The Lion's Den

They say, "There are plenty other fish in the sea."

I say, "Fuck you, she was my sea."

-J. Faulkner

 

 

 

The best foot forward

on the edge of a sliding cliff.

"I can hold you", she whispered.

"I can hold you better", I scream.

 

We all do, what we can,

and hope that the "best" is exactly that.

"I know you can do this", I sighed, hoping she would listen.

"I can't", she knew I was ignoring, all of it.

 

 

All the choices in the world

never means it will be enough.

"I gave this all to you so quickly", she wrote on a note and slid it across the table.

"I think you underestimate my pain threshold", I crumpled it, and threw it away.

 

Walking through the desert

was supposed to be easier.

"Come here, hold my hand", I reached out to my side.

"................", she said nothing, because she was no longer there.

 



 



The Shot Heard Around My Head

   This is an embarrassing tale. With a less than classy set of circumstances. So, we are going to try and wind our way through it, without divulging all the minuet, possibly ridiculous, details. Let's start it with a bang.

Very early, on Sunday Morning, I fell in love.

 
   That's what happened. I could tell from the second I saw her. I had fallen. hard. Now, I'm not going to pussy foot around. Most people that read this blog, should know by now, that I am prone to manic fits of endearment. I fall for a great smile. I blush with a slight wink of a gorgeous set of eyes. I have a "swoon factor" that is fairly unmatched. It has always felt right to fall easily. The enjoyment from it warms my chest, and I would hope that it does the same to the person I am complimenting.

   So, I have ran over how I would write this blog post in my head several times. I think it might be best to let you hear what happened in her own words:

 

"oh my god someone just said the sweetest things to me and I’m going to die because it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened. I’ve never been fawned over like that oh man
'I would want to be cute lesbians in New York with you making lots of really good art
I would ride the subway past 9:30 and keep you safe
I’m smitten, smitten
I want to drink whiskey all night with you
I want to open a record shop with you and sell vinyl to people who don’t deserve them, I want to be assholes to everyone with you
I just fell in love with a stranger
Everything about you is cherubic
You deserve to always have a pretty boy or girl next to you kissing your cheek, you deserve the best possible things always
I’m gonna scoop you up and eat Mexican food with you
I love you, I love you, I adore you
I’ll ride my bike over every bridge in PDX til I find you'"

   This was all said, by me.  This was all meant, by me. Our conversation still rattles in my head, and the memory of her smile still makes my skin goose bump. Here comes something that only a few people will understand. You can take this literally, or figuratively. I saw a lot of naked women that night. I saw sex, and skin being thrown around like it was a mere afterthought of existence. Hers, though? I had no want. I had no lust. I had no ulterior motive. I just wanted to hear her voice, see her eyes wince in giggling joy, and warm my heart in the glow of a happy woman. Yet, it gets worse.
   I will, more than likely, never see this woman again. I will never hear her voice. I will never touch her, or feel the warmth of her breath. I will never fix her breakfast. We will never ride bikes together, or take her along as I walk my dog. I will never lay in a park, and watch her fall asleep, on the blanket I brought. She will never kiss me. She will never bring me coffee while I paint. We will never meet up, randomly on a side walk, as our friends drag us to drastically different places. She will never fix my crooked tie, and I will never try to get into her pants at socially unacceptable points in time. She will never heal my wounds, and I will never be the biggest cheerleader to her accomplishments.

   Yet, she is out there. She is reading this, and hopefully, for a few minutes of time, we lived a life unchained by anyone else, but each other.

 





 

 

 



How You Look to Me

   She told me today that she feels guilty. Working different hours than your partner is a strain, or so I'm told. I wouldn't know, and in this instance, I don't seem to care. This story is getting off track.
    The circumstances go like this. She is a ball of anxiety and fret. Now, keep in mind, none of this is a direct result of anything I have done. Well, that isn't exactly true.
   "Can I ask you a question?", she slurs, slightly as the rain hits the windshield of her small urban SUV. The funny thing is that no matter how many times this scenario happens to you, the situation always comes out of left field.
   "Of course you can, Hon", I keep my eye-rolling buried deep in my conscious mind.
   "The other day, when I told you I loved you, why didn't you tell me, that you loved me?", no matter how you answer this question, you are fucked. I don't really pause here. I know the answer. The worst part is, so does she.
   "Because I don't love you."

 



  
  
  

Does This Exist For Me?

She wears garters on a regular basis.
She reads novels, that weren't necessarily written in the last 60 years.
She paints me.
She can go through entire evenings without discussing herself.
She doesn't have to be mad, to be silent.
She has a style that others envy.
She watches a movie.
She truly watches a movie.
She listens to Slayer, yet you could never tell by looking at her. Or maybe you could.
She fucks me like a hate crime.
She lets me fuck her like it's genocide.
She doesn't say sentences that sound, such as, "Yeah, Robert isn't like the other losers I dated."
She bothers to learn the names of my relatives.
She understands why I don't want to see my relatives.
She understands why I want to see my relatives.
She teaches me something new, almost, everyday.
She can run.
She can jump.
She blushes, when I whisper dirty things into her ear, in public.
She moves closer when I do.
She does them, also.
She has common sense.
She has intuition.
She never let's me go away unresolved.
She will fight the war, but understands the battles are normally ridiculous.
She understands when I want a night, or two, or three, alone.
She surprises me.
She doesn't feel a need to schedule.
She doesn't go to the same place everyday.
She is not in constant mourning for something that is beyond her control.
She knows how to let go.
She can tell when she is going to ruin something, and doesn't.
She can tell when I'm going to ruin something, and doesn't let me.
She has a past.
She has a future.
She, most importantly, has a present.
She does not set standards for me, that are not standards for herself.
She knows life is not absolutes.
She can discuss anything.
She is not in love with the idea of me.
She is in love with what is truly me.



I Did It

   It's true. The last time I did it, I was not with you. The last time I felt happy, and pleased with life. You were nowhere to be found. You were not around the corner. You were not a mile away. Hell, I think it is safe to say, you were several zip codes in distance.
   The last time I did it you were fast asleep. Dead to the world. The last time I was on my knees, half naked, fist clenched to the sky, and happy for all that I have taken from the world. You were nowhere to be found. It is not like I passed by the thought of you, idly. I stared into that "abyss" that everyone wants to throw around like a two dollar word. I cupped my hands, and yelled your name. You were not there.
    Is that my fault? Quite possibly, yes. Should I be treated like it was? I say, emphatically, fuck no. That little slice of heaven, that crashed over me, like a boy in the ocean for the first time. That small "nirvana" that hit my soul, like a prize fighter, in over his head. That sliver that can only be described as, "the joy of joys", that gave me on full minute peace from my own ego. It was there. I felt it. I saw it. I tasted it. Where were you?
   That night I fell into a deep trance. Covered in paint, and my mouth dripping with feminine honey. I slipped in and out of warmth, and heard yells that made me swoon. The space in which I existed became chaos. The time in which I inhabited lasted forever. I could do no wrong, without even trying.
   You?
   I do not pretend to know.
  I smiled grandly, while staring into the face of the beast. I grabbed it by its throat. It enjoys that. I have found that I add to my joy, by strangling beauty. It is me. It is I. It is the large encompassing world that drives me to take the ferocity of smile, and cover it with the palm of my hand. Listen to its muffled screams of excitement. It is the death of your memory, and the infinite longevity that is my tainted existence.

 

“Self-Portrait with a Mirror”, 1908, Léon Spilliaert.

It All Slips Passed You

   I could hear it falling on the roof. The small "tink". That tiny knock that water droplets make to tell you that they are here. My ears, and eyes, wince open. I pull my covers tight over my neck.
   "Where is my thunder?", I ask to the Rain God, in particular.
   "Where is my partner?", I ask to no one, in particular.
   I can tell someone has heard my mind asking questions, silently. I can hear the measured beating of my dog's tail. Beating on my mattress like a small bass drum. I roll over. The beat goes into double time. Peering out of my covers. His ears go back, and I can see the smile on his face.

BOOM!!!!!

  
   There is my thunder. There is my noise. There's nature with my alarm clock. It's too early, when you know that your sleep hasn't even gone past four hours. Who cares? You have done more with less. Tis my life. The slow slap of my feet on the hardwood, seems to run in time to the now hurrying beat of the rain. It has gotten larger, and now sounds like one hundred tin drums.
   Coffee, bacon, eggs, and jazz music try to cure something, that I try to forget ails me. My hands are empty. They used to be wrapped around a feminine thigh. My table is empty. Where there was once two plates filled, and two cups of energy, there is but one. My house has a silence in it that has become uncomfortably settling. The random ins and outs of women has slowed. My choice. The late night amalgamation, of knocking passer bys, has stopped. My choice. The Saturday morning phone calls of hurried energy, urging my presence, has become extinct. My choice.
   I take my time. I take my breath. I take my vision. I take my abilities. They are mine. Mine, solely. Yet, in the back of my head, in a small little crevice, hidden from everyone. Hidden from myself. She sits. She sits here on this couch. She has a plate full of bacon and eggs, and a cup of coffee. She is urging me to hold her hand. She is laughing at my eyes welling up, over a story conveyed over the old wooden console stereo. She is prancing around, making my dog gesticulate wildly. She is different, in all her shapes and forms. She is simultaneously love and regret. She is simultaneously happiness and anger. She is simultaneously life and death. She is simultaneously a lover and a stranger.
   The rain comes harder. My blinds open, and I'm in nothing but my underwear. I have no shame. She knows this. They all know this. The multitude of public stories told in mixed company has always been proof. I don't care who knows my faults. I don't care who knows my triumphs. I just care if she walks next to me. She doesn't. She hasn't. It wasn't her.....their choice. In the end, I provide the final push. I'm good at it.
   "You're a smiling little fucker this morning, aren't you", I say to my bacon begging mutt. Someone has to smile enough for the rest of us. I can only stare. I can only stare, listening to the rain, and to myself. My breath and brain are working in synchronicity. I am sorry.

I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are on the other side of the world, listening to some band I've never heard of.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are half the continent away, enjoying a vast urban landscape with a family member you would never let me meet.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are across the state looking at a sunset that the rain is forcing me to miss.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are on the hip side of the city, wondering how to sleep longer due to the tin roof, rain combination ringing in your ears.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and even though you are a mile away, know that when you sleep, I dream of you more than I want to.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and even though you might be in my bed, know that I'll never hold you tight enough to fear losing you.



  

I Stopped Twice, and Never Saw it Coming.

   Weekends come and go, and sometimes as fast as their counterpart. This was one of those. An influx of great aspirations, mixed with the idealism of action, made for strange badfellows. Mix together car crashes, teenage lies, indoor picnics, surprise boyfriend visits, crying women, garage sales, dog shaving, listensing to the song "Sara Smiles" a few too many times, and sombreros. Yes, sombreros.
   I wonder if people think that I should listen to myself more often. Yet, if they could hear what I say, deep inside, they would ignore me too. Soon, very soon, the time will come for me to make that great trek. That cleansing of the soul. The sweet moment in time where I walk away from them all. I do smilingly refer to it as, "The Great Cleansing". Motivation has eluded me as to why I choose to wash away the acquaintances that have gathered around me every couple years. Trust me, it is not a form of social conceit. It's just cyclical.
   Hearing the same comedy, the same tragedy, can become overwhelmingly mundane. I don't mind, glee, sadness, gloating, sarcasm, self deprecation, etc., surrounding me. I just hate the same forms of it. It becomes predictable. Boring. The same person making the same joke about themselves, or others, becomes.......un evolved.
   Yes, I am sick of you right now. Can you tell?

 

 

 

P.S. Yes, this post is ADHD.