The Insurmountable Weight of Falling in Love

"The Insurmountable Weight of Falling in Love"

Oh but how I long to touch you

when morning's light peaks through the heavy curtains!

My love, your arms are ever too far away,

with mountains and valleys and miles of freeways between us.

And it is in your arms I long to be

because there, in your embrace,

I am more free than any other moment

I've drawn breath in my life.

You are my lighthouse in the night,

my safe harbour in the storms,

the soft shore upon which my body crashes

in waves of passion

and the only destination to which I ever want to travel.

If I lose myself in moments of separation,

I can blame only the pull of the lunar orbit

making these confounded heart strings

dance like a marionette in desperate need of your affirming smile.

You are my Boaz.

I would spend all my days picking single grains

from the fields if only to be rewarded

with the honour of sleeping at your feet each night

and never giving you pause to consider the depth of my devotion.

If ever my fields ran barren,

I would plant every flower and crop known to man

to ensure you were never hungry or without beauty

constantly surrounding your world.

My darling, you are my heartbeat;

the gravitational force that causes

me to lose my breath when you smile.

You are the force inside me that brings me joy

and vigor for life

in ways that no artificial replacement

could ever hope to compare.

Though my past is scourged with darkness

and I often leave blackened footprints

through your perfect walkways,

It is your unbending strength

that permits me to continue believing in faith.

Believing in love.

Believing the scorched earth

will one day flush with garden roses again.

My love, you are mine.

And in that alone, there is nothing more

I could ever ask you to be.  

The Seemingly Supernal Nature of Otherwise Conventional Laughter

"The Seemingly Supernal Nature of Otherwise Conventional Laughter"

She laughs quietly and brushes the hair from her eyes

when he suddenly freezes,

catches her gaze and says
“What does that laugh mean?
I've never heard you laugh that way before.”

Her cheeks instantly burn

and flush a bright pink as she desperately

tries to distract him or change the subject.

And it works.

It's too foolish and risky to try to explain

that every once in a while

when her shoes are off and her guard is down,

if you place your and on her leg in just the right way

while telling her that she's beautiful,

her soul begins to fray a little at the seams.

Not much, but just enough to reveal that she isn't

anything he dreams her to be.

He sees this enchanting duchess of great stature and beauty

when in reality,

she couldn't find matching socks

again,

her life is just as much a mess as her house,

she's late on the electric bill

again,

and she has absolutely no idea what she's doing

in any aspect of living.

But the thing is, if she could be doing anything,

she'd want it to be something meaningful and beautiful.

And that's where things get complicated.

He seems to think the simple act of breathing

is a an exquisitely graceful process,

whether expressed through tiny gasps,

excited lengthy stories about butterflies,

or as now, a quiet laugh.

She has never been graceful a day in her life.

But he touches her as if she were a Lily,

so delicate to the touch, that even fingertips

could bruise.

He looks at her as a child stares at a rainbow,

taking in all the colours before it suddenly disappears.

And he speaks to her as if she might one day wake up

and decide to never speak to him again.

But she is no duchess.
She is no champion of intangible beauty.

She is anything but put together.
At best, she is held together with glitter,

rubber cement,

and a thousand wishes on stars.

She laughs

not because what he says is funny,

but because she fears in a moment of

unexpected vulnerability

she has bared more than just her feet

and he can see all the secrets

she's spent a lifetime trying not to reveal.

In truth,

she'd love to be a duchess...

but they don't take her kind

and he has only ever loved her

through rose-coloured glasses.

That laugh

was the most real he's ever seen.

And in that moment,

he had no idea who she was. 

Disappointments, Achievements, and Major Life Moments

My car hit 100,000 miles on the way to work yesterday.
I had so many expectations and hopes when I first bought that car; where it would take me, how long it would be before I hit that milestone of adulthood and what I would be doing with my life when I got there.

Unsurprising, I never expected to be driving at 6;30 in the morning on my day off to go work a 12 hour shift for an entry level job well below my estimated potential aptitude. To say hitting that milestone was a disappointment would be a gross understatement. I mean, it's not like I expected to be writing my own rendition of Jack Kerouac's "On the Road" while on some Hunter S. Thompsonesque epic gonzo journalism adventure but I mean, I dunno... I remember being a kid in the car with my parents as we counted down the miles driving cross country to a new military station and when we hit 100K, we all cheered.

Was is cheesy? Sure. Mediocre? By most standards, absolutely.  I guess what disappoints me is that I had no one to share it with. I called my parents and clearly woke them up (who in their right mind gets up at 6am on a Saturday anyway?) and my dad was basically like "that's nice. congratulations. I'm going back to bed." and I could hear my mom in the background FREAKING out because in her world a 6:30am call clearly means I am being held up at gunpoint or living out some other equally insane movie plot. Though to be fair, just a week ago, I was chased down the freeway at more than 85 mph by a crazy ex-boyfriend who was trying kill me and my passenger, his ex-girlfriend, by throwing things at my windshield. So I guess once a decade, my mom sorta has a right to panic.

I got Marvy in the summer of 2003. He was bought in secret because my then "one and only" wouldn't allow me to drive, have a license, leave the house, breathe without permission, etc. I had scored an awesome job going on a short-term tour with a bunch of famous comedian TV and movie stars. The actor who put the show together hired me specifically because he could see I was in an abusive marriage and wanted to give me a reason to get out of the house and get away from him for a while. What my ex didn't "garnish" from my wages as a "finder's fee" (apparently it costs $900 to say "this famous actor's agent called me today and wants to hire you") I took and sent to my parents and asked them to find me a car for which my earnings would make a suitable down payment in a price range I could afford to keep up with after my ex garnished my paychecks every week.

$187 a month for a 1 year old car with only 12,000 miles and  2.9% fixed APR for 5 years was an unheard of miracle. I remember my parents had to fax the paperwork to the store I worked at so my ex wouldn't find out what I was doing. The title was put in my name to give me some form of equity upon with to build credit and hopefully, eventually leave him.

Most people buy a car for looks, efficiency, future family needs practical stuff. My car was purchased by price, and my ability to safely live in it, if my relationship got to the point where i had to flee at a moments notice. I remember running home from work every day, frantically checking the mail to make sure the title for the car didn't arrive before I could find and hide it. My parents and I worked out a master plan to tell him they decided to "surprise" me with a "gift" of a new car that I would pay them back for every month. In reality, everything was in my name. The loan, the insurance, the title, they had nothing to do with it except find it and file the paperwork for me from 1,000 miles away and then drive it up to me.

I remember the day I started saving cardboard boxes in my trunk in case I decided to leave him.I remember being panicked the day he FOUND the boxes and I had to pretend that a friend asked me to bring them home for her from work because she was moving.

I remember the day, 2 weeks after I left him, driving home from the welfare office after the lady there told me "I can' believe you're ONLY 22 and ALREADY a victim of domestic violence" as she threw a food stamps card at me and walked away before she could catch whatever disease I seemed to have. I remember sitting in the car for three and a half hours outside the domestic violence shelter I was living at. I sat there for hours crying, looking at a statement that said "You qualify for $11 a month in food stamps even though you only make $400 a month" and thinking I would never overcome my situation and it was better to just end my life right then. My work apron was inside my room at the shelter with my box cutter in it. I stayed in the car until I could finally find a reason to not give up. I was only 22 and that car had already saved my life twice.

I drove to my first day of university in that car, accidentally drove to Canada, drove cross country four times, went to the 2010 Olympics in that car, had my first kiss in a foreign country in that car, was searched by immigration, went on my first solo road trip, graduated college, moved into my very first apartment, road-tripped with my pet fish, adopted the first cat that belonged only to me, got my first parking ticket, and yeah, even got in a high speed car chase in it.

I've managed to keep his wheels rolling for 13 years without blowing the stock speakers (which is impressive considering how loud I play my radio on the freeway), The upholstery still looks fantastic, and aside from one giant dent in the read bumper, he's in pretty good shape.

I don't know where I'll be in another 13 years or when I hit 200,000 but I hope I will be more financially stable at a job that is in my career field paying me what my estimated potential is worth at a fair market value... and who knows, maybe I'll have enough money to finally fix that dent.
Or not. It makes him a lot easier to find in crowded parking lots. I'm still on the fence. But I guess I've got a bit of time on m hands to officially decide. :)

"An Incident in Which a Late Bus Nearly Changed the World"

"An Incident in Which a Late Bus Nearly Changed the World"

He says he gets nervous around really beautiful women.

But the problem is, she's not beautiful

and he doesn't seem afraid of anything in the world.

They sit across from each other at a bus station

while a messy autumn rain causes wet leaves to stick to passersby,

as if to prove a point that you can never shake yourself free

from all of life's little nuances.

He's got blue collar hands and blue collar hair;

a look that says his hands work too hard to find themselves

nestled in those of a beautiful woman,

and a his hair is only ever cut to keep it out of his eyes.

She looks down at her book of poetry,

wondering if she would ever amount to such a desire

that would drive a man to write about her the way

T. S. Eliot speaks of love.

She stares intently at the yellowed pages

as the words begin to blur:

“Love is most nearly itself

When here and now cease to matter.”

He studies her movements,

turning pages like placing flowers in a jar.

She pretends not to see him,

painfully aware, as she feels like each page

turns with the force of door after door

slamming shut on her future.

He speaks not a word.

She moves nothing but her hands and her eyes.

At 3:17pm on a Thursday afternoon

the uptown and east-side buses arrive,

and the strangers pass one another

without a second glance.

At precisely 3:19pm the rain finally lets up,

weary from defeat.

The sky had poured out its soul unto them

in hopes of forcing them onto the same crowded benches
in hopes of giving them a reason to talk;

who doesn't engage in meaningless conversation about the weather

when in the company of strangers?

That was their chance.

He was supposed to ask about her book.
She was supposed to tell him it was the only thing

the airline didn't lose when she landed.

He was supposed to ask her where she was going.

He was supposed to tell her 12^th Street was on the East side.

They were supposed to ride the same line together.

The bus was supposed to get a flat tire in the rain.

They were supposed to talk for an hour,

stranded on the side of the highway.

She was the one not meant to get away.
He was the answer to all her shooting star wishes.

But he never spoke.

Because beautiful women make him nervous.

And she never spoke

because she wasn't beautiful –

to anyone but him.

In silence.

In the rain.

And she would never be beautiful again.  

Road maps and reward systems

My mom sent me a message this afternoon informing me that, exactly 21 years ago today, I left Seattle for the Arizona desert.

Ironically, I left the Arizona desert for Seattle when I turned 21,

It's hard to look at life sometimes and see where I am, compared to where I thought I'd be by now. I was supposed to be someone... do something important... do anything.

21 years ago I was a skinny ugly awkward 13 year who had just learned how to shave her legs but still had no idea that the world was kinder to girls who had perfectly groomed eyebrows, short skirts, and too much perfume. And now here I stand, mid-thirties, far from gangly, less ugly, slightly less awkward, and with a much greater understanding of a world where the beautiful girls go out on Friday nights and I read computer software release notes in my pajamas with my cat.

It's not the worst life I could live. In fact, it's the happiest I've been in years. But that's part of the problem. When you live so much of your life waiting for the other shoe to drop, happiness is a dangerous lover to flirt with. I've given my heart away so many times, I've started to find pieces of it in thrift stores alongside discarded VCRs, records, and other means of obsolete communication.

We live in a world where everything is merely surface deep because that's all we feel safe with anymore. When I was 13, I would've given anything be told I was beautiful and now... a guy recently started telling em I was beautiful and every time, I instinctively laugh in response. It's not that I find the comment funny... I just don't know what to say other than "I don't believe you in the slightest bit. If you scratched even a millimeter below my surface, you'd run screaming like hundreds of guys before you."

We keep everyone at arm's distance these days because it's safe, and we sacrifice authenticity for a false sense of security.

Twenty one years ago I wanted a fairytale romance. When I was 21, I just wanted romance. Now? Now I want something authentic. It's not about the looks or the cars or the salaries or the flashandbang flattery that distracts us from the reality.

I want something I can touch. Something I can taste and feel in my soul. I want authentic love with imperfections, hard-working hands, rough and calloused from a live well-lived. I want eyes that aren't afraid to look into mine and see who I really am. I want a voice that isn't afraid to whisper vulnerabilities in the quiet embrace of a winter night. I want  real love with tattered edges and faithful roots. I want my worth to lie in my soul, rather than my beauty, and a man who can recognize that without needing to be told,

I want life to be an adventure, not a disappointment. I want passion and fire and hope and laughter and everything we overlook on a daily basis in pursuit of the "American Dream"... now sponsored by Corporate America executives.

The only place I truly feel alive and free is in my car, with the windows down, the breeze in my hair, and the radio up as loud as humanly possible.
Because when the radio is loud enough you can't hear someone crying. When the radio is loud enough, you are never sad, and most of all, when the radio is loud enough, you can literally feel it in your heart.

Few things in life are so pure and true.
I don't get out much around town, but I'm great at road trips. The same strip of Interstate 5, running from one border to the other and back. It's a long few thousand miles, but when it's just me and God and the radio...

I am never more happy or alive
I may never learn how to fully be "beautiful" in the eyes of a man beyond washable surface value, but I'm an expert in singing 80s rock anthems at the top of my lungs, And I guess in a way, it kinda makes me feel beautiful to be that free.