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...