One Year

That's how long I've been writing here.
And this is the last day.

If you look back, you'll see that I was originally writing to myself,
But now I've opened the door too far.

I am not ashamed;
My dirtiest laundry is aired.

But I need myself more than you need me.

For Jason

I missed my turn again.
Maybe I’m lying to myself when I say,
“It’s alright. I know these roads.
I can get there from here.”

But a kiss has left me so distracted
That I’m pointing in all directions,
As Hyperion careens around Saturn
And a compass whirls at magnetic north.

Bewilderment doesn't come from the fact that the kiss was
Magnificent, passionate, invasive, an ablution,
But from its unanswerable reality.
Damn. I should have taken the freeway.

I can’t seem to remember what street I’m on, where to turn.
I've lived in this neighborhood for thirty years,
But one never steps in the same stream twice.
Tonight, all roads lead to Rome, and back to him.

I recognize that street, though. It's Oro Blanco.
I stare at the moon,
And it retreats, abashed, behind a cloud
leaving a silver lining.

A Nice Dilemma . . .

My narcissism has, once again, bitten me in the heinie. Whose brilliant idea was it to give the address of this blog to anyone, anyway? Now I have all kinds of things to say about the very nice date I had tonight, but find myself editing with the knowledge that he's probably going to read this at his first opportunity. Fortunately, I think I have braced him for the fact that I am in the habit of saying what I think, so here goes:

Two things worried me, as the time for the date approached. Firstly, I was self-conscious about my attraction to Robert (who will also probably read this. Oh well). I was worried that I wouldn't like Jeff, and subconsciously try to upstage him in some immature fashion. What a relief to find that Jeff is not only charming and handsome, but that they have a delightful chemistry together. Anxietey solved.

Secondly, I was worried that Jason would turn out to be bitter, boring, or unattractive. As I saw him approach from the parking lot, though, I was instantly at ease. He is a beautiful man, tall, angular, and slightly dorky (some of my favorite traits, as devoted readers may know). Second anxiety solved. As it turns out, the one thing about which I might have been justifiably anxious, I never foresaw.

I had forgotten how bad I am at dating. To begin with, I selected an entirely uncomfortable venue for a first date: a John Waters lecture. As the jokes advanced menacingly on the envelope of good taste, ultimately setting fire to it and pissing on the ashes, I grew increasingly scared that Jason didn't seem to find them quite so hilarious as I did. It was painfully obvious that every chuckle was an effort, and I couldn't keep from berating myself for a stupid choice. As if that were not enough, my good sense stepped out for a moment, and when he opened the floor to questions, I leapt from my seat in the back row and intoned with full resonance, "Will you sign my prosthesis?" Oh, the horror my poor date must have felt! I could practically feel him erasing my phone number from his mind. FYI, Waters was delighted to sign Peggy.

To add jet fuel to the disaster, as we went out afterward for ein schmekte mir trinken und essen, I was in full ADD mode from the thrill of having had such an interesting and indelible (in Sharpie!) experience. Consequently, having dinner with me was, I am sure, the equivalent of having dinner with three 7-year olds and a rabid macaque. I was leaking endorphins from the ears, and fortunately declined any caffeine, else I might have been found flailing Peggy over my head and singing "Vittoria, Vittoria!" Surely, I should have been put to sleep before I ruined anyone else's evening with my silliness.

As I was preparing to leave Jason at his car, I decided, instead of playing the stupid, "Should I kiss him? Should I make a move? What if he just wants to leave?" game, to simply say, "It's been a long time since I've had a kiss." To my delight, I got what I asked for. In fact, it was difficult to stop. I am actually raw around the mouth from such wonderful stubbly affection.

Here is the part of the cycle where I customarily second guess a great experience. What if I moved to fast? What if I'm not ready to fall for such a great guy?

what if he thinks my stump is gross?

A Yen For A Yang

A fellow asked me yesterday in all earnestness, "Why are you so intense?" An excellent question, clearly, but a better question is, "Why do I have no answer?" In part, I don't believe in Why. I feel that What is more important than Why. Nonetheless, it is intruiging to consider my intensity and whether it serves me in a relationship.

On the one hand, it would be nice to coexist with a man who is the very definition of reserved calm, a man upon whom I could rely to temper my impetuous, instant impatience. On the other hand, I can't help but feel that the only man who could take me is another intense firecracker, even though two of us is clearly a recipe for drama. My dilemma then becomes: is there a man who is well-grounded enough to be healthy for me, but adventurous enough not to hold me back?

Suppose for an instant that I end up with a complement, someone to fill in the gaps in my virtue. As far as classical virtue goes, I have runs in swords, wands, and cups. I am brilliant, spiritual and strong-hearted. On the other hand I am a little short-suited in coins, in physical, centered reality. Wouldn't it be nice to have a pillar, a rock upon which to lean, someone standing at the door with a catcher's mitt when I come home upon whom I could just fall and be loved. I can easily picture a future where this man and I create a home of intense natural beauty and overflowing warmth. There would be life everywhere; the indoors would reflect the outdoors and vice versa until the two flowed neatly into each other. Plants and animals--domestic and indigenous--would permeate the space, and children would play hide-and-seek fervently and gleefully throughout. In fact, this would be the perfect environment in which to raise children, either our own adopted kids or foster children who need us.

On the other hand, suppose I end up with a partner in mischief, an equally spontaneous bon vivant, a free spirit who highlights and magnifies my own strengths. What would it matter if we flowed through life without roots? So what if we travel, on a whim, throughout the world, exploring cultures and contributing to the formation of a global acceptance? How wonderful it would be to have a man to speak with in constantly shifting combinations of foreign languages, with whom to jump on a train at a moment's notice, without preparation, and spend the night in the rain on the streets of some foreign city or in a remote jungle. We would own a penthouse in a convenient metropolitan locale, furnished with only the basic furniture: tatami for seating and rest, and so many bookshelves filled with mementi and obscure volumes from all over the planet that the walls are scarcely visible--except for one wall which we are constantly filling with dynamic murals and foreign poetry. Wouldn't such a life be just as fulfilling?

Is there a balance to be struck? Does balance have any value even? Fran swears that balance is crap. "How do you balance passion without ruining it?" she asks. Where is the man who knows? I will love him as a brother and an equal; I will adorn him as Gilgamesh did Enkidu,with robes of alabaster, and cover him with lapis and carnelian.

Day of the Guy

Today is not only Guy Fawke's day, it is also the birthday of a friend who has done so much to make me feel welcome in my new community. It is fascinating that his name is also Guy. As you may expect, I can't let anything like that pass without writing a poem about it:

November fifth is, in the British Isles,
A holiday devoted to “The Guy.”
The flames that from him rise enkindle smiles
As fireworks and sparklers light the sky.

But in the colonies, we have a way
To toast “The Guy” that's different, because
Instead of Fawkes, it’s Guy McPherson day,
The gayest holiday there ever was.

His precious smile is sparklier by far
Than any British fireworks could be,
And as for flames, well, honey, he’s on fire,
Far more that any ragged effigy.

So celebrate November fifth as when
Our darling Guy turns twenty-nine (again).

Perspective

It is a tribute to my church choir that we go out for martinis after rehearsal every week. We are not simply a group of disconnected people who happen to sing; we genuinely enjoy each other's company, and that connection is often reflected in the unity of our performance.

Something is different today, though. We went to what has become our customary destination, the latest happening bar in Colorado Springs. But, upon entering, I felt incredibly out of place. It wasn't that I was underdressed or otherwise physically disjunct. On the contrary: I am looking mighty good today. Rather, I was struck by a feeling of overarching repulsion. Every last person in the bar was somehow detestable to me, and I suddenly felt like a boy watching ants carry bits of vegetation across his path. It was as though I was on a higher level, like I didn't even belong to the same species as the other drinkers.

I exited quickly, and chided myself for such arrogance. How could I feel superior to anybody, let alone everybody, in a room? Who exactly did I think I was? And it wasn't even a mental judgment; I was viscerally detached from the entire scene, and felt like I wasn't even physically present. I simply could not bring myself to go back into the bar. The very thought of it created a wave of nausea.

On the way home, I wondered whether it was due to my natural haughtiness that I felt, for a moment, like I was on a higher plane. As I exited the vehicle, I was immediately on the other side of the equation. Four bodies were observing me from a knife-sharp sky in much the same detached way that I had been observing my peers earlier. Taurus, Auriga, Orion, and Gemini huddled around each other, glanced at me condescendingly, and said to themselves, "Were we ever that small?"

Fast Tracking

Day two of my cleansing fast, and I've noticed several fascinating things:

I have the most revolting mineral taste in my mouth. I'm sure it's chemicals being passed through my system. And now I've got the dry heaves.

I just had a bowel movement that looked radioactive and smelled like hospital. Again, unhealthy things being evicted.

I'm not hungry yet. It's been 38 hours since I've eaten anything, but, aside from a little rumbly in my tumbly last night, I'm doing well. Although, I did dream of food last night. A huge, delicious taco, overflowing with sour cream and spicy ground beef. Now I'm hungry. I feel like Pavlov's dog.

If You Come To Me Headstuck, You Know I'm Gonna Break the Spell. . .

I am ready for the universe to pass me the ball.

I know my body is on board, because I woke up, refreshed, minutes before the alarm went off.

I know my subconscious is on board, because it reminded me that I had left my work pager in the other room, where I couldn't hear it. I checked and, sure enough, 1 new page.

I know my heart is on board, because it has been drawing fascinating men into my space all week. Just from out of the blue, four thinking, handsome, authentic men have popped into my space. My cup overrunneth, and I wonder if my system is about to crash from sensory overload.

In order to make sure my spirit is on board, I am observing the final few days of Ramadan. I shall be keeping the traditional periods of fasting, prayer and meditation until Eid-Al-Fitr on Friday. That should get rid of any residual smog that's occluding me. Plus it'll flush whatever chemicals remain in my system from hospital stays etc. out of my liver.

I can hardly wait to see what happens (though wait I shall). Something never fails to break through when I get in this mode.