost. The clasp, like an eyehook, is terrible. Very easy for it to slip right off.

And it’s too big. I examine it to see whether it could be adjusted and remember that a local bead shop does adjustments for cheap, or free.

I have two fatal flaws (that is, qualities that work to my detriment): honesty and conscience and it is these that keep me almost glued to the bench, weighing the options and agonizing over what to do.

A young couple walking hand in hand passes “Excuse me, I’d like to ask the woman a question,” I call from the bench. I present the dilemma and the bracelet, a string of dainty yet powerful sparkles.

She agrees it’s beautiful and after thought and weighing the odds of the owner knowing where she lost it says she’d probably take it home.

I thank her for her input and off the young couple apparently in love go.

I’ll continue sitting here agonizing and soliciting input from female passersby until I get the sense of what is the right thing to do.

A group of four -- two couples, early to mid 60’s -- eventually approaches. Again I beckon: “I’d like to ask the women a question.” I hold up the bracelet. “I found this and ...”

The woman with cropped white hair steps forward. “My bracelet!”

My work is done.

"It's kismet," I glow, placing it into her hand.

We chat.  “It’s such a beautiful bracelet," I remark.

“I didn’t even know I’d lost it!”

“It's a terrible clasp," I offer.

“I know. I’ve been thinking to get it replaced.”

“You should.”

She expresses many thanks, the others chime in, moves to latch it until one in her party advises better the pocket; she agrees and into her pants pocket it goes.

More chatting, further thanks and the four depart but not before one gentleman steps forward, pats gently my arm and offers, “an honest person ..."

“A little too honest,” I return, smiling.

“It was from my sister ..." says the woman, drifting away.

“Say no more," I think.

Kismet.

I’m released from the bench to continue my walk, appreciating the myriad of tiny and seemingly insignificant choices during my rambling stroll that collectively led me into being at the right place at the right time for the bracelet's owner. What are the odds?

Neither can I overlook the synchronicity of having written only hours earlier of lost objects on the street ... or the strangeness of spotting that bracelet in a sidewalk's crack and just around the corner from that railing that had held the lost sweater.
 
I'm begging to wonder whether that area's some power point for me ...

All's well that ends well. Defying odds and logic, the bracelet's in the hands of its rightful, and happy, owner, and the powers of honesty and goodness prevail - this time.

I’m touched by the little things in life that are often overlooked or unseen by others. I find poetry in the mundane and sadness in the pedestrian.

For example, the other early evening stroll I came upon a sweater-jacket tucked into the railing along the stairs of a pedestrian bridge. I paused to examine it. It was black, worn fleece, styled and sized for a petite woman. It bore no particular scent of smoke, perfume, shampoo, body markers.

I checked the pockets for identifying information. They were empty. I wondered whether they were when the owner lost it and how many others preceding me had stopped to check, perhaps with the hope of finding money. I wondered whether the owner knew it was missing or had any idea where it might be. There’s one office building nearby so perhaps it belongs to an employee who’d discover it the next day. I folded it in half and snuggled it neatly back into the railing.

A month or so earlier, in the same vicinity on the main passage through old downtown, I found a man's shirt lying on the sidewalk near a storefront. It was short-sleeved, plaid cotton and worn. In that pocket I found - what was it - a receipt or such, innocuous and nonidentifying.

The shirt looked so sad lying there. I considered taking it home, washing it and donating it to the men’s shelter.

Then I thought best not to, in case the owner came searching. Also, blocks away beats the heart of the indigent area so I folded it considerately and set it back down gently and respectful of its dignity on the chance that a man, or woman I suppose, might come along and feel blessed at the fortune of finding a stray shirt on the street.

The items that touch my heart deeply are the lost or abandoned shoes. Often it’s only one of the pair. Some shoes I’ve picked up to examine and promptly put them back down. They’ve lost their soul - if soul had been present - and are discarded eyesores.

Other shoes are brimming with stories. I’m certain that if I put one to my ear, it’d speak to me like the conch from the seashore.

I have a dream of one day having a digital camera. There are so many stories my inner photographer yearns to tell and when paired with my inner writer, powerful they will be. With that camera I’d photograph shoes, singularly or in pairs, that speak soulfully and write stories about their wearers. They might be shoes founds at a curb, in a field, along the port waters, in the park.

I still think about that black fleece sweater-jacket on the railing and the plaid shirt on the sidewalk, wondering what came of them, what were their fates. Silly, isn’t it, where I find poetry, beauty and the inspiration to write of such simple, even mundane, things.