As the Life of a Tree

“I know we’re over,” she said, her head hanging limp like a dying flower.

Thirteen did not even have tears to cry.  Her head felt full and fiery, like some great flame had taken over her soul and burned her up like one of those hollow trees that became chimneys in the recent forest fires of the drought-ridden eastern mountain range.  Those trees had long-since been dead, hollowed-out by animals and bugs, leaving but a shell of a former life.  Who knows what originally killed those trees, whether droughts or some terrible pest or disease; but the flames that surged up and out of cracks and holes in the surface were certainly not culprit.

Had she the awareness of herself, in this moment, to see herself instead of feeling everything so deeply, she would have understood why she only felt the stinging pain of this latest fight.  She would have remembered the ages-old insidious thoughts and notions accepted that scraped and clawed at her, that hollowed her out; Thirteen had lovingly and ignorantly volunteered long ago to be emptied out and made a shell of herself in search of freedom and eternal love.  

For now, she only felt that emptiness filled with the heat of his and her intermingled, passionate anger, countless infractions piled upon one another until one or the other of them lit this… … or was it that they lit this fire together, their last act of unity?

Her mind stung in this sudden awareness: it was a joint-effort insurgence against each other that started this last feud.

She wanted to cry, to beg his forgiveness, to scream out in pain and terror at her realization; but she knew it would not make a difference; it would be like trying to spill a bucket’s worth of water on this very forest-like fire.

Thirteen shuddered and drank the knowledge herself, quenching that stream of fire within her.

Her eyes lifted to look upon him again.

He was as beautiful as she had ever found him to be, even in his rage.  Perhaps he was beautiful particularly because of his rage:  that raw emotion engulfed him differently than  her, flooded him and spilled from his every pore; and he only looked more like himself, very naturally. 

At least he is feeling deeply, she thought, gently; at least he is aware, fully.

It was only now that her eyes filled with tears, as if the flood of his emotion had finally reached her and was lapping at her most present orifice.

As she watched him, she felt herself flood with a love that felt heavy — as heavy as water, as heavy as a river streaming through her, and just as fluid.  Her head felt dizzy; she felt like she was rocking, swaying….

A question bobbed into her mind like a bottle drifting upon the waves of the ocean:  What am I to do?

The answer lifted into her mind through the flood of emotion as a bubble of air lifts through the water and bursts at the surface.  Thirteen understood suddenly that she had not been paying any attention to herself and the emptiness she had housed for so many years.  It was easy to be filled up by him:  by his emotions, needs, desires; by his beauty; by all of her responses, wishes and dreams related to him.  It was easy for her to feel so much for him when she had felt so very empty for so long; it was easy for her to be a home for others before and for him precisely because she was as empty as a hollowed tree that becomes home to squirrels, birds, insects, bees, foxes, snakes….

Of course they would make of her what they willed.  Of course they would be frustrated if she didn’t respond as they wished she would.  Of course they would go away.

It wasn’t his fault, nor any other’s, that she was hollow; but, what if she let herself be broken, finally, by this wave of passion, by this flood of emotion?  What if she let herself be destroyed entirely, ultimately, to become part of the earth again, part of everything she knew and loved, part of things she never knew?  What if she finally died to all she ever was and became something entirely new?

Her eyes cleared, and she felt something strange and indistinct in her mind.

She walked to him, bent slightly as she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles meaningfully.  He watched, silently, with disturbed curiosity.

She raised to her full height once again and whispered, the sound barely a breath, the last that her heart knew.

Then Thirteen turned and walked away.

Photo ©2017 MLM

One. Two. Me.

1.

That day when you came to stop me from saying “Goodbye, I love you.”

That night when you picked me up from the airport, when – again – I wanted it to be over.

Those lingering embraces.  Those passionate kisses.  Those heart-felt words – from both of us.

That could have been forever.

Don’t tell me I made things up, that I exaggerated emotion, that I took things beyond their meaning. Don’t try to convince me that I took things out of context when the only thing I took out of context was myself from the context of your vicinity.

Don’t tell me I’m immature in love when I have the capacity to love beyond the space of a few miles, beyond the finite moment of right-now.

We could have been infinite, beyond all time-and-space.  We could have been epic, magical.  We could have been of the things true love and gods are made.


2.

Those nights-after-nights and days-after-days when you “didn’t expect to fall in love,” “to feel so much,” for me to stay.

Those months-long epic conversations when I explained my inner workings, my likes and dislikes, when I wrote books to you in long, verbose dialogues that you repeatedly did not hear, listen to or understand.

The fading patience; the increasing bitterness; the overbearing misery amidst your blissful ignorance.

Did you really not see, understand anything of me?  No; nothing.  You took only what you wanted, needed, and disregarded the rest, left it for posterity, thinking – having had my love and devotion for years upon years – it would last indefinitely.

When I told you I wanted nothing more to do with men, was that not explanation enough?

It’s not that we had nothing.  It’s that it was repeatedly disregarded, discarded in lieu of your past, in lieu of so many things you chose poorly that sapped your soul until I came along and filled you up again.

It’s not that we couldn’t have come back together.  It’s that you somehow ceased caring about what brought us together in the first place; and somehow, you expected me to care about how I brought you back to who you are now… when I have always told you I preferred the man you made of yourself before we first met.

Me)

Go into the desert.

Sing.

Dance.

Walk.

Capture beautiful moments and share them with the world, with friends, with the wind, with no one at all.

Be.

Write everything, and love every stinging thing like so many spines upon so many cacti, guarding what precious flesh lies beneath with so much fought-for life-giving waters.

Forgive even those who bit you, stung you, hurt you, maimed you; for you are forever-forgiving, forever-giving.

Love.  Again.

Let this time be a lesson; and, this time, find that wolf, that coyote, that mountain lion, that bobcat, that bear, that eagle that will forever-love you, whom you can forever-love-give-love-receive-love-amen.

It’s time:

Kiss the sands and the dry earth.

Swim and sail and surf in those big, beautiful, blue waves.

Go.  Wherever.  Life takes you.

Be your heart.

Bring the rains to barren lands; and dance, laugh, kiss; let the waters wash every pain clean.

Be forever-good-and-loving.

Indulge your every desire, dream and wish.

Find your fantasies in life and love, and live them fully, for so few will leave their pains and morbidity to bring childish dreams to reality.

Do.

And dare, as you always dare.

This is your life, your posterity.

Bring about me.

Photo ©2015 MLM

Scorpions

Give me a reason not to erase us from me, not to complete the job you are already doing so well.

They drop bombs, here in the desert, where they harm no one but the scorpions and the snakes.

Give me a reason not to throw out all we are and were amidst our brothers and sisters to be likewise obliterated.

Because, although I find myself afraid and do not know what yet I will become, I do know this:

I, at least, will rise from the flames and become something beautiful, renewed, in the death of you-and-me.

Photo ©2016 MLM

Still True

(tho singed and lost within the smoke of recent fires)

I love you

I know I say it all the time,
(I love you)
but I do

I love your smile, and
the way your head tilts back
when you get self-conscious,
when you want my lips to drink your neck,
when you want my teeth sunk in your skin,
when you want my heart, my flesh, and then...

(I love you)
I love your eyes:
cinnamon stones sparkling amidst silken skin,
hanging flecks of perfection
singing to my poet's soul again and again and again...

I love your shyly-arrogant laugh:
full of knowledge, edged with pain
(I love you),
tainted with the uncertainty of your certainty
of your endless days

I love you

I love you for your brilliant mind
that you, nonetheless, restrain;
that you, from mistakes, disdain;
that you, come disheartened companions, refrain

I love you

I love you

I love you;
for your beauty is forever,
for your heart is ever pure,
for your love is as helpless as mine,
for your body always wants mine

I love you;
and it lasts
through time and space,
through trials and frustrations,
through foreverness and vulnerabilities...

I love you

I always have
I always do

And, oh, how I miss you...!

Photo ©2016 MLM

The One That Never Happened

He was one of Twenty-Six’s childhood friends.

He was beautiful, too – not in the same seductive way, but rather, in a way that made her stare, enamored, attempting for hours to comprehend him, his ways, his beauty… his pain.  And, moreover, his way through pain

She felt it like a strong punch in her gut, but one that did not hurt even if it took her breath away.  It happened every time she looked at him, every time the huge orbs of his eyes found hers.  It was like waking up suddenly, like looking through some chasm punched through the universe into an alternate reality.

She was sure she loved Nineteen; and she was equally sure he did not love her… except, perhaps, in that genuinely-good and gentle way he loved all people.  Except that, sometimes… maybe… she saw some glint in his eyes, felt his hugs linger longer than a friend’s should….

All she knew was that she loved him – every time she saw him, every time she thought of him, every time she saw his work, every time she went near his shop.  She loved him, and she would happily accept nothing more than a pleasant friendship just to be able to spend some amount of time with him, just to see him interact with others, just to perhaps be there for him in some time of need.

She used to have fantasies of being with him, fantasies she burned like paper in her mind, with nothing more passionate surviving than the momentary glint of a heartfelt wish as the thought drifted up and away on the currents of her mind.  Nothing but fragile, black carbon would remain of her secret desires.

Still, she loved him.

It had been years since she had met Twenty-Six, passionate years filled with tumultuous interactions that occasionally filled her with so much love she spilled again and again like a river onto a broad delta; passionate years filled more often with so much pain that it felt like the earth itself had been sucked dry of every drop of rain.

She hadn’t known they were friends, when she met Nineteen.  When she learned, she held it secret from both men, not wishing to be the bridge between them; not wishing to have either as the bridge between them all.  She loved them both for different reasons… and, for different reasons and at different times, her love for one seemed more sane, more possible, less difficult even in times of difficulty than her love for the other.

Who cared, anyway, whom she loved?  Would either of them change his way towards her – except to try to protect her, to protect the other from his potential interest in her, leaving her bereft and even more alone than she was now, caught somewhere in-between?  At least this way, in her silence, she could preserve her love for them both, could swing, unnoticed and unspoken, from one to the other as her own heart dictated its present need.

She wondered, too, if they would understand; if anyone would understand.  She didn’t know why, but she loved broken men… perhaps – she realized when she considered Nineteen – it was because she loved superheroes.  She loved the broken man turned whole again as she was a broken woman become whole again in a new way, like an intricately-beautiful mosaic made of pieces of shattered pottery.

Nineteen had something of that, far more than Twenty-Six had.  Nineteen did not give up; he kept making beauty, kept finding beauty, kept being beautiful and reflecting the beauty of his friends, family, acquaintances, and of all the earth in his art.  Kept risking everything.

To Thirteen, this was the most exquisite thing on the earth:  Nineteen was like a mosaic made of broken mirrors that only became more interesting, more fantastical with every new shard.

And, though Thirteen knew she saw this in him, she wondered, always, if Nineteen saw anything of the same in her quiet, shy attempt at polished presence.

Twenty-Six, however, was like an ancient Japanese bowl, broken and mended with gold… except that Twenty-Six never wanted his gold seen; he was too ashamed of having broken at all.  Yet, Thirteen loved him for all that he was and boggled at his need for self-deceit….

Perhaps you do not yet know, but it is impossible to love someone who does not love himself.  Or herself.  It is impossible because they will reject every overture of true love; every gesture will be a great pain reminding them of all the things they’ve done (or thought they’ve done) for which they deserve punishment, not love.  They will, at the greatest points of receiving love that they deem undeserved, respond with such fierce cruelty towards the one who loves them as to make themselves all the more undeserving, mounting cruelty upon cruelty, present upon past, the new love paying the price for everyone’s sins.

This, Thirteen bore for years with Twenty-Six, as with plenty of men before him.  If only she loved enough, she believed, they would love her back; they would wake from their nightmares and find her there, loving; and they would be grateful, would love her in return.  Even just a little bit.

But it never happened.

This was what Thirteen was coming to see in her life when she first encountered Nineteen.

She was single, pushed away by yet another conflict with Twenty-Six.  And so, for so many reasons, she found herself careful when expressing herself to Nineteen, cautious like a feral kitten who wants nothing more than to love and be loved, who wants nothing more than a good scratch behind the ears that would inevitably and very quickly melt her into a puddle of purrs and forever-loyal adoration, despite her wild upbringing.

She was certain she gave away everything she felt when her eyes found his, every time.  She was sure her eyes melted into great, blue pools as soon as Nineteen spoke to her, was sure he saw her offer her vulnerability up as a gift every time, which he took gently and never abused, always handed back after a warm exchange of words, and she felt herself touched with a glint of gold.

She went to see him this time to say goodbye.

She suffered with the knowledge that she was leaving, suffered because she loved him, suffered because she wanted to tell him everything, this time; to tell him that she loved him even if he didn’t love her in return; to tell him that no matter where she was on the planet, she would watch for him and his successes on social media, would be within reach, would always admire and love him for his gentle, honest ways and for his eternal positivity.

She wanted so much to reach out, sometimes, to just kiss him simply, to express her heart wordlessly.  But nobody does that.  Certainly, girls don’t do that.

She walked into his store, glanced around when she found no one near the entrance.  ‘Well, why not?’ she asked herself silently.

“Nineteen?” she called into the other room.

He peeked his head around the corner, saw her and smiled warmly.  “Hi!  Thirteen, how are you?”

Thirteen beamed, as she always did when she received one of his precious smiles, given readily to all who entered his domain.  “Hi!  I’m good; how are you?”  And she walked over to him, then found herself embraced, as he always did with her, as he did with all of his friends who came to visit or to buy something.  Thirteen returned the embrace affectionately, squeezed herself tightly to him, breathed in his scent; then deliberately released Nineteen’s tall, muscular body.

His eyes flashed merrily and he grinned, “Thanks, I’m great.  Working on a new project and it’s going really well.  What’s new with you?”

Thirteen glanced at the ground near his feet and frowned momentarily.  “I’m going to France for a bit.  Traveling; I can’t pass it up.”  She looked up into his wide, questioning eyes.  “I wanted to say goodbye.”

Nineteen watched her with gentle curiosity, his eyes concerned but his voice reassuring.  “Well, that sounds great!  So, what’s wrong about it?”

I’ll miss you, she almost blurted.  It’s stupid, but I’m in love with you.

She held her words, gazed at him silently as truths swam thick and quickly through her mind like a school of fish.  She chose the easiest one. 

“I’ll miss you,” she confessed.

Nineteen’s concerned look softened and he rested a hand reassuringly on her arm, “Oh, but you’ll be back.  You’re sweet… and you’ll share everything, I’m sure.  It’ll be beautiful.  Where are you going?”

Thirteen managed to rattle off her anticipated travel plans while scolding herself severely for not being fully open with him.  Just tell him the truth! she chided herself.

“…Nineteen…” she said, finally, looking into his eyes.  “I’m in love with you.”

She paused, awaiting a reaction, awaiting something that would give her a clue as to her next confession.  He was surprised, but only faintly; there was something of fear in his demeanor, and yet, he stood unmoving, generally accepting her words and their gravity with incredible patience.

“I’ve been in love with you for a while; you must know it.  I can’t help it; and I wouldn’t want to help it if I could: you’re too handsome, too sweet, too gentle, too….”

Thirteen’s words trailed off as she watched his eyes change, softening somewhat, yet tainted now with some deep and unfamiliar intensity.

Thirteen inhaled sharply and felt her breath stop short, her body reading the look in Nineteen’s eyes fractions of seconds before her mind coagulated a conscious meaning.  She felt a flood rush to her head, and his hands raised to her hair, gently pulled her close, and he kissed her.

It felt to her like all time stopped, that she moved in rhythm, in response without conscious volition, and like no conscious acquiescence was needed.  She kissed him with the relaxed openness of floating in a still, warm pool under a bright sun; he kissed her with such measured intensity that every subsequent word became unnecessary as, spilling from his mouth to hers, he responded and explained all of the unspoken depths they had held, for years, having kept a friendly distance between them.

It was a conversation that would have taken days, had words been used.  It was a conversation in which he acknowledged everything she had said and felt and meant in those few brave sentences that she pulled from her chest and gave to him.  He kissed her, and in that kiss, kept everything outside of them away, kept every possible distraction far beyond the realm of interruption, this moment too important to stop and start again.

And, when he stopped kissing her, some minutes later, Nineteen looked taller, stronger; and Thirteen glowed with revived peace.

His eyes were clear, certain, when he looked down at her sparkling blue-grey eyes.  His arms rested easily on her shoulders; his long fingers remained entangled in her hair.

“Don’t go,” he uttered, and the words sounded like a breath, like a whisper, like those quiet urgings spoken in one’s mind that we so often don’t listen to; that never punish us for not listening.

Thirteen’s eyes fluttered; her mouth twitched in stunned half-protest.  Her full lips parted to speak, and he cut her response short.

“Don’t go.  Stay here with me; you can move in upstairs.  I’ll give you your own space if you want it, or you can sleep with me; whatever you like.  You can come travel with me; I have several trips planned this year.  They’re not in Europe, but… if you want to….”

What started as confidence grown of a true connection faltered only enough to give Thirteen the respectful choice of her independence.

“…If you want to, I would love to have you with me.”

Nineteen’s gaze shifted from a respectful request, from a plea, to a gentle sales pitch.  His eyes twinkled as he spoke:

“I’ll teach you all I know.  You can write, take photographs; we’ll explore the towns…. It will be nice to have someone travel with me.”

Thirteen listened, thunderstruck.  Her eyes watched Nineteen’s glinting, merry brown eyes as he spoke; her heart pounded, demanding the obvious answer, threatening to jump out of her chest if she did not speak the answer verbally.

“Are… are you serious?”  It wasn’t that she didn’t believe him; it was that she no longer trusted reality.

“Yes.”  Nineteen smiled gently at her and shifted his hands to hold her jawline in his large palms.  “Yes, I’m serious.  Will you stay?  Say you’ll say yes.”

Her breath stole the reply before she could think:  “Yes.  Yes…”

Thirteen blinked like she was waking up from a long and traumatic dream, terrible only because everything had been just slightly wrong; and this… this was reality.

“Yes, yes; yes, I’ll come with you.  Yes, I’ll stay with you.  Yes, oh my god, yes.”

Photo ©2012 MLM

Beyond Reality

Sometimes, I wonder if he’s not the end of the world;
The end of me
The end of everything I know and want,
The end of all my desires,
The end of all my dreams

Somehow, that doesn’t frighten me;
I want it all the more
The end of all my past and future,
The end of the here-and-now…

If, in the end of everything
There is nothing but passion and love,

Then we exist in infinity, foreverness,
Between worlds and existence
Where words have no meaning
Where there never was a lie
Where dreams go to be born and die…

Silence speaks so loudly
In the nebulous ether
Of you
And I

Photo ©2015 MLM

The Muse

“The trouble with a muse,”
(my dear friend said)
“is that one cannot control it.”

I am bound by the aches and pains,
By the emptiness and the questions that remain
In the absence and the silence of this reign
Of my forever love affair with you

I am bound to find the answers that may hide,
To bear the passion and the weakness of our tide,
The forever pull of being at your side
In my forever love affair with you

I wonder sometimes: If you loved me true,
If your sad heart could calm its changing hue,
If your mind's eye could see, at last, its due,
If your dear soul could finally renew
In your forever punishment of you
Would we, at last, unlock the clues
To a forever life of me-and-you?

But, who am I to ask of you to shift
When all we are has led us to this rift
Where our hearts hold fast and souls can freely drift
Amidst this waning love affair with you?

Photo ©2017 MLM

Crosswinds

Somehow, he had managed to have them upgraded to first-class seats.

Somehow, she thought, when he doesn’t even have air miles or priority status.

He was just charming, that way.

They boarded and found wide, comfortable seats next to each other. She loved flying first-class: she loved the free alcoholic beverages (even though she didn’t drink that much) and the cute snack baskets in which flight attendants carry so many unnecessary goodies (even if they were things she’d never eat at home); it felt like when she was a child on road trips with her parents. Her mom would always pack coolers full of soda and water bottles, would pack bags full of their favorite munchies so the kids wouldn’t be anxious or obnoxious on the trip and Dad wouldn’t have to stop “every ten minutes” to satisfy one child’s or another’s hunger pangs.

They hand out blankets, in first class, when you’re cold and pillows if you need them; and they are always unfailingly nice.

He leaned over and buried his nose in her hair; lingered. She smirked, turned her head just slightly towards him.

“Hmm… comfortable?” she asked.

He smirked, his grin only visible from the shift in his cheekbones that she could make out peripherally. “Mmmmm…” he hummed happily. He parted her hair with his sharp nose and pressed his warm lips against her neck.

She shuddered, let out a soft gasp and tilted her head oppositely to give him access; his teeth sank impressionably into her skin.

Thirteen lived her life with a strong awareness of the world around her; but, when she was with Twenty-Six, it was challenging to maintain even in the best of times. …Well… let’s make that: ‘even when he wasn’t touching her skin.’ But her habitual love of observation, of learning all she could about the world around her always kicked in, demanding she become aware, considerate of others despite the inconvenience it sometimes posed to various parts of her life.

Twenty-Six knew this about her, and it was one of the things he enjoyed most. He knew of her duality of purpose: both to learn about and to love the world for what it is, while breaking every rule that bound her to those traditions and ways of thinking she considered antiquated or obsolete. He knew, also, that it implied Thirteen would only inconvenience others or disturb their comfort as a result of her behaviors if she considered her pleasure, behavior and priorities to be – very innocently – more important than theirs… particularly when she assessed they might learn something from her daring nature.

So, Twenty-Six took pleasure in testing Thirteen’s boundaries, even if it meant he irked her sometimes. He loved playing games, and she was – quite literally – his favorite playmate.

Twenty-Six shifted his teeth meaningfully, pressing his sharp incisors just a fraction deeper into her throat. Thirteen’s low moan and the throbbing pulse beneath his lips indicated that Twenty-Six was winning the attention he prized; he paused and lightly licked the warm skin caught between his teeth.

She shuddered again and closed her eyes, goosebumps raising all over her skin.

Suddenly, Thirteen jerked the rest of her body to attention, her eyes open slightly, and glanced around the plane like a doe watching for predators. Her head and neck did not otherwise move.

So far, it seemed they were unsettling no one. The businessmen across the aisle were caught up with their martinis and cell phones; she could see no one else who might have noticed.

Thirteen lifted her hand and stroked Twenty-Six’s cheek, hidden under her waves of hair; then gently herself pulled herself away.

Twenty-Six did not move, but watched her with wide, child-like eyes. He murmured, his voice low and facile, “What? You didn’t like it?” The twinkle in his eyes and smirk forming at the corners of his mouth could not be repressed.

Thirteen’s lashes lowered shyly, acknowledging that her handsome companion had achieved his ends. She leaned over to his earlobe and, her hot breath falling upon his skin, confirmed:  “…You’re driving me crazy. You know you are….”

One side of Twenty-Six’s mouth lifted to a victorious half-smile.  He had wanted to push her more, had learned her limits, knew when was best to push them… and this was Thirteen’s way of saying she wanted everything he would deliver (and possibly more than he had yet contrived), and that she trusted him enough to break every foul rule in every book, was ready and willing to walk together, unabashedly, straight into Heaven or Hell or jail or whatever-might-result from doing so…

But that could wait.

Twenty-Six had been with plenty of women over the years, and none was quite like Thirteen. There were women more ravenously eager, more carnally-driven, but he had long ago lost interest in them. They were, to him, the soul-equivalent of vultures and hyenas:  They had a job to do and they did it exceptionally well; no one could fault or criticize them for any of what they were. They were even – and often! – quite physically beautiful, kind, sweet ladies; but he found their motivations shallow. There were no hidden parts to women like that; there were no discoveries, no surprises.

There were women, too, more naively innocent than Thirteen… but they just made Twenty-Six feel dirty, evil, cruel when he toyed with them. Which, he remembered well, he had.

He played with women for years on end, until he met Thirteen. He was even expecting to play with her, when they met… until he quickly found he couldn’t. The longer he gazed into her immortal eyes, the longer he spent looking at any part of her, the more he felt connected to her… and the more he saw of her. She was so open, so guileless… so vast. It was like she started, at first glance, as a mere female, then took shape as a sensual and beautiful woman, and then just kept expanding infinitely… while, somehow, she managed to keep her multitudinous universes spiraling, growing inside her very feminine figure. He didn’t quite get lost, but sometimes… wouldn’t it be fun to? Because, god, she was beautiful…!

He had confessed to her the game he played with other women, when they met. He confessed his reasons for playing: that he was bored with the women he met, that they did little for his intelligence or for his ego; that it was no great boost to be considered fantastically-attractive by women to whom he was only physically attracted. He had used women like one uses drugs, needing more and more, becoming increasingly less satisfied, intrigued, happy…

And he confessed his original intentions with her.

He fully expected her to walk away from him, at that last point. He fully expected her to hate him, to judge him, to consider him absolutely beneath her — and, she didn’t. Even when, many times, he hated himself for what he did with women.

The memory flickered through Twenty-Six’s mind in an instant as he watched her; and his playful mood shifted urgently to express his mind’s subconscious, intense conclusion. His hands lifted to hold her face, his eyes poured silently passionate emotion into hers. His heart felt like it would burst if he did not do something; his blood surging through him like a flood, he felt a nearly-overwhelming desire to take her, then and there.

He pressed his lips to hers instead. He held himself there, held her face strongly, gently.  Their lips did not move for eternal moments, the river of his energy rushing into her, binding them together with the exact effect of touching a live wire.

Finally, after what seemed like eons, he felt his passion ease just a fraction; his lips parted and the primal part of his psyche took control. Their lips parted synchronously; his tongue found hers and danced, lapped at her mouth as he drank renewed and intermingled energy from her like a thirsty animal at a crystal spring.

She responded perfectly; there was no thought in her but him, yet her awareness of the entire plane, of the entire world became increasing complete. It felt, to her, like his passion drove her entire body and mind into perpetually-heightened states of relaxed sensitivity; this feeling – however in her life she could find it – always felt like surfing, like riding the crest of a wave into complete understanding.

Her cheek twitched suddenly, involuntarily, and she opened her eyes, glanced up. A pretty Italian stewardess looked on with eyes that admitted she’d been admiring their love for more than a few seconds. The stewardess smiled gently, her eyes approvingly warm, and her cheeks glowing with a gently fresh flush.

Thirteen gracefully pulled away from Twenty-Six and took his left hand in a fluid motion as uncomplicated as as the ocean’s waves pulling away from the seashore. Thirteen smiled slowly, easily, her cheeks and lips now painted several shades brighter than the stewardess’.

Twenty-Six’s gaze shifted from Thirteen’s face to the window for brief moments, his mind assessing the undesired pause. He turned his head towards the stewardess, lifting his eyes only enough to peripherally appraise the situation.  His jaw tensed and he fixed his gaze on the seat in front of him. His heart was exclusively Thirteen’s; and he was visibly annoyed at the disturbance. Thirteen’s thighs shifted under her skirt and Twenty-Six’s tension eased a fraction, redirected. His mind focused distantly, flicked through all of the things he would do to Thirteen if only this damned stewardess would leave.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but we’re preparing for departure,” the stewardess explained, glancing down at Twenty-Six’s face in an attempt to catch his unyielding gaze. Failing, her face flushed lightly and she shifted her eyes to Thirteen.

Thirteen smiled warmly at the girl and thanked her. Thirteen’s thumb lightly brushed the inside of Twenty-Six’s tensed thumb as the as she spoke; the stewardess smiled apologetically and walked away.

Thirteen moved her fingers to lay flat under Twenty-Six’s, then slipped her fingers between his and squeezed gently. His face had hardened slightly, his eyes narrowed. His hand tightened on hers fractionally, a hint of possessiveness breaking free.

“Why didn’t we stay at home?” he grumbled.

Thirteen’s lips curled into an entertained smile and she laughed. “You silly man. Because you wanted to show me that tiny island you love.” Thirteen’s eyes danced merrily as she watched for his bitter expression to fade.

Twenty-Six turned and looked into Thirteen’s merry eyes. His lips relaxed into a grin, her joy and love infecting him once again.

He shook his head lightly, like shaking off the dust of ages from his mind. His gaze fell again to her flowing skirt and he released her hand carefully. Twenty-Six leaned towards Thirteen and kissed her lips lightly.

“Right,” he uttered, slipping a warm hand beneath the light fabric at her knee, ripples of goosebumps raised in the wake as his fingers traced a line from her bare thigh to her hip.

Photo ©2016 MLM

I’m Sorry, Darling…

I'm sorry, Darling,
the light is fading,
though the love does not wane

I'm sorry, Darling,
the world must go on,
my life must go on,
you must go on

We must learn
from those pains,
from those sorrows

we each bear;
from the frustrations,
from the highs and lows
We must take something

We must love

I'm sorry, Darling,
but you have neither control
of Light or Dark

The Sun remains The Sun,
and the World, itself, is turning

Watch as the Sunset erupts into immortal flames across an infinite sky;

When you're in the right place,
at every Beginning and at every End,
it is impossible to deny
her beauty is as great

Now is the sunset of our love
Now is the end of you-and-me

Photo ©2016 MLM

Between the Lines of X.Y.Z

The Way I Wanted It To Go

This is not a story about you; how could it be?
It’s just a dream, a part of me.

MLM

Of course, she was angry.

She had just shared a very intimate staring contest with a fabulously-gorgeous guy who kept looking back at her, speaking to her without words, over and over. She was utterly helpless, completely confused. She was attracted to him; he was attracted to her; yet, he didn’t approach her. What was she supposed to do, interrupt him in the midst of the group and say hello, give him her number? She had no desire to throw herself at him, especially when he was the one who had initiated, who kept initiating contact, who kept breathing down her neck from across the room.

And then, to stare at her again while she passed to go to her car, watching so openly with his friends as if she was on display, and not even to bother standing up?

The unspoken conversation was too much for her; she had more dignity than this. And yet, he pressed upon her mind as intimately as…

Well, she didn’t want to go there.

Damnit. Yes, she did.

She walked to her black vintage Mercedes knowing he was watching her ass. Well, she thought, if he wants it, he’s gonna have to come and get it.

Her body tensed sensitively at the thought. She didn’t have to envision anything; the promises, teases and taunts he had already explicitly explained with his chestnut eyes’ steady gaze were implanted into her mind; she was sure he very precisely knew what he was doing and what it would do to her.

She paused for a moment before inserting the key into the door, felt her skin bracing pleasurably, involuntarily; she let out a low, breathy moan. The endorphin rush flooded her brain; her body relaxed, aroused. She inhaled the warm spring air, deeply.

“Hi.”

Thirteen jumped, clenched the keys tightly in her right hand; turned around.

He was there, two feet behind her.

Her body – confused and disoriented by the flood of conflicting messages her startled, excited, aroused mind was sending – convulsed in invisible tremors that, had she been more conscious of herself and not so fully aware of him, would be completely familiar. Instead, her mind reeled rapidly, trying to remember what to do or say to a man one desires so much, one whom, only moments before, had infuriated her with his lack of follow-up to his silent, indecent proposals.

She steeled her mind instinctively. “Hi.”

She smiled without thinking about it; his face beamed suddenly in response, his small, brown eyes steadily fixed on hers.

The conversation lulled in a very electric way, each of them appreciating, assessing the other for long seconds, though Thirteen speedily assessed herself fractions of seconds before she could assess him. He seemed genuine, open, honest; and he had surprised her.  This hardly seemed the same guy who had stared her down inside the coffee shop; she had been certain he would not follow her.

“Uhm, how did you get here?” The words spilled out of her mouth before she realized what she was saying; and, becoming conscious, her copper skin flushed red beneath her freckles. Her throat felt like it was closing in…

“I mean…” she stammered and flushed crimson.

His eyes lit with gentle amusement. “I walked. My car is parked over there.” And he gestured vaguely towards the left.

She blinked once. “Oh…. Oh, of course. Uh, I… uhm…”

He cut her off, smiling. “I’m Twenty-Six. The End Of The Alphabet.” And he grinned again.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, yes, right. Pleasure, Twenty-Six. I’m Thirteen.”

Thirteen didn’t know why, but her stomach suddenly felt tight, bottomed-out. She felt nauseous, terrified, sad – all at once. She frowned, gazing blankly at the asphalt near the front tire of her car, and her shoulders tensed uncomfortably.

Twenty-Six’s face followed suit, his narrow lips turning into a concerned frown. He reached out his right hand to rest upon her shoulder and pressed his fingers carefully. “Thirteen? Are you alright?”

Thirteen looked up sadly, her hazel eyes turned the color of an overcast English sky.

“No,” she replied, sullen. “This is just a dream; and you’re not real.”

Twenty-Six stepped closer, his hand still on her shoulder. “No,” he replied, “I am real, and this is not a dream. I’m real, and you’re beautiful, and I couldn’t stop myself from gazing at you, in there. Your eyes….” He blinked. “Your intensity…. Your intensity is amazing; I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never seen anyone like you.”

She blinked, her eyes rimmed and glassy with emotion. She paused a moment, pursed her lips briefly and looked into his eyes. “Well, you’re beautiful.” She said it like a dare, the tone one of a childish come-back.

Twenty-Six’s worried look vanished, replaced by a delighted smile, and he laughed mirthfully. “Oh, yeah? Well, I already called you beautiful, so you’re stealing my compliments. Try again.” And he grinned.

Thirteen’s face lightened, and she smiled. A moment later, and the light in her eyes danced merrily. She smirked impishly. “Well, you’re gorgeous,” she intoned. “And a fantastic dresser. I love the suit and I love the shoes. And, you’re nice, too. … I didn’t think you’d be nice, too.”

Twenty-Six’s face flinched a little. “I’m not always,” he admitted. “I have quite a temper, or can have. It’s gotten me into real trouble before, so I try very hard to control it.”

“Oh,” Thirteen said, and paused to think. “Well, that’s okay; I have a bit of a temper, too… and I can get really frustrated sometimes and I throw a little bit of a fit, and sometimes wind up crying out of anger and frustration. Is that okay?”

Thirteen looked up into Twenty-Six’s eyes with genuine innocence.

Twenty-Six smiled warmly, “Yes, of course it is. Anything you feel is okay. If you didn’t feel it, I wonder if you’d be so beautifully intense.” He paused for a moment. “Please, just be you. And I’ll just be me, too. …If I wanted less than you, I wouldn’t have come here to meet you; I’d just have left you hanging… but you’re too beautiful.  And I wanted to.”

Thirteen checked Twenty-Six’s eyes for any sign of deceit, and found none. She sighed softly, her full chest heaving, and her shoulders relaxed. “Okay. I… Okay.”

“Do you want to go somewhere else, to talk?” he offered. “It’s not that I don’t want you to meet my friends; it’s just that, well… I want to get to know you. And I’m not yet ready to  share you.”

Thirteen’s cheeks flushed lightly as she smiled. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’d love to. Your car or mine?”

Twenty-Six grinned boyishly. “Yours? If you don’t mind? It’s much nicer than mine, and I love it. Want me to drive?” His eyes twinkled.

Thirteen laughed, one level of tension finally broken. “Sure. It’s gorgeous, don’t you think? It’s my dad’s, but he lets me drive it. I love it. Handles great.”

Twenty-Six smiled, pleased. “Thanks. I’ll be careful; I always am.” He took the keys and unlocked the door.

Thirteen walked around to the passenger’s side, opened the door and slid onto the leather seat, smiling happily. She looked over at Twenty-Six, watched as he adjusted the seat and mirrors. He glanced at her, saw her gaze and grinned. “Thanks a lot. …You’re really special, trusting. And beautiful. I could look into those eyes for days….”

The tension suddenly shifted to Thirteen’s heart as he stared, kept staring into her eyes, feeling out her soul. Her cheeks flushed hotly, burning; and yet, she could not withdraw her gaze from his. Her breathing deepened steadily; and Twenty-Six kept looking, speaking an ancient, silent language into her soul. She felt her grip on herself steadily weakening, overtaken with the certainty that, very soon, she would be willing to do literally anything for this man.

He leaned over the center console and, with his right hand, held his palm flush to her cheek. His gaze became simultaneously incredibly gentle and deeply intense. “There is so much I want to tell you,” he confessed, “so much I will tell you.” He hesitated, and she felt the hesitation like a sudden release of the grip on her heart.

Twenty-Six dropped his head, resting his forehead on hers, his warm palm still pressed against her reddened cheek. Thirteen’s heart raced; she could feel her pulse thrumming in her temples. She lifted her own right hand and placed it on his cheek. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

He blinked hard, lifted his head and looked again into her eyes. This time, his face was only half-an-inch away from hers. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re a good person, a good girl.”

Twenty-Six’s face moved reflexively closer, his lips almost brushing hers… and he stopped, pulled back, and brushed his thumb softly, slowly across her lips.

“Soon,” he assured her, looking at her lips. He lifted his gaze once more to her eyes. “Soon, I promise.”

Thirteen’s eyes welled, thick with tears. She nodded. “Okay…. Okay.”

One tear escaped and rolled down her hot cheek, near Twenty-Six’s resting hand. He wiped her cheek gently and spoke. “No more tears, okay? It’s going to be alright; and you may cry later, if you need. But, we’ve found each other, and we’re going for coffee and will talk all night, if you like. It’s going to be alright.”

Thirteen gazed, hopefully, searching, into Twenty-Six’s guileless eyes, and found what she was looking for. “Alright,” she responded, nodding. She pulled herself back into the seat, glanced again at the beautiful boy sitting in the driver’s seat of her car; and buckled her seatbelt. She smiled deliberately.

“Alright.”

Photo ©2016 MLM

The Sounds of Freezing Rain

I don't care if you are beautiful,
I am done with you

I don't care that I love you

I don't care about our past,
I don't care about our future

because love was meant to last

I don't care for your intentions,
I don't care for your mistakes;
I don't care for our desires

This must end before I break

I don't mean it for a minute,
I don't mean it for a year

I mean:

I can't bear this feeling
of you calling me your "Dear"

while you test that my heart beats
for you through the test of time

while you promise me your friendship
when devotion is but mine

I don't want to hear your sweet voice

I don't want to read your words

and should you chance upon me

please don't ask that I abjure
either love or firm abstinence

for my heart and mind must heal

I have chosen life without you
'til your heart you will reveal

Without love, there is no friendship
without friendship is no love
possible between two people who

may swear to skies above
that they are true, that they love,
that they care for one another purely

and yet, wish for something different...

as when you ask me to demurely
sit, or walk, or feel for you,
abnegating all my soul,
deprecating all I value
and then, playfully, cajole

me into bearing, yet again,
my heart

such is neither kind nor true

I don't care that you are beautiful

I must be done with you

Photo ©2016 MLM

What Happens When You Let Your Dreams Wake You

I was sleeping, dreaming an unusual dream, when I woke suddenly

I stepped outside the room and looked through the tall, glass window in the centre of the loft

Clutching the robe to my chest, I walked down the steps, barefoot, onto the dew-drenched grass

My cold feet braced against the shocking pain of the stony path as I made my way to the misty field

And he saw me

Some dreams are worth the waking

Moments by Mark Gilligan

Oceans of Mine is Extremely grateful to photographer Mark Gilligan for sharing his original works

Mark can be found on Twitter at @MarkGilliganHr

and on WordPress at

Mark Gilligan Photography

For other inquiries, please use the following form:

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Liberty

You were here with me
in my dream

I would rather you were here,
colors gleaming gold and copper in the sun
through the jet of your coat;

I would rather you were here,
walking paths 'round the fields and along the streams

I woke; without a thought, planned to wander,
you scampering at my side,
your brightness alighting my life;
your name come to life

I can see you still

My heart aches to have you here:
I wonder how you'd be with those 
seven heads taller than you,
how many creatures you would reign

You were always magical:
your wide eyes alert, awake, alive;
your presence a piece of synchronicity

Maybe I was here to save you, in your youth;
maybe you were here to save me, too.

Maybe I was here to give you my heart, my love;
maybe you were waiting to let me love you

Maybe we always knew we would part,
maybe you knew everything I didn't know I knew

All I know is that I know you, still,
and that you know me too

All I know is that I love you, still,
and that you love me too

First loves set a mold in our hearts,
I've heard it said;
you, my cherished one, broke every mold,
broke every hated rule:

You were the one who explored with me,
you were one who loved without questioning,
you were the one who is all and more than you are

My beautiful boy:
if love is an instant and a foreverness,
if forgiveness can be begged of you,
love knows you forgive me and miss me, too:

Forever apart,
forever with me,
forever loved,
forever true:

My beautiful one,
my Liberty;
and I am yours, too

Photos ©2015 MLM

This Side of Nothing

It’s not what I thought it would be.

I gained a good thirty pounds, I’m sure.  They still say I’m sexy, and maybe I am…. Sometimes I feel so, and mostly I just don’t know.

I never thought I’d be so comfortable lounging around in the late English summer, breezes blowing coolly across a grassy lawn and stirring the leaves in the trees so they sound like ocean waves coming ashore, RAF planes flying overhead at indiscriminate intervals.

I didn’t think I’d feel so comfortable after starting to fall out of love, to rest so gently on its precipice.  I’ve always thought:  If I’m out of love, I’ll be alone.  I won’t be me.

But I’m not alone.  And I’m still me.

Maybe I’m even more me than ever.  I certainly express more of what I think and feel, in the moments of thinking-and-feeling.

And he’s not too bothered, not enough to wish me gone.  Perhaps it’s because I still love him….  Perhaps it’s because he loves me.

I’m just, more or less, alone.  Exactly the way I like to be.

Falling out of interest with falling in love, but sitting on this precipice, nonetheless.  Not in love nor out of it, but just loving.

It’s funny, because it’s what he talked about from the beginning, what he’s been so concerned that I feel, more than anything:  That I’m comfortable.

I didn’t want to be comfortable.  I resisted fiercely.  

I’ve grown so accustomed to being uncomfortable, to being on the verge of falling off a cliff of some sort or other, to facing my fears, to facing my demons, to mirroring others’ demons so they can face them.  It’s not always fun, but the coming-out is; and it’s always rewarding.  You inhale a great breath as you walk out of Hell and you never know where you’ll end up.

Before, you were often there, or rather, you’d come around again to check in with me, to check in on me.

C: “How are you doing with your injury?”

M: “It hurts, and it’s very swollen.  I have to take the pain meds pretty regularly, and I get really tired.  But it doesn’t hurt as much as it did.”

C: “…How are you otherwise?”

M: “I’m lonely.”

C: “What about the 50k guys that were swarming you?”

M: “That’s why I’m lonely.  Swarms mean there’s no connection and the real people can’t get through.”

C: “I understand.  I am kind of a needy male, too.”

C. & M. text conversation

I told him when I met him that I’d lose you, if I fell in love with him, if I ever wound up with him.  Was it Fate or some strange connection between us, some strange agreement made long ago in an unspoken language?  Whatever the case, the timing was as queerly precise as ever.  And, boy, did you seem angry.

But I guess I’ve walked out of Hell again; and, instead of you (or anyone, really, except for him), I’ve ended up on a very cozy, quiet farm in the east of England where the birds chatter all day and for most of the night, where the farmer is flirtatious and kind, where the horses nibble grass all day long, and the foxes cry at night like complaining factory machines.  The doves, however, drive me crazy with their plaintive coos that sound, to me, like a sleeping baby with a bronchial infection.

And I am alone all day long; kept watch over all night long.

I thought I was coming to Europe to run – actually, to sail – away from my problems and into myself.  Greece was gorgeous, but it didn’t work the way I had planned. I was sad that I had nowhere to go next, that my plans were dashed.  And you made it clear that I was not to come visit you, expressed in no uncertain terms; and I couldn’t alternately arrange to visit my friend in Italy.

So, I returned to England.

Sex with the Englishman I’m with is grand, but it is not enough.  But I knew that with you.

Nor is it an escape.  I knew that with you, as well, but I never knew it so well as I know now.

Supplant “sex” for “travel,” “TV,” “books,” “writing,” or “work” and the truth clings intensely in all cases:  

Not a single one is ever enough, in itself.  Not a single, solitary activity can ever be a viable escape.

You want to know what our problem was?  I’ve wondered for seven years.  

It wasn’t money, neither having exorbitant amounts to spend frivolously nor suddenly having next-to-none.  It wasn’t that we loved our love life and explored voraciously.  It wasn’t your history or mine; it wasn’t even your jealousy or my vehement heart.  

It was our isolation, yours and mine, from each other, and from ourselves.

Particularly from ourselves.

I find myself as isolated as I’ve ever been in my life, now, for most of the day, for most days.  I still wake up vibrant and excited when I know I’m going somewhere new to explore and see things I’ve never seen before, to indulge in my passion of connecting with strangers, to let my curiosity guide me.  I can wash my bare feet in frigid ocean waters as comfortably as burying my toes in warm sands under the intense sun.  I wander sweet-scented woods, wondering at the ages of gnarled trees and all they’ve seen.

The difference in my thinking is that I’ve realized that no one thing can be everything, no matter how much I love the activity.

Because: In-between atoms, what is there?  In-between the protons and electrons and neutrons, what is there?

There’s a whole lot of nothing, with everything floating, colliding, meandering.

And that, I’ve realized, is where I like to be: In the ‘nothing.’  

The past, the present are somewhere in all of that nothing, all of my feelings and all of yours and everyone else’s, too.  There’s an endless supply of possibilities… maybe not everything you or I would wish to be, and most certainly some things we don’t favor, but plenty that we do, or might, or could.

Right now, between us, there’s not much.  There’s our past, but I’m not really holding onto it anymore.  I daresay there’s nothing between us, except perhaps my love for you (which may or may not reach you) and whatever you feel for me (which may or may not reach me).

And I’m okay with that nothing.  I can sit very peacefully in nothing, having spent a lot of time in it, listening to the cacophony of guilt and accusations and suppositions and wishes and dreams racing through my head.  Having let it be, having remained doing nothing, being nothing, I can listen to a whole lot of things.  I can remember nearly anything I want; I can look and examine the past or the present, or dream about and even try to plan the future.

I start to realize that the only reason I wanted you with me, the reason I wanted to see you again, the reason I wanted to re-start our “something” was because I was so desperately afraid of the nothing.  I was afraid it would consume me, my feelings, my everything.  

Us.  

And you.

But: There’s nothing between us now, and it’s not consuming what we were.

There’s nothing between us now, and it’s apparently not consuming you.

There’s nothing between us now and I still love, can still love you.  And I still do.

There’s nothing between us now…

And you’re still you.

And, better still (because it matters so much to me, and in me is all of what I love, including you and us):

There’s nothing between us now.  

And I’m still me, too.

Photo ©2007 MLM

Listen, if you will.

These words are the result of Nothing.

I’ve been quiet for a very long time; most recently, for the bulk of four months.

That’s not to say that I’ve been silent or that I don’t speak my mind to people, nor that I’ve been completely isolated of people.  I’m not repressed in my thoughts or feelings (though I do sometimes withhold or choose to express only certain thoughts and feelings).

Lawn Chairs on the Farm

But, by the nature of the way I am, and by circumstance of where I live, I am silent, alone with myself and my thoughts, my memories, my perceptions, the tides of my feelings for nearly nineteen out of twenty-four hours on weekdays, maybe twelve hours on weekends.  I bask in the dreams my mind concocts at night, consider which of the dreams I concoct during the day that I want to follow; I watch, with peaceful habit when I’ve thought too much, the tall trees brushed by invisible gusts and breezes; I listen, my mind aching and yearning for adventure, to planes from near or far flying over this quiet tract of land, to the repetitive birdsong of my contented woodland neighbors who put my mind at ease.

Of course, in this well-connected and media-driven world, there are always ways to reach out, across the Atlantic and back to my home to communicate with my parents, my friends.  There are always ways to distract my mind when it becomes too full of worry, of dismay at the stillness I now live after so many years of trial and turmoil — never mind that stillness is what I sought, never mind that a deep peace was what I need.  When the ghosts in my mind start screaming that I’m not doing enough, that I need to meet people, that I need to have some kind of adventure; when I can’t convince my body-and-soul to listen anymore to the quiet in the woods that I nevertheless always love; when writing and coloring and doodling is too frustratingly unsatisfying, I watch for hours and days some soul-wrenching series on a widescreen TV, a luxury I’ve not taken for much of my life.

It’s the stories that keep me, the well-written screenplays exploring gangsters’ lives in the 1930s, creative genii inventing worlds and monsters in believable and unbelievable ways to pull viewers in and make us look over our shoulders in fear at night.

I watch them with a passion, with a thirst for adventure that doesn’t exist in this phase of my life, with gratitude that, when my mind is filled with too much danger or fantasy or incredulity, I have complete control to turn it off with the press of a button and set the stories aside to embrace, again, the cool breezes playing with palm fronds and shimmering leaves or the languid, grey days.

This is the therapy I give myself daily, for months, as I ease myself into the truly-peaceful life I feel is mine.

Shefford Victorian Sea

Finally, it is hot in a way that is familiar to my Southern-born skin.  My mind pulls out long-ago-formed dreams of lazy walks on remote beaches under tall palm trees, of owning and creating a retreat so thoroughly, intoxicatingly relaxing that those who visit are changed while there, are converted to peace and beauty even after they leave, become so completely the antithesis of stress and commonplace angst that they change the world in the wake of their everyday lives.

I know this has been the dream of people, in various forms, through many ages; that even the hippies in my parents’ day were ultimately after this goal:  to spread peace and love.  It is the goal of many, even today, through so many venues of spiritualism and activism….

When I was a child, I watched and loved Fantasy Island.  It was, to me, the most beautiful dream of a place where people went to live out their fantasies, where real magic happened and people left utterly changed for the better.  My mind always wandered into reality and wished, hoped for, wondered where this place was in the world… wondered how one would create such a fantastical place.

I still don’t know how to create the place of my dreams such that others can enjoy it, can walk away changed from being in it… but I am certain that is what I am working on, more than any single piece of writing, more than visiting any single land, more than meeting any single culture of people, more than any single love affair.

River Fireworks

I didn’t leave “to travel,” and I always knew it, even before I left Atlanta five months ago.  I didn’t go to “see the sights,” to visit museums, to wander through cities — even if I love doing so.  I came to Europe to find peace, to find myself again, to get lost wherever I was in ways I’ve not been lost before – since that is the best way I have found to face the demons I’ve carried with me, and to make peace with them again.

I came here to be terrified of being alone, and, through that terror, to remember that I’m most well when I’m alone.

I came here to feel morbidly unloved, and, through that desolation, to love myself and let myself be loved.

I came here to be bereft of everything, to have utterly nothing but the clothes in my bags, to find that nearly everything I owned was of no use to me – even most of my clothing, my computer, my iPhone and all of my apps, my pencils and pens and coloring books, my notebooks and fountain pens and the gifts others gave me… none of it satisfied me; none of it fit.  I came here to discover that I am more well in myself, whatever size or weight I am, whatever little I was creating, whatever temperament I was in, however many days I thought I was wasting, however few people I had close to me…

I came here to learn what I always knew and forget, sometimes.

I came here to fall in love with myself again.

You know those people who you see and just fall in love with them, instantly?  That boy or girl who is just so fantastically beautiful, who moves in ways that mesmerize, whose smile is so charmingly profound that seeing it sends you into fantasies – whether the smile is directed at you or elsewhere?  You know those people whose faces you can see in your mind, whether your eyes are open or closed, to whom you feel connected even if you’ve only spoken a few times?

Filly Newborn

You know those people you fantasize about, who are larger-than-life… or sometimes just small enough that you want to put them in your pocket and carry them with you everywhere, like a totem that you can pull out whenever you’re unsure or alone or sad or frightened that will instantly make you smarter, brighter, happier, braver, more alive?

Everyone has them, I think.  And it hardly matters if they are as wonderful as we see them, as we imagine; it hardly matters if they love us or don’t know we exist.  They’re like angels, like fairies, like imaginary friends, and they make everything, everything better.

Well…

Imagine…

If that person…

Was you.

I don’t mean:  Imagine you were that person for someone else.  No doubt you are, for someone.  Knowing you are might even make life harder for you, for you undoubtedly feel you are not worthy of such adoration, and you might feel you now have to work harder to be the person you’re expected to be… and those expectations are sometimes unreasonable.  Unbearable.

I mean:

Imagine if you felt, knew, believed in and saw yourself as that fantastically-inspirational love.

This is not a pep-talk.  Such pep-talks rarely work, I have found.

What it is, is a suggestion.

Jordan's Mill Flower

Because, what I have found through loving many, many people in such bright-and-beautiful ways, in holding them as the ultimate prize, in adoring them with fantastical ecstasy, in giving them the position of muse and profound inspiration…

And finding that they yet hold themselves accountable for countless things, despite their successes or failings…

What I have found in being rejected countless times, in having my gushing adoration refused and ignored and placated and even sometimes accepted for a time…

Is this:

No matter how many people I love.

No matter how many people I adore.

No matter to how many people I give myself and all of my talents and passions and skills and knowledge.

No matter what I do.

Every single person I love is a reflection, in the most profoundly simple way, of me…

of what I love…

of what I do and can do…

of what I enjoy and can enjoy…

of the way I am with others and how I’m seen with others…

exactly as beautiful and quirky and broken and together…

as old and young, as spirited and complacent…

as kind and as cruel.

I am drawn, over and over and over again, exactly to me.

So, you know that person who you hold so magically beautiful that you cry when you can’t have them, when you sob because you’ve been rejected, when you ache to have them near?

That person

is

YOU.

And that’s the trick to never being alone, to doing nothing at all or all kinds of things.  That’s the trick to everything.

We’re just looking in a mirror, talking to ourselves, seeing and sharing the beauty in everything.

That is me.

Farm Rainbow

The Rights of a Conscious, Constitutional Citizen

There are times when I tell myself in frustration, when I ask myself gravely if I no longer want to be an American.

There are times throughout my life when I have so questioned the dissimilarity from many of my countrymen of my political, economic and intellectual understanding regarding the basis of my native country, having studied deeply and rationally for years its political and philosophical history, having learned the fundaments of economics, having lived in other countries and having learned at least a basic appreciation for their democratically-elected political structures; when I feel myself so distant and removed from others of similarly rational passion and disposition that I have wondered if I might be better off abandoning my country to live a solitary life somewhere… much as an unwanted wife might leave an unhappy marriage in which promises were broken and core responsibilities neglected, ignored and dismissed as her misunderstanding of the relationship, in which injustices have mounted and continue to mount without apology or defense of her agreed-upon rights, in which the abandonment of a beloved home seems the only, if regrettable, resolution and possibility for an independent life – hard as it may be – and the unrestrained pursuit of happiness.

These questions assail me when I am faced with the current political spectrum in America; when I am faced with the current Presidential would-be’s; and when I am faced with the multitudinously reflex-like, ignorant, uneducated and misguided responses by my countrymen to such events as Great Britain’s vote to exit the European Union in an act of re-establishing their independence as the wealthiest nation in Europe from an unelected organization of bureaucrats and regulators who have, for the entirety of the existence of the EU, dictated to the citizens of every participating nation how they must run their businesses, engage in trade and immigration, and more.

I cannot stand to see such flagrant dismissal by my fellow Americans of the value of independence, whether in our country or in another.  Still, the connection seems too clear; the reason comes to light as I observe from afar my country’s constant response to the limited “choice” of those presently vying for leadership of our country: people whom we constantly cry out that we do not trust, do not want, in whom we do not believe… and yet, amongst whom the bulk of the United States and the world is accepting will determine the next leader of the United States!

I cannot stand by and remain silent any longer.

I cannot bear to watch the so-called ‘Presidential Debates,’ in which the media and whatever powers have sway over the topics discussed divert attention from the true responsibilities of P.O.T.U.S.:

I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my Ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.

I wonder, as the debates rage on, as each candidate makes raging promises to the populous for all sorts of changes, by what right they feel they have to make such changes, whether elected or not — particularly when so very many of their proposals and promises break so many tenants of the Constitution.

Have we Americans forgotten that this little, old document is the basis for our life and livelihoods?  Have we forgotten that it has been repeatedly ignored, trampled upon, undermined, bit-by-bit and then more and more flagrantly by the leaders of our nation — whom we elect?

I cannot help but wonder:  How many of our elected officials have read the Constitution end-to-end?  How many comprehend the meaning of the language therein?

And:  How many of those conducting debates of political candidates have read and understood the Constitution; and why, if they understand it and the gravity of responsibility any elected politician might hold, would they direct discussion away from projected upholding of the key job descriptions of any Federal politician, when they have those job descriptions laid out in black-and-white, as agreed upon, and as yet unaltered except by ratified Amendments, two-hundred-and-twenty-eight years ago?

I wonder:  How many American citizens have read and comprehend the archaic-yet-articulate legalese of our Constitution?

That there will be debates over the meanings of our core political document is without question; there were debates even when the document was written, over clauses included and excluded, over wording and placement of wording; and there have been debates ever since.  But, why not voice those debates that may exist now — if any such do — unless we no longer respect, love, cherish and uphold the Constitution?  And, if we do not… should we not be open, as citizens of the United States, to expressing, as potential political leader or as ordinary citizens, if we find the document dismissible, no longer valid; and then allow for discussion of what comes next, instead of maintaining the farce of our current political sphere, instead of avoiding the discussion altogether by forcing sub-intelligent banter between power-hungry individuals to take the fore of our consciousness; as if such chatter had some validity; as if we were without other subjects to fill our mind and attention, without other persons to protect and uphold our fundamental values; as if we must accept this half-witted conversation as the only one to be had?

I, for one, have had enough; and I want my questions answered.

I, as a citizen of the United States, get to choose what person, amongst all people who are legitimate options – as outlined by the Constitution – I believe will perform the duties of the President of the United States of America in the upcoming election.  It is a hefty job to uphold a Constitution that I cherish dearly, and I would like to know in detail what each and every one of the wishful leaders thinks about every sentence, clause and paragraph of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, and how he or she plans to fulfill the responsibilities of preserving, protecting and defending the Constitution of the United States.

As citizens of most countries, unless we are being mistreated, we take for granted our citizenship; we take for granted that our countrymen – including and particularly our country’s political leaders – will protect and care for us in whatever ways the nation’s fundamental principles outline.  Some countries may not have a written document stating how citizens are to be protected and what rights they have, and what rights and ways the leaders may and may not take in their duties as protectors.

We, in America, have such a document.  It is called The Constitution of The United States of America, and it was first ratified on June 21, 1788; and has been amended, in small fragments and with extreme occasion, in the years since – as was provided for within the original Constitution, itself.

This Constitution, by way of ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment, is the only reason why I am, by law, bound to the land that is considered “The United States of America” — yet, if the entirety of that Constitution is not preserved, if it is not protected, if it is not defended in the true spirit in which it was written, then I am no longer an American, because that document is no longer valid, because America’s founding laws no longer hold weight, and because America, as it was created, no longer exists.

I may be a citizen of the country of my birth or of no country whatsoever, as circumstances and truth may have it; but I am not and will never be a slave to a brand.

~ Libertas

Tempted to the Realm of Woodland Sprites

I finally went for that walk I wanted to take around the back side of the stream. It felt good being in my flip-flops and tank top, even with the nettle plants and thick overgrowth. I needed it more than I realized, far more than I gave it credit – even if I coughed raucously as I walked, death rattles of this persistent sinus infection.

It was beautiful. The tufts of flowers sprayed poofs of pollen on my black top and pants as my feet stepped on dark earth, stepped over and around tall, green stalks of small purple and pink flowers that bees fancied so much, I talking to my flying friends in warning so as not to startle them into stinging me. I felt like Alice, wandering through giant gardens….

It was curious, too: here and there were large patches of growth that something – some animal or erratic person – had smashed down to the ground and trampled more in some places, less in others. I kept wondering if it was a deer or a fox… But it couldn’t have been a deer, for the patches would have been deeper; and I would think that foxes would be more spindly than to make such messes of the flowers. It hardly makes sense, too, for any human to have knocked down the growth along the sides of the path, as opposed to on the path. As a matter of fact, nothing showed that anyone human had been on that part of the footpath in a while, the overgrowth was so tall and thick throughout.

And the stream rushed by, no further than ten feet to my left, the only live body of water in my regular vicinity since I left Greece and the Aegean Sea a few months ago….

…I still miss the sea, the ancient beaches of stones smoothed by millennia of gentle waves caressing the rough edges away, beaches where it was easy to bask in a warm sun’s rays and cool my tanned skin in cold, crystal-clear salt water, where the luxury of nature made it so easy to understand how volumes of art, wisdom, beauty once came of the inhabitants there.

But I had left the sea to return here to England, where my heart had left loves, where I was not nearly finished exploring my own country’s motherland….

Of course I was mad – not because I wasn’t at the sea, but because… well, because I didn’t feel free. And my mind kept going back to all of the reasons I was mad; but the tall, flowering greens kept my attention, and I needed my wits to avoid the nettles and other spiny plants growing on the path. Even so, my bare ankle brushed one nettle plant and my forearm brushed another – I was only caught the two times, and the red welts are now already tiny marks on my skin that sting but a little, reminding me in an oddly-pleasant way of both the anger and the beauty of my forage along this infrequently-trodden path.

…And then it started to rain in light, sparse sprinkles (though no one here calls it “sprinkling,” and I’ve infused the term into my Englishman’s language as something lovely and akin to colored sugar sprinkles falling from the sky). The rain cooled my skin, warmed from the heavy walk; and I wanted to sit somewhere in the falling water to watch the greater, speeding waters flow past, burbling to no one in particular about its journey and days….

And then the path cleared, went on, over an unexpected concrete bridge where the stream was wider and flowing quite fast and deep. Perhaps I’d take off my beach shoes, damp with dew and yesterday’s rains, and sit for a bit….

It was a fleeting thought, though; the movement of my feet and body through so much green was closer to what I needed, and so much the stronger urge.

The path followed closer to farmlands, edged with old trees and tall grasses that showed this part wasn’t used very often, either.  I couldn’t tell if I would wind up walking all the way into town or to the gates I had seen before, on the other side of the stream….

I didn’t really want to go ‘home’, and my mind raced with reasons why I should:  what if the door was locked when I returned? What if I got caught in a heavier rain? The legs of my cotton pants were already swinging heavily with the dampness they had picked up in the thick, and I was still recovering from this illness….

It didn’t work so well as I would have wanted to erase the pain of the evening’s madness, and my mind rang with the article about wisdom of that Greek ancient, Hippocrates, of walking until one’s mood has improved — and if, by the time one has ended one’s walk, it has not improved, to walk some more.

I could have walked all day before my heart found peace, I think.

And, even as I reached the long, granite-graveled lane, even as I stepped into the hot shower, I knew my heart needed me to walk some more.

For, as terrifying as it was to risk being stung by plants and insects, as cold as I am sure I would have become had I been caught in a storm, it was safe, too, to be amidst other natural things that grow strong and tenderly, that brushed my body in gentle-if-sometimes-painful caresses as I wandered down an unknown path in a foreign land that feels yet not unknown; and some part of me wanted, with each patch of pressed-down foliage, to sit and stay and watch the bees and dragonflies and butterflies and wasps and other flying things, to see snails carrying curling shells up spindly stems, to wonder at the huge, black slugs and other crawling things beneath my feet… to lose myself deep in the green, as quiet and unbroken as a woodland faerie, lost from any who would not be as natural and free with themselves, who would query and misunderstand my eager return to my own nature and freedom… who won’t let themselves be, and cannot, therefore, truly let anyone be.

The Elusive Poetry of a Misty English Evening

The sky is white-grey in a way I’ve never seen before, except in movies.  It mingles with the silence of this farm in a blanket that feels warm, embracing, romantic, especially as the birds are not yet asleep; and their high-pitched calls to each other embellish this scene like golden-threaded embroidery.

I’m in England again.

I could sit and stare for hours at this line of trees along the path to the road, especially in this light:  They and the birds and the tiny black bugs stand out in fragile, muted silhouette against the empty canvas of the sky; a living tableaux, displayed perfectly by the thick, black window frames.

I step back for a moment, in my mind, and realize that the architect must have planned this out, must have known these vast days and nights would be made more picturesque by four panes framed like this.  He must be humble, to create such a thing that lends one not to appreciate the window, but the beauty beyond….

And my eye is drawn back to the white sky outside and that line of trees that barely move in this quiet spring rain.

I am a fool to think that anyone else can live like this; and I have been told often enough by friends, lovers, enemies that I am different, that I see and live the world differently; and I always protest.  But the reality comes now, as I sit inside a tiny renovated barn at a table that is not mine and behold a scene that could only belong to me in happenstance, an accidental gift from a man who profoundly cares for me – and whom I can barely even consider in this moment because of the profound feeling of wonder I have for nothing more than those unmoving, dark, spindly lines on that infinite grey-white backdrop inside obsidian frames…!

I could suggest that others come to England and behold the beauty of the rolling hills from which, in mornings, mists arise and hover with sweet-scented grace beyond the city of London – mists and hills and scents that inspired poets and authors and painters to create what sedentary city-people the world over can only faintly imagine.  Those things, only hours beyond London’s borders, are accessible to all, if one leaves the city early enough and drives down the well-kept expressways or through tight country lanes that curve in their own ambling ways through multitudinous old villages – where “old” does not even begin to connote what we Americans understand of the word; where thatched roofs atop buildings of centuries-old-brick are yet commonplace antiquities to residents and wondrous novelties to those youthful, pridefully-modern eyes that come, and look, and see.

I could beg of travelers to make friends of locals, as I have and do, and spend time in out-of-the-way towns and villages and shires that hold nothing apparent, which even the English beyond this area ridicule, that I visit for the sake of love and friendship and a quiet kind of adventure that I love dearly.  I fancy that I forage for adventure here – even though I see it all around me in the lingering sunrises and sunsets that last for hours, in the rich, upturned soil beyond the nearby fence, in the stream beyond this barn and the horses and their riders meandering by; in the owner of this farm whose friendship I’ve already earned with nothing more than my honest openness, quick smile, and a genuine interest in his work, his land, his barn.

I could suggest that friends and loved-ones let their hearts take them where they may – even walking barefoot into stinging nettles on chilly days and through soothing, soft, black clods of not-quite-mud; along horse-trod paths where long, silken grasses grow just beyond the reach of nearby thoroughbreds that one mustn’t touch.  I could suggest that those who read this befriend and ingratiate themselves to someone with whom they mysteriously connect, and offer everything beautiful they have to give, that they may find what their heart yearns for….

Except that I’m told, over-and-over, that I am different; that no one does this.

And, I guess, it’s true.

Because:  who will make themselves so vulnerable, so exposed, so fragile as to not know what will happen from day to day?  Who will let themselves live in a moment so completely that every moment before and after threatens to crush one’s mind with power and complexity and fullness that comes in nearly-certain waves of uncertainty?

I know very few.

So:  I can write and tell of these beauties I see.  I can tell true tales of love, of a white sky opening, finally, with the faintest hint of blue to let the clouds beyond display themselves for a moment before fading altogether, this evening, into a single sheet of translucent grey-blue.

But I cannot suggest that anyone attempt to live or duplicate this life… for it is, and it remains, uniquely mine.

Romanced by the Motherland

It’s not supposed to be this sunny in England, this often.  Even today, the weather report on my phone promises mostly clouds and a 50% chance of rain in six minutes… and, while I see the clouds steadily marching in, the sun persists.

It’s not warm, by any stretch of the imagination. The wind blows in strong, cool gusts that tease the fronds of grass along the fence-line in the exact way I tease my love’s hair, brushing it again-and-again the wrong way, just to watch it fall back into place.

And the rain finally comes, half-an-hour late, streaming in insistent beats from a now-grey-white sky, as if to tell me it will do as it wants and the sun may not have my full attention; as if to tell me that even the sky happily indulges my Englishman’s and my playful tales of his power to bring the elusive, illustrious rains for my pleasure; of my power to bring the sun to this usually-cloudy land after captivating Helios’ affections while in Greece until a week ago.

It rains in sideways-streams as my darling drives down the long, gravel path from the road, past the horses and the dark, upturned soil just beyond the beautiful barn reno that he — that we live in.

It’s somewhat stunning to realize that I’m living here as much as he, and sometimes living here more, since he drives off to work in the mornings and home in the evenings, while I actually live here all day when he’s gone.

I wandered away from the house for the first time since I arrived at this lovely country home a couple hours north of London and incidentally met the landlord as I walked along the horse-path next to a pretty little stream bordering the property.  The silver-haired man drove up in his red car with three dogs inside, stopped beside me and stepped out of the wrong side of the car to gently-but-firmly ask who I was.  I smiled, as I always do, and explained that I’m staying at the loft with his tenant; I saw his clear and lively blue eyes shine back at me as his own smile broke across a beautiful, weathered face.

We got on immediately. He teased me in a way that I believed was earnest (for a moment) about my “awful color” – the bronzed skin that I brought back from Greece that contrasts starkly with that of this Englishman, whose pale skin betrays the normally-cloudy-and-cool conditions that keep most residents well-covered.  While in London a month ago, I stood out because of my wild, merry eyes and quick smile; I now stand out even more starkly with the mark of the sun god on my skin and gold-streaked hair.

We chatted for a while as his daughter’s black-and-white springer spaniel ran to the chase the ducks and fowl near the stream, impressing me with a confident, gently-firm manner he must have learned over many years and with many animals.  Every moment I spent with this farmer made me like him more.  My mind delighted in his wit and charm as we chatted; and he explained to me that the people in his village would be more likely to converse with me than those folks I might meet in London.

I’ve since been queried harshly by other Englanders on social media as to why I would spend time in Bedfordshire – which seems a silly question to me, as here is where my heart finds itself well-cared-for and extremely happy and restful on this quiet farm with a man I fell in love with years ago.  Adventure is dictated by one’s nature, I think; and I had plenty of adventures in Greece that would fit many people’s definition of the word; while here, on an out-of-the-way horse farm within walking distance of a small village, I find the kind I most enjoy: Discovering myself, taking long walks and making strong connections with random strangers, and falling in love.

I haven’t yet found that the citizens of Clifton are very chatty; but I’ve only walked around the town twice and only once spoke to locals at the butcher’s while picking up a bit of fresh produce.  While it is obvious that my American accent is quite a novelty here, I do best when I’m with my Englishman:  People catch some part of our lighthearted banter and, seeing a curious look in their eyes, I include him or her in our conversation.  Perhaps if I was to take some time in a pub….

Whatever the case, I was tickled by the landlord, that gentleman-farmer who stood before me in red coveralls, obviously as charmed by my wildly-American, childish openness as I was charmed by his display of English breeding that flirts ever-so-gently with impropriety without ever crossing the line.

And I am charmed by this land, by the gorgeous cobalt clouds laden now with rain, highlighted by the hidden sun.  I love this quiet life where, once-upon-a-time, artists like Jane Austin and Vincent Van Gogh were inspired to create their individual masterpieces of love; where the active mind can rest and find itself joyful in the tiniest of things: In flickering blades of grass and gentle horses and proud-but-nervous pheasants.

And, though I love the city of London, I would rather inspire Americans to come to the countryside, where our childishness is cherished, where our naivety finds a welcome home – if we are open and honest; where our busy and hard-working souls can find respite in the arms of our motherland — one that knows us, in paradoxical truth, better and as distantly as any mother may.