Transcription, bubble in time.

My car smells likne the coffee we drank. We didn't drink it in my car.

The motions felt practiced, rehearsed, and they were, a dance we had done a thousand times. Yet it still felt new.

Every time can feel like the first, given the right point of reference.

She drinks coffee now, and smokes cigarettes on the counter in her underwear. Some things are new.

She still steals them out of my pack if I have more. Some things never change.

I wish I could grow a mustache.

But really, are you ok?

I've got to admit, it's getting better.

A parable, unsure of the author, but it goes like this:

An old, muddleheaded cowhand frequented a poker game at the local saloon. Every week he came, and every week he was cheated out of every hand. They were stacking the deck, buying him out, hiding cards in their sleeves, running the gamut of low-down gamblers tricks. They worked every time on the poor old cowhand. Everybody in town knew he was a pushover, and didn't have much in the way of smarts. So year in and year out, he lost all his money every week to whoever decided it was worth their time to cheat him out of it.

Finally, one day, old rickety Rita, the saloon owner's mother, pulled the man aside.

"Now listen here boy," she crowed, "I think it's high time you stopped playing cards with these fellas!"

He doffed his hat, and looked at her with his big rubbery eyes and a calf-like grin. "Now what makes you think I'm inclined to do that Rita?"

Rita screwed up her wrinkly old face and said to him softly, "These boys aint never played you a fair hand in all this time, and they's cheatin you outta all your money."

The old cowhand's smile widened. "Now beg your pardon miss Rita, now I may be dumb, but I aint no fool. I knowed they been cheatin me for a long time. Even an idiot will win a hand every now and then. It's all in the numbers."

Rita's eyes widened. "If you know theys been cheatin you, why do you keep playing? There aint no sense in that!"

The smile left the man's face, and he looked at her as serious as he could manage. "Well to tell the truth miss Rita, there aint no sense in it, but I gotta keep on playing. It's the only game in town." And with that, he put his hat back on his head, returned to the table, and when he went home that night, he went home as penniless as usual.

~fin

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\.../\

This part has become difficult for me. I'm still scattered, but the wind is blowing so hard in the other direction.

Let me enunciate clearly on this fact: This Is A Good Thing.

~/~

I clamber down the staircase, no light shines out from the cracks of the trapdoor as I close it over my head. My oil lamp stays dim, I've walked these stairs so many times that I could walk them backwards, blind-folded, and dizzy. Halfway down, I stop for a second to wonder if the lamp has any fuel left. I haven't made this trip in a while, and the events of late have been such a headlong rush that I haven't really been making way for preparations.

[flash]

We're sitting in the back seat, music blaring, alcohol coursing through our veins: but we're going, not leaving. The topic at hand escapes my memory, but not the sentiment. A mall moment of despair, wrapped in hopefulness. I feel her tear land on the back of my hand, but when I touch her cheek to wipe the trail away, it's dry. Such a fleeting sadness.

[return]

I pull the hood off of the lamp, and crank the wick up enough to shed some light as I reach the bottom step. It's burning enough to dispel my earlier fears that it was empty. I have more than enough for the few minutes I'll be down here. One of the benefits of locking this place away is that it stays organized, if dusty.

Right where I left it: Sterling silver, inlaid with intricate cherrywood carvings. I pop the clasp and the hinges move without a sound; for something that has done me so much harm in my life, this is still worth keeping, and keeping well.

The most dangerous weapon, the most useful tool, The Dagger With A Four Letter Name.

[flash]

It's empassioned, if poorly timed. The thought was in my head, amplified by the actions, the surroundings. The word whirlwind crosses my mind, not for the first time that day, or that week, for what it's worth. The moment the words leave her lips, it's a simultaneous exhileration of spirit and fear for my life. Did she know? Does she know? I know it's wrong, I know it is, we both do. But knowing it's wrong doesn't make it untrue. Maybe neither of us know. But I'm patient enough to find out.

[return]

It looks so simple, in its blue velvet wrapping. Hilt, guard, simple scabbard over polished steel. The soft metal whispers when I remove its covering, as if to tell me a secret. Turning the blade over a few times in my hand, I clean off a few brown-red specks. Blood, and my own. Damn this blade.

My hands stop as I go to return it to its case. I don't know why I came down here. This is a stupid idea. This is foolhearty and headstrong. I need to put it back and walk away.

Put it away, and fast.

I don't even realize that I've fastened it to my belt until it bangs the side of the trapdoor on my way out.

I guess I'll keep it out for now. You never know when you'll need it.

\/...\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

This is only the beginning. I keep fearing the other shoe is going to drop, but that fear is lessening every day.

I'm starting to feel like karma is cashing all my checks, and starting to give me some dividends. Optimism, yes, but cautious, ever so cautious.

Let me enunciate this VERY clearly: I think I'm starting to be happy.

Sorry to disappoint

{This page intentionally left blank, please check back for future updates. There's a mighty storm a'brewin, and I love the smell of rain.}

Anniver/dsaries, Co-creation

/Authors note: The post date reflects the actual date and time of original posting. I had to take this down for editing-not something I normally do, but there was some emotionally charged asides that don't reflect my actual intent or feelings, and have since been changed or removed./

I need sleep, but my mind cries out for writing.

Is this a good thing? I'm not sure if I have words, but it seems my brain has other ideas.

I've been trying so hard to get out of my own skull, to stop living in my head. My constant refrain, these past few weeks, has been a plea for the ability to speak, to open up without airs. I'm making progress. I felt tonight almost the way I did that first night.

There's a lot more of a shared experience than I realized. I like this, I really like this, but I still feel like a deer in headlights. Things are unsustainable the way they stand. I wish I could understand my own thought on this matter. I'm waiting for a moment of boldness to strike, but it seems that whenever there is opportunity, I lack the ability, and vice-versa.

I have the capability to be bold when the moment calls for it, to be sure. I have been able, in my life, to take full advantage of these moments. The hopeless romantic inside me yearns for them: a stolen kiss in the warm Autumn night amidst the background din; a soft hand under midwinter chill with the glow of an old favorite. Even the impromptu vacation 6 hours away after writing a letter to a rock star.

Here's my theory:

You're just as scared as I am. Your guard is always up, but I know the stories, just as you've heard the ones I have to tell. You're scared to let me see you a little unhinged; you're afraid it will change my opinion. Afraid that I won't take you seriously.

I'm here to tell you, if this is the case, that you're wrong. I hope this is the case. I hope I'm right.

Why do I have the audacity to make such claims? Where does this theory come from?

Because it's exactly what I'm feeling. I'm scared beyond belief.

"How do you hurt a man who's lost everything? You give him back something broken."

Broken, though, is always the thing for which I've looked so hard. Somebody who understands that the world isn't kind or cruel, that decisions impact life constantly. At the end of the day, it's the broken people who know how it feels to be knocked down; thus they also know how to get back up. They know how to care.

They know how to help.

I want to do something bold. I want to break this wall that we've managed to erect between us. I want to dispense with all the pretense.

I want to take a chance.

But most of all,

I want you to tell me it's ok.

Because, believe me, it really is.

Glimmer, shimmer, glimpse

2/1/11 1:48 AM

I open wordpad on my computer, and proceed to type the following words:

"A few words of warning for this:
This is my attempt at actually putting my feelings out there, in words. I'm much better at writing things down as opposed to saying them out loud, as I often have trouble getting my brain to edit speech properly enough that what I'm saying actually matches what I mean to say.
I may get a little rambly"

I''m completely sober. I'm writing a letter. One that ultimately will not get sent, due mainly to one fact: After I write these words, exhaustion overcomes me, and I fall asleep.

2/1/11 9:42 PM

I began writing this blog post. The current time of my typing is 10:23, but a catalog of original times and events seems important. Not for the efficacy of making this more readable, or coherent, but for myself. Last night, I helped one of my very good friends (whom I have spent nowhere near enough time with in the last 10 years) kick off her '28 days of turning 30' celebration. It was an honor, and a pleasure to take part in this.

The wine didn't so much as flow as trickle, but at a pace that was more than sufficient for good conversation. Although, it was more of a catalyst than a cause.

I realized then, that I am a much better study of moments than of details. More than once I told stories that were almost immediately contradictory to their actuality: but in my versions, the spirit of the original was nearly intact.

Caught in moments, caught in time. The little christmas trees, bouncing on her knees, a smile and the laughter of ultimate friendliness, I feel a sort of jealousy. Not envy, not jealousy- Proud? I am incredibly proud of my friend. I admire and aspire to the sort of strength she carries on her shoulders.

I see a person who doesn't just admit their faults, but embraces them openly in such a way to understand their own humanity, their own limitations. Glasses and pajamas on, hair and airs put away for the day, she still remains unflappably, and irrevocably herself.

I think her greatest power, in my experience, is that she seems always able to absorb the best of everyone around her, and return it, magnified, back to them. There are no moments or persons to small or too large to escape her notice.

It sounds as if I were trying to deify her, or profess an undying love, and I assure you I'm doing neither. If anything, I'm apologizing for not taking enough time in my life to be her friend. I wish, and hope, that everyone in the world can or will have someone as awesome to be around, or as awesome to hang out with.

As I left her apartment to return home, (2/1/11, circa 12:30 AM) there was a light mist in the air. Not raining, not quite. It began to refresh me, to clear my head a little.

PART  II

2/1/11 11:42 PM

Today was gray, gloomy. Days like this are good for me: they help me clear my mind. The clouds in the sky put a boundary on my thoughts. As the day and night have progressed the promise of rain has been fulfilled. It's droplets begin to clear my mind, washing away the grit like so much dust.

PART III

We cannot always explain the things in our lives. As to what we attribute these things, it differs, but the name I've chosen lately? Serendipity.

As for You? I hope You're reading. I've suspected you have been, but this time, as circuitous as I've been before, I hope to be more direct. Vague is the nature of my writing, so vague this will remain, but you know who you are.

part 3.2*

     I hope I'm not too late: My silence is palpable, and my courage wavers. Forgive my mood, my stoicism. I want so terribly bad to impress, but never at the expense of not Being Myself. I feel that these things are not mutually exclusive, but my mind tells me otherwise, and allows me to do neither. Your attempts at starting, at making the bridge don't go unnoticed, believe me, but I find a way to falter every time.

     I remember a not-quite-similar situation, years ago. I believe the exact words I said were "all I do is listen, I'm not sure we have anything in common, or that I have anything to say." I was terribly, incredibly wrong then, and I know it's not the truth in this situation.

     Give me a chance. If You have been reading, you'll notice my constant focus as of late on this feeling of scrutiny, observance, fear of failure. This writing is my therapy, so the problem at hand always dominates the thoughts. I throw back pleas of good-natured optimism, that work for hours and then leave me more dry and wasted on the inside. I don't need to learn to think about being happy, I need to re-learn how to feel happy.

     I'm working on it: one minute, one hour, one day at a time. It's always been in my nature to brood and stay silent when I'm not feeling my best. This is my defense mechanism, my way of preventing myself from saying something I'll regret later.

     Trust has to be earned, but I can't reasonably expect everyone to make the first offering. I'm trying, I promise I'm trying. I don't know what the first move is, or the next, or the next. There has to be a starting point, but if you focus too hard trying to find it, you'll lose the whole picture.

Section 4: appendix/ notes for the author 11:29 AM 2/2/11





Sally has given up on me. I can't ever reconnect that bridge, unless she changes her mind. That's what you get for mincing words.

Bond needs distractions, and that's OK. We all need distractions at times.

There's a fire to be found in the Embers. If you're afraid of being burned, the other option is to stay cold. Try being warm for a change, you silly silly man.

Post note:

"Will you feel better, better, better? Will you feel anything at all?"