In Between The Moments

In between the moments of silence and memories I sit in my chair and look out the window. There are people out there living their lives and I wonder if they are happy, sad, angry or fulfilled.

They could be one, some or all of those things together. Doesn’t really matter much because what they are doesn’t have much to do with who I am or what I am doing. It just intrigues me because I am a person who enjoys watching people.

But I am more than that too.

I am about action, depth and activity. I am a wool gatherer and a dreamer. I dream in technicolor and live life with a passion and fire that is ever burning. The intensity attracts and the intensity repels.

When I think about the things I want I always think about those I have had. It is part of how I distinguish between what I want and what I need.

Sometimes it makes me angry because I see you in the distance and I remember…things. They aren’t always pleasant…memories. I suppose it is childish but there is this sense of having been replaced and a question of whether it was real on your side the way that it was on mine.

There are moments where I feel those questions bubbling up and I want to scream at you. I want to unload because I am frustrated and I remember how there was a time when you were always there and willing to listen. I was accepted for who I was, who I am and who I want to be.

I felt safe to unload because you supported me as I supported you.

We were the most formidable couple I had ever met because we were the most in sync and in love. Few men get to experience the beauty of having a woman give herself completely to them and to know they are safe to do the same.

It might sound silly but we are taught to be hard and to hide our thoughts, feelings and emotions. We learn to do so at a young age and the message is reinforced all the time. Time passes and you learn this lesson has roots in reality.

So when the hard moments come I cloak myself in anger and create a list of reasons why we aren’t referred to as “are” and have become a “were.” The anger builds and it creates the time, space and distance to forget why I miss what was there.

For a while it is almost enough to convince myself that it was fake and that your words were meaningless. If I think about our intimate moments I can almost believe you didn’t feel anything.

The problem is that I don’t have to close my eyes to see your face or to remember what you looked like at our most vulnerable and when the memory appears I have to accept that it was real for you and for I.

It wasn’t just physical chemistry. It wasn’t just pheromones. It wasn’t anything, it was everything.

And now it is nothing.

So I look out the window and ask myself if the words that were once spoken should be forgotten and the dreams should be left in a box adorned with flowers and soft summer spices. They say there is a season for all things and I wonder if there is a season for saying goodbye or if hope really does spring eternal.

I look out and wonder if maybe that tingly sensation I feel is the same one I remember when I knew you were thinking about me. I stare at a big blue sky and smile, because I remember your lips, your eyes, legs and your heart.

Your heart beats in my head. I think that is what I hear and I swear it is calling to me.

I swear it is not just a dream or a moment. It feels like more. It reminds me of Bruce and I say to you again, “I want to know is love is wild, I want to know if love is real. Oh can you show me.”

So I smile and wonder, can you, and will you.

I still know things.

Buck

His name was Buck and he was built like a gorilla. It wasn’t an affectionate description, nor a term of endearment. It wasn’t that he looked particularly simian, it was his long arms. Had they been thin they would have been called gangly, they were not.

Those arms were connected to a body that resembled a fireplug and to a brutish looking face. Dark eyes hid behind thick black eyebrows and a nose that resembled a pear.

He would never be called pretty, handsome or complimented for his looks. But neither would he ever be teased as it was apparent to even the animals that he was not to be trifled with. It was one of the things that set him apart.

Dogs avoided him. Big dogs, little dogs, Rottweiler, Pit Bull, Schnauzer, it didn’t matter, they stayed away from him, as if they could sense the violence that lay just beneath the surface.

Tom had seen it surface a couple of times. They had finished their shifts and walked over to a local bar for a beer. A couple of locals had the misfortune of poor judgment. He had sneezed and knocked over their pitcher of beer. They immediately began berating him and when he didn’t respond they grew more aggressive.

They mistook his inactivity for fear or who knows what. Had they looked more closely they would have noticed that his large hands were scarred and callused. A person doesn’t get those marks, they earn them. And those that earn them have a certain something that they bring to the party.

Tom was surprised, really shocked was more like it with the speed at which things happened. The man closest to Buck grabbed his collar and demanded that he spring for a new pitcher of beer. One moment he was standing in front of Buck, hands wrapped in the collar of a dirty blue jumpsuit and the next he was writhing in pain on the ground, one arm dangling uselessly from his body.

The second man didn’t have time to do anything before Buck and picked him up and slammed him face first on the floor like a cheap rag doll. The only saving grace for him was that the impact knocked him senseless, would that his sense would have flitted over to the first man.

If it had he might have lay still. He didn’t, opting to grab Buck’s leg. Perhaps he did so unconsciously, perhaps not. It doesn’t matter what the reason was, because Buck fixed his arm so that there was a question of whether he would ever be able to feed himself again.

Tom looked at his watch. It was 5:37, their shift had ended at 5:30. It had taken at least five minutes to leave the plant and walk to the bar. How did this happen so quickly and what was he supposed to do now.

Buck was a bit of an enigma to Tom. The fury with which he had dispatched the two men has dissipated into the ether. It was as if it had never happened. The only sign of his anger were the broken bodies of the two men and a couple of rivulets of sweat upon his brow.

Beyond that it was hard to determine if anything unusual had happened. He wasn’t breathing hard and his behavior had reverted back to the passive state in which most people usually saw Buck. Tom knew that this wasn’t what most people considered normal behavior, but he also knew that Buck had not gone looking for trouble, it had found him. And he also knew if they stayed there until the police came Buck’s trouble would include Tom and he wasn’t willing to let that happen.

So he grabbed Buck by the arm, taking care to make sure that Buck saw that it was him and not some stranger and suggested that they leave. And so they did, their progress was unimpeded by the other patrons of the bar. They were not people who had a great love for the police, but they were people who appreciated having two functional arms and after what they had just witnessed no one dared to challenge their departure.

Back on the street Tom considered what he knew about Buck. When Tom began working at the plant Buck was a Chief Machinist. Not that the “chief” part of the title meant anything, but in the 10 years since Tom had begun working at the plant he had yet to meet another Chief Machinist. Nor had he met any other machinists besides himself.

It was kind of queer. There was room for at least another three full time men, plenty of work to go around. Best of his knowledge the company was making money, so it seemed strange to him. But he had learned not to ask questions, what another man did was his business and it was best to stick with people of the same pay grade as your own.

What he did know was that Buck never missed a day of work. He didn’t call in sick, he didn’t take vacations either. He came to work and he did what he had to do. But that still didn’t tell the story. He was fast at his work, but not in a flashy way. His speed was deceptive, he always appeared to be moving at half speed, yet his production was faster than Tom and error free. And as Tom had heard, Buck had worn out at least three other machinists.

Each one had tried to match his production and precision, but none could.

Tom didn’t know this because of Buck, you could say that he knew it in spite of Buck.

Buck didn’t speak much and when he did it never was about his work and rarely ever about himself. Most of the other employees at the plant avoided interacting with Buck, he had a look about him that made people second guess themselves, double check their self-confidence. The thing was that Buck didn’t try to make anyone feel anything, the feelings were just a response to Buck. It was part of who he was.

During the first few years Buck didn’t say a word to Tom. The only way he knew that Buck was even aware of him would be when Buck came to his position to exchange a part or check the inventory terminal.

Clad in blue coveralls and safety glasses he would shuffle over and sniff around for whatever it was he needed. Tom knew that it was a little unfair to describe Buck in terms best used for a bear or gorilla, but it was hard not to. Buck had repeatedly demonstrated that he was abnormally strong and while he may have shuffled while he walked it was deceptive. He was fast and agile, his movements were actually measured and precise.

Old Buck didn’t waste energy with unnecessary movement or gestures.

Tom knew that Buck wasn’t stupid, knew that those things that people said about him were not true. He couldn’t say how he knew this, it wasn’t instinct or an innate ability to read people. It could have been just a lucky guess or the application of the fortune from last night’s cookie from the Mandarin Dish.

Did it matter? Was there anything to be gained from this. Probably not. Tom was smart enough to recognize that brains didn’t mean that you had any common sense. More often than not the smart people got themselves into trouble because their egos made them think that they knew more than everyone else.

What it was, what it was that intrigued Tom was knowing that there was more to the company’s resident boogieman. He had always enjoyed mysteries and Buck was one hell of a mystery. If this was a movie he would find out that he had become friendly with the town’s axe murderer or the kind but misunderstood giant.

He took a deep breath because he could feel his mind racing. When he got excited like this it always moved like one of the spaceships in the science-fiction movies he liked to watch, it just jumped about at hyperspeed.

What confused him about Buck were the contradictions. Back in his high school football days his coach had encouraged his players to “bring the hammer down” on the opposing team. He realized that until tonight he hadn’t really understood what that meant. Buck hadn’t brought the hammer down, he had taken the whole toolset out and worked those two guys in the bar with it.

The thing that intrigued him, that scared him and frankly titillated his senses was that Buck hadn’t broken a sweat. He had acted like this was a commonplace occurrence, as if maiming two men was not a big deal. And then he hadn’t even made a move to leave the bar. If Tom hadn’t hustled him out of there he might still be there or be wearing cufflinks, the kind that the police stick on your wrists.

Someone who acted that way had to be a little crazy or maybe they no longer cared what happened to them. Tom knew that at some point Buck had been married, maybe even a father. Every now and then he had dropped hints of this past life into their conversations, but he never gave much in the way of details and Tom was afraid to ask.

A couple of months ago he had Buck over to his place for a summer barbecue. In truth one of the reasons for the invitation was in the hope that he might reciprocate. Tom was dying to see what Buck’s home looked like.

Some of the guys at the plant said that they figured it would be a meat locker in which there hung multiple slabs of raw flesh. It almost was believable, especially given the way in which Buck had acted. But again Tom reminded himself that this could not be the case. It didn’t fit his gut intuition. Tom smiled at the thought and rubbed his belly, the gut had rarely been wrong. It was a finely tuned instrument.

The thing to do was to just ask, to just come out and ask Buck a few questions about his past. He had earned the right to do so, hadn’t he. Hadn’t he helped get him out of the fix that he would most certainly have been in. Maybe yes, and maybe no. He made a mental note to be sure to be out of arm’s reach when he did ask him. Just in case. Buck wouldn’t hurt him for asking a question or two, would he.

In the interim he would walk back to the plant with him and pretend that he was going home to something more exciting, to someone special. Maybe that girl from the new television show could help put him to sleep tonight. Maybe she had a thing for a man who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty, someone who could fix a broken sink or build a fence. Yes, that sounded like a fine idea.

Buck Was A Soldier

Once upon a time there was a man boy named Buck. He was like other boys in that he loved to build with blocks, to play cops and robbers, to ride his bike and to collect bugs and get into all manner of trouble.

In short Buck was like every other ten year-old boy in all ways. Well, almost all ways. When Buck was eight he watched his mother and father die in front of him. They were robbed on a street corner. For less than twenty dollars a man stole their lives and profoundly influenced an impressionable little boy.

At first Buck went to live with his grandparents. He was happy there and for a time it began to appear as if the chaos that his life had been thrown into would be erased. His grandfather still worked as an accountant and his grandmother continued to be a housewife. In many ways it was very similar to the life he had been living with his parent.

But life has a way of not allowing you to grow too comfortable. Become too happy and some supreme being decides that you are ready to be tested or messed with. It doesn’t really matter why, all that matters is that it happens and you have to act or react to it.

In Buck’s case the second great tragedy of his life came when his grandmother had a heart attack and died. It was a natural death, she was 74 years-old. Buck sobbed through her funeral and alongside his grandfather he enjoyed a very somber ride back to the house. While in the Hearse his grandfather explained that it was time for him to grow up and that this would be the last time he could cry in public. If he wanted to be a man he needed to show the world that he was tough. From now on he had to be a soldier, he had to be like G.I. Joe.

And that meant that he had to listen to the orders of the General and there was no misunderstanding who the general was or why he was in charge. Before his grandmother had died he would come home to a warm house in which someone was glad to see him and interested in his day. Not to mention the many occasions in which she surprised him by having baked cookies. The house always smelled great and years later the smell of fresh baked cookies would always make him think of his grandmother.

Now he returned to an empty home. It was dark and uninviting, a cold home that had once held so much warmth. Buck couldn’t blame his grandfather, it wasn’t like he didn’t speak to him or act uninterested in his life. Grandfather was always careful to inquire about school, to offer his assistance and to try and be a father. But in the best of times he had as much warmth as a porcupine and so it was that a little boy in dire need of affection never really got what he was looking for and so desperately needed.

Time passed and the months turned into years. Buck was no longer just a boy, not in any sense of the word. By the time he was fourteen he had grown into a very solid young man, while not very tall he was quite broad and quite strong. Not to mention that he had a very heavy beard and dark hair peppered his chest. And so it came as no surprise to anyone who knew his story that he found himself getting into trouble.

His grandfather still worked an eight hour day, but it was becoming clear that he would not be able to keep that up for much longer. The death of his wife had aged him as had taking on the responsibility of raising a child. Still grandfather kept on moving. He didn’t know any way to live other than how he had for years. So he trudged into his office and in darkness he returned home.

It was an autumn day when life punched Buck in the mouth again. There was a chill in the air and grandfather had decided to split some wood. It was one of the simple pleasures in life he took. He would tell Buck that there was nothing more rewarding for a man than working with his hands.

Out in the crisp clean air he pulled on his gloves and began to prepare firewood to be used on the colder nights. He hadn’t been working very hard or for very long when his heart gave out. Grandfather died of a massive heart attack. Again it was a natural death, at the ripe old age of 83 he left the world and went to wherever the body and soul go after death.

Buck was 17. At the funeral he remembered his grandfather’s words and like a good soldier he shed no tears.

A Soldier Follows Orders

 Just prior to the start of the funeral the family was invited into a private room to say their goodbyes. Artificial lighting shone upon faded blue paint and bad artwork. Couches that had seen better days and lamps that looked like garage sale rejects added to the sterile ambiance.

Buck found himself standing next to an open casket, his grandfather lay before him. He was clad in a black suit. A cigar was in his coat pocket and his arms were laid out alongside the body. Whoever had prepared him had taken the time to add a little color to his cheeks. It was done to make the body look less dead but there is a reason that corpses are described as being pallid and once the light is extinguished it is gone for good.

After a few moments the director of the home quietly interrupted Buck and asked him if he expected any more family members to arrive. A short nod was all it took to indicate that Buck was it. Outside in the chapel there were only a handful of people there to bare witness to the interment of Buck’s grandfather. None of them came back to the house and only one or two of them spoke with Buck. It wasn’t clear if they were trying to be courteous or considerate of privacy. But it was very clear to Buck that he was finally completely alone.

The house was paid for and as the sole heir the title was given to Buck as was a very modest inheritance. It wasn’t much, but it was enough money to cover his needs for a short while, especially given his Spartan lifestyle. Many teenagers in similar circumstances have found it to be overwhelming, not Buck. For all intents and purposes he had been living on his own since the death of his grandmother, if not his parents. So he had become accustomed to solitude and had long since developed a tremendous work ethic.

The combination made it easy for him to adjust to his circumstances. In fact, he preferred to be by himself. Crowds and large numbers of people made him uncomfortable. He didn’t enjoy small talk and if forced to socialize would find a corner of the room in which he would sit quietly, dark eyes impenetrable but observant.

A short time after his grandfather’s death Buck received a letter from the local draft board informing him that Uncle Sam was ready to receive him as the newest member of the armed forces. In some ways this was one of the best things that could have happened to Buck. He hadn’t been much of a student and did not have any ideas on what kind of profession he was interested in.

Military life suited Buck. He liked the discipline and the sense of purpose it gave him. He made it through basic training without any major issues and in time was shipped overseas where it became apparent that if he had been a man of faith he either would have lost it completely or become a devout zealot.

Thanks to shithouse luck Buck had become acquainted with death at a young age, but it wasn’t until his squad inadvertently stumbled upon an enemy encampment that Buck learned about death first hand. If you were to ask the survivors how it all happened none of them could tell you how, but they could answer the what, at least when it came to Buck.

People react differently during moments of trauma and great stress. Here is what we know about Buck. The expression on his face hardly changed. Bullets were flying and he looked like he was playing poker. While returning fire his rifle jammed, but he remained nonplussed by it. There are stories of men who during moments like this charge the enemy in a suicidal rage determined to take as many out as they can.

Buck got up and just began walking towards the men who were firing at him. His steps were measure and with purpose. It was clear to those who saw him that this was not battle fatigue or a manifestation of a mental breakdown. He knew what he was doing. Somehow he got to the other side without being hit. This is the point at which the stories of the other men conflict with each other.

Some say that he grabbed an enemy soldier and cut his throat. Others say that he beat him to death with his rifle. The one thing that they all agree upon is that Buck killed a man and then took a moment to remove the head from the body and he did it without a smile, a grunt or any indication that he felt anything at all.

When asked about it later he had refused to discuss it and so no one really knew why he had done it, just that he had.

You Should Know

“Come let me love you,
let me give my life to you
let me drown in your laughter,
let me die in your arms
let me lay down beside you,
let me always be with you
come let me love you,
come love me again.”
Annie’s Song- John Denver

I don’t have to tell you these things because you know them. I don’t have to tell you these things for any other reason than you should know. You should hear out loud what your heart has forgotten and what time and circumstance have interrupted.

Yes, interrupted because you know as I do I that some things cannot be broken. Things may happen and events may suggest otherwise but the heart knows what the head refuses to accept. Logic and reason are not applicable here in the traditional sense of the words.

And to try to apply them is folly. To suggest that fate relies upon fact is indeed the biggest science fiction of them all.

There are moments and memories of moments that we cannot ignore. You should know that you are not the only one to fight these battles or feel these frustrations.

And if you would let yourself be freed from the shackles that you have affixed around your head and heart you would open your eyes and see mine staring back at yours. If you would take my hand and trust your heart we would do what we have always known we could.

It doesn’t have to be a Whiskey Lullaby. The middle and the end of this story remain unwritten.

“Your cheeks flushed with the night
We walked on frosted fields
Of juniper and lamplight
I held your hand
And when I awoke
And felt you warm and near
I kissed your honey hair
With my grateful tears
Oh I love you, girl
Oh I love you”
For Emily Whenever I May Find Her- Simon and Garfunkel

What I Would Say

A man sits in the corner of a coffee shop and closes his eyes. His cup is half full but not in the philosophical sense of the word.  His life is good, rich and full of love and meaning. Ear buds extend from his computer into his ears and one can only guess what it is that he is listening to. His head bobs back and forth and a soft smile flashes across his face.

It is not clear whether his solitude is self imposed or if he is waiting for someone. At least these are the thoughts and feelings that I have gathered from a brief glance at his corner of the room. As an avid people watcher and story teller I can’t help but look and wonder. It is part of my process- that is the fancy term I use for how I develop characters and story lines for my books.

I head out into the world and set up a place to sit and watch. I stare at the people around me and develop the stories of their lives. The woman standing in line in front of me has a story. She is in her early forties and recently divorced. A mother of children who are about the same age as my own she is busy trying to feel her way in the world. She is not who she was and isn’t really sure of who she wants to be.

Can’t tell you whether any of this is true- but I can make some fairly accurate guesses. I am facing the door so I saw her park a minivan. She is not wearing a wedding ring on her finger and it is early evening. Not to play on stereotypes, but this would be the “right” time for her to be making dinner and or helping with homework. There is no sense of urgency about her so I am guessing that she doesn’t have the kids tonight.

I recognize the little key card on her key chain as belonging to one of the local gyms. Happens to be my gym, but I don’t recognize her. Although that doesn’t mean much as I try to hit the joint during the off hours.  Her back is to me and I wonder if she can feel me staring. I sometimes forget how intense my stare can be but I haven’t forgotten about the sort of response such a look can engender. A strange man staring sometimes receives a smile in return but not always.

I am not staring because I find her to be attractive although there is that. But her look reminds me very much of the girl that I lost. That woman from my past who made my heart pound and my soul stir. That is who she reminds me of. It brings a wistful smile across my face and I kind of snort as I picture talking to the lady grabbing coffee.

“Hi, you look like someone I loved very deeply. Would you mind talking to me so I can see if your voice sounds like her? And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, let me stare at you for a moment.I want to figure out if my imagination is playing tricks on me or if you just happen to be her twin.”

That ought to go over well, as every woman wants a man to tell her that she reminds him of someone else. Might as well call her the wrong name in bed. If you are going to get in trouble go for broke.

The coffee lady stood there for another moment and then her order was completed and she moved over to fill her cup with cream, sugar or whatever it was that she took her drink with. I watched her for a moment longer and turned away. I had her story or enough of it and it wasn’t what I wanted. Or maybe it was that once I associated her with my past I couldn’t see a point in continuing.

It is one of those clever lies that we tell ourselves when something is too painful to continue. That lady from the past was one of the great loves of my life, if not the love of my life. And her absence from mine left a giant hole in my heart that hadn’t ever been filled. That’s not uncommon or unfamiliar to many of us.

We find people that we wish to spend our lives with and for whatever reason it doesn’t work and we end up with a smoking crater in the center of our chests. Sometimes that hole is filled by someone or something else and you move on- but not always.

Some people touch us in ways that others can’t. Sometimes they light up the entire of our being and fill us with joy. If you haven’t had that experience you won’t have a clue what I am talking about or why years later it would still be painful to touch upon that loss. To be clear it is not impossible to move on- even if you don’t find a way to fill the hole you do find ways to adapt and adjust.

Time doesn’t heal all wounds but it does make it possible to move on. The challenge is that sometimes you can’t help but find reminders of what was and those moments can set off thoughts and memories that you might not wish to visit.

When I look back on what happened to us I have a very clear understanding. She might tell you otherwise. She might tell you that I am engaged in revision but that is part of the joy of finding the truth because there is yours, hers and reality. And they don’t always intersect. But the joy of this tale is that I am the one writing it so I get to tell you what really happened.

And in my version I share the story of two people who loved each other fiercely. There was passion and there was love. But there was also friendship. It was the perfect recipe. Or if you prefer math you could say that the fractions added up to a whole. A third, plus a third, plus a third.

That friendship is important. They had the love. They had the passion that drove them to constantly want to touch each other. But the friendship was the glue. They became best friends who understood each other in ways that no other ever had. Come to think of it there might be reason to adjust that equation so that friendship plays a bigger part, but that is not really important now.

I could tell you about how she told him that it was tragic that two people who were meant to be together weren’t. I could tell you about it made his heart break to hear that and how he felt trapped. About how it made him feel like less of a man. It would be easy to relate the whole sordid tale about how something so good got so messy and convoluted.

Or maybe it would make more sense to share other thoughts. Because a day came when she declared them to be nothing more than friends. The girl who would giggle when she talked about bearing his children said that friendship was all they had.

Well I called bullshit on that. Said that I didn’t buy or believe it as it couldn’t be true. But she did all that she could to enforce that and there wasn’t much that I could to change it. I don’t believe that she truly believed it either, but I think that she tried real hard to convince herself of it. If I was an attorney prosecuting this case I could supply evidence that shows how her actions contradicted her words- but again that is not the point.

By then the waters had gotten so muddy that neither one of us could see clearly. If we had been smarter we would have walked away much earlier than we did. Would have split up so that we would have time to gain the perspective that we had lost. But we didn’t and we didn’t because it hurt to be apart.

So we muddled on and did what we could to keep going. But the wheels on the bus had already broken and the damn thing had become impossible to steer. Little nicks, scrapes and bruises were what really did us in. The little things that we used to ignore pushed our hands right off of the wheel and we crashed into a wall or went off a cliff.

And in my anger I laid down an ultimatum that she ignored. So I decided that it was time to make it clear that though she owned my heart and soul I wouldn’t tolerate some things. I left that day. Walked away and did my best not to look back. Didn’t rant and rave. Didn’t tell her how angry and hurt I was. There were very few words.

I used to think that it was because I was so angry. I used to think that my silence came from simply not knowing what to say. But now I see it differently. I suppose that if you wanted to accuse me of revisionist thinking this would be the time. Because I see my silence now as a last ditch attempt to keep hope alive. I didn’t excoriate her the way that I wanted to because those were words that I never wanted to use. Words that couldn’t be taken back ever.

That was then and this is now. Years later I sit here in this coffee shop wondering about things left unsaid. Wondering if she has ever read any of my books and whether she ever thinks about me. Curious if sometimes in the quiet of the night she thinks about what we had and wonders where I am. So I sit here and I think about the mistakes I made and how that ache never has gone away.

It is disconcerting to have this go on for so long which is part of why I wonder about her. Maybe it is just me. Maybe I am just some crazy idiot- but she did tell me that she couldn’t imagine a time where she wouldn’t feel like that either so who knows.

Can’t help but sit here for a moment and picture her. Can’t help but think about what I would say. Because I still believe that she wouldn’t see me because if she had she never would have been able to fool herself into believing this fiction. Things would have been tough. It might not have been easy, but when we were together nothing felt more real or more right.

I once told her that if we were separated for a decade or more my soul would always know hers. And that if those years passed all it would take for us to remember is that one kiss. One damn kiss and nothing was ever the same. It might sound silly, but I don’t think that I have ever stopped believing that there wouldn’t be another.

But that thought will have to wait a while. For now my liquid mistress needs my attention. This mug needs to filled with some liquid gold or I shall find myself lost in slumber.

Thunder & Lightning

The distant boom of thunder and a flash of lightning made it clear that Springtime had arrived. Her desk was on the 22nd floor providing her with a clear view of the cloud filled sky. Though it was only midmorning the black clouds and falling rain made it appear to be far later than it was.

For a moment she stared out the window and lost herself in thought. Later that day she’d join a thousand other commuters on the road and engage in the joy of rush hour. She was hopeful that it would be an uneventful drive, but this time of year you never did know when a hailstorm might start.

A good hailstorm could wreak havoc upon your car. Out here the hail had a proclivity for being larger, golf ball and even softball size hail were not uncommon. It was fun to watch from within the comfort of your home, provided it wasn’t wrecking your car or battering a hole in your roof.

Two more blasts of thunder made her windows shake. That didn’t bode well for bedtime. The kids hated the noise and would seek comfort sleeping with mom. That was good for them, they’d get a full nights rest, but not so good for her. They had a tendency to roll around and kick their legs. More than likely she’d wake up bruised and exhausted.

As she sat there lost in thought she wondered if he ever thought about her or whether he had just moved on. She didn’t really think that he had, but they had never gone this long without speaking. She wasn’t used to the silence and hadn’t really believed that he would maintain it for as long as he had.

It was confusing. The silence made her feel unimportant and irrelevant. She would have been thrilled to have received a call or an email, some sort of sign that he missed her. The door to her office suddenly burst open and she lost her train of thought.

There was only one person who did that, her boss. Apparently she thought that common courtesy applied to everyone but her. She was short and chunky with a hairstyle that forever looked like she had just woken up. Not only did she lack courtesy she also lacked fashion sense or maybe she just had bad eyes. It was hard to say.

Regardless of the reason she had a bad habit of wearing jeans that were three sizes too small and a tight top. It was a good look for a stuffed sausage, but not so good for her. In addition to her lack of fashion sense and courtesy she suffered from a lack of boundaries.

About once a week she’d waddle in the office and start telling stories about miserable she was and how many drugs she took to ease her mind and help her sleep. And of course these bonding moments only took place after the work day had ended.

Inevitably she’d find herself having to stay late so that she could pretend to be interested in listening to her tales of woe. It was beginning to wear upon her and she was afraid that sooner or later she’d get caught rolling her eyes or give some other sign that made it clear she thought that the boss was an idiot.

Still, she was thankful to have a job so she did her best to put up with it. Looking up from her computer she offered a big smile and waited for her instructions. Still she couldn’t help but wonder if somewhere out there that boy she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about was thinking about her too.

I Can’t Play The Guitar

There is a long list of things that I can’t do. I can’t play the guitar nor can I sing. I can’t play the piano or use a paintbrush to cover a canvas in colors that you can relate to. And apparently I can’t reach your heart. Can’t get you to take my call or tell me what it is that you really feel.

I see you talking to people. See you interacting with people you say you don’t respect. See you act in ways that can only be described as illogical and irrational. It used to make me really angry to see it. I’d wonder when you had taken leave of your senses or if perhaps you had done nothing but lie to me. Sometimes it was hard not to listen the whispers of insecurity and wonder who had taken you from me. It was hard not to wonder if some junky had gotten your attention or if that was just the foolish mumblings of a broken heart.

A thousand years ago you pulled me out of the hole that I had been living in and reminded me what it meant to love and be loved. You reminded me that the life I want to live is filled with hope, fire and passion. And when I climbed out and saw what had become of me I was ashamed of myself. When you looked in my eyes you saw what no one else could see and I remembered who I was and who I could be.

It was hard to be naked in front of you. I am not talking about physical nakedness but emotional. It was hard to let someone see who I really am. It scared me so very much because it felt so right. It frightened me because it felt so natural that I questioned myself.

Gradually I came to realize that it was ok and I grew comfortable with allowing you to wander unaccompanied and unencumbered through the halls of my heart. There was so much joy and love it did nothing but warm my soul. In spite of it all the echoes of the past were still close enough for me to hear their passing. I remembered what had once been and periodically looked backwards, fearing to be caught unaware.

It wasn’t a matter of not being strong enough to face my demons. They could set upon me at any time and I would deal with it. I would handle them and whatever else. I wasn’t built to be like Baryshnikov, though I might try to. These big hands that you used to stare at can do more than caress. They are capable of pulling things or people apart. The mind that sits behind the brooding eyes is always active, probably far too active for my own good. But it is always working, thinking about things. That intensity never goes away. At best I can turn it off for short times, but only when I am completely relaxed and you are one of the few who have seen that.

You once called me needy and to an extent I suppose that it is true. But when you have walked under blue skies and felt the warmth of the sun upon your back you are going to reticent to give that up. More importantly, you said that I was the love of your life. Who else should I be needy for or with.

Sometimes I feel like a fool. Sometimes I feel like a chump who knew from the start that it would end badly. Sometimes I think that it was better to be hard and to push you away. That is what is so funny about this. Damn, if I don’t remember a thousand times when you begged me not to go. Damn if I don’t remember telling you to go find your smile and then come find me.

But it didn’t work out like that. Didn’t because when I gave you my heart I promised to be your hero and swore that I would take the lumps. Swore that I would save you first because you are my air and my heart. Did you see that? Years later how do I refer to you, but in the present. So I ask myself this very simple question.

Does the heart know things that the brain does not? It is always followed by its evil twin who asks if the heart can fool the brain into following the heart. Do I hear and see what I want to see and not what is real. I know which way I fall on that. I know what answer I give. I know what I will do and how I will do it.

There are no guarantees or promises. I find that hard to swallow, so very galling. It chaps my hide in so many ways. But dammit, I cannot be anyone other than who I am. So I continue to dance in the fire. I continue to live inside this burning house. The fire burns so brightly. The flames embrace but do not consume me. Damn you woman, will you not take my hand or must I continue to ache. Will you allow the flames to continue to have their way with me.

What will it take? What must I do to prove myself? If you haven’t figured it out you stubborn broad, I don’t break easily. When you ripped my heart out I did not die. I may have screamed once or twice. I might have shed a silent tear, but I didn’t give up. I mastered the pain and found a way to stand again.

Perhaps I do nothing but play the fool but I do so with purpose. I stand my ground because I remember what was and know that it didn’t end because there was nothing left. I will not allow circumstances to be the sole arbiter of what is to be. I hear the echoes of the future and I stand here waiting their arrival. Time will tell whether I stand alone or not.

Remember what we were told. We can heal each other. Take my hand and we’ll set the night on fire. Please don’t leave me hanging. Long ago you said that it would be tragic for two people not to be together. You were right, but it would be more tragic for two people not to try.

Come dance with me ballerina girl.

The Universe Taps You On The Shoulder

Johnny sat on his couch, a bottle of Fat Weasel Pale Ale in hand and a goofy grin on his face. For more than a while he had this feeling that someone was trying to send him a message, but he was never clear about what it was or what he was supposed to do about it. He was a man who liked to base his beliefs upon science and the tangible, or so he would tell you. But sometimes in the quiet of the night he would stare up at the moon and feel like there was something more than science out there. He’d lie on his back and look for shooting stars and just open himself up to the possibility that maybe the universe did send you messages.

It wasn’t always easy for him. He was a skeptic who sometimes straddled his disbelief by silently reviewing the reasons why something or someone wasn’t really meant to be. It wasn’t hard to poke holes in these dreams. If you would have asked him he would tell you that it was easy for con artists to take your money. The old gypsy woman who sold Love Potion Number 9, the psychic and mediums who told your fortune knew that most people visited them because they wanted help with their love life or finances. All you had to do was give people an opening and they would practically write the story for you.

And yet he had experienced things that made him wonder if perhaps he was wrong. There were moments in which those signs were as clear as a grapevine or that yellow rose of Texas. He took a swig of the Fat Weasel and sung softly, “The stars at night, Are big and bright, Deep in the heart of Texas…” He wasn’t so sure what made him think of Texas, but in an odd, convoluted way it sort of fit. The song did talk about stars and he did like to spend time staring up at them. He had told June more than once that if she wanted the moon he would find a way to get it for her. He smiled again and muttered something about not knowing who was crazier, him or June.

It felt like forever since he had spoken with June and had you talked to him a week or two earlier he would have told you that he was done. He was tired of it all, worn out, exhausted and ready to say that it was fun while it lasted. These weren’t just words to him. He meant what he said and he had intended to do what he had to do to walk. So he drew a mental picture in his head of himself standing in a room and then pictured himself turning out the lights, pulling the shades and walking out the door.

That mental picture wasn’t easy to come up with, but it seemed to be the right thing so it was what he did. And with a simple click he locked the door and took the first steps to an unknown future. At least that was what he had intended to do but life has a funny way of taking your intentions and turning them inside out or upside down. If life were made by Hollywood the scene would have been easy to script. All that he described would be performed by skilled actors who would make it clear that this wasn’t a part of some formulaic romance. It was real and it was true. And just when the audience bought into the story something would happen that would lead the two of them back into each others arms.

But it wasn’t Hollywood- it was life and sometimes the hero stumbles or the villain gets the girl. And Johnny, our closet skeptic wasn’t willing to open himself up to the possibility that some of this was part of some larger master plan. Sure, he wanted to believe that there was something more but it really didn’t make sense so he didn’t bother to consider it as even being an option. At least that is how it started and maybe if were a different person that is how it would have stayed. But things happened, weird moments that he couldn’t explain as being anything other than signs that maybe someone or something was trying to speak to him.

At least that is what he was beginning to think. Still it wasn’t a comfortable thought so he fought it down and read the newspaper. And just when he had pushed it out of his head he heard the opening to Helter Skelter.

“When I get to the bottom
I go back to the top of the slide
Where I stop and turn
and I go for a ride
Till I get to the bottom and I see you again
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Do you don’t you want me to love you
I’m coming down fast but I’m miles above you
Tell me tell me come on tell me the answer
and you may be a lover but you ain’t no dancer”

He smiled and shook his head again. He didn’t know if the universe was tapping him on the shoulder but he couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere out there June was silently asking him to call. It would be fitting, damn woman used to tease him that she only let him think that he was in control when in reality she was. So he sent out a silent message in response where he told her that he heard her calling and that if she wanted to talk her damn fingers weren’t broken. Dial the damn phone woman and I’ll talk to you.

With a snort and a smirk he finished his drink and wondered if the universe worked that way. He figured that if there was anything to it he would find out, because if the universe really does speak to you, well he is listening or it seemed.

June

The funny thing if you will about Johnny and June was the matter in which they met. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that it was uncommon and unsought for. But what surprised them more than that was how fast they fell in love with each other.

If you were to ask them how it happened they’d supply you with standard answers about having discovered someone who completed them, fulfilled them etc. But that really wouldn’t explain the deep connection that they felt. It wouldn’t tell you that their relationship had a depth that exceeded all that they had ever felt before. They shared a level of intimacy that few couples ever get to and most could never understand.

That intimacy made June exceptionally happy and exceedingly confused. She prided herself upon living a life based upon logic and order. Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t some kind of robot. She loved to smile, loved to laugh and generally loved life. June was a happy girl. Part of that happiness was feeling like she understood the world around her.

Johnny took that organized, picture perfect world and turned it upside down. June struggled to figure out how her Johnny could make her stammer like a school girl. It had been a long time since someone had made her heart pound. It was unsettling to her and she didn’t like being unsettled.

She was always the rock. People relied upon her, depended upon her for being steady. Her Johnny had an uncanny knack for wreaking havoc. He used to kid around about how storms followed where he walked. The first couple of times he said that had made her roll her eyes, but over time she had come to agree with it.

It wasn’t always easy. Sometimes June would pick a fight with Johnny. She didn’t like feeling so unsettled. But the fights never lasted all that long. She couldn’t stay angry with him. That infuriated her even more and at the same time made her even happier. It was a crazy contradiction.

Johnny used to tell her to just relax. She hated that, especially when he’d start laughing. But part of her loved him all the more, just because. It was the “just because” that made it harder. She really, really wanted to understand how he could send her over the edge.

Over time June began to see that she had the same impact upon her Johnny. It helped to soften some of the edges, but it also caused a few to become frayed as well. The passion between them had such intensity that they were amazed that it never seemed to fade.

You Used To Let Me See You

There was a time not so long ago when you used to let me see you. A time when you weren’t guarded or reserved. You didn’t hide behind the walls of the fortress you built. The castle doors were wide open and the knights that served as your gatekeepers would welcome me.

They knew that my arrival would fill your heart with the same joy that I felt and so they’d send you word of my approach. I’d ride over the bridge and find you waiting for me, arms wide open and a smile that put the Cheshire cat’s grin to shame.

I’d slip off of my horse and find you in my arms. And for a moment we’d do nothing but hold each other in silence. Later we’d walk off holding hands and share the stories of our days and the things that happened while we were apart.

It was our secret world.

And then something happened. Things changed. I left the castle and when I returned the gates were closed and new guards had been placed were the old had once stood. New guards who didn’t know my name and didn’t care to learn it.

I tried to explain to them that they had made a mistake. I used logic and reason and calmly expressed my concern over their ambivalence to my position. And when logic and reason failed I promised to bring down the castle walls upon their heads. I made a blood vow to see that they received their just rewards and promised that their intransigence would be met by an iron fist.

None of it made a difference. They stood firm. And just as I was ready to launch my personal war upon Troy I learned that you were behind it all. Discovered that you had given the orders not to let me in. I was more than a little dismayed by this news.

I stood outside the walls and in the pouring rain I screamed your name. And for just a moment you appeared at the walls. You stood in silence, a pained expression upon your face and then turned and walked away. “Don’t go,” I shouted. I yelled again and tried to remind you that we could work it out. But you kept on walking.

So I got back on my horse and left. But not before I promised to come back again. Like Macarthur I swore that I would return. And I did…many times.

More than once I have set up camp at the base of the walls. And more than once I have found you standing there in silence. You don’t invite me in but you don’t tell me to go either. So I continue to search for the key that will open those gates. I continue to look for a way to tear down your walls.

I work in darkness and I work in light. In spite of adversity I work to find the way back to our secret world. Only time will tell if this is a fool’s errand or a noble quest. But at the end of the day I do what I must so that I can accept whatever the outcome of this journey may be.

I Hear Music

“Some need gold and some need diamond rings
Or a drug to take away the pain that living brings
A promise of a better world to come
When whatever here is done
I don’t need that sky of blue
All I know’s since I found you, I’m happy when I’m in your arms
Happy, darling, come the dark
Happy when I taste your kiss
I’m happy in a love like this”

Happy- Bruce Springsteen

My seventies girl is tall. She has long graceful legs, jet black hair and delightfully dark eyes. Sometimes when she smiles I think that I hear bells ringing. We are lying in bed listening to music. Her head is on my chest and her hair is splayed across my face. I keep moving it because it makes my nose itch. Every time I do she moves with me so that it tickles my nose again. I don’t have to see her face to feel her smile. She likes to tease me. As  I start to relax and my breathing becomes more rhythmic she takes a finger and traces it along my body.

It is a special kind of tickle that makes me jump. I roar with feigned exasperation and quickly roll on top of her. I pin her arms above her head and start tickling her. Two can play this game.

She squeals with laughter and squirms beneath me. “Ok, ok, ok. You win,’ she cries. We return to our prior position of me on my back and her head on my chest and talk about the future.

“There’s a house upon a distant hill
Where you can hear the laughter of children ring
Guardian angels, they watch from above
Watching over the love that they bring
But at night I feel the darkness near, I awake and I find you near
I’m happy with you in my arms
I’m happy with you in my heart
Happy when I taste your kiss
I’m happy in love like this”

I stare at the ceiling and listen as she describes the house she wants to live in. She loves flowers and tells me that she has Laura Ashley sheets that would be perfect for our bedroom. There will be two stories and multiple bedrooms. The master will be upstairs and while the kids are young so will they. I close my eyes and listen as she talks about how many kids she wants and some of her favorite names. Suddenly there is a pause in the conversation and I know that she expects me to respond to her thoughts.

For a moment I am lost. I have paid a lot of attention to what she is saying but the truth is that while her hand has been rubbing my stomach and chest I have gotten other ideas. The scent of her perfume is strong but not in a bad way and biology is having an impact upon me. Now I am more than lost in her scent. I am trying to remember what she was saying but all I can think of is pheromones. She asks me what I think but at the moment I can’t tell her what my name is. She turns her head to face me and we kiss.

“Honey, you like that,” she asks. I tell her that I love when she kisses me. She makes a face and asks me a question again. I roll onto my side and kiss her. She looks at me, eyelids slightly narrowing. Somewhere in the back of my head I hear a bell clanging and a soft voice whispering “answer.”

I want to answer, I really do but something is messing with my head. I feel fuzzy headed and I try to buy time by saying “I love you.” She knows me well enough to know that it is not a line and she says “I love you too.” There is music. I hear music. I tell her that every time we kiss I hear music. She rolls her eyes at me and says that lines aren’t necessary any more. I say, ‘no, I really hear music.” She doesn’t realize how sexy she is or that I find her intoxicating. I tell her that I can’t believe we found each other. Unsought and unexpected but ever so grateful. We grew up in different worlds and different places but somehow here we are.

It is dark now. All we can see are outlines of our bodies and images of the world that we want to create. We’re uncertain and unsure about many things. Life has a way of getting in the way.

“In a world of doubt and fear
I wake at night and reach to find you near
Lost in a dream, you caught me as I fell
I want more than just a dream to tell”

She is not sure that we can overcome the challenges and I am not sure that we can truly live apart. Words are exchanged, some soft and some harsh. Fear, doubt and insecurity intermix with hope.

“We’re born in this world, darling, with few days and trouble never far behind
Man and woman circle each other in a cage
A cage that’s been handed down the line
Lost and running ’neath a million dead stars
Tonight let’s shed our skins and slip these bars
Happy in each other’s arms
Happy baby, come the dark
Happy in each other’s kiss
I’m happy in a love like this”

Later on I’ll be alone and think  about this time, this moment and how these moments are woven together to create a patchwork quilt called life.