keys are no modern invention. they've been around for ages, locking things up, keeping people out, and being broken in various locks. they can be to a door, a padlock, a mailbox, or a car. either way, they grant you access to something--access that you and perhaps a select set of others also have. a key sets you apart from the masses in respect to the thing you have a key to; of all people, you can get through the door, you can retrieve what's inside, you can drive away in it.
however, i think it is more touching from a different perspective: having a key to something sets it apart to you. it's not a store to which the door you simply push open, but you must feel uncomfortable and out of place until you look like you're going to buy something. it's not a public square with odd-smelling people lying on the bench who you're embarrassed to talk to. it's not a workplace you go to to get worn out, stressed out and payed, and then leave uncomfortably. it's not the the grimy door to a free newspaper holder that hundreds of other people have touched in the last 35 minutes, having washed their hands or not. when you have a key to someplace, you belong there, and that place is thereby specific to you. it is always a joy and a relief for me to skip up the porch steps to my apartment here in Cambridge, and pull out my brass-colored key that matches the brass-colored doorknob. i insert and turn it, and i know that i am trusted here, i can relax, i don't have to worry so much. i can sit back, eat a bite, chat it up with loving people, and cool down after a long day. when you have to ring the doorbell, you have to prod someone, to disturb them from their current activity to come attend to your need, even if your need is merely access to the housing structure. that dependence is already a negation of belonging. you may belong in part, but never fully until you have your own key. that place can't fully belong to you until you have a key, until you have independent access to it.
similarly, i guess, jesus is our key to the deep peace and strength of our relationships with god and the holy spirit's belonging to us and us to him. when we have the key, when we have jesus, our foul smells are overlooked, because we can come in and take a shower, shave, wash up and put on a fresh set of clothes. that is the only true home we can have in this life, the only complete safeplace; god is not subject to fires nor thievery--people can't break in to god and steal our peace and comfort; not unless we walk out of god and surrender it to them.
that's why i love keys.
30 July 2009
16 July 2009
ice ice baby
my job this summer is at midwest grill--a typical brazilian grill, churrascaria, that wouldn't compete with any of the same kind in brazil. it is an establishment that survives on what is left of its exotic appeal, and the comparatively cheap price for meat--a novelty that to an american is unheard of. while the somewhat half-baked establishment keeps running, it has a lot of people that run around keeping the place going. mostly, it is the four partners who own the place--they are always in the kitchen, talking to people, and tending to different matters with people; at any common restaurant, the owner might be overseeing in the kitchen, but rarely doing the meat of the cooking--or cooking the meat either. they're surely not the only ones around, though. there are many minions and hang-abouts in the place. many have been there for ages, for as long as the place has been. the three leading waiters, all men, have been there for more than ten years. some of the meat-cutters, too. when i met one of them on my first days of work, and we were talking about ourselves, he said that he had been there for only three or four years--that he hadn't been there for very long. for me, of course, that is a long time. but compared to the others, it really isnt long.
i started off as a meat cutter. it was my job, along with others or sometimes on my own, to tend to the three tiered gas grill, with rotating spits under the flame, and be sure that all the tables got their share of all the different cuts of meats. it took me about a week to become accostumed to the work, but the different expectations took much longer to understand. working in that kind of place, you need to know the right dance to please each manager or boss--that's how it seemed in the beginning. now i've learned the ropes, and i get along fine most of the time.
since then, i've also learned the role of waiter, which takes much more work. i'm no longer bound to the spits or the grill; i've been loosed upon the customers. as a waiter, i need, of course, to tend to my tables, keep all of my people happy and content, and keep an eye on the rest of things in the establishment. that's not too hard to learn. as a waiter, though, the periferal responsibilities are much more important than tending to the tables themselves. we have to watch the salad bar, get the clean dishes in their places, handle take-out orders, bus the 'used' tables; when i have to set up in the morning, the process is even more elaborate.
things are easy enough to handle as a group, when there are other people around to cover your back and keep things going. it's the morning set-up that gets rough. i have to rejuvenate the salad bar--taking things from the fridges, distributing them to their appropriate receptacles and getting it all out the the cooler buffet. i have to see to the lights, the tvs, the mood music, and make sure everything's ready to bring all kinds of drinks to the tables. i get out the frozen concentrate for juices, make sure all of the +21 drinks are stocked up and all the cocktail ingredients are readily available. i have to stock up the water pitchers and get ice to where it needs to be.
one of the first ways i learned to be helpful, one of the first things i did when i was training as a waiter was to go down to the basement to stock up the ice. you need it at the bar--at least 20 liters of it--and at the water station to have it ready for all the tables. you walk down the stairs into a cool dark. when the lights come on, you're surrounded by shelves of boxed disposable supplies, and stacked tables and chairs. past the stacks of clean rags and table napkins, next to the table full of bleaches and detergents. there it is. the ice machine. the reason i've come down to the cool, damp, dimly lit room. i set down the containers for the ice, grab myself the big metal scoop and flip open the metal door to the freezer.
this is the best part of my day. i sink the 1 liter metal scoop into the pile of ice in the cooler. it makes a crisp chink. i feel the cold waft toward me as i lift the first scoop and dump it in the container. the chips of ice tumble noisily into it, and the scoop takes another dive into the pile. when i hear the sound of the ice falling against the inside of the cooler in the wake of my metal tool, i feel a relaxation come over me, as i steep in the gelid air. even more fulfilling is to scoop away the ice at the center of the pile, where it accumulates from the ice-maker. sometimes it freezes onto the walls of the spout from the ice machine on top of the cooler, and i always take pride in knocking it down with my metal scoop. the most fulfilling of all is to hear the freezer start up and the water start running into the machine, initiating the process that will create the millions of chunks of solid di-hydrogen oxide solution that i need for each day of work.
i slam the door, discard my metal friend on a small ceramic plate on top of the cooler, and walk away with a box on my shoulder and a bucket in my hand; i walk up into the light, into the heat, but my endorphins are still going. my happiness takes me through the dining rooms, up the hallway and to the bar, where i scoot in and deposit my treasure--i dump the bucket and slide the box in place--until i turn around and have to face the light, the heat the people, the responsibilities, the things, in short, that i am actually paid to do.
i started off as a meat cutter. it was my job, along with others or sometimes on my own, to tend to the three tiered gas grill, with rotating spits under the flame, and be sure that all the tables got their share of all the different cuts of meats. it took me about a week to become accostumed to the work, but the different expectations took much longer to understand. working in that kind of place, you need to know the right dance to please each manager or boss--that's how it seemed in the beginning. now i've learned the ropes, and i get along fine most of the time.
since then, i've also learned the role of waiter, which takes much more work. i'm no longer bound to the spits or the grill; i've been loosed upon the customers. as a waiter, i need, of course, to tend to my tables, keep all of my people happy and content, and keep an eye on the rest of things in the establishment. that's not too hard to learn. as a waiter, though, the periferal responsibilities are much more important than tending to the tables themselves. we have to watch the salad bar, get the clean dishes in their places, handle take-out orders, bus the 'used' tables; when i have to set up in the morning, the process is even more elaborate.
things are easy enough to handle as a group, when there are other people around to cover your back and keep things going. it's the morning set-up that gets rough. i have to rejuvenate the salad bar--taking things from the fridges, distributing them to their appropriate receptacles and getting it all out the the cooler buffet. i have to see to the lights, the tvs, the mood music, and make sure everything's ready to bring all kinds of drinks to the tables. i get out the frozen concentrate for juices, make sure all of the +21 drinks are stocked up and all the cocktail ingredients are readily available. i have to stock up the water pitchers and get ice to where it needs to be.
one of the first ways i learned to be helpful, one of the first things i did when i was training as a waiter was to go down to the basement to stock up the ice. you need it at the bar--at least 20 liters of it--and at the water station to have it ready for all the tables. you walk down the stairs into a cool dark. when the lights come on, you're surrounded by shelves of boxed disposable supplies, and stacked tables and chairs. past the stacks of clean rags and table napkins, next to the table full of bleaches and detergents. there it is. the ice machine. the reason i've come down to the cool, damp, dimly lit room. i set down the containers for the ice, grab myself the big metal scoop and flip open the metal door to the freezer.
this is the best part of my day. i sink the 1 liter metal scoop into the pile of ice in the cooler. it makes a crisp chink. i feel the cold waft toward me as i lift the first scoop and dump it in the container. the chips of ice tumble noisily into it, and the scoop takes another dive into the pile. when i hear the sound of the ice falling against the inside of the cooler in the wake of my metal tool, i feel a relaxation come over me, as i steep in the gelid air. even more fulfilling is to scoop away the ice at the center of the pile, where it accumulates from the ice-maker. sometimes it freezes onto the walls of the spout from the ice machine on top of the cooler, and i always take pride in knocking it down with my metal scoop. the most fulfilling of all is to hear the freezer start up and the water start running into the machine, initiating the process that will create the millions of chunks of solid di-hydrogen oxide solution that i need for each day of work.
i slam the door, discard my metal friend on a small ceramic plate on top of the cooler, and walk away with a box on my shoulder and a bucket in my hand; i walk up into the light, into the heat, but my endorphins are still going. my happiness takes me through the dining rooms, up the hallway and to the bar, where i scoot in and deposit my treasure--i dump the bucket and slide the box in place--until i turn around and have to face the light, the heat the people, the responsibilities, the things, in short, that i am actually paid to do.
05 July 2009
the works
it's been an infinite week. until an hour and a half ago, of course. that's when saturday ended and sunday began. another fourth of the seventh gone by; i've been working much of this week--a good thing, in terms--and was tending to dishes or something when the boston fireworks show began and ended. i had purposely not hyped myself up for it, because i was positive i'd miss it.
i can't seem to sleep before 1, even 2 anymore. 12.30 at the latest, really. so im up now. clock says 1.42. i left work two hours ago. i left attleboro 11h15m ago. or so. last i'll see of the parents til december. work is looking up, hours-wise. haven't done anything else with my brain, of late. just started my steinbeck novel. it's been lying around for the past days. that's what i do too, when i've been home. "home". lying around. napping, playing a tune or two--my guitar is finally here, but i guess i've become more acustomed to the steel-stringed--the nylon feels two soft and i can't tune it as easily.
life is changing. it feels like somethings slipping--many somethings, much slipping, and i'll only get it when i run into something that i hang onto or something. things are going by quite quickly. i suppose i oughtta start thinking about my return to houghton. it's strange even to consider. it feels like i've already left that place behind, but i've still got a good while before that happens.
thoughts end there. i need more sleep for a more consistent, patterned, non-clumsy ... anything ... to come out. of my fingers.
i can't seem to sleep before 1, even 2 anymore. 12.30 at the latest, really. so im up now. clock says 1.42. i left work two hours ago. i left attleboro 11h15m ago. or so. last i'll see of the parents til december. work is looking up, hours-wise. haven't done anything else with my brain, of late. just started my steinbeck novel. it's been lying around for the past days. that's what i do too, when i've been home. "home". lying around. napping, playing a tune or two--my guitar is finally here, but i guess i've become more acustomed to the steel-stringed--the nylon feels two soft and i can't tune it as easily.
life is changing. it feels like somethings slipping--many somethings, much slipping, and i'll only get it when i run into something that i hang onto or something. things are going by quite quickly. i suppose i oughtta start thinking about my return to houghton. it's strange even to consider. it feels like i've already left that place behind, but i've still got a good while before that happens.
thoughts end there. i need more sleep for a more consistent, patterned, non-clumsy ... anything ... to come out. of my fingers.
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