prose – Oceans of Mine

Muse

We write; and it is not with a blind eye that we see ourselves, nor with deaf ears that we hear the cries of our hearts and souls – and those of others whom we love: mother, father, sister, brother, cousins, aunts and uncles, friends and strangers. We write; and we catch a glimpse into the emotions we already know, the pains and sorrows, the joys and fathomless depths of those around us whose lives swirl like dervishes that only barely brush our cheeks, that only briefly caress and embrace us. We write; and a moment lasts forever, every microsecond of emotion held within our bellies to nourish our lives forever, to nourish others who might read – or to upset the stomachs of the guilty who might recognize, in this, their wrongdoing.

We write; and the world exists.

For, there may be billions, trillions of truths – one for every moment that exists with prismatic possibilities; but all are lost to the depths of darkness unless we capture, for a moment, this.

And so, I write, am spurred to write; and understand, in this fuzzy state of emotion brought on by salty beer and sadness at the loss of one so great as The Great Gatsby’s Fitzgerald, why it is that he drank and felt this to be the only state in which greatness might be achieved: For, it is hard, so often, to swallow the same truths that linger in our minds and memories as we recount for the world what it is we see. They are painful truths, even the most beautiful.

For, if we were living, now, we would not write; and if we did not write, we would, somehow, cease to be.

To All of You I’ve Loved and Lost

I studied everything you gave. I learned. I lived. I changed.

Darlings,

You may have broken my heart a hundred-thousand times.

You may have hurt me physically, hurt me mentally, hurt me emotionally.

You may have cut yourselves off from love, and cut me off in the process. Maybe you just cut me off.

Maybe I’m too much for you.

Maybe I’m too intense for you.

Maybe you didn’t know how to handle all the love I expressed to you.

Maybe I was wrong, and maybe I was right.

Maybe, sometimes, you just weren’t ready, you didn’t like something about me, you couldn’t put your finger on it but it just wasn’t right.

But certainly, I’ve changed because of all I’ve been through, all you – all of you – have put me through. I changed because I loved; and if you loved me enough, I’m certain that I changed for you.

But here’s the thing:

If you would love me enough, if you had talked to me enough, if you’d been brave enough to face your own heart and emotions and mind, if you’d been open enough to talk it out with me, tenacious enough to stick around…

We could have had something beautiful. Something amazing. Something wonderful, whether it lasted or not.

Instead… I studied everything you gave. I learned. I lived. I changed.

Because that is how I must live, so I don’t kill my feelings, so I don’t live forever and ever and ever in underscored, unspoken pain, trying to understand how this has happened again.

Love – whether mine or others’ – changes me. It changes me, because I feel.

So, when you’re not sure if you’re brave enough to love, or even just to accept my love; when you’re not sure if you can speak your heart and mind because you’re afraid to hurt me; when you go silent, dumbfounded by the enormity of me: Just be true to your feelings, and you can’t go wrong.

Or, to make it simpler: Just be true.

But, regardless of everything: I still love you because I still know how to.

P.S. My love belongs to me, until you’re willing to take it. Then, it’s ours, from me to you. I’ll never beg you back, but if you come back humbly, respectfully, it’s all still here, with me, waiting for you.

Open Letter to a Lost Love

Let me tell you a little bit about love, from my view

Let me tell you a little bit about love, from my view:

Remember my fingers, trailing on your chest after I unbuttoned your shirt, slipping through the curls of hair that perhaps no one ever loved like I do? Remember what it felt like to look into my eyes?

Maybe you don’t remember. But I do.

Yes, darling; you’re right. I do deserve to be loved as magnanimously as I love you. I understand that you’re intimidated, that you feel you’ll never match the soulful gazes I give you.

Yes, love; I understand your fear, and all of the trepidation you have when you consider me, when you think of the possibility of loving as much as you did, of having it simply vanish into a black depth, into an empty death that seems to pull you, too.

Yes, angel. I know you.

My heart has been broken many times before you. I’ve cried so many tears, I’ve thought I would choke on the pain. I’ve wondered how I’ll ever breathe again, how I’ll ever step from my bed. I’ve felt a mind full of vice-like pain so great, I swear, I’ve wished I’d die.

But, of all the things I’ve ever felt, the greatest horrors were the realizations of the numbness I’ve felt, the vast tracts of memories stolen by pain, by fear, and held far from me, held silently from me, truths I never at those times knew.

Love breaks.

Love breaks, my love. Love breaks your heart and makes you feel; love breaks your mind and makes you aware; love breaks all boundaries and sets you free; love breaks all rules and suddenly…

What will you do?

You’re a flowing mass of energy.

You have no words.

You have no rules.

You have no understanding.

You look in the eyes of someone who’s learned to harness love, who’s learned to sail in love, and you think, you think she’s got it together. You think you’ll never learn to be with her, nor with anyone, because here you are, a mass of unbidden feelings – and with those feelings come insecurities…!

You look, you feel; you’re lost.

And you can see those feelings you pushed away, all of those feelings you don’t want to feel of painful pasts, of insecurities…

And you deny love. You don’t want to feel love, because it will break down all of those walls. It will tear down all of your defenses. It will leave you vulnerable, and you will feel sometimes empty.

How, tell me, how can you feel empty when you are in love?

Because, my angel love:

Love breaks down and lifts away, and sweeps away, and cleanses all of those corners where pain existed…

And love does not feel like pain. Love does not leave traces of ache. Love is like light: it shines upon you and on all of your spaces, and shows you every little thing; love is like water, as strong and as full, but flowing and washing everything away, given enough time.

And what is left, my love, feels empty – as it is not sticking so terribly to the corners of your mind, to the bulk of your mind, demanding your entire energy.

So, you ask me to take my love and go away because you do not feel as I do.

My darling, did you expect to?

Do you expect your heart will swell with joy when the light of my heart shines upon all of the pain you hold closely?

Did you expect to surge with love when you’ve cut off and dammed up the very source of your love, when you swell only and exclusively for children, born of your pure love and innocence?

Did you expect you’d have less of an effect upon me, when you slip your arms around me, unbeknownst to you, giving still more than my parched heart has felt in so many years?

Did you decide you don’t want to listen anymore, to feel any more simply because love is so new to you, again?

Two

He wasn’t there at all; it was just the music that made her heart ache, swim, stir like those moments when they had kissed, when he had touched her hand, when he had reached to her cheek and held her so gently, stroked her hair softly, gave her all of the love that he now thought he couldn’t give.

He wasn’t there to kiss her thighs, to kiss her knees, to kiss her calves and her ankles, to worship her in that way that felt like she was a part of love, like they were both a part of the same love, worshiping some sacred moment, some higher power with every religious slip of a tongue, with every precious pressing of lips. Yet, he was there, the whole time: The music sang to her in the same way he moved along her body; it soothed her in exactly the same ways his lips broke — with easy, warm kisses — her iceberg tension; it enveloped her in exactly the ways his arms enveloped her, his energy wrapped around her; it slipped into her ears exactly as his breath, his conversation entered her mind, feeding her soul more thoroughly than any other nourishment.

He would be a part of her forever, now – as he had been a part of her through all the years apart, despite forgetting how she’d loved him once, long ago, in such a youthful, hopeless way. For now, they’d had conversations as adults; they’d made love as adults; they’d held each other’s eyes and bodies as adults: with full consciousness.

She didn’t want any other, and she thought she’d likely wind up with another, at least for a time.

When she was with him, though… there was no other. There was only him. Two, alone, and her.

And that was all there ever needed to be.

The Treason of Humanity

No one wants to know how much it matters to talk, how vital it is to express oneself.

But no one tells the birds to be quiet, or the crickets to be silent.

Nothing but fear and instinct shuts them down, causes them pause – and it is only a pause, to better assess the situation, to gauge their safety and the safety of their community. A pause…

And then, back to what they were saying, doing. Singing to who-knows-what in the middle of the day; chirping to the stars all night long.

But we humans?

We learn to speak, and are silenced immediately.

We never have a chance to sing to our hearts’ desires, to speak to our minds’ content. We cannot ask the millions of questions, cannot share the billions of things we’ve learned.

We are shut down by mother, father, sister, brother, grandparents, aunts and uncles, teachers… by everyone. Not engaged. Not even distracted. We are bound to listen, to obey…

To relinquish our freedom of speech before we ever know what that means.

And we wonder at the lack of intelligence in our day.

We are confounded at the dissolution of marriages, of families, of relationships.

We wish for peace…

And yet, we cannot, will not speak, will not allow hearts to speak…

Though we cannot help but love those few who break through the silence, the rules of self-oppression.

I would give anything to listen, and to speak.

To be me, Meri, for all eternity.

And so…

I shall.

Politeness is treason of our own humanity.

Do What You Like

Or: Self-Indulgence on a Summer Morn

(Originally published on Medium.com)

It is this bizarre trembling that I wake to, this sensation of needing to get up, to do something — and, instead, I sit; I write.

This is what you crave, what people crave to do, what they are tempted, lured to indulge in. This is the drug, the addiction; this is the overindulgence that we call “intelligent” — when it is really just indulgence, really just a cure for those who overindulge in something else more physical, just the drug for those who are addicted to reading, to sinking into someone else’s mind.

Here. Here is my mind; here are my thoughts, poured into my fingers pressing upon small buttons on a mechanical device to appear on a page and rest here, to be read by you, to be read by someone, to be read by no one and forgotten for who-knows-how-long (maybe forever?).

Here is the flow of my mind; the depths of my soul lurk somewhere underneath, deep within my mind in ways only I can feel, sitting in my lap like a child waiting for the time when I will indulge him, her in a game of hide-and-seek or some coloring, or a walk in that ridiculously-high heat of the Arizona summer.

Here is my life, or the culmination of my life, anyway; and you do not know (or do you care to know?) that I am surrounded by piles of books, a scattering of pencils to the right of me, and pens; a cup of lukewarm coffee made too sweet to drink, mixed with almond milk and raw sugar, molasses instead of cream-and-white-sugar, since I don’t really want the sinking feeling in my gut and instant-sugar-rush from traditional coffee condiments. My roommate and I are too lazy, too carefree, too care-less to bother with even bringing dirty dishes to the sink, washing them regularly, clearing the table of the stifling mess; he plays his games when he gets home from work, and I sit here all day, mulling, writing (when I feel the urge or give into the demand), playing writing games or reading to sink into another world away from the reality-of-me.

I’m heavier than I like to be; and I don’t give a damn that anyone thinks I’m sexy as I am. I put on at least 30 pounds that I’ve managed to keep, while traveling to England last year; and, though I lost some of it while working at the country club most recently (six months ago?! How time flies when you’re doing nothing but brooding!), I’ve put it all on again.

I could lose it, if I walked daily — especially in this Arizona heat. It was 115 degrees Fahrenheit at 4:30pm yesterday, when my roommate and I walked from the grocery store, laden with veggies, apples, pasta, things for me to make for us to eat. One-hundred-and-fifteen degrees, which I may have experienced once or twice as a youth in the suburbs of Atlanta, but it’s a dry heat here, and for a natural blonde like me, even one who tans, but who has not been acclimatized to this kind of heat, I found it stifling, draining the energy out of me until I felt dizzy.

He put away the groceries when we got home; I advised him as to what went where as I sucked down one, two litres of refrigerator-chilled water dosed with a raspberry-flavored electrolyte-powder so I might start to feel normal; then munched steadily on organic sea-salt-and-lime-flavored tortilla chips with peach salsa: sugars to increase my blood sugar; salt to replace what I had lost to my skin whilst sweating.

My roommate, a very-dark Hatian-American, was still dripping sweat; large drops formed on his forehead and streamed down his face, the dry comment that followed from the kitchen proving his own loss of salt: “Don’t you love it when you get sweat in your eyes??!”

We discussed the natures of black-people-versus-white-people in this heat with a leisureliness evident of our true friendship: he joked about and explained with such casual acceptance the biological whys of negro slaves kept by white slave-owners that I felt like the weaker side of the human race. I was dizzy for well over an hour while he kept moving, sweating; his more-efficient body cooling himself with the puddles streaming down his face, pouring off of his body proving that only he, of the two of us, could handle the heat that we both love.

I could burden myself with guilt about the condition of our shared living space, the fact that I haven’t done the laundry this week — though I keep telling myself, nearly every day, that I should get up, brave the embrace of that hot hallway outside the door of this well-cooled apartment, walk down those stairs and just put the laundry into one of those machines beyond the swimming pool. For that matter, why not dress in a bathing suit and cover-up, take a bottle or two of ice water, slather myself with coconut oil, and bake in the morning sun for a bit while the laundry washes and dries?

It’s 99 degrees, and it’s only five-to-ten in the morning. If I go now, I can get a suntan and have the laundry washed-and-dried before the temperature raises the additional twenty-one degrees that it’s anticipated to be by five-o’clock this evening.

It’s 99 degrees, and it’s only four-to-ten in the morning. The thought is mind-boggling.

I’m going to do it. Leave the clutter of this apartment, leave the unwashed dishes, and go do the impossible, the ridiculous: I’m going to slip into a bikini, gather the laundry and go downstairs, beyond the pool; and then lie there by the pool, soaking up the sun. How else will I acclimate to this heat? How else will I get the bronzed skin I love so much? How else will I have the clean clothes I want???

You think it’s simple, don’t you? Doing something that you want to do, but don’t want to do.

But you do the same, don’t you? All the time; every day, you avoid things you want to do:

You don’t love when you want to.

You don’t call when you want to.

You don’t write when you want to.

You don’t paint.

You don’t cry.

You don’t draw.

You don’t play.

You don’t listen.

You think my cluttered house is despicable, my lazy lifestyle is deplorable, offensive. And I tell you: it’s just the same. We’re just the same.

My life, like yours, is spent doing what I feel is most important. I sit inside my mind, listening, meditating to the sound of the air conditioner, awaiting the song of the mockingbird in the tree just outside, watching the leaves blow.

I’ve learned to know my feelings, to follow my heart’s and my mind’s flow. I know myself so well that I can put these words so clearly that you can taste them, feel them, know them as your own. That you can see my life. That you can sit here, almost, and deplore with me the empty Pizza Hut boxes, the empty Noosa yogurt container, the mostly-empty bag of granola, the scattered books and pens and receipts — all of which would take but a few minutes to clear up, to clean up, to usher away into the big, blue, metal garbage bin just down the hall, the other way, and down the other stairs.

Maybe I’ll clear that out, too, after all.

Maybe I’ll do all kinds of things.

But here’s the thing I know, that maybe you know, too, but that I have to learn day after day, and that my oh-so-black Hatian-American roommate whom I love dearly and who loves me dearly has me learn, day after day, week after week, while I live with him, on his penny, on his nickel, on his dime, on his quarter, on his dollar, on his life-blood:

I do what I like. There is nothing greater, nothing else, and nothing more important than respect of oneself, respect of one’s own life and love and time and values.

Indulge in all you love.

You’re indulging anyway.

To Thine Own Self, Be True

(Originally published on Medium.com)

Every single rule we set for ourselves in response to a negative situation is arbitrary. Every single rule we set for ourselves in response to a negative situation is suspect — due to the reactive nature of it, due to the circumstantial nature of it, due to the speculative nature of it.

Every single rule we set for ourselves without consideration for our heart’s path, our mind’s instincts, our gut’s reason, our whole nature is worthless and will lead us astray — and not into the life we want, need, love.

Every single rule we set for ourselves without full knowledge of our whole being, without our full set of values is going to hurt us, in the end.

And, since it is so very difficult to fully know ourselves, since it is a daily task of self-examination to know our thoughts, feelings, motives, ways, desires, needs —

Rules are, in the end, abominable.

This is not to say that there are no rules, that there is anarchy.

This is to say:

We hardly know the rules that govern ourselves, so setting rules for ourselves, when we do hardly know the truth of our self-governance, will necessarily lead us to self-destructive ends.

Find yourself.

And, as the Oracle at Delphi advised so long ago:

Know thyself, and to thine own self be true.

Seeds of Truth and Love

I once loved a man more than all the stars in the universe, more than nearly every cell in my own body, save for a few.

I once trusted that man’s reason more than all the reason of all the wisest philosophers in all of history, more than nearly every scrap of reason in my own mind, save for perhaps two.

I loved that man more than my own children, which drove them both a little mad – and which has certainly driven me more than a little mad.

I still love him; and that may be absolutely mad… but, once one has gone mad, can one ever truly be cured of madness? The psychologists deny the possibility; my friends insist upon the necessity; and who am I to say? I have gone mad and I love him still, love myself enough to love my madness and the journey into and out of it, thus far.

And I love our children more than him, I think (unless, in my madness, I am lying; though I think not); and I love myself more than him, certainly (for I have become transformed).

Once, in my consternation over a beautiful film and its profound message, he told me that most writers do not know the messages they deliver; that most writers are asleep; and I imagined it to be as if their minds simply catch onto meanings like seeds improbably planted in the ground, having been carried on the wind or upon some creature’s coat or in their stool.

Once, I believed him entirely.

I may still believe it, to a point; but, coming to write with increasing frequency, coming to know of more conscious writers, I am certain that, though we may not know the full implications of our words — just as we cannot know the full implications of our actions when we take them — there are more writers, more artists, more people who know at least something of their depths.

Perhaps I will find, one day, that my own belief is just as faulty, just as ill-based and fantastical as his own (which is not to say his is any less beautiful in its meaning, as I have always found it so).

Perhaps I will find that it does not even matter whether we are speaking in subconscious intelligence or that we know, at least in part, the depths we evoke. For now, all I can know or do is to write with simplicity the truths I hold and bear, the knowledge I have found and created, the worlds I have seen and imagined… and watch as those seeds grow.

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.

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.”

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.

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.
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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.

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.

He’d never cared much for strawberries, but that summer her lips were so stained with the juices that they were all he tasted.

And he’d never had a favourite fruit, but two years later, a new girl is sat in front of him, laughing at his jokes.

“If you could only eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?” She asks playfully.

And he remembers how her hands traced the veins in his neck and made their way across his chest. He remembers her soft breathing and limbs draped across his shoulders.

“Strawberries.” He tells her. “I could live a life on nothing but strawberries.”

S.Z. // Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #54 –“Strawberries” (via blossomfully)

~ So beautiful. ~

I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says ‘Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.’

Lewis Carroll
(via landscape-photo-graphy)

Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up.

Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum (via wordsnquotes)

~ Thank you for the reminder. ~

It is not humiliating to be unhappy. Physical suffering is sometimes humiliating, but the suffering of being cannot be, it is life.

Albert Camus, Notebooks 1951-1959 (via wordsnquotes)

I’m not interested in your past, I’m interested about what makes you tick, what makes you angry, what keeps you sane – tell me those things. You have my undivided attention. People waste so much time on reputation that they simply forget that you aren’t the same person who did those things back then, this is you. This is now… I want to watch you happen in this single moment now. Everything else is time wasted.

Unknown (via wordsnquotes)

~ True love exists in THIS moment. ~

My darling, you can’t see it, can you? How like the moon you are. Both of you so timid in yourselves; hiding pieces from the world. Then, there are those rare moments when you both are full, and it becomes hard to look away. You are beautiful.

Alexandria Drzewiecki
(via wordsnquotes)

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Or: Self-Indulgence on a Summer Morn

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