Oh God, that feeling, to walk out the door and immediately feel the cool moisture of a misty morning caress my face, like a thousand pinpricks of refreshing wet. I can�t think right now of what I may love as much as a misty morning. Regardless of what my mood may be, when I walk outside, into a morning such as this, I immediately take a deep breath, inhaling through my nostrils (smell the water) and exhaling in a long, deep, smiling sigh. Aaaaahhh. Very nice.

You know, there�s a lot to do in San Diego. A lot of things going on all the time, that I am missing because I�m not paying attention to the events. Thank God SOMEONE is, though, or else I wouldn�t hear of anything and resign myself to believe that there�s never anything to do here. My father keeps up with the heartbeat of the city, the culture of it. Every night, every day, that man is out doing something completely different from the day before, always something enlightening, educational, informative, or just generally interesting. Last night, he took me to Balboa Park; (beautiful, by the way, I�m going back there tonight to further appreciate the beautiful flowers that we just walked by on the way to the Museum of Art) we saw a foreign documentary on Flamenco dancing. 300 professional dancers and musicians, from a few different generations, gathered in an abandoned Railroad station. There was no narrative, it just cut from one dance/song scene to the next for the full 100 minutes. At the end, my father and I had one word to describe the people, the music, the dancing: Passionate.

The singing was very different, more like Arabic Moorish chanting, instead of rising up from the larynx and diaphragm, these vocals were from further up. Open your mouth as if to say ah, start singing the �AH� and then block the back of your throat with your tongue and continue to sing. It becomes almost nasally, and about an octave higher. This is what the singing was like. I�m not a big fan of that vocal style, but if you could see the faces of these people (mostly the older ones) as they belted out tunes with titles like, �What Madness�, �Why Did You Do That?�, �Green I love you Green�, and �Song for a baby in the cradle�, you would have been entranced. These faces contorted to personify emotion. The close-ups were extreme, you saw every twitch, where the eyes were looking, if pupils were focused on anything, or just staring off into a dimension of memory, where old emotions are stored. For a few of them, I was actually touched emotionally. You can�t just sit there and watch someone sing with their entire being (whether you appreciate the voice or tune or not), and not be affected.

They screamed these songs. The people around them clapped in tune, it was like a group of old friends, improvising with sound, playing with the voice, the beat, all to create something new and fun. Clapping and knocking The dancers were another story. WOW. Men and women, jumping faster than Riverdance performers, catching every note of the guitar or drum with the click of a heel. Dramatic, sharp movements. Passionate. It was a great show.

On a sadder note. My boss just came into my office, red, swollen eyes, tear-stained cheeks, and told me she was leaving for the day. She said, �I found out last night that it was my son who damaged the car. And he just got into a fight at school, my mother, fed up, left town, and I have to go pick him up and take him home. There�s no one to watch him now.� Whoa. After the police report against a historically abusive man, she finds out it was her 8-year-old son all along, crying out for attention. I cannot imagine what she must be going through right now. He destroys her new car and then beats up a child at school the next morning, not 20 minutes after class began. What I don�t understand, is she found out late last night that her 8-year-old child vandalized her new car, lashing out for attention, anger, whatever. And she just dropped him off at school this morning as if nothing had happened. Leaving him for her mother to pick up afterwards, and she would deal with it later. Now her mother has left, and she is forced to face the situation.

My office is dead. The only 2 people in here are surfing the net, looking for other job opportunities. And here I am. Perhaps I�ll get some things done. Too bad I can�t just close up shop and say �Fuck it.� I mean, I�ve got some shopping and laundry to do, I could really use that time. Oh well. I�ll sit here in this peculiar cell until my time is up. Talk about �the absence of motivation.� All I want to do is go run my personal errands. I�ll get through it. I mean, it�s a misty morning. I need to go stand outside for a moment and feel that air on my face again. It�s the greatest motivator for me, always has been. I think I�ll go do that right now.

-Barbarella

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