A true story.

I knocked on a door today and a Japanese woman named Hifumi opened the door. She readily signed the petition to restore funding to the CT Department of Environmental Protection (which makes sense since they regulate air and water quality, something they can't do without their budget). The next part of the speech is where I talk about fundraising, how we are run on donations and donations alone, how their donation will help us go up against multi-billion dollar corporations, yadayadayada. She's reticent about it and her kids keep coming and tugging on her sleeve, not saying anything, but tugging on her sleeve. She said that she would think about the donation and I wrote her a blank receipt so that she could remember it. I then reached the final part, where we ask the supporter to write a letter to their senator and representative in the state legislature. There's a law that states a politician has to read a letter placed on their desk. We take advantage of that and have people write letters, come back a few hours later and pick them up. This woman clearly was in a rush. Finally, even though I'd been pushing her to get me the letter by 8:30 and involve the whole family, she broke. "Look, my kids are both autistic and I really won't have time for this tonight." I looked at her, through her even, "I have friends with autistic siblings. I understand how they can be a burden, but I also understand how they can also be a great joy. There's something pure about them, a incorruptible innocence, a great confidence in the goodness of humanity. If you don't have time, I understand. But even if they want to draw a picture of a river and write 'save the rivers', we can send that to the politicians and they have to read it." I told her I would stop by later to see if she had the letters, and if she didn't, please mail it to our office.

I came back and there was a brown paper bag with three pocket warmers, a letter from her to both the senator and representative, and a shaky pencil drawing of a river with the caption, "SaVe tHE RIveRS".

I started crying then. Sometime people are ugly and horrendous, filled with apathy and spite, turning their words against you to demoralize you and make you feel powerless. Sometimes they are beautiful, strong, and kind. Never lose faith in the basic goodness of people, never.

I dont quite understand why, but the apostrophe button on my computer has stopped working. Regardless it got me started thinking about entropy (I know, right?). However, before I really sank into my existential crisis, I was whisked away by my Father to the City. Naturally, because the City is that way, I began to feel sick. For some time now Ive been extraordinarily focused on the idea of Story. There are upwards of 6 billion people on this planet, which means that there are upwards of 6 billion individual and totally subjective experiences on this planet, which means that there are upwards of 6 billion autobiographies. Can you even imagine? Add to that the immense amount of stories that already exist and that will exist and it just becomes terrifying. Or inspirational since it is quite a testament to human endurance and creativity. But walking the streets of the City where another hundred people just got off of the train and the plane and the bus, I quickly realized that it is a city of strangers. Whats worse, all of these people are dying. And each time somebody dies, so does a part of their story. When they cease to breathe, the only people who can continue their story are those who knew the person. But is it worth it? A continuation built on half remembered anecdotes, mumbled tales, mostly forgotten fragments of a person? Who is the continuation for? Is it for those left behind or those who have gone on? I can, intuitively, understand the concept of honoring somebodys memory, but it doesnt quite make sense. Why hold on at all?