Incomprehensible

We hadn't seen each other in at least four days and the time between phone calls got longer and longer. It felt like I was stuck in an airport waiting for the next announcement, and if and when it came being disappointed that we still would not be taking off. I mean, I knew he was crazy busy, but we lived 12 blocks away and worked 6 blocks from each other. We usually saw each other every other day. Even if it was brief. I thought I was understanding and patient with his schedule. After all, he was studying for his Ph.D. in some computational whosy-whatsit crapola. Whatever it was, it sounded difficult, complex, and time consuming. I didn't think I needed or wanted much from him at all, even from the start. As a matter of fact, it was his insistence that I come home with him on the night we first met.

For the four months that passed by us, I always felt like we did what he wanted and when he wanted. I was okay with that. It allowed me to step back from my normal pushy position and let someone else take the wheel. I don't recall ever telling him I loved him or bringing up the idea of living together either. It never felt that serious, and we never really talked about plans. I thought this was a good sign. I remember feeling like it was the beginning of my first adult relationship. We were friends and lovers. The relationship wasn't just about sex, or filling a lonely void, or settling for second best. It was two people with common interests and desires. It was fun to put it simply. And, there were no signs of the fun ending anytime soon. No signs whatsoever.

Finally, the call. It was late afternoon in the first few days of August. I was wearing shorts, which is a rarity, but it was that kind of hot. I pick up and he sounds chipper. Hurried but still happy. He asks if I have time for coffee when his break starts. I, of course, said yes I have time. (ding ding ding...too available asshole!) I hop on my rollerblades and plan to get in an easy 20 minute spin around the neighborhood and meet up with him at Naussbaum and Wu. I am listening to music and enjoying the breeze my speed has created to keep me cool in the thick heat. I am happy. I am content. I am excited to meet up with him. I am also unaware, deaf, dumb, blind and naive.

I arrive at Naussbaum and Woo early enough to trade my skates for flip flops. I slide the second sandal on and hoist my roller blades over my shoulder forcing my head to look up and in the distance. He's less than a block a way. He has rolled his own cigarette and his looking down at the ground. I wait for him to catch my eye so that he can see the excitement that fills them. I quickly judge myself in my head. I wonder if my legs look too skinny in these shorts. Should I have trimmed my leg hair? I was sure the hair on my head was far too wind blown. I hoped the excitement in my eyes would distract him from any of the unattractive quirks I was putting on display.

Then...he waved at me. Not with excitement. Not with flirtation. He waved at me like I was a kid who wouldn't stop waving until his uncle waved back. He waved at me like lifting his arm took the last bit of strength he could muster. He waved at me with reluctance, annoyance, and embarrassment. I didn't wave back. As my mind told my hand "to remain still something wasn't right," the first of many cocoon's unraveled in my stomach and the smallest of butterflies started to flit around in my stomach and chest. He could barely look at me. He kissed me on the cheek. Not that uncommon of an occurrence on a street corner, but I might have been talking myself out of things. We grabbed coffee. I got a large iced, he got a small cafe americano. I suggested we walk over two blocks to Riverside Park. He agreed. There was far too much silence. Nine month pregnant pauses ready to burst. My heart rate jumped back to the rate it was while I was rollerblading. I looked at him, his profile. He was so sexy, so unique, so handsome. He didn't return the gaze. I soaked in one last look at his gangly torso and well developed calf muscles. I knew what was about to happen and I was genuinely surprised.

We sat on a bench. The tears were nagging to get out. I looked at him and waited the four or five longest seconds of my life. He finally made contact with me and I did it for him. I said..."You're breaking up with me, aren't you? I can't believe this. Where is this coming from? Why? What's going on? Why, Michael, why? I can't believe this!!!"

By this time, I was wailing. I thought I would remain composed and take it in. I thought I would have a singular cry, alone, at home, after this was all done. No such luck. I could barely speak let alone listen. But he tried to explain..."I can't explain it. I just think it's over. I don't love you, Clem. I think you might love me and I don't love you. I don't think I ever will. I am not in love with you and don't think I can be."

With this I stopped trying to talk over him. My crying persisted but I looked at him and all I could think to say was this..."Thanks, Michael. Couldn't you have just broken up with me like normal people? Couldn't you have said things weren't working out, or you are back with your ex, or even 'I pissed you off?' Did you have to go and ruin the four months we spent together by boldly stating you DON'T LOVE ME!! YOU CAN'T LOVE ME!!! YOU WILL NEVER BE IN LOVE.... WITH ...ME!!

The impact words have on people is incomprehensible. The Dixie Chicks newest song is titled Not Ready to Make Nice. The opening lines are the same as the closing lines. These lines are words I will never get to say...except here.

These are for you, Michael.

Forgive sounds good. Forget, I'm not sure I could.
They say 'time heals everything,' but I am still waiting.

My SOMETIMES (Rarely Known)

All of the time I think. All of the time I feel. All of the time I wish, hope, desire. All of the time I try. All of the time I stretch myself. All of the time I give my all. All of the time I am proud.

Most of the time I fake it. Most of the time I lie to myself. Most of the time I deny myself. Most of the time I let it roll of my back. Most of the time I take it in but don't dish it out. Most of the time I smile. Most of the time I want more. Most of the time I expect less. Most of the time I leave most of it out.

Some times I think I have failed. Some times I think that life is rough, tumbling, crazy. Some times I cry. Some times I bitch, moan, whine, complain, sigh. Some times I fight, put up defenses, manipulate. Some times I sleep too much, avoid phone calls, lie. Some times I hate myself, hurt myself, berate myself. Some times I judge, discriminate, ridicule. Some times I obsess, cling, worry. Some times I feel misunderstood, ignored, betrayed. Some times I am lonely. Some times I am lost. Some times I give in. Some times I am overcome.

Sometimes happens only some times, and it hits me like a fist to the stomach. Knocking the wind out of me. I sit gasping for air. Trying to talk myself out of my own reality. And when sometimes happens I am usually alone. Having just hung up the phone or just read an email or just finished a song. But some times, sometimes happens and someone sneaks up on me. They end up bearing witness to my sometime and they either turn and walk away or some times, maybe some times, they stay. Last night... Lucas stayed.

As uncomfortable as the moment may have been for me. It was more uncomfortable for him. But, he uncomfortably placed his hand on my back as I tried to disguise my sometime from him. He told me things will be okay. He told me he thought I was doing great. He told me this too shall pass. He hugged me. I hugged him hard. Really hard. I clung. I cried. ..."some times you need to cry"...some times...
...some times...
sometimes...NEED!

Thank you.

PRIDE on a Timeline (or learning about yourself from others)

I stood because there wasn't another bar stool left. But, by standing I created a much needed curve or arc between my past and my present. It softened the time line that existed between my present day best friend and my past partner. I put my hand on the backs of both of their bar stools unconsciously sending my energy through to both of them. It's been seven years since Doug and I were in a social situation together. The last social situation was a divorce. It's been less than seven days since Lynn and I were in a social situation together. The last social situation was a bar.

Doug was not only once my boyfriend, but also my best friend. As is the case with most partnerships. Lynn is my best friend but has never been my partner. As is the case with most homosexuals.

It was happy hour. And, for the first time in a long time, I was genuinely happy during that hour. Drinking to fun and friendship instead to escape the day. Standing there between them was a rush for me. I felt a wave of emotions crash into the shores of my heart. There was excitement mixed with anxiety. There was joy mixed with nostalgia. I felt so blessed. My ten years of life bringing me to this bar. I felt mature, seasoned, scarred (in a good way) and proud. I felt like an adult with adult relationships. Doug knew me when I didn't know me. Doug knew the jealous me, the fighter, the crier, the ignorant me. He loved me anyway. Lynn knew the passionate me, the thinker, the healer, the seeker, the stubborn me. She loved me anyway. Together they brought out the best in me. I was excited for Doug to meet Lynn. Not only because she is my best friend and a great gal, but because she represents who I am now. She helps reveal the person I have become since Doug and I parted. I was also excited for Lynn to meet Doug because he represents who I was. He represents my experiences that have shaped me and helped form the person that Lynn became best friends with three years ago.

There were stories swapped and jabs taken. There was alcohol to ease the flow and food to sooth the soul. I remember there being laughter and maybe even a moment where Doug and Lynn shared the same thought regarding me. A tiny scrape of a bond forming.

I am not quite sure what they thought of each other. I am not quite sure I cared. By care, I mean that I didn't have to care. Of course, I cared whether they respected each other or not. Of course I wanted them to like one another. But, I didn't have to care about those outcomes because I was secure in how they both felt about me. I was secure that they would match up evenly and fluidly because they love me. If they love me and love the relationship we have with one another, then they were bound to accept each other with open arms, hearts and minds. I was also secure in who they were as individuals. This goes back to feeling like an adult. My friends that I have now in my life are real. They are a given. They are adults with experiences under the belt and under their skin that make them the multi faceted, crazy individuals they are today.

As I close this post, I realize the ego attached to this piece. It reads as if I am so pompous and arrogant. Oh well, maybe I am and I didn't know it until now. Or maybe, just maybe, this is what self-love, self-acceptance, and PRIDE in yourself and others feels like.

Let Go (a jumbled mess)

It's like I can't walk anywhere without thinking about you. I didn't realize how much ground we have covered in this city. Even the bank on East 57th and Park. I remember stopping to get cash there for a cab. I saw it last night while walking. I am hardly ever in that neighborhood. I was listening to something slow and sad on my ipod. The clouds were spitting small sporadic drops of rain. The rain was so tiny and infrequent it caused me to doubt whether it was truly raining or all in my imagination. The imagination that was creating a soundtrack for this very walk down across 57th Street. I stopped in front of the bank and peered into the windows to see if I could see us. We were with Tiny Tim. We had just come from some silly place that people only ever go to as a novelty. I stood there soaking in my self-pity and played it all out in my mind. The laughter. How Tiny Tim and I were annoying you with our singing. The debate of where we were going to go next. Food? More drinks? I think we did food at a diner. As I stood on that street corner with my ipod playing songs from the "Slow Sap" playlist and the rain barely spitting at me, I fought back the tears. I swallowed my pride. I realized the mourning of things wasn't going to happen anymore. I finished out the scene in my imagination and the one on that street corner with a happy ending. In my mind we all got into a cab laughing and drunk and unaware of what lies ahead. On that street corner, I switched over my ipod to "Girls I Love" playlist. I threw back my shoulders and picked up my pace. Imogen came on singing..."Drink up baby down. Are you in or are you out? Leave you things behind because it's all going off with out you..."

Bible Throwing

She wasn't a bible beater. She was more like a bible thrower.
She didn't beat the bible down my throat or anyone else's for that matter. She didn't quote the scripture or carry one in her purse. She went to church but would sometimes miss weeks in a row. She was a believer but not a follower. But, when things got sticky, uncomfortable, beyond her control or comprehension, my momma would find that bible that lived on the end-table closest to the recliner, use it as back up and throw it in my face.

"Give me your hand, place it on the bible," she would say tenderly never forcefully.
"Now, son, swear to God on this bible that you will tell the truth about what I am about to ask you."

Without a trace of awkwardness, confusion, or hesitation I would place my hand on that bible like I was born to be sworn in on a regular basis. I was confident of my honesty as a boy just as much as I am now. No bible was gonna scare ol' C.B.! (nickname)

Except for this one time.....

She had a look in her eyes this time. It was a look of fear. A look from someone about to embark on uncharted territory. It wasn't like the other times she pulled out the bible. The other times were her way of instilling truth in her son. The other bible times were simple questions, "did you take that bubble gum from Aunt Cathy's purse, tell the truth under God." Or, "Did you sneak downstairs last night and watch T.V. past your bedtime, swear on the bible."

This time, however, was in slow motion. She was more nervous than I. With reluctance she grabbed the bible. She held it while dodging my 12 year old eye contact. What was she thinking? What did I do this time? Look at me Mom! It looks serious. She looked down at the bible with a look that was either asking for answers from the Almighty or asking for forgiveness for what she was about to do to her 12 year old son. My 31 year old mother looked up at her 12 year old first born son with tears in her eyes. I was scared to death. What have I done that requires a swearing on the bible and brings my mother to tears? Disappointing my parents was and still is my biggest fear.

With a trembling voice and streaks down her cheeks she held out the bible. I proudly, and almost defiantly, placed my hand on the bible while the first of my tears raced down my face and under my chin. I was prepared to face whatever was to come.

"Son, I need you to always tell the truth, okay? Liars are sinners and sinners don't get to go to heaven. And you want to go to heaven, right?"
I nodded my head in agreement as more tears fell from my eyes.
"Your father, grandmother and I have all noticed some things that you have done or been doing."
I nodded my head again in agreement. I was thinking they must have found out that I have been taking handfuls of cereal late at night. Or, maybe they knew that I had called the Alyssa Milano fan club hotline at $1.99 per minute that was listed at the bottom of my 3'x2' poster of Alyssa Milano?
"Do you know what playing with yourself means," Momma asked me.
I shrug with genuine ignorance.
"It means when you touch your private parts and it grows. Have you ever played with yourself?" Her tears were slow and sporadic. They were automatic almost. Like they were happening without her knowing.
"A little bit, I think." I replied suddenly recapping the weeks events in the shower, bathroom and bedroom.
"Remember not to lie honey. Because, your Dad caught you doing weird things in the bathroom last night before you got in the shower. And, Grandma knows that you've tried on her purple silk night gown before. And, your Dad and I have moved our dirty drawer to a place where you can't find it because we can tell that you have been rifling through it," she condescendingly stated in a voice usually reserved for my younger sibling.
"I'm sorry, Mom. I shouldn't touch other people's stuff."
I hoped that would be the end. But, no.
"Honey, whatever you are doing is wrong. It's called masturbation. Some people say it is normal but it's not."
"I'm not doing that," I quickly retort. "I'm just acting it out. I found Dad's penthouse magazine and I was acting out the parts."
"So, you have never cum?" She asked.
I must have stayed still with no reaction. Long pause. Uncomfortable silence.
She continued..."Cum is when you play with yourself so much that your private parts let's out a different liquid than pee."
"OH NOOOO," I shouted while shaking my head emphatically right and left. "That sounds gross and scary! I have never done that! I don't want to do that! I swear on the bible and to God!"
I was telling the truth too. I hadn't learned to cum yet. I didn't know what I was doing was the beginnings of masturbation. I really believed I was acting out the parts of a man and a woman about to have sex. I didn't realize what I was doing was leading to something gross, dirty, shameful, and wrong. Not until this moment.
Mom continued..."People say it is normal, but it's not normal to masturbate. I don't do it, your Dad rarely does it. You shouldn't do it either. You understand? And, if you do do it, be quick and private about it. Then you should always go back to your room and kneel and pray to God for giving into temptation. You understand, honey?"

She was still crying. There might have been a bit more about how weird it was. She asked me why I was doing the things I had been caught doing. I had no explanation. I was discovering myself. And, had I been and advanced thinker at twelve, that's how I would have responded to her. Finally, she hugged me and said she loved me. I remember wondering why this was so difficult for her. Why the tears and lack of eye contact. Any other time I was punished or reprimanded she was stern and quick. This time it was embarrassing and sad for both her and me. I wouldn't realize till much later in life that she was crying because she was lying. She didn't pull out that bible to tell me the sins of masturbation. She too masturbated. She knew in her heart of hearts that as awkward as masturbation may be to talk about it, it is a normal human behavior. She didn't pull out that bible for me to tell the truth. Because she would have been shocked by the truth. She pulled out that bible to scare me from discovering myself. She didn't want that boy in the silk purple night gown, or the boy in the bathroom acting like a man and a woman, to grow up and be different, weird, abnormal, strange or...Gay. She was being a first time mother dealing with her first son's firsts.

I went through adolescence terrified of masturbating, regardless of how loud my hormones were shouting through my undergarments. Before I moved off to college I could still count on only one hand how many times I actually came to, so to speak, while "playing with myself." It became fodder for the students in my dormitory. I was eventually able to laugh at myself and the circumstances that brought me here. I was also, eventually, able to loosen up and become and regular masturbator.

I am sure this incident in my childhood has had a huge impact on my sexual life, my intimate life, and my, now, perpetual masturbation. (Making up for lost years)
But, if there is one thing I learned from that bible and from my mother's half-assed religious faith it was that forgiveness is so strong it can raise you up from the depths of darkness. Forgiveness can wash away your sins and help pave a path toward heaven. Forgiving someone is one of the greatest deeds and gifts you can give another.

Twelve years after my masturbation bible study, I came out to my momma. I told her I was gay. I said...
"I swear to God, momma, I really am Gay!"

That same year, after 9/11 she and I flew to sunny Los Angeles, California for a vacation together. Just her and I. We were having some drinks in our hotel room and laughing about how many times she threw the bible at my hand. She rolled her eyes as she unwrapped another Hershey's Kiss.
She said..."Son, I am so sorry. I didn't know what to do. All those times with the bible was my way of looking for some guidance in parenting. I just wanted you to be an honest person. That was ridiculous of me to throw out that bible all the time. I'm sorry." She laughed but bowed her head slightly. I wondered if the roles had been reversed just then. Was my mother feeling the way I felt when I was 12 years old and caught playing with myself.
So, I asked her.
"Remember telling me about masturbation? With the bible in your hand? You told me it was wrong. You told me not to do it, but if I did to be quick and then pray it away?"
There was a moment of silence as she waited for the rest of the chocolate in her mouth to melt. She looked at me stunned. She had genuine surprise in her eyes.
"I can't believe I said that. Did I really say that? I am so sorry. I don't think that, C.B. I never thought that. It was just that...well, um, what you were doing was weird. The night gown thing and the behaviors and such. I didn't know how to talk to you about it. I think I probably knew you were going to grow up gay. But I didn't even want to put the idea in your head. So I focused on masturbation. I am so sorry."
She began to giggle. I said it was okay. I told her it took me awhile to be okay with the idea of masturbating. I asked why she was laughing. She explained how the topic made her uncomfortable to talk about even to this day. I started to giggle. We broke out into laughter. It was uncomfortable to talk about this stuff with your mom while your drunk in a hotel room. But, in that moment, in the hotel by the LAX airport, the silence had been broken between my mother and I. She knew things now. I knew things now. The candor was flowing. I had forgiven my mother. She said she was sorry. I believed it. I accepted it. I forgave.
I was going to heaven.
I would be GAY and jerking off while I was there, but I would also be a loving and forgiving son who's goin' to heaven.

Amen!

Unsent

Dear Dad,

First of all, things have been so ridiculously busy, that I have to apologize for not being around or in touch much lately. My job has nearly sucked the marrow out of me. I supposed you could say that's just as much my fault as it is my higher ups. But, so far I am still happy at the bar. I am making great money, have lots of control (which we all know I love), and I feel like a professional adult for the first time in my life. I have a title. I am the General Manager. Yay for Me! Anyway, I am sorry for being so out of touch.

So, I guess you are probably wondering why I am writing you a letter? Well, for many reasons actually. I wished I could go into all the reasons. I wished I could retrace my steps from childhood to today. I wished I could detail all the things I wanted to say throughout my lifetime in one letter. But, with a letter like this, I just have to do my best to cut to the chase. I can't give you all the back story that I wished I could. I can't catch you up on the nearly ten years of my life that you've been away from. I can't explain my theories on life, love, and human development. I can't inform you of how I have come to the conclusions that I stand firmly on.
All I can do is say what I must.

Before you come to visit me here in NYC, there is one very important part of my life you have to hear. You don't have to understand it. You don't have to like it. You just have to know it.
I am gay.

It's a secret I have not only kept from you, but from many of my friends and family for years. It was once a secret from myself. However, in the past 8 years, I have become increasingly more comfortable with myself and my life. I have come to learn that being gay is a part of who am I just as much as being a brown-eyed Cherokee boy is a part of me. I can not change this. Believe me, I tried. I prayed and sobbed my first year in New York away. And since then, I have never wanted to sob away another year of my life. It has only been since your recent decision to visit that I have begun to sob again the way I did when I was just 18 or 19 years old. Some strange fear in me has resurfaced and I can't go a day without thinking about your impending trip and what it means to my peaceful, turbulent free, gay life in New York City. The life I have been comfortably leading for ten years now. A life that has included relationships, heartbreak, trials and tribulations, acceptance, denial, bigotry, homophobia, prejudice, love, sex, struggle, joy, pain, success, and friends.

Then something occurred to me. I am a great person. I am that smart son. That attractive son. That talented son. That successful son. That funny son I have always been. I am still me. The me you see. Only, I am gay. It occurred to me that I have been living this life that I am so proud of and keeping it a secret from you. Ironic that my whole life all I have wanted to do was make you and Mom and Cody proud, and here I am...PROUD. Strange that my biggest fear has been disappointing my parents. When all the while, in this not so quiet little place on the east coast, I have been living loudly and proudly and not sharing this pride with the people I desired most to please. It also occurred to me, that I am approaching 30 years old. I can't live my life to please anyone but myself anymore. I don't want to live my life with secrets. The kind of secrets that you and your family and siblings have kept from each other. I don't want to have a relationship with either you or Mom that doesn't include this huge part of me. I don't want to keep secrets from each other anymore.

That being said, the secret is out. Now, you do what you want with it. You want to keep it a secret? That's your choice. I won't. At least not from you. You know now. That's all that matters to me. The box is unlocked. The lid is off and it is no where to be found. And Dad, I know that you have your secrets too. We all do. Families have secrets. If you ever want to tell me any of yours, you know I will listen. If your trip out to NYC to see where I live and what my life is like is a step to building a stronger relationship with me, then my telling you about being gay is my step to a better relationship with you.

Whatever you want to know, just ask. Whenever you are ready to know, just ask. You don't want to know anything? I won't ask. But, in coming out to NYC, I had to come out to you. I have a life here. It involves me being gay. I wouldn't have been able to hide it from you. Ten years can't be put in a box and slid under my bed.

I still want you to come visit. I want you to meet my friends. I want you to see the beautiful place at which I work and the city I call home. I want to do whatever you are hoping to do. If this letter changes your mind about visiting, I will understand. If you have trouble with this part of my life, I will understand. I will be frustrated, hurt and disappointed, but I will still understand. If I am capable of this understanding, all I ask is for you to try for the same understanding.

Take your time. But, please call, write, or email when you have received this.

Sincerely with love and respect,
Your Proud Gay Son
Chad

Missing

It's been too long. For some, it has only been mere days. Others--weeks. For most it has been months.
If you've seen anyone who matches the following description please respond.

He stands 5'11'' in those damn cowboy boots. His hair is getting a bit shaggy. He has deep dark brown eyes. His lips are exceptionally red from dryness. He recently shaved for the first time in the year 2006. He's lost about 9 pounds in the past month. He can be spotted on restaurant row twice a day. The time fluctuates. He hasn't been to the gym so he probably doesn't look as pumped up. He hasn't eaten enough so he's cheek bones look razor sharp but fabulous nonetheless. He's bordering on pale because he hardly sees the sun. He generally exists at odd hours between 42nd Street and 52nd and 8th Avenue and 9th Avenue. One person spotted him at The Coffee Pot on 49th and 9th. They said he was pouring generous amounts of Half and Half in his coffee that smelled of hazelnut. He had one earphone from his ipod in one ear and his razor phone on his other ear/shoulder. His purse was falling off his shoulder. He bustled out before they could even call out his name. Another individual said they recall talking briefly with him while in passing at the local late night posh pub on 51st Street. They recall his eyes being bloodshot, his smile seemed painted on, and he hardly made eye contact. The next thing they knew he was out the door. Another person said that someone at the laundromat on 9th Avenue between 46th and 47th resembled him, but it was hard to tell, because he was wearing a dirty baseball hat, sunglasses, and cargo shorts. This person firmly believed that he would never wear cargo shorts, so this person dismissed him as a fake. The only girl with any leads as far as tracing specific times, is the Barrista girl at Starbucks on 47th and 9th Avenue. She said that he has been in at least 10-12 times in the past 4 weeks. However, it was difficult for her to be 100% confident because he never ordered the same thing. A few subletters and roomie hunters have spoken with him via text, email, and voicemail. But, since they don't know what he looks like or his exact whereabouts, their assistance is fruitless.

If you have any leads on the health, happiness, stability, or just plain whereabouts of this person please notify Clem (of this blog) and help lead them back together. Clem misses him more than any of the others. But, if you want to help, donations can be made at Bar Centrale on 46th Street, Citrus on Amsterdam and 75th, City Grill on Columbus and 73rd, Dive 75 on 75th Street between Amsterdam and Columbus and The Coffee Pot.

Let's hope for a speedy discovery and recovery.

A Mind's Eye

He rolls his eyes and she closes her's.

She listens to her mind and all the the things it would say if she could open her mouth. If she could get her muscles to work properly to form the words. But, she can't. Her lips stay glued together. Curled into one another.

Her mind screams.....hoping to be heard by him. By anyone. By everyone she curls her lips around.

Her mind....
"why do you roll your eyes? do you take anything I say seriously? why is it always good time charlie with you? life has to be hard for you and no one else. you can't stand on solid ground when things turn for other people. if I am happy you can have me. if I am not you can't stand me. stop telling me to get over it. you don't recognize my world and how it is turning around. i can't always be who you think I should. i can't always do what you think I should. do you miss me? you only miss me when you need me? you want me lukewarm. you don't want me hot and bothered. you don't want me cool and collected. my coolness is misread as confidence which you lack and therefore resent that I have. my hot and botheredness is interpreted as drama which you languish in your own pool of therefore there is no room for me. you don't want to hear about me. it's like you choose what you care to listen to and then pick it out of me. i bend without breaking. i smile without shaking. i pick up the phone. i show up when asked. i stifle my emotions. i truck along. i jump ship and join you in the water. i go through the motions. the motions of our friendship, our relationship, my job, my life, my family. i blame myself. i am responsible for the position i have put myself in. i made myself the person people expect to see. if i am not that person then things feel/look foreign. what if i told you to get over it. what if i rolled my eyes. what if i called you dramatic, arrogant, lazy, fat, skinny, ugly, pathetic, all the things i think in a split second but go away just as fast. because i love you. because i know you have to be a little pathetic to be a lot of precious. you need the arrogance to teach you to be humble. you need to be lazy to find the strength to pull yourself up by the bootstraps. be there for me or not. but just know that i won't use this against you. i won't change how i hear you or see you or feel you. even when you do those things to me. even when you become lukewarm about my life when i wanted you to be hot and bothered or cool and collected..."

She open's her eyes, uncurls her lips, feigns a smile, and says...
"Yah, you're right. Whatever."
He has no idea what she is thinking. He has no idea she caught him rolling his eyes. He has no idea of the tornado of emotions blowing through her turbulent life. She has no idea that he doesn't know how to handle her. She has no idea that he will be there even when he rolls his eyes. They can't see with their mind's eye what only the other's mind's eye can see.

NOTE: Don't ask who or if this is about anyone. It's a perspective piece about perspective.

Awkward Pose

My week has been full of changes. Hell, I would go as far to say that my year (2006 so far) has been one big change. In my most recent changes, I have been put in awkward situations. I have felt awkward about my position and my stance. I have been reaching out and trying not to fall back. I have been lied to, placated, left in the dark, tugged, pushed, plopped down, patted on the back, yelled at, cried to, begged for, taken for granted, taken advantage, you name it. And, that is just in my professional life. Sometimes, I feel myself forgetting to breathe. Sometimes, my breath becomes quick. Sometimes, I feel like I am bending backwards for these people. Sometimes they are twisting my arms and legs like ropes. Sometimes, I lie on my back in the middle of the floor focusing on one spot on the ceiling feeling wrung out.

I think it is probably the fifth posture in the bikram yoga series. It's English name is appropriate but not perfect. Mostly, because there are more postures throughout the practice that are far more awkward to get yourself into than the actual "Awkward Pose."

In the pose, you stand straight with your feet hips distance apart and then raise your arms up and out in front of you. You keep your arms firm and straight until your finger tips are stretching forward from your shoulders and your arms are at a ninety degree angle from your torso. Then, you proceed to sit your butt down as if there were a chair behind you. You keep your weight on your heels, your hands stretching forward and you go dow to chair level. The instructor's are repeating, "go back, way back, feel like your gonna fall back, go back." It is a strange sensation. You do feel like you are gonna fall back. Sometimes people do fall back. Sometimes they fall back to get the teacher's attention. Sometimes you don't sit down far enough and you miss that falling sensation. But, the struggle is intense. You are reaching forward but sitting back at the same time. It's a mental game that your body isn't helping you win. Your thigh biceps are tense and possibly shaking. Your ankles feel the weight of your body and your mind. Your arms are exhausted. Your breath is quick. Then the instructor announces...."Change." You release.

In Bikram Yoga, you hold your poses for a length of time between 20 and 60 seconds. It feels like a lifetime. But, the release, when the instructor says 'change', is rewarding.

I don't know how much longer I can hold my awkward pose. It's been six days now. I don't see an end in sight. My instructor's have left the room. They didn't say when they would be back. But, they did ask me to hold it. They did ask me to go back, way back. They did ask me to keep reaching forward. I am sweating. I have tears on my face. My body is tight and tense. I am reaching and falling. My breath is short. My chest is up. I am just waiting for the instructor to return and say the word. The word that I hope will bring me some rewards. The word that when uttered I will feel the total benefits of my awkward pose. One can hope.

"CHANGE"

Daylight, Savings, and Time

Three things I always want more of.

With the change of season comes a change of pace and a re-directed focus. We hope.

With more daylight I would be sunkissed daily and feel like the day isn't half over after I wake.

With more savings I would be able to take time off work, travel, spend.

With more time I would be able to write, sing, dance, sleep, and be with people.

More, more, more. We can never reach enough.

What I wouldn't do with more. More and I would have a passionate love affair.