Italo Calvino said: The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze ghosts. Describe the ghosts that live in this house: Image credit: “love Don’t live here anymore…” – © 2009 Robb North – made available under Attribution 2.0 Generic

The windows are now gone. Empty. Houses made of brick like those in the olden times where women cared for the fire and the men hunted for game.

The ghosts that remain are those who remember the past. Of the children that are birthed here. The sexism, the racism, the fear that spread across the land.

As the house emptied and became a standing relic of the past, the ghosts watched the world change. The fear that dissipated from shouts, screams, pitchforks to soft quiet psychological fear. The fear that some only express through art, op-ed articles and gossip columns.

The fear that used to freely express are in our bones now, engrained just like the former husks of the ghosts. But for us, they just stay within, bursting only when prodded in quiet public digital shaming and behind-the-doors acts of violence.

lemon + ginger + honey + hot water = makes everything better.

On the way back to the city, I was feeling nauseous. For the first time, the train movement made me…train sick. And all I wanted to do was…retch. But when I got home, I poured ginger power (no real ginger here) with hot water with some honey…then later some fresh lemon.

Amazingly with a few seconds, I felt better. The wave of nausea came back a few seconds later. Yet when I downed the entire mug, all is well. And here I am sitting in bed in an awkward position writing, which would cause nausea in its own right.

And I have the time to get to know someone…

I can’t help but look for how deep they are, how they think, how they approach lives.

But I also notice how I am pushed toward certain subjects or pulled away from certain subjects. I notice how well the conversation flows. I notice their sense of risktaking, their anxiety, their agreeability.

I notice how they push me into confession, how they let me put a wall up, how my levels of generosity fluctuate. I notice all of this.

Most of all, I notice whether they judge or accept me. And vice versa.

Once, I was told that it was a dance. The friendship dance. To let a little in to see if the other person will play well. But I have this horrible habit of opening the door quickly. To anyone. I let people in. Then if they prod too deep, I shut them. I am a tester. Secretly.

I am incapable of knowing whether I will enjoy something. Most of the time, I see adventure! fun for all! and I think…yes! i will have fun too! i am in!

So I imagine myself in the situation. Smiling. Laughing. Enjoying myself.

This is what happened for the Inca Trail. I listened to my friends rave about the hikes, the natural beauty and the camping. And the you feel different when you’re so close to nature. I ignored the one friend who said that it wasn’t what she expected. Yes, the food was amazing but I did not enjoy it. It wasn’t because I wasn’t prepared enough or that I had too much equipment. Unlike many, I don’t see nature and sense awe. Instead, I look and see just trees, leaves, hills. I am often in anguish when others describe their awe and say that all humans must know it. I don’t. I didn’t enjoy the Inca Trail.

So I think that I put myself in situations in hopes that I will be like everyone else. Constantly. I say, why yes, let’s do that public speaking event. Let’s organize that huge event. That sounds like fun!

Tonight, I decided that I wanted to go on the bike ride to see the lighting of The Bay Lights. Rain! someone cautioned. With people that I knew that I didn’t vibe with. So I went anyway. But 5 minutes in, I knew that it wasn’t for me.

I do that sometimes. When I am perfectly happy (but itching) sitting at home and writing.

“Do you want a ride from 22nd?” I asked my friend as she got up to leave at Millbrae.

She put her bag down and smiled, “Oh really? Ok!”

Then a few minutes later, the train suddenly slowed down and the lights slowly dimmed. To darkness and the emergency lights went on. The train came to a stop.

I breathed deeply. Just a moment, right. But instead, it turned into something more.

After riding caltrain for more than 4 years, I knew the deal. An accident, incident…tragedy…malfunction…whatever…can last up to…3 hours. 1 hour if lucky. But ever since committing to a contract in Palo Alto, I took the train nearly every day, hoping to never experience such a thing.

Well, time had come.

A shaky female voice came over the loudspeaker, “The train has struck a vehicle and the authorities are coming. I apologize for the inconvenience. However, this is now a crime scene so you cannot leave the train. We are working our best to get you to your final destination.”

Oh crap.

My friend repeated FML FML FML as I apologized profusely for convincing her to stay to save three dollars and get back home 10 minutes earlier. She assured me that it wasn’t my fault.

So we sat in the back row of the last car in the train as we waited…for 90 minutes until whatever was cleared. An empty vehicle. Fortunately nobody was hurt except all the time sensitive issues that the commuters possibly had. My friend worked on her stuff while I attempted on my laptop to edit an essay that I wrote for Modern Love but was so lost on its theme. Then when the lights finally came back on, I looked over the pages that I needed to review before this Thursday’s workshop. Then I fell asleep. Announcements every 15 minutes.

Then the train backtracked to San Bruno where we crossed the tracks to another Northbound train which made every single stop (fortunately only 3 stops). My friend and I shivered out into the train while she was complaining about something unrelated to trains. At the track crossing, someone got all feisty, yelling.

We got on the train on the opposite side and headed back up.

I got home at 9 pm. Two hours later than expected.

The ones that capture people’s attention is almost the buzz worthy kinds. The one that seemingly are black and white wrong. The ones involving drugs, sex, and crime.

But how about relationships that consist of just miscommunication, pain and sorrow? The kind where someone lets the other person down by not showing up. The kind where words sputter out with intentions to harm. The kind where everyone separates in sorrow wondering if the friendship will still continue.

The media is not interested in those. They are not sensationalist. It’s not wrong. It’s not right. It doesn’t prove that someone is a good person or bad person. Those are just the scars we allowed to carry into high profile positions.

So what is there to hide?

Sometimes I wonder how spoiled I can be when I pose the question to others and myself:

I say my laptop, my phone (or small portable device), clean clothes, three types of shoes (walking, sandals, and dressy), a clean shower, a clean toilet, fluffy pillow, and a warm/cool blanket (ideally down). Plus stable, reliable electricity and wifi Internet access.

From the caltrain station downtown, I hop on my bike. First checking my helmet. The front and tail lights. I get into the taxi stand area, aware that a taxi could very well make an U-turn right there. I watch carefully as more intrepid riders around me dash off crossing Townsend. The coast is clear and I ride across to the bike lane on the opposite side.

Then I start pedaling. Rhythmic. Sometimes I overtake the other riders who pass me. Usually these are the slow ones—the ones on mountain bikes or hybrid. Or perhaps it’s a guy with tons of panniers, the weight slowing him down, but not his fearlessness.

I am fearful as I ride my bike down. A little less fearful than a few years ago. But I always look when I cross intersections, not trusting any cars or any riders. I wait until cars complete crossing the intersection so that I have a clear view of any potential obstructions. Safe, I move forward. I past the startups along Townsend. The Zynga. The airbnb. The Adobe.

Then the traffic circle. I eye all the drivers at the intersection. Especially the ones that look confused and lost. Don’t crash into me. See me. Now.

We talked and the more we talked, I was disappointed. I normally assume that everyone thinks like me. At least in regards to problems.

That I can easily extrapolate higher thinking, higher meaning, higher theory.

I am surprised when not everyone can do that. That I can see meaning behind colors, words, and expressions. That I feel the impact immediately inside myself.

I didn’t know that most people didn’t feel like that.

Somehow I had a map with me. I could see red dots merging in and out. And them converging on black dots.

I knew this: “I needed to save myself.”

I needed not to be eaten. I needed to survive. I needed to save those who I loved.

In the building, I was patting myself on the back for purchasing the one-year supply of emergency food. Yet, it was keeping me back. Keeping me in the house with my supplies. A precious supplies. That night, I started digging a hole to place the remaining 10 months, hoping that I could return later. It was mine after all. My generosity can only be given those who I want to save. If I had that power.

If they didn’t see me, I could run with my heavy backpack filled with a few days of supplies—I hoped that I could subsist on it until I found him. If they didn’t see me, my non-athletic self would not struggle for breath after every blocks.

This is what I dreamed this morning and all I wanted to do upon waking is see a zombie rom-com.