So Long, Andy and Mo

Baseball has a long season. It starts with the opening of Spring Training in late February, and usually ends at the beginning of November. Even for the worst teams, even if it's short-lived, there's a strange sense of hope that "this could be the season."  Baseball is a lot like life. It's a long, hard grind, one hundred and sixty-two games, five or six games a week. Who starts the season in first place doesn't necessarily end up there in October. There are many variables for a team's success. Talent is important, but in the end, it's often the team with the most talent, fewest injuries, and some luck that succeeds.

For Yankee fans, 2013 was the realization the glory days were coming to an end. In thirteen years, they won five World Series. The other years, they usually made it to the post season. A large part of that success was do to "The Core Four," Derek Jeter, Jorge Posada, Andy Petite, and Mariano "Mo" Rivera. In 2011 Posada retired. At the end of 2012, Rivera announced 2013 would be his last season. Due to injury, Jeter spent most of 2013 on the bench. And less than two weeks ago, Petite said this would be his last hurrah.

From April until June, the Yankees were in first place. Knowing that it would be Mo's last season, most fans thought, one more for Mo. It would be the perfect Hollywood ending. But a couple of weeks before Summer officially arrived, they fell out of first. For the rest of the season, they remained close to a Wild Card spot. There was still hope. Besides, the second half of the season was "Say Good-Bye to Mo Time."

For every road series in which the Yankee's played their last game, that team presented Mo with fare-well presents and wishes. It was touching and lots of fun. By late August, one knew the clock was ticking, but there was still more baseball to play, and still the hope that the Yankees could win one more for Mo.

Then September came. Andy Petite announced his retirement. It added to the sadness of Mo retiring. Andy and Mo were part of the Core Four. After 2013, only Jeter would remain. It was imperative that the Yankees make the post season.

Last week, through their loses and other team victories, the Yankees were eliminated from a Wild Card berth. The time had come for Yankee fans to face reality - an era had ended.

Last night I watched Andy Petite gain the final victory of his career. It was a 2-1 win over the Houston Astros, and a complete game - his first since 2006. He is the all-time Yankees strike-out leader and tied for first in career starts with Whitey Ford. He is also a five time World Series champ. Will he make it to the Hall of Fame? That is yet to be determined.

Mo Rivera is the greatest relief pitcher in Major League history with 652 regular season saves and 42 in the  post season. Last Sunday on t.v. I watched him say good-bye to thousands of fans at Yankee Stadium. Last Thursday on t.v., I watched Andy Petite and Derek Jeter walk to the mound to take him out of the game. Endings are a part of life. They are not easy to face, but we all face them. There's a lot that could be said about endings, and this ending, in particular. Derek Jeter said it best. When he approached Mo on the mound, he smiled, and simply said, "It's time to go."

Where Have All the Good Times Gone?

Most holidays give me the Willies. They seem forced, canned, and stifling. I like the day off, but I loathe the day. It reminds me of being part of the herd. It is the time to low, chew cud, and not be milked, branded, or herded. It is respite, but not true relief.

Yesterday, was Labor Day, and I had no expectations. I woke up in a humid steam bath. Instead of praising and reveling in this season, I cursed it, and took a shower. I took Pepito for a walk, but walking was such an effort. I daydreamed I was an terrestrial creature that decided the land was no place for me. I ambled to the shore, and walked into the ocean. I turned into a whale, and was finally happy. That was a pleasant thought for a few moments, then I woke up to reality, sweating and miserable. I drove home.

Arriving home, I was told that my ex-brother-in-law (we're still close) and his family would be coming over for the afternoon. It seemed like a good idea. It would be a chance to grill, which I love doing, and maybe, it would get my mind off the stickiness.

I set myself to the task of gathering Egg Plants, Green Beans, Cayennes, Cow Horns from the garden. I washed, cut them up, and seasoned them, then put them aside. Sweat was trickling down my face like little rivulets of prayerful angst in a sacred grotto. I went outside to light the fire. Being so humid, it took me three attempts before I was able to start up the coals. By the time the guests arrived, the food was cooking away, and I was quite satisfied in spite of being soaked like a much used sponge.

We had a grand time. We ate, recalled old times, talked of the present, mused about future, and we laughed a lot. It made me remember Labor Day's gone by when the family used to gather like it was breathing. These days, we don't mark the holidays with such vigor. They come, they go, and we say, "I can't believe it's already September." As the Kinks once said, "Where have all the good times gone?"

Yesterday, I found the good times again. They came in the form of people gathering to eat and share. They made me forget the humidity, and reminded me that, people are important. Yes, I am a member of "the Herd." I often loathe that name, but that's who I am to some extent, and from time to time, we all need to gather and to celebrate. It's not only delightful, but very essential.

The Last Day of August

Normally, this is the season of nostalgia for me. It's a time of looking back, and remembering the warm, contemplative season of fun. It is back to school time. It is Labor Day time - the last hurrah of events and picnics. Weather-wise, things are changing. The Dog Days of heat and humid give way to less humidity and cooler nights. There is a definite feeling of change in the air, but not this year.

Like the last three or four days, today is not necessarily hot, but very humid. The air is thick and heavy with moisture. It is swampy, weighty, and when I walk, or even sit, I feel burdened. The discomforting air leads to discomforting thoughts. I think of my life, and the things that aren't clicking in it. Just when I think things are taking off, they crash, and I'm back to square one. I know I have much to offer, and things will change, but sitting in this humidity, I'm stifled by heavy thoughts.

I need a cool breeze, but for some reason, it is not blowing. I guess that's life - some good, some bad, some hot, some cold, but nothing ever stays the same, and if you just sit and wait for things to change, nothing will. On that note, I will get my ass out of this chair, go over to the window, open it, and wait for that cool breeze that I know is coming. It will come.

Colonel Kurtz must have worked in Software Development

The contract ended a couple of weeks ago. It was positive turnout, but there was no more work, and I found myself without a paycheck. That stressed me. Besides, what is my future in Software Development? Do I really want to continue in this field?

Yesterday, I drove to a local barbeque joint, applied, and was hired on the spot. I start a week from Tuesday, and I must say, it made me feel good. I will do it all - cook, clean, wait on customers, and I may even help the owner with his web site. The pay is far less than I'm used to, but I look forward to doing something different - something in the food service industry where personality does count. In Software Development it's all about the task. You can be the most dynamic person in the world, but if you aren't a nose down coder, it doesn't work. If you don't think like they do, they don't know what to do. They won't tell you because they can't - because they just don't know how to express themselves. Frankly, I'm sick of inexpressive, blase people.

I've forgotten what it's like to work at a job where a good line gets praise; where they actually appreciate a good joke, or say , he's good for morale, or dang, he's a nice guy. In Software, none of that matters. It's all about the code. The Code... The Code.... The Horror.... The Horror...

You Cannot Pick Your Relatives.

Two years ago, when she came out to Seattle for a visit, she stayed the week, and we had lots of fun. We went out to dinner, made dinner at home with my ex, went for walks, went out for karaoke, and had some very nice talks. After she left, I said, wow, it seems like it's the start of  a better and  a closer relationship.  I was pleased beyond compare.

Several days after she left, I called her on my cell, and left a message. Days passed but the message was not returned. People get busy, and forget about left messages - that must have been it, I thought. After several more days, I tried again, and the result was the same. It might have been a week later that I finally received a call from her. Nothing was said about not returning the calls, so I left it at that.

During the next few months, the patterned continued. I was confused. Didn't we have a great visit? Why the avoidance, why the silence? Was there something I was missing? Knowing how fragile our relationship had been in the past, I didn't want to push limits, so I held my questions.

After a couple of more calls and emails, I finally came to the conclusion that she wasn't interested in having a relationship. I was hurt, disappointed, and angry. I tried to be open-minded, realizing that part of the reason for the break-down was me - for what I did or didn't do in the past. That said, I also realized, that during the past few years, there had been no incidents between us. Things seemed friendlier, better. I easily recognized my misdoings in the past. What about her - could she forgive and see her part or lack of it? In the light of things beening benign between us in recent times, why act friendly in person, then disappear into silence?

Since moving to Connecticut, I've seen her on several occasions. On her visits, she can be quite friendly, but when she's back home, I never hear from her. At first, I called her, even talked to her. All seemed well, but then I realized that she and someone else in this house call each other practically everyday. Does she ever say, 'Hey, how's he doing' or 'Pass him the phone, I'd like to say hello?' Never.

Last time she visited, she greeted my with a big smile. "Hey, give me a hug," she said. I did, but it didn't feel quite right. During the visit, we talked a bit, but didn't hang out. I really didn't feel like reaching out. I didn't make any motions to do things with her, and neither did she with me. We spent a week together in what I'd call "Friendly Indifference." I remember little else about her visit, except for two comments. One happened when we were talking about the garden, which at time, was coming into its own, and was growing by leaps and bounds, producing a variety of vegetables. I must say, it looked fantastic. The only part of the garden that was lacking was a little patch of Basil, which I'd planted as an after-thought, and was being overwhelmed by Beetles. Of course, that's what she noticed, and said with a smirk, "How come the Basil's not doing well?" I said nothing.

The other comment, I let pass, too. We were sitting around the dinner table in the presence of friends. Dinner was been finished, and we were conversing over coffee. I don't know how we came to the subject, but family came up. In a flash, she turned to me, and said, "We can't pick them, can we, Monkey?" It took me by surprise. It wasn't until later that I wondered if it was a coincidence, or was it meant as a dig in the protection of company? In past times, I might have challenged her, and been drawn into an argument. I used to react badly, and say some awful things. I became labelled a hot head, and an angry guy. But those days are over. I said nothing in response because, what can you say, really? You certainly cannot pick your relatives. And by the way, Relative, the Basil has rebounded, and is doing fantastic.

How did they do it a long time ago?

I don't remember it being so humid and hot in a long time. That's probably because I lived in Seattle for the last six years, and over there, you experience only dry heat. Heat is one thing, but couple it with humidity, and you've got a real struggle on your hands.

Last week after work, while walking up the steep hill to the parking lot where my car was, I became very aware of every breath I took. The sun and the humidity made it feel like I was carrying a fifty pound rucksack on my back. At the very top, I had to double over to catch my breath. There was another thirty yards to my car, but the walk felt like a mile.

Over the next few days, I had many similar experiences. Funny thing was, there were even times when I was resting that I suddenly felt very drained and very drowsy, as if I could just close my eyes and go to sleep right there. I suppose that's an effect of humidity. It drains one even at rest.

In all this time, I did not use an air conditioner. I could have, but I didn't. At night, the air cooled down enough so that a box fan in the window blew in enough comfort to merit a good night of sleep. That was during the first few days, but the heat and humidity didn't abate. I actually think it got worse.

One night, I slept at my girlfriend's, in an air conditioned room, and noticed the difference between the air in that room, and how Hellish it was outside. Immediately, I thought of the times before air conditioning. How did they live and sleep without it? I suppose there's all kinds of tricks one can employ when one has to, but, right now, it's too hot and humid to ruminate too much. Instead, I'll take it on faith that life sucked without air conditioning. That was then, and this is now. I will simply retire to my room and with one turn of a knob be cooled to Arctic delight.

Long Weekend Half-Way Over

Yesterday, I spent a fair part of the day trying to figure out what I was going to do. I'd get up to do something, then, after five minutes of ruminating, I'd sit down for another half hour, and start the process all over again. It was so hot and humid so getting into tape loop way of thinking was very easy to do. Normally, I don't mind the echoing. After all, much of life is repetitive. Computers are like that. They do the same things over and over again, and no one complains. I guess that's the nature of a machine.

I like to think of myself as creative and free-thinking, not a slave to habit, or compulsion, and that's probably what troubled me when I was unable to decide what I wanted to do yesterday. Besides, weekends pass so quickly. I didn't want to find myself late on Sunday afternoon saying, why didn't I do anything all weekend?

Today is different.  I went with the flow. I woke up late, and turned my back on expectations. Pepito and I took a drive. I bought a cup of coffee, then we went to a local wooded lake area for a walk. It was so cool and tranquil, and we so much enjoyed the scenery and seeing other people and their dogs walking that I forgot about what we were supposed to do. I just enjoyed the moment. Yes, I was in the moment as they say when you're an Actor. I was just an actor playing out my scene in life, and could have cared less about anything else at that time. Now that's living. And to be honest, if that's the only thing of consequence I do for the rest of the weekend, then I've done something grand. Amen.

Cultivating those Angels

Someone in my life is a control freak. She' always been, and probably will be till the day she dies. She's always engaged, always busy, but the funny thing is, few things get done. In her realm, there's many piles of paper scattered about, keys are lost regularly. Her idea of house work is sweeping five piles of dust in three different rooms and leaving them there until someone else picks them up. The bank card is never to be found when needed.  It's a revolving Easter egg hunt, but without the fun factor.

She has a great heart, but her help is often unwanted. What does she do? She does what she was just asked not to do anyways, often to the annoyance and frustration of the others. If you ask her not to help, she gets mad or hurt. She'll say that you're disparaging her, and why does she bother - no one appreciates her.

Just the other day, a person who helps her on a regular basis, confided in me. Now this guy has the patience of Job, and a fair amount of Mother Theresa in him, and even he was complaining. He confessed that she is constantly trying to help when he doesn't need her help. He smiled nervously, but I could feel his frustration.

Over the years, my frustration grew to resentment. I tried to talk it out with her, but, like all of us regarding certain foibles, she's never wrong. Before, I'd blow up, and argue, but now, I just smile and high-tail it out, making some excuse like I have a nervous colon, and have to run to the bathroom.

Yesterday, she said, we should spend more time together. Yes, I agreed, but after I walked away, I felt nervous, and thought, is that a good idea? 

As someone who is trying to cultivate the better Angels in me, it may be necessary. Why we behave in the stupid, ignorant, and appalling ways we do could be a reaction to some of the things we've suffered along the way. I've often wondered, after having experienced some of life's jolts, that, maybe, if there was someone there who could have listened, what a difference it might have made. Rather than point fingers, I ask myself, what can I do to make a difference?

Summer: heat and humidity, finally writing again

It's a sticky one. I sit upstairs in the t.v. room, box fan rumbling like a winded jogger, doing its best to blow the evening air through the room. Pepito, exhausted, lays on a blanket on the couch. I switch back and forth between The Dog Whisperer and The Yanks vs Texas. Down 4-1, now in the 6th, they battled back to 4-3. Joba's takes the mound - good luck. It seems every time he pitches, it's Christmas for the other team. Pop up. One out - maybe I can relax, and come to terms with my lack of writing output. I haven't been posting. Part of it is that I've been adjusting to my new contract, and so far, six weeks into it, things are good. Joba just gave up a two-run homer - when will the Yanks finally get rid of him? Anyways, it feels good to find my groove work-wise, but my writing output has been low. I could say writing is hard, and that it's even harder in the heat and humidity, but that's a lame excuse, and rather than make more excuses, I'm just going to say, tonight is the start of a new and lasting burst of expression, heat and humidity, Yankees win or loss - no more excuses.

Tuesday Morning Musing

Orange light
leaks through
that crack.
It glows sore thumb
bright
under the blind,
can't be ignored.
You try,
but it throbs
awakening you
beneath the blankets,
where you wish
to hold back
time.
It's impossible.
They say, anything's possible,
but that's just crap,
bible verse, Hallmark card
wishes.
Could it be true?
You know little changes,
but the garden grows,
so you anticipate August
like the end of a week
hoping, maybe,
in some
stolen moment,
there will be fruit.

Morning Blues

I finished my first week of my new contact, and it was as smooth as could be. Week one is always the honeymoon week. No day at a job is usually easier than the first or no week head-ache free as the first. Tomorrow starts week two, and the real work, though from what I've been briefed, the assignment is relatively easy. Even so, those little voices of doubt seems to rise up, and put a knot in my stomach and a freeze my heart. This is how I woke up this morning.

Remembering the past and bad times, I became stiff, and wished the sun would set, and night would fall. In stressful times, I hate the morning. I prefer seeing the sun sink below the horizon as it takes the worries and problems of the day with it. Morning represents rising up and facing those terrors. As I thought about this, I nearly had a stomach ache. I had to remind myself that this is a new contract, a new day, and the past is over. I thought of the Dog Whisperer and what he said about the subject. He said something to the effect of, what you experienced in the past is in the past, don't let it dictate to the present. I have to remind myself of this - too often I've let those little voices of doubt hand cuff me, and bring me down. In the end, nothing fruitful comes of it.

Instead of wasting the morning away, I got up, and got dressed. I'd love to live my life worry-free, but I know that isn't reality. I figure the best thing I can do is rise up and meet those challenges - that way I'll defeat the worry. Perhaps, little by little, I'll become so well practiced in the process that the process will over shadow the worry, and I'll actually see it as something joyful. That's my wish. That's my prayer. Today, I plan to enjoy a lovely walk. Tomorrow will take care of tomorrow.

Happy Birthday

I'm sorry that I was not able to be more understanding, being related gets in the way. It's always easier to relate to and to forgive when it's not a family member. Why is that? Is it because familial love is supposed to be given, and nothing is expected back? I can't think straight - what kind of Love is that again? No matter, we often take family members for granted, especially today when everyone has a "dysfunctional" family. What a cliche. I'm sick of the term. Maybe as a society, we've been coming to terms with denials and lies that have infected the fabric of families, but like A.D.D things have gotten out of control. It's become a blanket term for people who are unwilling to take responsibility for their part or lack of taking part in family matters. That is why I'm saying, I acknowledge my responsibility for not being the most understanding or loving son that I could have been. We talked of trying to talk about the past to understand what happened or didn't. When we did, it often ended in more hurt feelings. I am tired or hurting and being hurt. I do not have to be right. I refuse to cling to the past. For a long time I did, and it almost destroyed me. I'm learning to let go, and take each day as it comes. It's very liberating, and I wish to continue on this path for I believe this is truly, living life. My wish is that you, too, let go of the past, and walk boldly through today and all the days to come. May this be your best year yet. I love you very much.

You are the Night

Tented under blanket
the wind blows.
We are impervious to far-flung flickers,
distant lights bobbing on black waters,
little boats buffet, blink, blink
like pin-prick winks.
It tastes of sweet-salt
neck, lips, cheek,
giggles,
dreams,
gliding fingers,
kisses like whispers.
Listen for foghorns,
hidden by the night
so slight, vaporous
lowing
on reality's edge.
Let be what be.
There is nothing
but you
while in my arms.

Love and Time

When we were young, there was no urgency of time. It seemed to flow like the tide of a river. Tomorrow was a series of mountain ranges and valleys to be traversed at leisure. Today I stand on top of one peak, and, in the distance, vaguely make out the end of my journey. I know what I like, and what I don't like. I know my limits. I know that a relationship isn't mine alone, it's shared. The other one and I have expectations, but modifications can be made. There is no do or die, but we know when things must end. We do not linger if all is lost. There is too much life to live, but life is not to be wasted - that is no longer our realm.

Learning to Love

I take the gift and run with it. Let it be for what it is. What if? What will be? Where do we go from here? We do not know. It is a journey of faith, which means losing control, and giving into the unknown.

In the past, I struggled with balance. How do I fuel the relationship without taking away from me? If I do not call or meet, will the other lose interest, and move on? I tried too hard to make things right. I did what I thought the other needed, and neglected my side of the story. In the end, those relationships fell to pieces anyways.

They say, take it slow. What does that really mean?  I think it means, if you feel like calling or meeting, do so, if you don't or have things that need taking care of, don't. I think it means trusting yourself and the other person enough to be able to have time together and time apart, and know that you will return to each other. It means being able to let go as well as say, I need you, I want you. This is a difficult lesson, but I'm learning.

April

It is assumed that Spring is a joyous season, full of new life, renewals, and expectations for happy times to come. It is the start of journeys of sorts, like The Canterbury Tales, containing stories full of foppery and irony that illuminate truths about human nature in the most rib tickling and side-busting ways. I see that in April, but I also see it as a season that is a collection of memories, like a broken mirror, that is pieced together to form smashed psyches and landscapes of deep pain and regret, very much like The Waste Land. It's a sort of Yin-Yang, and I could never have one without the other.

For the first time in several years, I'm back East, not in Seattle. In Seattle, the coming of Spring is not as defined as in the East. There are two and a half or three seasons out there, and Winter to Spring is less dramatic. Seattle Winters are rainy affairs with little snow and mostly above freezing temperatures, so the effect of going from very cold to t-shirt warm days does not have the same flair. Perhaps it was because of this that I lost my appreciation for Spring. My life was a seed that was buried under the cold Winter ground, and I was waiting for rebirth, but I didn't know it. Like in The Waste Land, "Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers." I was content in my hibernation, perhaps even afraid to venture out of my state because I feared more soul crushing. To be covered, insulated, and hidden was far better than being exposed.

Spring, or I should say, April, took me by surprise this year. I found it while walking the banks of the salt marsh across from where my father's parents once lived; in the low-tide channels that lazed in serpentine grace around the great big mud and grass island that filled the marsh. Swans, ducks, and geese nested on its furry back. Snowy Egrets and a Great Blue Heron stalked for food. I heard April in the wind that talked through the trees in a soothing voice of hope that said, still your heart, trust yourself, believe in who you've come to be. But most of all, I felt April in the sun on my skin, so warm, energizing, giving me strength to recreate my life anew.

Passion

Passion has becomes a buzz word. It's something people have come to say, like, "Please, pass the salt." It's something that is now used to spice up a resumes, like: "I'm passionate about the way I use commas to fully elucidate a fifty page report on the reason why there is no reason." If I hear one more person, especially in the arena of Business, mention passion, I will take a nap.

I started hearing it used about seven years ago. The first time I heard it in person was when I had an interview for a Software Developer role at a company that started and managed Retirement Communities. The guy who interviewed me was a Lead Developer/Manager type. He was amiable enough, but like so many in the business, he was as exciting as a box of unopened, unsharpened Number 2 pencils. He was talking about the mission of the company, and what my role would be. For some reason, at one point, he was almost strutting and puffing his chest out. I guess it was because he was so in love with the company and what he was doing for it that he started becoming a Dungeons and Dragons hero.  I'll never forget it, he said, "I am passionate about developing the most efficient, user friendly, and cost-effective software I can deliver."

I paused for a second when I heard him say, "passionate." I thought my ears were playing tricks on me - passion and software in the same sentence? Was this a joke? Should I laugh? You can't judge a book by looking at the cover, but I'm pretty sure this guy was no Don Juan or Casanova. Not that it means anything, but there was not even a ring on his finger. I wondered if he'd ever been out on a date? I looked at this guy again as he waxed poetic about the company and its software, and the only thing I could think was, "Dude, you really need to get laid."

Passion makes you burn. It sets your soul on fire. It's what you feel when you're slashing paint on canvas, when you're strumming your guitar, crying out to the Heavens, "God, why have you foresaken me?" or are joined as one with your lover, undulating and grinding, tasting lips and tongue, moaning, groaning, admiring each other with sweat burning your eyes, dripping down faces, chests, stomachs, arms, legs.

I hate buzz-words, and I especially hate when people take something as primal and spiritual as passion, and slip it into an arena that is anything but passionate. We live in a society where most things can be bought and sold. It's very convenient. Most really don't want to feel or deal with the feel. Being stirred and awakened is not convenient. It can be heart-wrenching and painful, as well as beautiful.

When I really think about it, and really think about what passion can produce, I sometimes get afraid and say, maybe I should just let those sleeping thoughts lie. I do not need to be stirred, or bothered, or inconvenienced. Sometimes I think, please, passion, just go away, just leave me alone. But then I think of a passion-less life. I think of my interview, or I think about a man who will never know of  the ripping sting and tear of love down the tubes or the ecstasy and the peace of love fulfilled. Yes, give me passion. There is risk in being led by emotions, but there is risk in everything on this journey.

The End of the Day

There's something about the two or three hours before sunset that I love so much. I sit in this room, and listen to the sound of cars passing back and forth on the road in front. It's not silence, but as a I sit longer, I become aware of my breathing and the beating of my heart. As I drift in thought even more, random images come to my mind. There's no tightness in my chest, no knots in my stomach. My mind is just one long, open highway where my thoughts race through, unimpeded by the troubles of the world, and everything feels in balance. I wish the rest of my day or days could be like this, but as they say, without the darkness, you cannot truly appreciated the light. The end of the day is my light.

Honesty

I've come to see honesty as a two-horned devil; that sometimes saying nothing is better than telling the whole truth because, frankly, most people do not like to hear the whole truth no matter how honest it is.

In my ad, when looking for coffee and chat pals, I say, I'm a creative type, which I believe to be an attribute. I take my craft seriously. I continuously write songs, post to this blog, write poems, and am working on a novel that (so help me god) I will finish. Recently, I read someplace that the definition of a writer is someone who writes things that other people are afraid to reveal. Maybe it's because I continually write, create, and perform, that I think nothing of revealing my emotions. I forget that many people, especially those who say they "like" to write, do not reveal their deepest thoughts with such abandon because revealing such is an act that can bring judgement upon you.

I was reminded of this on coffee date not long ago when I met a woman who had two children, was divorced, and lived in town. Like me she works in the software industry, and says she likes to write. Unlike me, she really doesn't write, but wishes she could. She has no time because she works a stressful job she doesn't like and has two kids to raise.

At first when we met, it seemed like an exercise in speed dating with the both of us rapidly trying to summarize who we were in the shortest amount of time. I knew her time was limited, but I thought, this is crazy, this is an opportunity to get to know someone else, and, perhaps, find a connection. Did we have a connection or were we just two people trying to get therapy the cheapest way possible?

I decided to turn the conversation to music. I asked her what her favorite type was and what performers or bands she liked the most. It seemed to work like a charm because the conversation, instead being a break-neck, close to catastrophe downhill ski race, slowly turned into a a leisurely stroll by a lazy river. We both smiled and laughed as we recalled concerts we'd been to and songs that elicited fond thoughts in past and present times. I started feeling at ease with her. I'd already felt an attraction from the time I first saw her, but now, I began to think that this could be someone I might want to spend some time with. U2 and, especially, John Mayer were not my faves, but I'm not nineteen, and my world is not made of people with my sole musical tastes.

The conversation then turned to my music. What was it like? How did I sum it up? She said she liked the soulful quality of John Mayer's lyrics. I said, my lyrics weren't exactly soulful in the way his were. I have one song about a guy who downs a couple of Percocets because he gets dumped by some girl. Another is the story of a woman who marries for money, and is completely miserable. And then there's the one about Albert Fish, who was a real-life serial killer who made stews out of his victims. I told her about the Albert Fish song, and she asked with a smile, was I obsessed about serial killers? I said, no, and went on to explain that it was written because I remembered a friend in high school, who in his free time, would go to the library, and thumb through a book about infamous criminals. I said I remember Albert Fish's picture, which reminded me of a combination of the Abolistionist, John Brown morphed with the Actor, John Carradine Sr. Fish was such a spooky vision that I felt compelled to write about him. She seemed satisfied with my explanation, and before we departed, I told her I'd send her a link to my sound files so she could get a better idea of what "Twisted Roots Pop" was all about.

I sent her the link. Later, she responded with a email that in-part said, "Thanks for sharing your music- great stuff, I like your honesty. I'm heading out of town on vacation with the kids next weekend, perhaps we could meet up when I get back."

Will I hear from her? I'm not sure. Honesty... Be careful of what you reveal. It can be used against you.

Saying Good-bye

They left two days ago, early in the morning. I barely remember hearing footsteps in the hallway and seeing the band of light under the door. I wanted so badly to get up and give them a hug and wish them well, but I closed my eyes and went back to sleep. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak, especially at 3:00 am.

I don't think I said good-bye to my brother or my sister-in-law the night before. I went into my nephew's bedroom, talked to him, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. I tried to pretend like it was bed-time on any other night, but as I left the room and walked down the hall, I knew it'd be perhaps two years until I saw him again. My brother, my sister-in-law, and I talked like it was just another Tuesday night. We said good-night like life would continue on as it had before, but inside, I knew differently.

Saying good-bye is not easy. Billy Joel wrote, "Life is a series of hellos and good-byes, " and it is so true. As I've gone on in my life, I've gotten better at accepting loss and practicing detachment, but still, it's hard leaving or being left by loved ones.

So much has changed for me in the last four months, and a lot of it has been learning to accept those changes and losses. Saying good-bye to my nephew, sister-in-law, and brother was just another reminder of how impermanent life is. We are born, we live, and we die. To some extent, we have control, but in the end, we lose all control. To what extent we live life and take chances is entirely up to the individual, but no matter what, life will go on.

Chris, Yoshie, and Coleton, I miss you very much. I'm happy for the time we've had together, and I look forward to seeing you again. I wish you much happiness and success in all your endeavors in Japan. I thank you for reminding me that my life is a gift, and I must live it to the best of my ability.

Coffee and Conversation

I'm pretty sure the posting was under the Platonic Section for a Woman seeking a Man. It's hard to know now because the posting has been deleted, but I'm almost certain that it was the case. It was a long, treatise-like piece of writing. I must have just skimmed through it, and thought, this is very well conceived. The woman who wrote it seems quite intelligent, so I'll respond to it, and I received a reply from Alex Alexis. She said, yes, let's meet. After a series of emails, we settled on a time and a place.

I went to the rendezvous quite content on making a new friend. I was open to dating or a relationship, but my goal was truly companionship. As a seasoned veteran of Craigslist hopes and realities, I waited with a sense of curious joy, knowing that this was an adventure of sorts, and that all expectations must be chuckled at. It was like waiting for a stand-up comic to perform at an open mic. Most likely the only laughter you'd experience would be your own laughter at the comic who was only funny because he or she didn't realize how unfunny they were.

My head was buried in my laptop. I was amusing myself with a video by The Nuns on YouTube.  From the corners of my eyes, I saw a form edging slowly towards me. I looked up. The woman had broad shoulders. She was slim, but solidly built. She had a strong jaw-line, long dyed-black hair tied in a pony tail. Her face was reminiscent of a Mel Gibson in his early-forties, very good looking. There was a coppery tone to her complexion. The eye brows and eyes lashes were extra dark. Her lips bore the last remnants of baby pink lipstick - she'd probably just wiped them with a Kleenex.  This was not a woman, but a man.

I stood up. "Please, have a seat," I said, motioning him to the chair across the table. We shook hands, then sat down. I offered to buy him a drink, but he said he didn't want one. Our conversation was long and pleasant. He was originally from Ontario, but had spent a good deal of time in the southeast corner of Ireland before coming to the States. He worked with unprivileged youth in some capacity. He didn't say exactly what he did, and I didn't press him. He was well-steeped in the Histories of the U.S, England, and Canada, as well as Politics and the Economics of Capitalism and Communism. When I asked him if he'd studied Economics, he said, in a rather cryptic manner, that he had studied many subjects.

I was so engaged and so pleased with the flow of conversation that I'd unconsciously come to think of Alex as something of a new friend.  I had completely forgotten that it takes two to have a conversation, and that my reasons for meeting might be different from his. Suddenly, his demeanor became serious, a bit tentative, even twitchy. I was shaken out of my pleased state, and put on guard.

"I don't know how thoroughly you read my posting, but I'm looking for certain things in particular. I have them listed, and I go into detail about each one," Alex said. I nodded. Here we go, I thought, here's the sales pitch. Everyone's looking for something, and most of the time, it's not just coffee and conversation.

"When I hook up with someone, I like to give it my all," he continued. "And in order for me to do that, it takes a lot of time and energy to get myself looking just right. And when I do, it is a sight to behold. I like to do everything just so, so that when I give him a blow job, it's a rock your world experience. I'm not gay. I'm not straight. I consider myself to be a sensualist."

So this is what a girl feels like when she's been nice to a guy, and he misinterprets the message, I thought. I didn't want to end the conversation, but I didn't want a blow job, either.

"I'm sorry, I can't give you what you want," I replied. I told him I appreciated who he was as a person, and how I enjoyed the delightful and inspired conversation. It had been a long time since I'd conversed with someone and really, really been captivated and had learned things that were not just of a trivial nature. He went on to say that he thought that really good sex was intellectual because it was about challenging someone, not just seeking agreement. I could see that to a small point, but sex was of the body, and all I could see in my mind was an image of Albert Schweitzer reciting a thesis while receiving a blow job. I tried my best not to chuckle.

I was hoping Alex and I could meet again, but he seemed luke-warm about that. As he said, I had answered his ad, and he did have certain expectations. I did feel a bit guilty for not having read it carefully.  But later, I thought, how well had he represented himself? After all, he posted in the Platonic Section for a Women seeking a Men, and he was not a woman. Oh, well, nothing's perfect. Who am I to judge? Sometimes, we must take our coffee and conversation anyway we can get it.

My Definition of Art

I've always hated when you ask someone what they do, and they say, "I'm an Artist." I cringe. I recoil. I have to contain myself from lashing out and saying something unkind. I guess I could say, "show me your portfolio, "  and then carry on the discussion. I hate it worse when people in the media referrer to a Pop Star as an "Artist." Come on, someone who panders to the lowest common denominator tastes is an Artist? That just sucks.

I've never referred to myself as an Artist because it just seems so pretentious. I've been a song writer, musician, performer, painter, writer, but I shudder at the thought of saying, "I'm an Artist." Why, why does this bother me so much?  I've mulled it over in my mind countless times. I've even discussed it with friends, but I don't thing I've ever come to any definitive conclusions.

Maybe it has to do with watching people perform at being Artists, and somehow thinking their work didn't quite hit the mark. Someone could say, well, good or true Art is a matter of opinion, what exactly do you think an Artist is? And then I'd have to pause, and say, hold on a second, I don't exactly have a stock definition of an Artist.

I have to look back at the first times I heard someone call someone an Artist, and that was probably when I was about four or five, and it was probably relatives referring to me as I screwed around with crayons, pencils, and pens. As I recall, what constituted me being an "Artist" was drawing a picture that looked like something else. It could have been a dog. It could have been a cat, but it had to actually "look" like that object. My first definition of Art was, "a branch of study that accurately recreates objects in their exact or near exact likeness", so an Artist was the person who "recreates objects in their exact or near-exact likeness," a copy-cat of sorts.

In high school I discovered  Abstract Expressionistic Art, and the likes of Jackson Pollack, Paul Klee, and Mark Rothko, among others. It liberated me to know that things didn't have to "look" like other things in order to be called Art. What was more important was that the works elicited a myriad of feelings from the viewer, and that if something looked like something else, but left you cold, maybe it wasn't "good" Art or even Art.

I began to see Art in degrees. What was the painter or sculptor trying to accomplish? What feelings was I getting? Was the painting rendered to show a facet of emotion or life or was it completed to sell a product? Was the air brushed Leprechaun sitting on the pot of gold with the sexy pixies flying in front of his face equal to "Guernica?"

I don't think that all Art is equal or that some paintings or drawings are even Art. I don't think that just because someone draws or paints a picture, takes a photograph, or writes a song, he or she is an Artist. You can be a painter, illustrator, photographer, or song writer, but unless, somehow, you delve deep inside to bring forth your spin on the human condition, you are not an Artist.

The "Princess"

She spent a good deal of time talking about her ex-husband, and how he abused her. He was a multimillionaire, but wouldn't even buy her a Latte at Starbucks. She'd gone through seven lawyers over the course of a seven year battle that finally ended in divorce last year. She had half custody of her seven year old, but these days, he lived almost entirely with the ex, and that was because he was rich, and she had no money, so the judge was more inclined to side with someone who had money. She said she'd been foolish. She cared no more for big houses and Mercedes. In the end, they didn't mean anything. She liked me because I wrote fiction, songs, and was, in general, creative. She wanted to write the story of her grandparents romance in a bomb shelter in World War II Italy. I asked her if she'd ever written. She said, she hadn't. She hoped that maybe we could join forces, and I could help her, but we'd have to sign an agreement about rights.

She sat to my left side. In between her litany, she'd pull out her cell phone, and looked at the interface. She'd touch it with an index finger, then stroke it with quick downward motions. I assumed she was checking messages. Sometimes she'd smile while doing so. Occasionally, she'd look up to check on her son and my nephew who were playing on some water and plastic ball contraption in the children's museum. I told her about the recent events in my life. She responded with similar events from her sordid past. She never took off her large oval plastic framed glasses. She was an attractive woman with long brown wavy hair. She said she looked like Sophia Loren, and to some extent she did. When I asked her if she'd checked out my blog or my song writing web site, she said she hadn't, and gave some convoluted response that I couldn't follow the logic of.

I felt a large lump growing in my throat. It felt as big and as empty as a Prairie. It spread down my neck, into my chest, and finally filled my stomach. My entire body had become a stark, lonely space, and I was the only creature inhabiting it. My Sophia Loren look-alike companion kept right on talking. She never noticed my transformation. While she talked, a thought came into my mind:  I was the loneliest man on the face of the earth. I looked at my friend talking away, and realized that I'd be better off alone.

Lamenting the End of Winter

Here I am in the middle of March, seeing green stems of Crocuses and Daffodils breaking through the earth, feeling the temperature rise, smelling the air, taking in that mysterious, unknown scent of warmer things to come, yet not wanting to let go of frigid days and slanted sunlight as it brightens the west horizon at 4:30 pm. Practically everyone I talk to says they're sick of Winter, and wish for longer, warmer days to come, but I'm not ready to let go.

I moved to Connecticut from Seattle nearly two months ago, and it has been a blessing. Firstly, I didn't like Seattle, but I'm not going to go into details at the moment. Let's just say, I'm an East Coast guy, and the culture of Seattle is the antithesis of who I am. I also do not like the Seattle Falls and Winters, which are not always rainy, so much as they are constantly cloudy. Image no sun for two straight months, and you'll understand what makes the natives so odd and aloof.

Aside from the tepid culture of Seattle, I like snow. I like to see it on the ground for a few days, but in Seattle when it snows, which is usually two or three times a season, it melts within a day or two. So when the big snow hit here last month, I was ecstatic. I love the way it blankets the ground, and transforms the landscape into an alien world right under your nose. To me, it's Nirvana and Heaven rolled into one.

My second reason for not wanting to say good-bye to winter is that I like to walk my dog, Pepito, on the beach. Sadly, on today's walk, I noticed a sign saying that dogs are only allowed on the beach from October 1st until March 31st, which means that we have only two more weeks left. Though I do love the beach, I'm not a fan of sun bathing and the crowds that gather during Summer. I find it claustrophobic, and usually relegate my beach hours to late afternoons and evenings, or, perhaps, an odd week day here or there.

Winter at the beach is a world unto its own. Pepito loves to run on it, especially when the wind is blowing. He's a ten pound Chihuahua but he's very hearty, and can run fast for a small dog. Since he doesn't have much belly-fur, I dress him in a wool sweater. It gets very cold, but it's so refreshing. It lifts me up and I sense another consciousness. Sometimes, staring across the freezing waters, up into the ice blue sky, where clouds rise like cotton mountains, I feel I can step into another world and almost know the meaning of  life's mysteries. Pepito must feel that, too, as he zips around in quick bursts and speedy loops, kicking up sand. Maybe he's just plain happy.  I'm not sure, but seeing him happy makes me happy.

I didn't start out writing this post with three reasons why I regret the end of winter, but now I know my third - I've been happy. When I left Seattle, I was at a low point - rejected, dejected, down, and in need of a change. While in Connecticut, I've been able to re-charge my batteries and gain back a sense of hope, all this in the Winter. Winter's been a happy season for me, but as it's said, "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven." I wonder what Spring will bring...

The Scent of the Oscars

High atop the Emerald City, in a penthouse pad that's suitable for a Superhero (which, by the way, I understand is worth in the ball-park of a cool $10 bills), a certain guy tries to work his magic to throw one of the most elegant and well-appointed shin-digs you'll find this side of La-La Land. Be impressed (he wants you to be). And I was... Truly.

For the first time in four years, I will not be attending "his" Oscar Party, and, I should say, I have mixed emotions. He, by the way, is my Ex's very dearest friend in the whole world, "Little Lord Flaunts it A Lot, " or maybe, for better taste sake, "Mr. Opulence," "The Big O," or for simplicity sake, just, "B.O."

Actually, full credit for the affair does not go to B.O, but to his ex-lover of almost 20 years. B.O. broke up with him two years ago, and like all couples, they had two sides, two distinct personalities that blended into one. B.O. was the "serious" side, and his partner, who was the gregarious, the bubbly, and the effervescent one, created the social veneer. He was the straw who stirred the drink, organized the affair, circulated among the guests, and B.O. paid the bills, and looked eternally flustered and furtive.

Just imagine sashaying through Titanic-sized rooms, daintily nibbling on delectable finger-foods while chatting with a Pantheon of guests. While traipsing along, you peer through a seemingly endless glass window overlooking, on two sides, the entire lighted city night-scape. On the third side is a panoramic view of the charming, yet rugged Puget Sound. If you're not careful, you will be seduced by the natural beauty, but the show is inside.

The piece de resistance is the eleven-seat home movie theater fully equipped with deep-cushioned leather theater seats and temperature control. If that's too cushy for you, you can always move out to the living area where a Godzilla-Vision TV Screen awaits. And I know that if you really needed your privacy, there'd still be several sets available in one of bathrooms, bedrooms, or sitting rooms in that 3-story Xanadu.

Like any veneer, after Lover left, the social side of B.O's veneer began to crack and fade. In 2011 and 2012, the Oscar Parties were still opulent, but the crowd dwindled substantially, and the spirit was rather polite and subdued, almost melancholic. For all that was said about the ex-lover, he did know how to throw a great party, and make guests feel at ease. The same could not be said of B.O. Let's say that if you had to equate the level good times to that of an aroma, B.O's parties lived up to his nick-name.

A couple of days ago my Mother said, let's have an Oscar Party, and I all I could think was... B.O - well, not just him, but the our circumstances right now... Mom, me, and my step-father who is in an Alzheimer's, nearly vegetative state. The Picture of the Year is "Lincoln," a film about the hard, cold, tragic Civil War - the bloodiest conflict in Human History. I almost said no, then I thought about B.O, and how hard he tried to create an ambiance. Then I thought about us with the ambiance of "What Ever Happened Baby Jane," and I realized, that is Hollywood! Pass the Ritz Crackers and Cheese Whiz. Now that smells like fun...

The Mystery of it All

I knew my part in the break-up - I'd been depressed for over a year, and I just couldn't get my feet under me.

Yes, I was slipping and sliding down the slope of life. I was tired, despondent. I'd lost hope and purpose, and through it all, I couldn't land a job. I tried - a lot.

In 2012, I had approximately ten interviews, not to mention several technical phone screenings, and not one bloody job was to be had out of that lot. My confidence was shot, and I didn't know which way to turn. I was living off credit cards and borrowing money. She was supportive, but something was telling me that what she said was not the whole truth, just the tip of the iceberg. Underneath, was the rest of the monster mass of frozen water, the kind the Titanic ran into.

I needed help, and I sought it. At first I went to a counselor for a scaled fee: 60.00 for an hour session. He was okay, but he was ten to fifteen years younger than me. Part of my affliction was dealing with Middle-Age, realizing, perhaps, that my career in Software Development was coming to a close. In my unemployment, I'd lost a step or two technically, and the gap seemed harder and harder to close. Also, I was not certain if it was truly the field for me. I am not a geek, more of a people person, and I'd been feeling like it was an ill-fit.

After four sessions and $260.00 more on my credit card, I decided the counseling sessions were an ill-fit. I told the counselor that I could no longer afford the sessions, and we ended our meetings.

I'm also an Alcoholic. I gave up drinking almost three years ago. Being booze-free has been a boon to me. I was a binge drinker, mostly drinking heavily when I was under lots of stress. My fear, when I stopped drinking, was that I was going to feel more anxious than I did when I drank. But much to my amazement, it had the opposite effect. For once in my life, the monkey was off my back, and I was happily learning to cope without alcohol.

Though, I was finding a reason for living through sobriety, the struggle to find work and all the fall-out from that was killing my self-worth. I was not pleasant to live with. I was angry and frustrated. Sometimes, I'd be short with her, and start arguments to relieve stress. Sometimes I'd lament that life was not worth living. I know it took a toll on her, but I needed someone to talk to, probably another counselor.

I met a man on Facebook. He took an interest in me - a rather keen interest, and showed it by posting hearts with arrows through them, airbrushed bouquets of flowers, and other slogans of endearment - the kind that are seen on Hallmark Cards on Valentine's Day. He posted these on my page. I thought it was sweet, but it made my girlfriend jealous.

I assured her our association was jovial and superficial, but she was not buying it. She once told me, "I know what you are capable of," meaning that I'm kinky, twisted, and would do anything to satisfy my libido, which is not quite true - close, but no cigars. She laid down the law, and told me that I was not to contact this man again.

By this time, our situation was getting more and more dire. We were starting to dislike lots of things about each other. At night we'd sit on opposite ends of the couch, barely speaking. Sometimes we were fine, but other times, the tension was palpable. Maybe I could have done more to mitigate the situation, but perhaps, it was just the natural course of things.

The next evening, I called my friend on the phone. He posted about it on Facebook. We spoke of he, my ex, and I getting together for dinner. I thought it was a great idea.

The next day, while at work, she discovered the post. I'd completely forgotten about it. She called me after she saw it. In a nutshell, she broke up with me. At the time, I was shocked, but now, it all seems so surrealistic. Did it really happen? Was our entire relationship just a dream? Once again, I'm brought back to something my father used to say. In the end, everything fades into mystery.

My Mind is a Haunted House

We still live in that place, the happy couple who met that April day, in the Sculpture Park, next to the behemoth steel work that looks like the hull of a ship. Maybe I was lonely or wanting to experience the thrill of meeting a woman like some cad does in the movies.

"Maya?" She looked at me with a cock of her head, squint of her eyes. "Maya, is that you?"

"No, I'm not Maya," she replied.

"Funny, you look so much like Maya," I answered.

I remember how bright the sun shined, especially on a day when it probably should have been raining.

Things that don't make sense excite me. If it had been cloudy would I have said hello to her? Then we could have avoided the break-up nearly four years later, and I would have no memories of any of the events. They float through my head like ghosts in an attic.

One thing I know for certain, is that if it had been raining, she wouldn't have been sitting outside next to the sculpture, and I wouldn't have said hello to her.

Maybe it was the sun that brought us together. It's hard to know - so hard to know. We are not together, and looking back on our relationship, everything is so surrealistic, like it never happened. Before, if you asked me, "Have you ever seen a ghost?" I would have said, no. Now, closing my eyes, and remembering our love, I can sincerely say, yes, I have seen ghosts, and they live in my memory like it is a haunted house.

To Date, or Not to Date...

For the last five weeks, I've been posting and answering ads on Craigslist. The results have been mostly no-goes or one-trick pony dates. There've been several where I've emailed back and forth twenty or thirty times, and after agreeing to meet at a certain location and time, the woman disappeared without a trace. I've come to the point where I snicker and move on without much of a thought. Having gotten back into a writing state, I see it as fodder for the fires, and relief that I don't have to get too involved, which begs the question of, why bother at all?

In my mind, I've not been dating. I've been calling these encounters "Coffee Dates."  Simple diversions to meet a woman and have a conversion. Being a social creature, I need connection. Maybe, at times, I'd like something else - a fling, a one night stand, Friends With Benefits, maybe even, a real friend, but mostly, I'm happy to share a couple of cups of coffee and a brief, fleeting moment of socializing. And I don't limit my encounters to women. A man answered my ad and asked if I would consider having sex with him? I said it wasn't my desire, but I'd be happy to meet for coffee and conversation. He, agreed, then never showed up.

I think all humans are Connection-centric. We spend our lives behind cubicles, in offices, alone in our minds and thoughts. Every once in a while, maybe every other day, we need to venture out to reaffirm that we are, in fact, made of flesh and blood, and someday will die. Maybe, each other is all we have to cling onto... Or, maybe, all we have to live for...

I received and email from one of my Craiglist connections. A month ago I answered her ad, and ever since then we've been trying to carve out a time to meet, but to no avail. Yesterday, she said she had time, would I like to meet in the early evening? Of course, I responded. Two or three emails later, we were poised on the brink of meeting.

As I waited for her at this particular cafe, the guilt-ridden voice of conscience invaded my  mind... You've only been out of your four year relationship for three months... You've moved cross-country, and now need to find significant employment... You must take care of your step-father with Alzheimer's...

Suddenly, I began hoping for failure. I hope I'm not attracted to her... I hope she finds me repulsive... I'll throw caution to the wind, and speak about anything that comes to my mind like why I think paper clips are one of the most ingenious inventions in the history of humankind... I'll do anything so I won't have to face the prospect of rejection. And yet, I was there for a connection - a chance to meet another who shares this existence with me, and maybe, when we parted, I'd look up at the stars, and say to myself, "It's worth it - I'm not alone."

I didn't know what she looked like, and neither did she know what I looked like. In our haste to meet, we'd failed to exchange pictures. That seemed like a good sign because it meant, perhaps, we were both looking for something that went beyond the surface. Maybe we could be friends, or, perhaps, something more...

Time passed. I watched customers enter. Is that her? No, she's staring straight ahead at the menu board high above and behind the counter. She's got coffee on her mind, not a date.

Men and woman entered, ordered, sat down, or left. You always know when you're going to get stood up, but this wasn't one of those times.

I looked to my right, in the direction of the door, and my eyes locked with those of a beautiful woman. She was about 5'4", petite, long black hair, perhaps in her late 20's/early 30's, casually, yet stylishly dressed, and most amazingly, she had the most bright and wide smile across her face. It was a beam of grace. I instantly shot up in my seat. Unable to express words, I gesticulated in pantomime-manner something to the effect of "this is it" or "here we are," and it felt wonderful.

The time we spent was memorable. It was so joyous and animated that I decided to turn a "Coffee Date" into full-fledged date. We went to an Indian restaurant, but she hadn't eaten much Indian food, so she asked for my opinion on what to order. We had lots of fun deciding. She ordered a lamb dish and I ordered Chicken Tikka. For bread, we had Parata and Poori. I turned her on to Mango Lassis. It's a always great sharing new things with someone new. The world, truly, becomes new again.

Where do we go from here? I still have doubts as to whether I should be seriously dating at this point. I really should get a more stable job. Most likely when I do, my mind will not be asking. I'll know.

But there is the memory of last night and how beautiful she was... And since life is not perfect, and truly a work in progress, and we're never really as complete as we could be, is it possible that we could still see one another, and before you know it, I will have things in place?

As they say in Latin, Videbimus...

A Second Chance

Misunderstandings have been common. Even though she is my mother, and I am her son, sometimes the gap between us is as wide as an ocean. Clear communication has always been a problem. I love her dearly, and she is an incredible person with a great heart, the personification of  Matthew 25:35, 'when I was a stranger...', but when it comes to making herself understood, it is often a challenge to know what she really means.

This morning it was time to take Pepito out for his morning relief session. The sun was shining, but not into the dark corners of my mind, where the voices of doubt and dismay were whispering their diabolical prognostications. "Oh, that's not possible, Monkkey, you had your day, now it's over. Just move over, and let the world pass you. Atta Boy. Good Monkkey..."

"But Mr. Bluster, " I said, to myself, to the doubting voice. "If I was to put forth a gigantic effort - like they say about faith moving mountains..."

"Over-rated," snickered the voice.  "Now get yourself to the end of the line. Eventually, something will fall in your lap, meaningless as it may be...."

By the time I reached the kitchen where my mother was standing, holding a ripped open envelope, my mood had turned into spilled battery acid. She held up the envelope. I mustered a "good morning," but it had all the of emotion of a robotic telephone voice. I passed pretending not to see the envelope.  I led Pepito to the back door, opened it. He went out, and I followed.

When I came back into the kitchen, there was Mom still holding the envelope. She opened her mouth, but no words were coming out. Her eyes were shut, her face strained to force out syllables. And then, I couldn't help but remember all those times growing up when she stood there about to tell me something that I already knew the answer to, but couldn't spit it out.  

"The thing came for you in the mail," she finally said. "Thing" being a ubiquitous term for something others should fill in the blanks for, because Mom always expected everyone else to know what she was thinking, because that's the way Mom thought, and that so badly pissed me off.

What it turned out to be was a doctor's evaluation of my lab results. Rather than just saying, "Hey, my Doc read your results. All is well," Mom had to waffle and fumble like she does when she misplaces car keys for the eighth or ninth time during a day, or rummages around for her pocket book for her bank card like she's on an Easter Egg Hunt. I admit she's gotten better, but even hunting for the card three times a day as opposed to five or six becomes very old very quickly.

"Mom, communication is very difficult with you, " I said before I could contain myself. "I mean why can't you just say, the results are in, and all is well?"

"Why do I always have to say what you want me to say?" she snapped. Her eyes closed, her body tensed.

"I don't know what you mean by 'thing,'" I said. "I'd just like it if you could be a little more clear - that's all."

She didn't respond. She stood at the counter, fixing a bowl of cereal.  In past times, I would have pressed her until we'd argue back and forth, which would result in a shouting match at the top of our lungs. But for me, these were different times, and I was going to do my damnedest to change. 

"Look, I'm sorry," I said. There was a pause. She clenched her teeth, then turned to me with the ferocity of a cornered animal. "Why is it you're always right, and I'm always wrong? Why are you always putting me down?" she blurted out. 

"I'm offering you an apology," I said. "Why is it you just can't accept it, and we move on?"

We stared at each other long and hard. I was quite pissed at her, as she was probably with me, but there didn't seem to be any reason to battle each other anymore. Too much time had passed. There had been too much pain and too much hurt from the both of us towards each other. It was time to learn to make peace.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I really do mean it." 

Her eyes fell to the floor. "I know," she said. I watched her for a few seconds, then I reached forward, and touched her upper arm with my open hand. She forced a small smile, continued to stare at the floor. I lowered my hand to my side, stood for a moment, then slowly walked out of the room.

No Valentine Blues for Monkkey

I love chocolate - there's no doubt about that. Since I stopped drinking alcohol, chocolate (among other vices) has become my drug. There's something about it's sweet, creamy nature that makes me come back for more. I'm not fussy, either. A great high end like Knipschildt or Noka is stupendous, but I'm also happy with a Snicker's Bar or a pack of M + Ms, peanuts or plain.

I also love love, or the idea of it, especially romantic love. There's nothing like a new love to make my insides quiver, my pulse quicken, and the world, boring and bothersome as it is much of the time, to appear to be a new and strange place. Now that is one of the greatest miracles known to humankind.

Today is Valentine's Day - the perfect day to combine my favorite loves, chocolate and love. But this year there is no combining the two. There is no love in my life, neither new or old. There is just me, and I am quite content not to be bound to someone else. I hear so many people despairing about how they would love to have someone in their lives for Valentine's Day, but I'm telling you, count your blessings if you don't. Ask your married friends - the ones who have been married for five years or more. Sure they'll say that marriage is great, but buy them a couple of drinks, and see what really comes forth. See who's smiling now.

Perhaps next year, a year after my relationship has ended, I'll be singing a different song, but for now I'm content not to have filled out some silly card, bought a dozen ridiculous roses, or spent a fortune on high-end chocolates that I wouldn't be eating myself. No, I can just lay back and let the rest of them squirm and waste their money. Happily, I will eat my chocolates alone.

Reality at the Beach

My favorite prayer is, God, don't let reality crush me. I love and hate this life. If it wasn't for all the day to day responsibilities, disappointments, heart-breaks, let-downs, failures, and betrayals, I might call this place Nirvana or Heaven, but maybe that's why it's called Life.

I get it that I'm supposed to adjust and cope. I know that you have to create your own version of reality, and you reap what you sew, there's good times and bad times, and you gotta roll with the punches, and I've heard all the cliches that support the fact that you have to deal with it, but I still dream of being a kid again when reality was that thing beyond the hills and mountains of forever, and that, maybe, it was possible to never have to face it.

Last night I didn't sleep well. I went to Starbucks, and drank coffee. It kept me up till almost 3 a.m. I woke up bleary-eyed and feeling like my joints were glued in place. Pepito sprang from his den of blankets, furiously licked my face. It meant pee-pee time. I had no choice but to stretch and heave and push my body out of bed to take him out. I ambled downstairs like a bear emerging from hibernation, and went out into the morning light.

My eyes were blinded by the explosion. Few things are better than bright sunlight glinting off snow. I was jolted back to life, and even though I was a bit fuzzy-headed, I knew I had to make the most out of this day. I went back inside, and ordered Coleton to get dressed so we could go for a ride to the beach. I love how that kid can go from idly pushing his Lego cars and trucks one second to a state of full-tilt-throttle-open-Indy-car roaring to the finish line the next. That kind of enthusiasm can either make you crazy, or make you say, geez, I wish I was a kid again. At that moment, I fully embraced kid-crazy enthusiasm.

The catch-phrase was, "That's so five seconds ago." All the way to the beach, he kept baiting me with it. It must have been from one of the cartoons he watched, but when I'd show animated mock-enthusiastic disapproval, he erupted in laughter, Pepito being buffeted and jolted on his lap.

"Hey, that's so 4 seconds ago," he said, with an impish gleam in his eyes.

"What?" I cried out, as if kicked in the stomach. "Four seconds. I can't even breath in that time." More uncontrolled laughter. The countdown went to three, then it went to two, then to one not long before we drove into the parking lot.

Of all the beaches in town, South Pine Creek Beach gives the illusion of something a bit wild. It's not deep, maybe 40 feet at its greatest point, and not long, probably about two football fields in length, but it's far enough away from the few adjoining houses and buildings that you feel like you're on the edge of a point of no return. It's the perfect place for a boy and a dog to cut loose, and lose themselves in the moment.

While we walked, I took plenty of pictures with my cell phone. Boy and dog  joyfully ran in the wind. The sun sparkled off the water. Waves rose and broke with a crash and a hiss on the well worn light-coffee-colored sand. Pepito whizzed about in butterfly bursts, turns, and stops, sniffing the sand and rocks. Coleton stood at the water's edge shouting out at the surf, sun, and sky. It reminded me of a primordial praise song and dance to the Gods and Goddesses. To high-minded academics and critics, it could have contained endless symbolism. To him it was probably just a lot fun - the unbridled urge-fulfillment that kids indulge in on a regular basis. It's the stuff that most adults, save for those in the Arts, have lost. To me, it was a view on the most wondrous, precious parts of my reality.

I didn't want to leave, like I always don't, but there comes a time when you have to. Reality has a voice, and it was calling. Besides, there was that other voice - that of Coleton telling me he was hungry, and a Seven-Eleven was not far away.

A Taste Sweeter than Love

Like a good detective story or a forensic investigation, after it's over and done, it's fun to go back and try to find out where it went wrong. Was it the final kiss - the one where she nervously back pedaled to the door with a look on her face that seemed to say "I really have to get back to work, and I don't want to kiss," yet you insisted, grabbed her, and planted one on her lips?

Was that the point where the whole deal crashed and burned? Maybe, but a couple of seconds later, after walking into the building, she turned, faced you through a glass door, and gave one long, final, earnest stare. What did that mean? "Hey, the kiss was actually an okay thing to do?" Or was she thinking, "You're a nice guy - I should like nice guys, but I don't. Thanks for trying, you pathetic fool?"

Sadly, or perhaps mercifully, the dumpee has no idea why he got dumped. How can he know - there's so little to work with. Let's see... There was the initial spontaneous meeting at a beach, some emails, some texts, a couple of phone calls, a second beach walk, and then the fateful, last meeting. Who was that woman who seemed so terrific with her uplifting nature, the Piafesque waif wearing a gypsy-peasant dress, head framed by long, wavy chestnut hair that curled into ringlets just past her shoulders. On her feet were embroidered Chinese slippers. Her coat like her smile was open to the world. Her ears, protruding a bit like George Harrison's, furthered  her cute/sexy appeal. She was articulate and witty, and she rolled so fluidly with your nonsequitur nature. When you said, "What would you think about meeting up again for another walk and chat?" her instant affirmation in her East Texas twangy-talk made you think, we got something here.

You met two days later on Thanksgiving. The walk and conversation rolled in and out as easily as the waves gently unfolded on the sun-drenched beach. You caught yourself staring at her as she talked, her glance lazily cast off into the sea and sky. When she turned to you, your head snapped forward again seriously, yet you quietly sipped in her essence through the corner of an eye, weighing the image, her being with blessed seascape moving past. Later, in retrospect, to add further confusion to the evolution, in the parking lot, you stood face to face, less than an arm's length apart, and without fuss, fell into each others arms, lips meeting for a sweet, delicious kiss.

In matters of dating and love, nothing is easy. Yesterday's kiss, is today's clever evasion.

She invited you to meet her at her work place, then go to lunch. She actually had two lines of work. One was as a ESL teacher the other was as a Rolfer. You remember someone's girlfriend who enjoyed a good Rolfing. You once watched boyfriend Rolf girlfriend. It had to do with him taking a piece of wood, somewhat in the shape and length of a baseball bat, though slightly skinnier, and, while girlfriend lay stretched out on a hard wood floor, boyfriend proceeded to push the object into her back, while she let out loud, deep grunts. According to the duo, they were grunts of pleasure and release. To you, they sounded like prisoners being worked over by their captors at Guantanamo Bay.

Before you started your journey, you asked her, "Will you be tutoring or Rolfing?" She said, Rolfing, and as they say in horror movies, you had a bad feeling about this one.

In the end, you met up with a woman who was not the woman you walked with on the beach. Funny how that happens, but you're not her, and whatever she was thinking, she never let you know, but she sure did show you. For nearly the entire time you sat with her in that bake shop, she had a cell phone pressed to an ear. Occasionally, she'd take the phone off the ear, and apologize, saying, "Sorry, I'm not usually like this", while you spooned away at a tasty piece of apple crumb caramel pie, she barely touched.

Where did Piaf go? You thought as you watched her pacing up and down the sidewalk engaged in another animated conversation with whom and what ever the hell it was she was engaging in. There was only one Piaf, the one and only Sparrow, but probably hundreds or thousands of birds like the one outside the window, plying their trades from sea to shining sea. You would never find out what made her tick, or what was the reason you'd never meet again, but there was the pie. Award Winning. Light, flaky crust, apples, streusel, buttery-sweet caramel - just perfect.

In the end, you'd arrive at the bake shop in hopes of finding love, but leave with the knowing you'd found the most delicious pie you'd ever tasted.
 

First Love

When I was 19, I broke up with my first real girlfriend, Sue. I burned all the love letters and the pictures of her and us. I can vaguely remember thinking they were somehow useless, like I'd been down that path, and I didn't want to remember any of it anymore. It could have been I was bored. It was over, and there was no sense in going back. I couldn't even remember what brought us together. I knew it had something to do with the way she looked, and the way I felt about the way she looked, but when it's over, you just want to turn away, and toss all the memories from your mind.

She was a waitress at a local diner. I saw her when I'd go in with friends on Friday nights. I liked the way she smiled at the customers, and her sense of confidence as she took their orders. I knew she went to my high school. My heart'd race every time I saw her in the halls, and I couldn't wait to stop at the diner on nights when she worked. It got so that, if I was in the proximity, I'd stop in just to catch a glimpse at her. So I was absolutely floored when, out of the blue, as I was leaving one night, she passed me by, and with a big smile, said hello.

We were so different - Democrat and  Republican different, but you see what you want to see. Besides, everything is accentuated when it's your first time. There's nothing to compare it to. It requires a whole new vocabulary to express such emotions. It's like landing on the Moon for the first time. And it's scary when you see things getting a bit old, and the other person doesn't surprise you like they used to. Shouldn't there be fireworks all the time?

I think we stayed together just because we were hooked on the fireworks. But they didn't last, and as the months progressed, we also discovered something else - we had very little in common. Our love was like a jet that had run out of fuel in the stratosphere of reality.

Maybe first love's meant to be difficult. Maybe it's meant to shoot up and explode in the sky like Fourth of July Rockets, then slowly scatter back to Earth like confetti or falling out of love arguments. Like our arguments became; accusing each other of not really being in love anymore. Imagine that? It couldn't be possible. But it was, and we continued to argue for over a year, finally realizing that love itself is never enough.

A Moment of Grace

The snow falls steady but quiet on the morning. I hear a faint shoosh of car tire's through slush in the street. I am in the back. My room overlooks the backyard, I see the barn-red garbage with big outward pulling doors, and beyond, the roof of the unfamiliar neighbor's roof, trees, and pieces of other houses.

I posted on Face Book just before, which is sometimes a forced, polite duty to acknowledge the thoughts and kindness of strangers. Down the corridor, though muffled, I hear my nephew's bright voice calling out, No school today!

The snow deadens the imposing sounds of the world, quiets the heart and mind, it allows my body to slow down, and my senses to open to possibilities of unbiased thought.

I think of the last three months, not just the end of a nearly four year relationship, but the possibilities offered by returning to home ground. Finally, I'm feeling grounded in mind and body after free-floating and falling in a state of anxiety for nearly two years. I felt truly cursed. It was a time of constant employment rejections, my skill-set diminishing along with my confidence. It was a time of Sisyphean climbs and slides; of interviews, scribbling pseudo-code and logic on blackboards in front of audiences who knew damned well, that no matter what, they weren't going to hire me, nor call me back to let me know they wouldn't be.

It tore me apart and tore me down. I was depressed and despondent. At times, I thought the Hamlet is-it-worth-it speech.  I could not be the partner, lover, boyfriend that's needed to keep a relationship going or afloat. I became bitter, angry with all around me. At times, I was hateful. There were days when even when the Sun shined, its light was a glint of nothing, a bloodied sword catching sunlight on a muddy Killing Field.

Outside, the snow falls, and my eyes are soothed by the white covering. I sip coffee from a white cup. My 10 pound Chihuahua, Pepito, sleeps under a white comforter. My Clothing Chest is white, so are the closet and bedroom doors. Even though the walls are painted a light beige-cream, my newly purchased lamp is white. Enough already... It's good to be home with a new sense of hope and peace...

Broken Eggs and Loose Change

My favorite moments are the little, lost, perhaps forgotten happenings in the course of a day when a grocery store isle or a cafe line becomes the place of non sequitur conversation, which are the angel wings that lift us up above the fundament of  boring-painful everyday life.

Such was the way it was in Trader's Joe's today as I waited to check out my bag of Chile-dried Mangoes, Chocolate-Drop Butter Cookies, Pistachio Cookies, Orange-dried Cranberries, and some other snacks I bought to fortify mind and body in my quest for Coffee Dates. It is a hungry and thirsty business.

I had the choice between two lines. One was clearly 10 items or less, and the other was of the any-quantity goes variety. The 10 item or less line, had four customers. The regular line had one. I chose the regular line. The woman who was supposedly in line, was not. She had drifted a few feet away, and had her back turned to me. In the check-out space, there were no groceries. I was home-free. But as I put my groceries down, the check-out clerk informed me that she-with-her-back-turned was before me.

"Well, it looked like she was finished," I said. The clerk smiled. Hell, I was in no hurry. As a matter of fact, I felt so spaced out from all the pain-killers I was taking for my sprained left knee that I could have watched seagulls fight over french fries all day, and would have thought it was the Second Coming of Christ.

I eyed her groceries as the clerk pulled them out from behind the counter. That's why I hadn't seen them - they were so well hidden. There were a lot of groceries. The clerk looked at them, then looked at me. "That's a ten item or less line," she nodded her head in the direction of the line to her right.

"No," I said, "if there's one thing I've learned in life.... Never change lines in a grocery stores. If you do, it's a sure guarantee that you'll end up going slower in that line than the one you left."

My line-mate in front immediately chimed in. "Ya know, that's true..."

"Of course, it's true," I said. "Of all the things that I've learned in my life, that's got to be one of the truest... I also know that if you're stranded in the Wilderness you should stay in the same place, and you're more sure to get found."

Don't ask me what happened, but from there on, the conversation took off. We talked about tranquilizers, bad love affairs, sex at Noon-time... She asked me if I worked in advertising writing copy. I said I'd thought about it at one time, but would never take myself seriously if I did. I probably should have - I'd have made a lot more money.

As her items were getting checked out and the conversation got weirder and weirder and people started taking notice, the check out clerk noticed that there was one broken egg in her dozen. She rang the bell to summon a clerk. He came, and took away the defective box.

"Always guard your eggs, " I said to my line-mate, Sue. We laughed. Soon after, the clerk returned  with a new box of eggs. It was packed up, and Sue went on her way.

A short time later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Sue. She leaned over to me and said, "Broken Eggs and Loose Change - that should be your next blog...."

Well, Sue, thank you. Here it is....

John, I'm Only Dancing, but not really Dating...

     If I was really dating, I'd have a full-time job, and I would not be in the process of transitioning from Seattle to Connecticut. The job search is a full-time job, and it does remind me of finding a relationship. Send resume. They check it out. If they like what they see, they contact you. If they like what they hear, they grant you an interview. And if they like what they see and hear, you get an offer. My search for coffee-dates on Craigslist is much the same. Post an ad or respond to someone's ad. If they like what they hear and see (granted you've included a pic), they email you. It goes back and forth until someone gets disinterested or someone finally says, "Shall we meet for coffee."

   Yesterday, was a wonderful day CL and real life-wise. While at a favorite Starbucks the night before, I sent messages to several woman's posts on the CL NYC Woman for Man offerings. To my great delight, a very beautiful woman answered my call. I looked at her pictures. She was in her 20's, with the complexion of luscious espresso; hair, long, flowing down to the mid of her back like a dark waterfall; shapely butt and breasts that were accentuated by just the right tightness of skirt and shirt, perfectly color-coordinated; she wore a sexy red pair of strap-on heels, and you just knew by the quality and styling of the fabrics of clothing that she had to be involved in fashion in some way, shape, or form. She also met the camera with the most lovely and disarming smile this side of Cutie-Pettootie. I was hooked.

     That's all nice and good, but I hadn't shared a photo with her. Let's face the music, I'm middle-aged, about 30lbs overweight, and at 5'7", have always been cute, but not really handsome. Them's the cards, but even to this day, I curse God, and say, why not just 2 or 3 inches more. When people say, good things come in small packages, or it's all about personality or intelligence, or some other beatitude that's supposed to make you feel better, you know it's bullshit. In the world of on-line dating height often does matter.  Have you ever seen a woman make the announcement, "Tall guys need not apply."  Or "Looking for someone 5'9" and under?" I really didn't give it much thought. I just sent the photo, and went away to do something else. I've learned not to take this game too seriously.

     An hour later. I got a reply. I chuckled like anyone who discovers a 20 dollar bill on the ground. Her response was, "I'm still in college but I majoring in Business and Fashion Marketing .. But I must say it sounds like you have accomplished a quite lot in your life... very nice :)"

     This is a very good sign, but you have to play it right. Do you feign ennui, and don't respond until the next day, or hours later. Is this someone who is really genuine, who is not only physically beautiful, but is also spiritually developed? It's like knowing you're close to The Holy Grail.

     I gave it a bit of thought. "To thine own self be true," were the words that rang though my head. I wasn't looking for a relationship or a dating situation. Like I said, I'm still in transition, and I need to take care of the basics first. But a date with a stunning, intelligent, soulful woman - now that is as dreamed of, hoped for, and as sought after as having a drink with the ghosts of William Faulkner and Papa Hemingway together. So I did what I normally and naturally do, I sent an almost immediate reply.

     It was, "I have. But there's been up and downs, nothing's perfect. I recently moved from Seattle to Fairfield to be closer to my family. My step father has Alzheimer's and is at home.... I broke up with a girlfriend of almost 4 years, but I think it was for the best. I'm enjoying my transition to this area. Where do you go to school? What do you like to do for fun?"

     Within a short time another response came, "I go to St. Johns and I'm not much of a Party girl but I do like to party My fun right now consists of school and working and I work as a Model for A&F .. So what were you looking for and when are you free to meet up?"

     I felt good - no, I felt great, like a batter must feel when he's on a 30 game hitting streak. You could throw anything at me,  and I was still going to hit it.  I was feeling like my giddy ol' silly self, and I was going to say exactly what I wanted to say.....

"I hope your work is also fun.....

What was I looking for? I was looking for meeting a woman who inspires poems and can talk about the merits of dive bars as well as her favorite painting at the Museum of Mod Art.... Someone who puts herself on a run-way, stage, or improvised stage of a cafe to read bits and pieces of her latest machinations of mind whether be fiction, non, or diary because she must... I was looking for someone to share commonalities and differences that connect and disonnect us to this world... Share a laugh, perhaps.... A cup of coffee... No great expectations.... A chance to meet a great person."

     I was not thinking at that point, I was so happy, and since I knew she was involved with Fashion and probably watched "Project Runway," I threw in this tidbit....

"I was looking for someone who thinks Tim Gunn (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tim_Gunn) and Joe Girardi (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joe_Girardi) are both great leaders, teachers, and motivators of people..."

     I didn't get a response. An hour passed, two hours passed, but still none came. I went from being that silly, giddy 17 teen-year-old-esque boy to the sober 40-something man who's been through two marriages, several significant relationships, and a slew of dating experiences. I can't say I felt bad-bad, but it was a slight let-down. I fired off a semi-apologetic email (which according to be-true-to-thyself, I shouldn't have), but that was 18 hours ago, and in the world of on-line dating, that is years ago...

     

    
    

Is this my Lake Wobegon? No primates there. It'd be more like, The "Old Divide" Gorge, where we meet at the watering hole to catch up on our tales of life on the Savannah. And the "Old Divide?" For me, it is how much should I reveal, and for who's benefit am I revealing it. To those who know me, I'm mostly an open book (I'm rationalizing), and I'm not very good at keeping feelings close to the vest. My Poker Face is almost non-existent. Maybe that's why I never played Poker, or had an interest in card games. Another piece is, I don't want to seem like I'm bragging if I should get laid - not that it's going to happen like magic, because in my experience with on-line dating (dating, in general), and the way men versus women usually feel about casual sex, it just doesn't happen serendipitously.  Also, if I include dialogue that is a bit racy, it's done to keep a certain verisimilitude. I want you to experience my experience as close to reality as possible, like it was an aural/oral documentary.  Yes, like all boys, I've done my share of ass/back slapping with the guys, but this is not what I want here. I want to share my experiences with you so that the world is not such a lonely place. Besides, connection feels good. You feel.. connected. So, therefore, maybe I just answered my own question about honestly revealing and stating my feelings. Yes, I promise to tell my truth in spite of my guilt-riddled Catholic background because to my mine own self, I must be true...