Life of Meaning: Part 1
August 22, 2004The other day on the corner of 26th and Mission a semi drunk man
approached me. Iím accustomed to these sorts of encounters since
Iíve come to understand that I project a genial demeanor. Before
the man spoke I took it upon myself to assume he spoke Spanish and
addressed him, ìHola como estas?î The man was from Mexico but now
lived in the largely Hispanic environs of San Franciscoís Mission
District. He said (translation) ìI need to ask you a
question.î I immediately assumed he wanted some cash and mentally
prepared a series of excuses. ìDo you thinkî he continued, ìif
your woman sleeps with another man, itís over?î. I looked at him
in the eyes and noticed them becoming glossy. Why on earth, I
thought, would some stranger care what my opinion on this matter would
be? But in some strange way, I felt I had to help. ìMaybe
sheís trying to tell you something. Perhaps sheís unhappy with
the relationshipî. He kept looking into my eyes, casually swaying
and returning in a more aggressive manner ìno, she left me, sheís
gone. I need you to tell me if I should let it go or pursue
herî. Now that just about changed everything I could help him
with. I had no advice and I also had to go. ìLooks like
itís over man. Forget her, Just move onî. And we both did.
If youíre out there my Mexican friend, hereís a song I wish I could have played for you:
