She pt 2

I’m not a fair man, I know.  Sometimes I might take more than I give, but in it all, I hope she still knows I care.  I carry myself with this I DGAF attitude that sometimes puts others off, yes, but it’s the only way I know how to push aside the wrong things in life.

I’m romantically laconic, using that loaded word sparingly, and even then, uneasily.  I shy away from PDA, at times walking briskly one step ahead, as if I was trying to escape.  Affection and emotions cause me to tense up, widening my eyes wild with the next chance to bolt.  And it’s not that I don’t care to be leashed; I would prefer it to calm my endless wandering, as long as it’s a long leash that still gives me the freedom of movement.

I feel a bit sad that she might never see the high times that identified my early 20′s, because now I don’t care about those things anymore.  The last minute flights to Europe, just because I wanted to show a girl Paris.  The nights out dancing at a top floor nightclub, overlooking the city.  Swimming lazily in the azure waters of Costa Rica.  No, these things, the money and the who-has-what don’t matter to me, anymore.

But I can promise I’ll care in my own way.  It’s those small, seemingly insignificant gestures that light up my eyes and make me come to life.  We’ll share a deep understanding and introspective view of Life.  And I’ll value the tiniest of moments that others often overlook, quietly understanding her thoughts before she has to tell me so.

And when the wind is calm and quietness surrounds us, I’d still be astonished by her inherent beauty.  How her hair falls on her neck, the slight curves of her body, the subtlety of her light perfume.  Or maybe the corny way she laughs, because with it, her dimples seem to have a life of their own.  And, I think, sometimes words don’t need to be exchanged; most of the time, a smile is enough.

I hope she’d be willing to work as hard as I will, because I know I can’t do it alone.  To build something together that can be quantifiable and measured.  Maybe it won’t include riches, or fame, but those are meant to be afterthoughts, anyway.  There might be men who want the perfect trophy wife, the women who want a Prince Charming that doesn’t exist.  But me, I want to build something great, together, from nothing.  People tend to get caught up and want the prepackaged, and forget that a foundation of mutual respect and understanding is often more than enough.

Everybody seems to have a bulleted list of what they want in the other now, so this is my own.  Yes, the woman that haunts me in my dreams is different from those average girls out there.  She is a real woman.  Honest, encouraging, the firm strength behind my inherent weaknesses.  She’d bring class but won’t forget the sass.  But sometimes I wonder, does she even exist these days?

Within These Memories

And within these memories, you still inhabit so many of my dreams.  I suppose life has pushed us this way and that way, forced to take parallel, yet different paths.  It’s this intense connection that we probably will always have, for better or for worse, but still there is no congruency.  We’re consistently inconsistent, and I guess that was always our greatest pull towards each other.

You were so captivating.  I remember the first time we met; I was 15 and you were 14.  Already beautiful, but I was chasing other girls and gave you the cold shoulder.  But in the back of my mind I always thought about you.  Maybe I thought you were out of my league and I didn’t pursue you.  Funny how things turned out.

You were such a great dancer.  And then the first time we danced.  I’m not the greatest dancer, but I’m rather okay in my own right.  Your sisters pressured you to dance with me.  We both had that “whatever” attitude towards the other sex that for some reason attracts people, anyway.  And damn, were you a great dancer.  That night, we danced for hours, hiding away from the world at large.  We were in our own world, and it was nice.

You were so exquisite.  You always had this charm about you that drove me crazy.  Sensual, crazy sexy, yet so damn classy.  You were that girl that no man could have, and when I swept you off your feet, I really valued every moment.  The flowing dresses, that accentuated your lithe curves.  The trends that you set, one of the first girls to start the whole retro-scene again.  How your short bob fell around your neckline.

You understood my soul.  The quiet nights by the harbor still burn in my memories.  You understood my appreciation for the simple moments.  And in return, I always encouraged you to meet your goals.  I guess I’m a facilitator.  Beyond my outside outrageousness, I’m content with being the secret protector, nurturing possibility with quiet hope.

I don’t think anyone expected this.  Too bad no one will ever know, we two included.

So it’s a shame.

Nearly a year later, it’s still a shame.

On Goodbyes

The stars trace an inexplicable web across the night sky, like the milky dew drops resting on intricately spun silk early in the morning.  M. lays with her back to the bed of grass, and her chest heaves, taking in the brisk air.  My eyes are closed, absorbing the variable sounds and smells around me, slowly sighing one of those slightly happy sighs that almost whistle through my teeth.

She props herself up on one elbow, her hair cascading down, flowing like the river, in the valley between her breath.  Her face seems to shine with the intensity of Suns, the dimples bracketing her smile, her brows relaxed in thought.  My fingers lace into her hair, behind her ears, and I could feel the warmth radiating from her body into the cold night.

It’s this green meadow up high in the Hayward hills, across from CSU East Bay that we used to come out to, where you could see from San Francisco to Oakland, from bridge to bridge.  Here, the heavens seemed just that bit closer to our outstretched hands that reach out in earnest yearning.

I slowly roll the butt of my Dunhill between my fingertips, the smoke swirling upward like an opium-induced dream.  Within the thick clouds, the future seems to be well-defined, ethereal as it may seem.  Here, it was just us, and the worries of that time period were far away.  And I wondered, if the troubles made things worth it to work for.  It’s those split second decisions that really define our character, and who we are.

The moon wanes as the night creeps onward, as we too, waned.  Sometimes it gets past a certain point where even the light gets sucked into a black hole.  The last goodbyes are always the most bittersweet.

Beauty

I think back on my years.  To be completely honest, I’m not physically too old, but mentally I feel the strain of the years, forced to become old before my time.

Since my childhood in the 1980′s, I’ve traveled much, seen much, experienced even more at each momentary stop along my life.  The sands of time keep sifting through the hourglass, grain by grain, but to me it feels more like a single fluid strand, as oxymoronic as that may seem.  I see my life experience as a continual connected string of events, memories, occasions for laughter, moments for sadness, all coalescing together, unified despite all their imperfections.

And this world, even with all its flaws, is really a beautiful place.  Even though I’ve seen insurmountable happiness, cherished a love that was irreplaceable, and predicted my own downfalls, I still feel optimistic for the tomorrow.  The world keeps spinning, and each revolution seems to sling me higher into orbit, and it’ll be soon that I can escape this gravity.

I can almost taste the sweet elixir of bliss.  And though it feels that each time I get closer it pulls away from me like the sultry tease of the the burlesque dancer with her beads swaying, I know I’m near.  I see it like through the eyes of a child, wide and filled with wonder, sitting at the edge of my seat anticipating the next moment to come.  It’s things like this that force me to live.

It’s almost like standing on the pure white sands of Oʻahu, before plunging down into the warm amethyst waters of the reef.  Like gazing down from a 747 above the stratosphere on the thick hills of Andalusia, splashed deep with the vermilion and Indian yellow of the Fall.  How the long streamers sway-sway in the breeze around the streets of Rio, as the happy shouts and laughter fill every possible crevice during Carnival.  Two people distant in life but close in possibility, tracing fingertips across the Sierra night sky, each star along the way brightening as the dots connect together while the musky freshness of pine envelopes.  Or the hauntingly sweet tones of a Montagnard shaman’s song, the wind rustling through the bamboos joining him in solemn unity high in the mountains of Ratanakiri.

I believe in love.  Maybe not how the regular societal view sees it, but as a connection between life forces that surround us.  Every and each creature, even the inanimate objects such as the trees or the wind contributing to the greater whole.  I believe in love, for the sake of love itself.  The intensity of its energy that flows within us, the belief that tomorrow holds endless possibility.  How we build paths, though imperfect and broken, are still bridges toward eventual destiny.

And despite all my apparent cynicism, somewhere underneath it all I’m optimistic.  And still, the years wander on like a meandering stream, carving out its own path, leading towards the ocean.

And I Still Wonder

The lonely nights in Coronado lighten my heart.  There’s this ocean-facing bench overlooking the beach that gets me every single time.  Hotel del Coronado is to my left, gracing the expanse of sandy dunes with Victorian subtlety.  Along this road, few cars pass by each hour, their headlights cutting through the dusky night like beacons in the darkness.  Here in this place, like so many of my usual haunts, is steeped with memories and fragments of the past.

I remember the first time I passed over the Coronado Bridge, with the bright lights of the city shimmering on either side.  The walks along the Silver Strand in between the sage scrub and wild roses.  The way the moonbeams glanced off the ripples of the waves.  A bohemian pod of dolphins passing through alongside the isthmus, stopping momentarily to salute a fellow wanderer.  These melancholic memories still mollify my soul, in the years that followed.

In life I put up a perfect façade.  On the outside, I’m successful, confident, engaging, and seemingly without worry.  But only a few know my true perturbations, and because I’m a natural worrier, I think too much.  God forbid if the world in general knew this, because in a sense I’ve carefully constructed this image to protect myself from whatever perceived harm or anxiety.  These quiet nights give me a chance to come back to a sense of equilibrium with myself.

With so few, I’ve shared my hopes, dreams, and wants.  With so few, I’ve expressed my needs and desires.  With so many women I’ve dated, they were attracted to my brash arrogance and care-free attitude.  But did they ever know that underneath I worry just like everyone else?  I have so many fears, and I guess some of it is growing up with a strict ex-military father, some others from the culmination of my relationship experiences.  I fear of becoming a failure, success being something my father always made seem so easy.  In a way, it’s pushed me to work harder to ensure success.

I strive for the crazy consistent inconsistency to soothe my normal high-strung self.  In my mind, I can see her.  The tips of her short hair resting on her milky neck, her eyes wide in simple amazement of the world around her.  How her arms stretch out with yearning for the impossible, the here and now.  The simple dreams she cherishes and holds close to her breast.  Or the childish appreciation for everything surrounding her.

But then I also want to know that she is willing to work for her dreams, and not just coast on the work of others.  There’s something about smart women that totally attracts me.  In a way maybe I demand this because I’ve never felt that I was really good at taking care of other people, because sometimes I feel that I can barely take care of myself.

Maybe I’m looking towards a “her” that doesn’t exist, and I need to change my worldview.  But as always, I’m often uncompromising and don’t want to give up hope in the chance that it may be possible.

So tonight, as its always been, I’m alone on these dreamy sands.  I quicken my pace and walk in stride, my heels and toes sinking into the wet sand, with only the soft throaty cackle of seagulls and the thundering wash of the surf to play a symphony to my restless heart.  And I continue to walk onward, with a smile, to the unknown.