Feed the Flame

The cleansing tongues of fire wiped away the tangible fragments of memories that had accumulated over they years. Old bank statements; receipts from paid utility bills; defunct insurance policies; all put into the 55-gallon drum and set afire. I don’t need this stuff filling up the spaces of my filing cabinet no more than I need it filling up the empty spaces of my mind.

I meant to clean up this stuff months ago to make room for the receipts and statements that are new. No need to keep old stuff like that anyway. All it does is take up room and keep a memory alive that needs to die. I don’t think it will ever die, not really. But with the concrete remains of those old memories burned and gone, there is now room for the new things to push the memories of before to a place where they won’t be accessible, at least not easily.

I have always been fascinated with fire. I’ve said that before. I can remember taking matches from my grandmother’s old metal matchbox that hung on the wall in her kitchen and sneaking like a little arsonist outside to see what I could burn. I would pile dead grass on top of ant nests and watch them scurry to save what they could, just like anyone would do if their house was on fire. I would light the ends of hollow reeds and smoke on them like I was smoking a cigarette…not the wisest of things to do, but to a kid, it was oh, so cool. I would take my little plastic army men and watch them melt into little piles of green goo, victims of my own version of napalm. It was harmless fun. The back yard was a pyrotechnic playground. I was always careful. I never let any of the fires get away from my control.

A few days ago, I was almost home when I rounded a corner to see the road almost blocked by several fire trucks and policemen. To my left, I could see a haze of smoke and blackened earth and in some spots, flickers of flame. As fascinated as I was, I couldn’t help but wonder if my house was in danger. I was at a point where I couldn’t see my place and between me and there…there were more fire trucks. They waved me on through. I stopped long enough to ask if it was a controlled burn. A fireman told me no, that it wasn’t. Someone must have started it. Nearly 40 acres had burned. Among the vast expanse of blackened earth, I could see little evergreen trees standing. The way they stood there reminded me of a national cemetery. All those crosses in straight lines…

In The Stand, a book by one of my favorite authors, Stephen King, there was a man who loved fire. He had been teased by peers as a kid and took his frustrations out with the healing and cleansing power of fire. After a virus killed off most of the U.S. population, and left fuel storage tanks literally unattended, Trashcan Man, as he was called, was on a quest to randomly roam the county, setting fires as he went. He nearly burned himself up when he set some gasoline storage tanks on fire to watch them explode. Ultimately, his love for the flame ended his life as well most of those in Las Vegas, and unknowingly thwarted the evil plans of The Dark Man, the leader of one of the two factions that formed in the aftermath of the epidemic. I liked the part of Trashcan Man…he got that name from setting fires in trash cans (one which killed someone, from what I remember). Just talking about this book makes me want to read it all over again.

I have talked about fire before. About how it removes all the dead growth and leaves in its wake a swath of new ground where life can begin anew. Fire is all cleansing. It is indiscriminate. It can be a good thing as well as a catastrophic event. Burning things that remind me of my old life when two were one is no different than the forest fire burning away deadfalls and underbrush. It works just the same to me. While the flames erased the past, I could feel the heat on my clothes. The barrel was emanating a lot of heat; the weather was chilly, not too cold, but I couldn’t tell. I was warm. My jeans were getting hotter than I realized, for when I moved and they touched my legs, it was almost too hot. The smoke would get thick when the fire wasn’t raging. So there were side effects of the fire…smoke and heat. The smoke was swirling around and filling the air and my clothes with its smell. I smelled that smoke on me until disrobing and showering, and even after that, I swear I smelled it in the house. The heat…made me feel good, but if I stayed too close for too long, it was a bit much. I could even have gotten burned if I had gotten closer. I suppose the memories that were burning into ashes could linger too, just like the smoke…and they could burn me too if I lingered too long on them…just like the heat.

I say that I have not let any fires get out of my control. There have been close calls, but they have never gotten out of hand. I saw one get so far out of control, though, that the fire department had to come out and put it out. I used to live in a roughshod trailer in Ooltewah (I live in a trailer now, but nowhere near as bad at this one was). The landlady’s son was, how shall I say it…not very bright. He started a fire one day that got out of his control. I saw it. I watched it. I wrote about it…

Burning Light

Sitting on my back porch I see the gentle spark.
Starting small, it gains new height and intensity,
becoming a burning light.

It quickly grows, sometimes fast,
sometimes slow, but always moving.
Its path is made behind;
black,
burned,
and lifeless.

Fear escapes my conscious mind
and quickly radiates outward,
I look to my right and the field
is a sea of color:
green,
red,
then black.

Blocking the sun is a billowing haze of blue.
Sounds of emergency, sounds of anxiousness,
the silent scream of a dying field.

A quick spray and the flames are gone.
Excitement dies, sounds disappear
and I soon return to my chair
relaxing and thinking about
fire,
death,
and rebirth.

Being burned doesn’t feel too good. I have been burned many times and the pain is enormous. Never anything that left substantial scars. A touch of my leg to a motorcycle muffler, a hot piece of metal on the fingers, a coal from a campfire popping and landing on me…just small burns. I couldn’t imagine being burned so bad like burn victims in hospitals. I have heard that the pain for those people is so intense that it feels like it goes to the bones. Being burned alive is a great fear of mine. Strange, coming from someone who likes fire. But I know what it can do, so great care is taken when I burn anything.

Fire is destructive, whether you are using it for heat like from a campfire or stove, or whether you are burning up old sticks and debris. But it could also be a thing of beauty, metaphorically speaking, as what exists between two souls in love with each other. The fire already exists in each one of us; it only needs the fuel and constant tending that being in love gives it…

Hearts on Fire

Love inspires
the heart’s desires
for the never ending search
of the ancient fire
that burns within each soul.

Combustion starts
whenever two hearts
are pulled by strings,
tied together
till the rhythmic beat is one.

As time goes by
the flames grow high
to warm the heart and free the tongue
to release the words
that pour out like steam into your ear.

The fire will burn
and the heart will not yearn
for the cold, hard stone
it had been.

Instead, in it’s place
is a flame with your face
as the source of fuel to keep
our love alive.

I like fire for so many reasons. But I think I like the representation of it bringing forth new life and the metaphor of being in love the most. I feel the desire to tend to the flame, to keep adding fuel to it to keep it alive, to watch the flickering inferno do its job. To stand close and feel the warmth bring comfort to my body, my heart, my soul.

I just don’t want to be burned.

The Morton Principle

Written right there on the side of the box of salt are words that sum up what I am feeling right now. There she is, a little girl, walking in the rain, under an umbrella, with salt pouring from the box in her hand. The words read, “When it rains, it pours”. The slogan comes from an old proverb that reads, “It never rains, but it pours”. Something doesn’t happen for a long time, and then when it does, it seems to come all at once. How true that is.

It just seems that everything happens at once. It can’t be just a little sprinkle of strife and sadness. No, it has to pour down like a deluge upon us. Upon me. I’m not talking about the rip in my heart from my divorce. No, that dead horse has been flogged enough. I’m talking about life in general. There is never enough money, cars break down, and hearts get shattered. Just when everything seems to be going right, things seem to be looking up, the sun is shining and things are grand, that’s when the storm seems to race in and drop pain and misery in a cascade upon my life. It’s not enough for me to not be able to get through; it just makes it look like it is.

Bills, bills, bills and more bills. They seem to add up faster than I can send them on their way. It is even worse now that no money is coming in. Money is coming in soon, though. It never fails that the government will slow things down. If you want something that you worked for and is owed to you, be assured that if the government has to put their hands in it first, it will take forever to get to you. My unemployment checks might as well be taped to the back of a turtle that is set free on the outskirts of Memphis and told to take it to Cleveland and to “be quick about it”. I have two collection agencies on my back, several medical bills, and leftover utility bills from my previous place of residence. Of course, I take the blame in not getting my payments to the original debtors in time to keep them from going to collections, but the money was just not there at the time and I had used up all my mulligans with them. They kept saying, “You know this will negatively affect your credit.” My reply to that was to remind them of what I have gone through…bankruptcy, foreclosure, unemployment…it didn’t matter. The money was just not there.

Not having the money hits me in another area as well. My vehicles. I have been without my main mode of transportation for several months now. My ’78 bus, Oscar by name, has had his engine out because of an oil plug that blew out and causing all of the oil to pour out…more than he usually leaked, which is a big problem. I have to do some work to get the engine back in, and in the meantime, I am driving my ’79 camper. I don’t like driving her all the time. She is meant for special occasions like going camping, going to shows (and camping), Sunday drives (and camping!), and parades (but mostly camping). As much as I hate it, I might have to let her go. The money I would get from selling her would really go a long way in getting Oscar back on the road. I have owned her since ’98 and letting her go would be a huge sentimental blow to my heart. I can do it, but it is a vicious circle…I can’t sell the camper before getting Oscar fixed…I can’t get Oscar fixed without the money from the sale of Sweetpea. I’m sure to find a way, but it would be a whole lot easier if Sweetpea was gone and money lined my pockets. I am getting relief in the form of government programs that my tax dollars have been paying into for all these years. It is only temporary, but needed and appreciated all the same. That is one thing I can thank my Uncle Sam for…

And, in the immortal words of the J. Geils Band…love stinks. Well…sometimes it does. I mean, I love “love”, but nothing hurts worse than losing it. “It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all”. Bunk. Without having loved, you don’t know what you have missed and you don’t have to duct tape your heart back together, all in the hopes that the next love doesn’t pull the tape away and the pieces fall apart, causing you to start all over again with the taping, and the healing, and the hurting and…and…*sigh*. I’m tired of putting my heart into someone only to have it drop kicked to the curb…or even just handed back to me with slight bruising. They both hurt the same.

Dang. Where’s my umbrella? I’m getting wet. You know what? Screw it…I’m going to go for a walk. Just because it is pouring down doesn’t mean that I’m not going out in it. I want to. I have to. What’s that other saying? That it “rains upon the just and the unjust”? It doesn’t matter. It is going to rain anyway. Might as well take it in stride, just like basking in the warm sunlight. As much as it might seem to, rain doesn’t last forever. In fact, I think I can see a bit of sunlight peeking through the darkest part of the cloud cover. Sun coming in the form of a new job that can bring financial stability, a chance to get my life back in order, a way to get my vehicle back to taking me to where I want to go, and possibly even new love to warm my heart up.

I’m looking forward to that last bit of sunshine the most.

Hands All Over

I am a shy person. Really, I am. I can talk so much better with my hands than with my mouth. When talking with my hands, there are none of those palm-sweaty eyes-meeting heart-pounding vibes that tie my tongue in knots and make the words that are supposed to come out stumble and fall back to the back of my throat. My hands only have these fingers that do what my brain tells them to do, to speak in such a way that has no sound but can yell with anger, cry in sadness, laugh in love and whisper in curiosity. But there is something lost when communicating through the written word; facial features that tell what a person is really thinking when talking, inflections that give clues to those who know what to search for, such as discovering a liar or receiving a profession of love from someone. So when writing, I try to make myself as clear as possible, but still use symbolism and analogy to make a point when I want to be subtle. My hands can do that. They can do lots of things; they can do whatever I tell them to do. Someone used to tell me that I had beautiful hands. I didn’t think so, but maybe they are. Maybe they are beautiful because they are mine and I can use them to convey a message my tongue is too afraid to deliver.

This glowing box in front of me is my window to the great big outside world beyond my geographical area. It holds many methods of communication. Indirectly via the worldwide web, time delayed with email, and almost instantly with the many types of instant messaging. With a camera, you can even see the person you are talking to. The keyboard attached to this glowing box is what my hands use to talk. I don’t even have to have someone to talk to. I can talk to myself with my hands through this medium. Although most of the words I say to myself I end up saying to the whole world anyway.

There is another small glowing box in my living room that hasn’t had much use in the past 6 months or so. I haven’t really missed it. It doesn’t call to me, taunting me with its endless entertainment possibilities…not that there is much of a varied choice of entertainment. Four or five choices are all it has to offer. Some things entice me, such as seeing parts of the world that I will never get the chance to actually visit, putting myself in the shoes of a person who I will never be, or filling my belly with laughter from really funny cartoon versions of families that I can relate to. I really used to like this box, but not so much anymore. Many nights have found me plopped down in front of it, remote control cradled in my hand, huddled there like a bundled up hobo, rubbing his hands over the fire, hoping to catch warmth on a chilly winter night.

Before I moved to my new place, an electrical surge fried my giant version of this box. 42 inches of entertainment with over 100 channels to choose from were gone with a loud noise and a small wisp of smoke. It also fried my stereo that supplied sound for this giant box. So when a friend of mine said he had a little television that he was giving away, I willingly accepted it. I still had the 100 plus channels to choose from, but they were condensed in size. It was a disappointing change of pace, but I still had my box of distractions. I soon discovered that the ability to have so many channels but still only watch a select handful of them was just not worth the money I had to pay to do so. At the dismay of my kids, I cancelled my cable subscription and joined the group of people who got their entertainment the old fashioned way…over the airwaves. But I didn’t do it right away. In fact, for a while, the only thing we watched were movies on DVD or VHS. Even when I moved to where there wasn’t even an option for cable (ok, there is satellite, but I still haven’t decided to start that subscription) I still didn’t hook up an antenna for the longest time. But now I have and the limited choices still don’t reel me in for a night of vegetative slouching.

Although I have run across some PBS specials that I enjoy. One that I enjoy is GlobeTrekker. The host goes to destinations around the world and documents the stay and the focal points of interest in each place. Pretty neat. There are other shows on there that are interesting, but most are, shall I say…boring. But, PBS is the only channel that usually comes in crystal clear. And when it does, the other channels are not so clear. Remember the days of dad moving the antenna and mom yelling “CLEAR!”? I’m living them all over again…except there is no one to move the antenna while I check for clarity. I have to use my hands to move the antenna, get up on a stool and look through the kitchen window and check for myself, get down, move the antenna, get back on the stool, and check and on and on till it is right. Anyway…I was actually watching something the other night that I never used to be into. Nighttime dramas like CSI, Cold Case, Bones, etc. This one I watched was an episode of Cold Case. This team investigates years old mysteries and solves them in less than an hour. Amazing. I don’t know if they do this at the end of every show, but after everyone was happy ever after and the mystery was solved, a song played while they did a little video wrap up. This song that was playing pulled at me. I’ve heard it before and I do love it. It is called “Hands” by Jewel.

If I could tell the world just one thing
It would be that we're all OK
And not to worry 'cause worry is wasteful
And useless in times like these

I won't be made useless
I won't be idle with despair
I will gather myself around my faith
For light does the darkness most fear

My hands are small, I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken

Poverty stole your golden shoes
It didn't steal your laughter
And heartache came to visit me
But I knew it wasn't ever after

We'll fight, not out of spite
For someone must stand up for what's right
'Cause where there's a man who has no voice
There ours shall go singing

My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
I am never broken

In the end only kindness matters
In the end only kindness matters
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray

My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken

My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken

We are never broken
We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's mind

We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's heart

We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's eyes

We are God's hands
We are God's hands

I just got laid off from my job. I used my hands there every day. I held onto tubes of titanium as they spun in a belt sander. I moved levers and measuring devices as I prepped those tubes to be made into bicycle frames. I carried bins of tubes to steel racks, felt the smoothness of each tube to ensure their preparedness level, and put on and removed personal protective equipment to protect my hands and eyes. I now am looking for another job to keep my hands busy. I will find one, I am sure. My hands need something to do. Maybe this new direction will give them something to do that they have never done before.

I would rather be doing something else with my hands. They love to pick up and hug my children. They love to run through long, flowing hair or tuck strands of it behind ears. They love to be pressed up against the back of a beautiful woman. They love to prepare food for others. They feel right at home nestled in the hands of a loved one. They love to be wrapped around a steering wheel and hold a camera. They like to push a pencil along a piece of paper to create works of art. They want to be a help to myself and especially a help to others. They will find something to do. But until then, and even ever after, they will continue to convey these thoughts that run through my mind into a readable format. They will be my tongue when my tongue is at rest. They will be a voice for my heart when my heart wants to cry out in joy, sadness or anger. My hands will speak for those parts of me that have no voice.

And you know what? They are mine…and they are beautiful.

Falling in Love with You

Love at first sight is only realizing an imagination that has always haunted us. –William Hazlitt

I found a quaint little pocket book a while back. I had taken some books in for trade at McKay’s Used Books and had gotten some credit. I took my kids in to get them some books with that credit, and had hoped to find some music for myself. Not having any luck with music, I was standing in line with many books for my kids when I saw on a shelf near the counter a little book titled Falling in Love with You. It was a collection of quotes from well known people about this wonderful subject of falling in love. From the early stages of first love, into the bliss of marriage and the love shared in bed, to the troubles that come with love, all the way to the secrets of lasting love, this little book covered it all. I had to have it.

I keep this book on the nightstand next to my bed and read a few pages every night. It isn’t a big book, so you would think that I would be finished with it by now. I am nearly done, but I am taking my time with it, re-reading each quote and trying to relate it to my own life. Reading the quotes of first love…I remembered the time that I fell in love for the first time. I knew what was happening. I had hoped for something like that for my entire life. I had a single experience with someone in high school, but that was nothing compared to the feeling of falling in love, falling into true love. Although I am a believer in “love at first sight”, this wasn’t the case in my first love. True, I told myself that this woman was one that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, even so, it took a little time for the “falling into love” to happen. But that first true love is gone. I told her and myself that I would love her till the day I died, and that is true. But being in love with her? No. That is gone.

What is first love worth, except to prepare for the second? What does second love bring? Only regret for the first. – John Hay

Sure, I regret losing my first love. It was something that I never thought would happen. The loss of love, not the regret, that is. The regret of losing love is there. I do regret that we let things get to the point that she lost her love for me. I never lost it for her. It isn’t the same love, though. The love that I have now is almost at the level of a platonic love, like the love that you have for a good friend. And even though I regret losing her love, I don’t regret falling in love. For as the above quote says, first love prepares you for second loves and teaches you what not to do in all other loves.

It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know when it has begun. – William W. Longfellow

Butterflies in the stomach; longing to be together with your object of affection; feeling incomplete when apart; the feeling of pure joy when together. I know these feelings. To me, they signify that something special is happening. I “love” love. I love that feeling of being close to someone, so close that you can read them. The closeness is a melding of souls so tightly woven together that you can read them in an instant. You can tell just with a look what kind of mood they are in. You are hurt when they are in pain, feel elation when they are happy, morose when they are sad. It is almost a clairvoyant feeling, this closeness. But it is not so easy to tell if they are as in love with you as you are with them. This can be hidden behind eyes so open and a heart so loving. In that case, it should be obvious, but sometimes it isn’t. I know my feelings, but I like to be told of the love had for me. Everyone should love to be told that someone loves them. It feels so good.

The loss of love is a terrible thing. They lie who say that death is worse. – Countee Cullen

Losing love hurts. It is a pain that is hidden in your heart but is visible in your countenance; it shows on your face, in your actions, shows through your eyes, flowing from your soul. This pain is a great wound upon your soul leaving scars unseen. This hidden pain takes longer to heal than any visible wound. A Persian quote says that “A broken hand works, but not a broken heart”. My heart still hurts. It still hurts from the loss of a true love, but it also hurts from the loss of other relationships that have happened since the great pain was inflicted upon it. I don’t protect my heart very well. I know I said I was going to build a fence around it to protect it from getting hurt, but that fence never got finished. I put too much of my heart into things that I do, relationships included. This is a dangerous thing, because it sets me up for pain when things go wrong. I should know better, but I do it anyway. Do you know why? Because to me, the ultimate joy of falling in love and staying in love is so great, is so desirable, is what I long to do that I look at every new prospect in such a way as to prepare myself for love. Is it going to happen this time? Is this the one? And so with great anticipation comes a great fall…and with that fall comes a time of darkness. In that time of darkness, the search continues for the light, the light that warms the heart and comforts the soul. I heard a quote the other night that shows me a path to that light out of the darkness. I was watching a PBS special about Hanukkah. No, I’m not Jewish, but with a set of rabbit ear antennas (no, not even rabbit ears…more like a rabbit with an ear cut off…just one antenna), PBS was the only channel strong enough to come in with an antenna out here in the sticks (and I hadn’t had TV in so long, I was desperate for some entertainment). A rabbi was saying that our eyes have two parts: a dark and a light part, and the only part that we use to see the light is through the dark part. It hit me right then that the only way to see a way to happiness in love and in life was to look through the dark parts, to get past the hurts of love and the hardships of life by peering through the darkness to where even the dimmest of lights should be the brightest focal point. After all, even the light from a small candle can be seen from afar in complete darkness.

True love is eternal, infinite and always like itself. It is equal and pure, without violent demonstrations. It is seen with white hairs and is always young at heart. – Balzac

True love is meant to last a lifetime and beyond. It is something so great, so soul satisfying, so completing, that time has no hold on it. It is something to be desired and cherished, so much in fact, that all the hurts and disappointments endured in the search for it can’t diminish the ultimate joy and lasting exhilaration that comes when it is finally found and kept. It is worth it. I know true love is out there. It has touched me before, it is part of me; I have felt it, and I do feel it now. I have faith and do believe in everlasting love. I believe that there is such a thing as love at first sight. I believe that with love comes pain and misunderstandings, but also, that love heals all wounds. I believe that love needs daily nourishment to grow and stay strong, whereas hate needs no nourishment; it only needs provoking to show its might. I believe…in love.

How shall I do to love? Believe.
How shall I do to believe? Love. – Robert Leighton

To Have and to Hold

December 19, 2008

Rowan,

I did something today that I thought I would never do. I held you. I held you while you slept, little eyes tightly shut, your lips doing a little sucking motion every now and then, fingers curled in tiny fists, sometimes at your mouth, other times just by the sides of your head. A little hiccup or whimper would escape you here and there, the whimpers sounding like squeaks from a mouse, the hiccups barely noticeable. I held you while you were awake, dark blue eyes staring intently at this odd fellow with a face full of fuzzy hair, facial features strangely familiar but still those of a stranger. I held you while holding a bottle of formula in your ever so eager and willing mouth, listening to the sucking sounds you made and to the escaping air bubbling in the bottle. It must have been heaven for you; your eyes starting rolling in your head and eyelids held closed, but open enough that you seemed to be taking a peek at the holder of the bottle of joy. I held you while your mother took a break and went to town to get things needed for you and her. She needs times like this. She loves you so very much, but still…she needs to get away every once in a while.

I never thought I would see you. I knew I would see you in pictures or videos that your momma will certainly fill up album after album and put online for all those who love you to see. I knew that. What I didn’t know was that I would be able to see you face to face, to search for facial features or traits that remind me of me. To hear with my own ears as you cry, giggle, burp, or sneeze. To smell your skin and recognize it as a mix of my own scent mingled with your mother’s. To see you in cute little sleepers festooned with flowers, butterflies, or kitty cats. To watch you eagerly suck down a bottle. To even experience the sweet nastiness of spit-up milk.

But I did. Your mother sent me a message with some words that I had written in another note to the world… “I hope to be able to see her or at least be notified of her birth…” and an invitation to do what I had hoped to do, but didn’t expect to do; to see you in person. I thought for only a moment about how hard it would be for me to do so. It would be a reminder of what I had left behind me and what I was going to miss. I didn’t think too long on it though, because it might be the only time that I could do it and I wasn’t going to pass it up…I didn’t want to pass it up. You are only a month old and you won’t remember seeing me, but I will remember this experience for the rest of my life.

While your momma went to the store, I held you as you slept and told you things. I told you that you were beautiful. I told you that your momma was going to take care of you, and that she was going to do a good job too. I can tell that she is already doing a good job of it. I’ve done it before and she hasn’t, but she was already doing the things she knew to do. Mommas know. They do. It must be ingrained into every females psyche. The ability to know what to do with offspring must surely be in their DNA, passed on down from generation to generation. I told you that even if I wasn’t going to be there physically, I certainly will be there emotionally and spiritually. Through the tears that I desperately tried to hold back, I whispered to you as I kissed your forehead… “I love you.” I told you that you were going to be just fine. Your momma will do a great job with you. You have not only her, but you are going to have so many aunts and uncles to show you how to do the things that they do, the things that make them who they are. I told you all these things.

And I told you I was sorry…

I’m not sorry that you are here. No, I could never be sorry about that. I am sorry that I am not here. I am sorry that your momma is going to go at this alone. Not entirely alone, but momma knows what I mean. Ask her about it while she is changing your diaper, cleaning up your messes, looking at you lovingly, and while tickling your nose and calling you “monkey”. Ask her about it one day while you are chasing cats around the house, watching stained glass creativity, or while pulling numerous books off the shelves.

I spent hours there, but it seemed as mere minutes. As the time came for me to go, I held you once more. I looked at your eyes, dark orbs of blue, unknowing yet full of infantile wisdom. I looked at your little Mohawk of hair on your head. I took several sniffs of your skin and clothes to make my brain remember what you smelled like. Your momma likes good smells. She told me numerous times that I smelled good, and that was even after a long day at work…go figure. I want to remember your smell. I hope I do years from now. I know that I still smelled you and your momma all the way home tonight.

It was hard, Rowan. It was really hard on me seeing you, knowing that I probably won’t get this chance again. But I am happy that I did it. I thank your momma from the bottom of my heart for giving me this chance, just as much as she thanks me for her gift, probably the best gift she has ever gotten. You. You really are a gift for her to have and to hold for the rest of her life. I am just glad I had you to hold for that one brief moment in time; a moment that I will have and hold forever.

You be a good girl. I know you will.

Love,
CNC

The Beautiful Things

Ok, show of hands…who saw the sunset tonight? C’mon, somebody had to have seen it other than myself. I was driving home just about that time and had to stop at the post office in Apison and just take it in. There were purples and yellows, reds and oranges. There were some clouds that were absorbing the colors wonderfully, looking like a rumpled comforter on an unmade bed. I stood in awe then remembered the camera on my phone. I need to start carrying around my camera, the real one, not this feeble attempt at a camera that I carry in my pocket. Cell phones…they’re not just for calls anymore. The quality isn’t that great in dim lighting, but is pretty ok with good light and no movement.

I took several shots, and the above one was the one that was the most clear, but with those danged utility lines in the way. I stood there for a while and took in the piece of art that was changing before me. Before it was all the way gone, I got in my bus and continued my trek home. In my rear view mirror and side mirrors I could see at different times the glow of the sky. I thought it was just beautiful.

By the time I got home, it was dark and only a tint of red remained in the western sky. I was hoping to get closer to home before it got dark in order to possibly get a glimpse of the mountains in the east reflecting the colors of the sunset, but when I got to where I would be able to see them, they were just these dark shapes on the horizon with not a bit of color in them. That’s ok. The sun will set again, I’m sure.

Seeing tonight’s artwork made me think of the beautiful things in life. A sunrise…just as beautiful (although it is early in the morning…) as a sunset. A sea of wildflowers with varied colors inviting you to run through and fall in among them, with bees and other insects that are attracted buzzing above your head. A far-off mountain range as seen from a valley; that valley as seen from the mountain top. A painting hanging in an art gallery. A well written poem. A woman (sure, some maybe more beautiful than others, but any woman is more beautiful than any man, through my eyes). A child’s picture hanging on the refrigerator, crudely drawn with crayon, drawn with innocence and with love. A waterfall. A well-worn path carving its way through a dense forest. The crystal blue waters of a lagoon on a remote island getaway. A song that makes you think and remember. Life itself.

Sometimes life may not seem beautiful. When your finances are stretched to the point of wondering if utilities will be cut off for non-payment or if the food will last till the next shopping trip; when someone you love hurts you, leaves you, cuts your heart to the core; when you hear things that are said about you behind your back, whether it is true or, like most of the time, just lies spread around; when the balances of happiness and sadness grossly tip over into the negative…life can seem to be not so beautiful. I heard today of the senseless death of a young woman, a mother of two young children. A car wreck took her life and left two others without a mother. Such a sad thing to hear. Makes me think of my own childhood…and feel for those children. Sad times ahead. But you know, it is at those times that the beautiful things in life can stop you in your tracks and leave you in awe. Like tonight’s sunset. I had left my old place after doing a little work on my bus. I know that it is inevitable that I will have to get everything out of the garage. Everything is already out of the house. I still have some odds and ends in the garage, along with my tools and my bus with its heart lying out on the floor. Those things were on my mind on my way from there. I was almost in a depressed state when I left the garage and looked to the west. And there it was, hidden mostly behind a line of trees that for years have blocked my view to the whole picture of the sunset. I hurriedly got in my bus and headed to where I knew I would have a view of the whole western sky. So I got there and…well, got to the beginning of this writing.

Life. It really is beautiful.

You can’t quit until you try
You can’t live until you die
You can’t learn to tell the truth
Until you learn to lie

You can’t breathe until you choke
You gotta laugh when you’re the joke
There’s nothing like a funeral to make you feel alive

Just open your eyes
Just open your eyes
And see that life is beautiful.
Will you swear on your life,
That no one will cry at my funeral?

I know some things that you don’t
I’ve done things that you won’t
There’s nothing like a trailer park to find your way back home

I was waiting for my hearse
What came next was so much worse
It took a funeral to make me feel alive

Just open your eyes
Just open your eyes
And see that life is beautiful.
Will you swear on your life,
That no one will cry at my funeral?

“Life is Beautiful” – Sixx Am

It is true. All you have to do in order to see the things of beauty through all the ugly things that stand in the way is to open your eyes and just look. And see.

Dream a Little Dream

I just woke up in my computer chair. That’s nothing new. I do it all the time. There’s a short little video clip (somewhere here in one of the many boxes that contain my life) that my ex took of me doing that very thing. My fingers are on the keyboard, I am sitting upright, and my head is turned up waiting for flies to crawl into. It is something that really made me laugh, seeing myself doing something that I knew I did from a third person’s point of view.

This time, I woke up with my hands on the armrests of this comfortable computer chair; the same one I was sitting in for that video. I had been dreaming. I barely remember my dreams after waking unless I write down what was going on soon after I wake up. In this dream, I was at a store (I’m pretty sure it was a home-improvement store, because I have been assessing the things that need to be done here…things that have to be done…and I think there were things in my buggy for working on the house). While shopping, I got a phone call from a friend. This friend is someone who I have only known a short time, but grew close to really fast. I don’t really remember the entire phone conversation, but near the end of it, I was hearing that she never wanted to see me again. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and I really took it hard. I tried to think of what I had done to push her away, to make her not want to even be around me. I couldn’t think of one thing. At the end of the conversation, after I had hung up, I saw her walking across the parking lot waving good-bye to me. I waved and then turned around to the trunk of my bus (trunk? My bus doesn’t have a trunk…), put my face in my hands and cried. I woke up from this dream with tears on my face.

Dreams. They are strange to me. A mix of true life and fantasy. A mix of daily activities and sub-conscious thoughts. A bit of what you show to others and some of what you keep inside. Some say that dreams really mean something, that usually there is a message to be taken from them. I mean, there are scientists and psychiatrists who base their entire careers upon the dreams of others. I just say they are dreams, something that your mind takes and makes a little Hollywood production out of. I have had dreams that are so goofy that are filled with things that just don’t make sense or are things that I have never even done or probably will never do. I have had dreams that are light and flowery, the ones you wake up to and try to go back to sleep to keep on dreaming. I have had dreams so scary that I wake up frightened and do what I can to keep from going back to sleep. I have even had dreams that make me question my own morality; dreams of depraved sexuality or murderous intent…

I don’t know what to make of this latest dream. This friend of mine hasn’t told me that she never wants to see me again. But I was told over the phone that there wasn’t enough time in her life for seeing anyone right now, that maybe God was pointing her in another direction. I don’t have any reason to disbelieve her. I don’t have any reason to hate or despise her…and I don’t on both counts. I want her to be happy. I believe that people need to be happy with themselves and the choices they make, to put their own priorities in front of what other people want, and this includes my own priorities and choices as well.

Like I said, I barely remember my dreams. But there are some that I can’t get rid of. When I was a child and staying at my grandma’s house, I remember hearing a Whippoorwill singing late at night. I thought it sounded spooky, like a spirit lost in the woods trying to find its way back to its body. I’m pretty sure it led to the dream I had that night. I was lying in my bed and I saw this figure walking towards me. I couldn’t tell what it was, whether it was a person or a monster. When it got close to the side of my bed, I could see what it was; a skeleton reaching out to me, not touching me, but it had a pointing finger in my face. Even though I was probably five years old at the time, I still remember that dream.

More recently (and I have blogged about this on my MySpace blog) though, the one dream that I distinctly remember was not scary, but I woke up more or less scratching my head. In this dream, I was in a house with many rooms. The house was full of scantily clad or even naked women. Some had faces of women that I knew, some that I didn’t know, some that are in the public eye, and some didn’t even have faces at all, just blurry features as so not to be able to tell who they were. As I went from room to room, a new sexual experience awaited me. I was doing things that I have done, things that I have thought about, and even things that pushed me to the edge of sexual self-indulgence. I woke up in a stupor, wondering just where in the hell that came from. What part of my brain held these thoughts, even if some were thoughts that I never think of, things that I would never do. It made me question my own immorality. I just know that I am not that depraved…

Dreams usually come from reality. They come from deep inside of us, and also from influences outside of us. I will admit that there is a chance they could have a meaning that we can interpret and put to use in our lives. Relationships with friends, family, lovers, or even enemies; choices to be made in which direction to take; answers to questions we have…all could be answered in dreams. I don’t put too much faith in that, but it is possible. Love and matters of the heart? I do believe that dreams could tell us something. Especially for us that love means a lot too. I once had a friend put a caption at the bottom of a painting he had made that said, “Love does not exist but in the minds of poets and dreamers.” I am both. I have many poems written on the subject of love inspired by dreams. Here is one of them…a little cheesy, but nonetheless…

Dreamland

There is a place I’d like to be,
in a mystical place beside the sea.
Just you and me in this place I see.
And ever and ever we will be…

…One together, two apart;
Two in body, one in heart.
And never again shall we part.

We will dance in the shadows of a summer moon
and in the light of the dying sun.
We will dance to the beat of each other’s hearts.
We will dance till our dance is done.

We will laugh together,
learn together,
live together,
love together.
We will be for each other
and not another.

This place can be real to you,
as real as it seems to me.
But it’s nothing more than fanciful dreams
if you are not here with me.

These dreams can come true
if you just take my hand in yours.
We can go to this place
to dream a dream
and dance on sandy shores.

I don’t know if I will dream again tonight. I might. I might not. It isn’t something planned. It just happens. Just like things in real life. Unplanned things happen, things that are just out of our control. But, if you really believe in this stuff that happens, just like in dreams, you can take what happens and put it to use; use it to make a change in your direction, to make a change in yourself. I do believe in that. I really do. I am trying to live it right now. I know that I want to take the mistakes I have made in the past and put them to use in my future, to ensure that those things don’t happen again; or if the occurrences are good, use them to make the future brighter for myself and for my children.

It is oh, so late. I must get to bed. And possibly dream…

All Hail Santa

It’s that time of year again, when the merriment of the holiday season brings peace and joy to people all over the world; when children delight in wondering just what Santa will bring them this year; and people unite in a harmonious effort to spread a little love to those around them. It’s Christmas time, y’all! It will be here sooner than you think. In fact, it is tomorrow! Yeah! What? It isn’t tomorrow? Well, according to the decorations and things for sale at Wal Mart, Walgreen’s, K Mart, The Dollar Tree, Dollar General, and the wondrous Hamilton Place Mall, it should be tomorrow. I mean, they have been setting up and selling Christmas items since before Halloween. I half expected a role reversal from A Nightmare Before Christmas to occur…Santa taking over Jack Skellington’s role of King of Halloween. Sheesh. Oh, and save a space at the Thanksgiving table for one more; a fat guy in a red and white suit. Better hope you have enough cookies and milk on the table…

I mean come on. I love Christmas. I really do. But the way I see it…it is getting ridiculous. The first time I walked into Wal Mart and actually heard Christmas music playing was when I was going in looking at Halloween decorations. What?!? I felt something inside of me snap. I almost couldn’t hold back an almost angry sense of disgust. I can understand the department stores wanting to jump the gun on the competition. If someone is ready to buy their giant inflatable snow globes with a manger scene and Santa flying in the background before anyone else does, they are going to buy it at the place that has it for sale first. But it still racks my nerves.

And speaking of firsts, I saw a first just the other day. I’ve seen Halloween yard decorations, Christmas yard decorations, Easter decorations, etc. but have never seen official Thanksgiving yard decorations until this year. Planted in the front yard of a house was a giant blow-up turkey. Yep, a turkey with a light shining on it like it was a gift from heaven. Heaven help me…

Has it always been like this? I don’t seem to remember the holiday shopping season coming at us full force so early years ago like it is now. Maybe it’s because I just can’t remember. I really can’t. From what I can remember, the day after Thanksgiving has always been the start of the Christmas shopping spree. On your marks! Get set! Shop! That is fine with me. But the pushing back of the bombardment of holiday songs, set-ups, decorations, sales, etc. is driving me absolutely nuts. Don’t tell me I’m the only one who feels this. You know you’re thinking the same thing.

Well, since it is full-front and out in my face, might as well get started. This Christmas looks pretty bleak, as far as the “get the kids what they want to please them” aspect goes. I won’t be one of those out there pushing and shoving to get the newest crazy fad toy. I won’t be a part of the madness of bumper to bumper traffic, tempers flaring, middle fingers flying, car horns blaring. I hope not to be, at least. What I can afford to get I will probably get in a single trip. There won’t be as much disposable income over this way for any of that other crazy crap. Reminds me of a lyric from a song by Everclear called I Will Buy You a New Life… “I hate those people who try to tell you money is the root of all that kills, they have never been poor, they have never had the joy of a welfare Christmas…” Not that there is anything wrong with that, mind you. When I was a kid, Christmas was the only time we got anything special, not including birthdays. I remember waking up on Christmas day to several presents placed at the foot of my bed (the 2-foot tall shiny aluminum Christmas tree just wouldn’t hold presents for 5 kids under it). In our stockings were oranges, candy, nuts, and small toys. The presents were mostly things we needed, like socks or a new belt. Sure there were toys, but not expensive ones. A Tonka toy truck with a GI Joe driver, an AM radio that you powered by inserting probes into a potato or orange (pretty neat, that one!). Sure, disappointments happened, but that was and is life.

I do believe that my kids understand. My daughter really shows her maturity in that matter. She knows the deal. My son, well, he is getting there, but has a long way to go. I want them to have a good Christmas, I really do. I want them to have some things that they want. I remember what it was like to really want something under that tree. Even today, I want things too. But I also want them to understand that getting what they need trumps getting what they want. You know, the difference between today and way-back when is that then, I had no clue about being poor. I was just a kid. I was rich. I had everything I needed given to me. I didn’t have to work to pay for things that were truly needed. I didn’t know where things came from; I just knew that hey, new shoes were on my feet, clothes without holes were in my dresser, plates of food were put in front of me at mealtimes. I had no clue that Grandma didn’t get her money from a job. I did know that we sold oranges from the grove and eggs from the henhouse, but I was clueless that the money from that surely wasn’t supporting five kids and sending them to private school as well. I had no clue that we were “this close” to poverty. Today…being a grown up (yes, I am a grown up, believe it or not) lets you in on the secrets unknown to children. Money isn’t free. There isn’t a tree in the back yard that sprouts twenties and fifties. It takes hours of work to get that action figure to play with. And even more hours of work to keep the electricity and water from being cut off and a roof with four walls to protect you from the elements.

I started off on a rant here, didn’t I? Let me get back to it...well, sort of. I made someone at Wal Mart laugh the other day. I had just paid for my things and was picking up my sacks of groceries to carry out. The checkout dude told me thanks and to “come again”. I had been hearing Christmas songs while shopping and actually had “Silver Bells” ringing in my head. My eyes were still blinded by the glittery tinsel and ornaments in the newly stocked Holiday section (which, up until a few weeks ago was the outdoor section). Still in a Jolly haze, and transformed into an elf for the time being, I blurted out, “Merry Christmas!” He looked at me like I was crazy, and then understood. He shook his head and laughed, then said, “Yeah, I know.”

Let the holidays come. Let them come in their own time. I see no need to rush them in. They will come soon enough, with sleigh bells ringing, age-old specials on TV, cakes of fruit, nogs of egg, and shiny noses leading the way through fog as “thick as pea soup”…or even as thick as “jelly brains”. Bring it on, Santa. Just give me a minute though…

Purposefully Insignificant

My ego is only the size of a paper clip. Usually it is bigger than that, especially when I feel like I am worth something, which is a good percent of the time, but today, after sitting several hours with other people who have done “wrong”, I felt no bigger than a small piece of wire designed to hold papers together. I was in a place where I really don’t ever want to be, in a place where when I have been there, even for something that is considered “doing my civic duty”, I just don’t want to be there. This place is the courthouse. It doesn’t matter what courthouse, any one will do, but this time I was in the Chattanooga City Courtroom of Judge Russell Bean.

I was there because I was in an accident in September. It was simply that, an accident. I didn’t see the person in my right-hand lane, and pulled over on them, causing damage to both mine and his vehicle. No one was hurt, thank goodness, but I was cited for “cutting in” and it being a citation that was not one I could simply pay, I had to appear in court. Like I said, I hate going to court. The only other time I had to appear in court was nearly 10 years ago for a simple misdemeanor. Long story, but a little puissant town in eastern Tennessee conducted a money making roadblock that netted them quite a purse that weekend, which ended up with me “donating” over $500 to them, and putting a misdemeanor charge on my record. No big deal, but I still hated going.

Today, I had to sit and listen as person after person went up before the judge to explain what had happened and then await judgment. Now, I understand that a judge doesn’t become a judge from being stupid. They are where they are because usually they have earned that position and that respect. But I have sat in for jury duty, and even sat in the back of a few trials just to see what went on. I have seen judges hand down sentences with swiftness and seen plaintiffs try and talk their way out of things where I am thinking “You are so guilty, why even bother?” I have also seen judges act like they have never done wrong and try to make those people standing in front of them the size of, well…the size of paper clips.

Today, Judge Bean was calm and cool. Most of the people appearing before him were young drivers, and most of them had been cited for following too closely and for rear-end collisions. Most of them got off with warnings and driver’s education classes. I got to see them explain their situations and I was able to learn from observing more of what I would expect when it was my turn to be standing where they were. It came down to what ended up being the person ahead of me who was next. He had clipped another person (who was also there on their own behalf) who was in the middle of a right-hand turn. They had started making their turn; he had gotten impatient and tried to go around them, when they had to stop to let someone else get out of their way before continuing on in their turn. He ended up scraping the corner of their vehicle and busting out a tail light. Judge Bean recognized him as being in front of him earlier in the year. He had reduced the sentence of speeding down to keep points off of his license that time. This time his mercy was not as lenient. The plaintiff ended up having to pay the full fine plus court costs.

Then it was my turn. They called my name, and I made my way up in front of the judge. I had been slowly getting myself ready the whole time I had been waiting there. I saw how he had made judgments and how he was giving people second chances, especially if they had never had been cited before. This is where I felt like I would be given a second chance as well. Aside from the little money making incident nearly 10 years ago, I had never been issued a citation for any traffic incident. Even so, standing before him, my heart was pounding. I didn’t want to be there, I was nervous as hell, but I had everything in order. I had proof of insurance, a statement that showed how the other party had been satisfied, and any other papers I thought I might need all held together with a little paper clip.

I was nervous, that’s for sure. But it really was for nothing. He asked if I had any other citations and I told him that I had never even gotten a simple parking ticket. His assistant on her computer re-affirmed the fact that I didn’t have a record. He seconded the fact and set aside my fine for six months good behavior, plus court costs. Then he did what I thought he might do. Assume something. He said that I had a good driving record, but that I must have been dodging bullets for all these years. I gritted my teeth and bit my tongue. I have most certainly not been dodging bullets for my whole driving life. I am a good driver. I haven’t had “safe driver” on my driver’s license for decades for being a bad driver. I don’t have low insurance rates for not being a careful driver. I drive a vintage vehicle which I prize and most certainly don’t want to damage, much less hurt someone else’s car with it. I drive with my headlights on even in the daytime just so the other idiots driving can see me as well as I can see them. All these thoughts were running through my head, but I bit my tongue and felt myself shrinking and curling up. I held my thoughts inside my head, thanked him, gathered up my papers and made my way out. I looked at the paper clip holding my papers together and thought, “Hi. Now I know how you feel. You are a good piece of work. You have a purpose, but you are small and insignificant. Your shape is such that is designed for the purpose you are made for, but you are forced into that shape by something bigger and stronger than you are. You are nothing.”

Even though my fine was dropped and even my court costs deferred for a period of time, I was irked that I was made to feel like I was lucky enough to have been “not caught” for all these years. That I have been driving like a maniac and finally brought to justice. I am not a bad driver. I know that. The judge does not. He does not live my life. But in the same respect, I don’t live his either. I don’t have to sit up there and listen to every Sally Sobstory and Harry Hardluck try to talk their way out of situations where they are obviously in the wrong. I don’t have to throw decisions at people while not knowing their situations in life at the moment. I don’t envy those that do. It has to be a hard job.

Even back nearly ten years ago, at the time when I donated that money to a little town in eastern Tennessee, I knew that the police officer that was driving me to the holding center was only doing his job. The one behind the desk recording the paperwork was only doing his job. The one taking the pictures for the “mug shot” was only doing his job. There were bigger, stronger, jumbo-sized paper clips above them, and most certainly smaller, weaker mini-paper clips beneath them. Each one did what they were supposed to do.

I got back to my bus; my poor damaged bus, and sat in it for a while before starting him up and driving home. I sat in there thinking about how we all have a purpose in life, whether it is handing down judgments on people, enforcing the rules that we have created, or abiding by those rules in order to avoid having judgment handed down. I ran my finger over the shape of that paper clip and felt just like it. Bent out of shape, small and insignificant, but doing what I was designed to do. Do my job, hold things together (loves, life, family, jobs, mentor) and be proud to serve my purpose. I may not be the all important judge that most likely earned that position. I may not be the police officer that makes sure that the rules that are in place are followed. But I am the person who does what I do and I try to do that to the best of my ability, the best way that I see fit, the way that I know how. And I am going to keep on doing just that. Maybe one day I will be the size of a jumbo paper clip instead of just a small one.

Grasping at Stars

The sky is dark. The lights of my bus reflect on those reflective bumps they put on the road to show the edges and middle lines (so thankful they are on this back road to my house…it is so dark out here). I’m almost home. Up in the sky are the stars. Earlier, the moon was hovering above the tree line, just a reddish sliver looking like an abnormally huge comma. I know, the stars have always been there, I’ve seen them before, and I’m sure to see them again. They aren’t going anywhere. Unlike lots of things in life, they will be there for a long time. They’ll be there long after you and I are gone. They are everlasting. Most places, the light pollution is so bad that the stars are these dim dots trying to shine through the haze rising from the horizon to the middle of the sky, but tonight, out here in the middle of nowhere, and especially looking east towards the start of the Smoky Mountains, I saw them as bright dots against a blue-black background, as pinpoints of light through a dark canvas. They were so bright, so much bigger than I remember, that I thought I could almost reach up and grab one, take it and hold it in my hand as a light in the dark, a source of warmth in this cold place of desperation, comfort in this evil world of despair. I thought I could reach for a star, but it is impossible; it is something I can never have.

The past few days have been days of darkness. The sun has shone brightly; the weather has been perfect, warm in fact. The nights have been a little chilly, but not as cold as it has been. But the bright sun and the nice weather have done nothing to bust through this feeling of loneliness that has clouded my heart like a cold, damp fog. What is wrong with me? Why do I feel this way after so many days of feeling like things have gotten better? I still am reeling financially. That will take a while to rise above. But I am rising, that I feel. I have friends that are there for me. I haven’t heard from some in a while, so when some of the “old-school” friends contacted me in the past few weeks, I was almost shocked. Some hadn’t even heard of what is going on in my life now. Some didn’t even know of my Great and Terrible D. But each and every one of them had the same words for me; “You can call me anytime. Anything you need, I’ll be there”. Of course that felt great.

Emotionally, I am a train wreck. I have had and lost so many times. I am tired of it. Just when I think that I have found something that I can hold onto, something that will last for more than just a few weeks, something that will warm this heart of stone, fingertips just inches from that star…out the window it goes. I like my job, but I’m tired of having to go in on my day off just to live, just to have the money needed for the things I need, let alone the things I want. On Friday, I was there; feeling like the world was against me, feeling all alone all over again. I was folding some cleaning rags from the dryer and I just couldn’t hold back the emotion that had been pushing itself out all morning. I tried to hold back the waterworks, but I just couldn’t. I am a man, for crying out loud. Men aren’t supposed to show this kind of emotion. But there I was, with red and watery eyes and hoping no one would walk in and see me that way. And someone did. Luckily, it was someone who is going through her own personal hell, so to see me that way was ok…I had seen her that way too.

I spent a lot of time by myself this weekend. I had hoped to spend a part of it with somebody, someone who I have grown to like a whole lot. But I understand partly of why I couldn’t. I am not one to stand in the way of someone and their time with family, their time with friends, their time at work, and their time alone. I can’t make someone be with me, this I know. Time is everything…time is nothing. I know that time doesn’t stand still. It keeps on ticking away, pushing the future into the present, making the present become the past. I don’t want to be a part of this special person’s past. I want to be a part of her present, a part of her future…but in doing so, I will become a part of her past…weird how that turns out, huh? I am patient. I can wait as long as it takes for time to pass and more time to be created for togetherness. It can’t be only something that I want; it has to come from both sides. So, if the stars that I try to reach align themselves, if the mirror reflects the same image I am looking for, if and only what if…if that happens, I want her to know that I am right here, exactly where I was and need to be. You hear me?

Grabbing for stars. The unreachable heights that no one can attain. Reaching out for something that I can never have. Reminds me of a Nine Inch Nails song. The song is pretty soft, for a song by a band that has dark lyrics and carries the label of “industrial” music. I’ve always liked them. I haven’t listened to them much lately, but they are on my computer, and a song pops up every now and then while iTunes randomly plays whatever song is next…

Something I Can Never Have – Nine Inch Nails

i still recall the taste of your tears

echoing your voice just like the ringing in my ears

my favorite dreams of you still wash ashore

scraping through my head 'till i don't want to sleep anymore

come on tell me

make this all go away

you make this all go away

i'm down to just one thing and i'm starting to scare myself

make this all go away

you make this all go away

i just want something

i just want something i can never have

you always were the one to show me how

back then i couldn't do the things that i can do now

this is slowly taking me apart

grey would be the color if i had a heart

i just want something i can never have

in this place it seems like such a shame

though it all looks different now, i know it's still the same

everywhere i look you're all i see

just a fading fucking reminder of who i used to be

come on tell me

make this all go away

you make this all go away

i'm down to just one thing and i'm starting to scare myself

make this all go away

you make this all go away

i just want something

i just want something i can never have

think i know what you meant

that night on my bed

still picking at this scab

i wish you were dead

you sweat and perry ellis

just stains on my sheets

Not all the lyrics, mind you, pertain to my mood (and oh, so not the “I wish you were dead” ones…don’t wish that on anyone) but the whole “something I can never have” speaks to me. I know all about that. Like the person in the movie whose fingers are just touching the tip of the keys to get them out of the cell they are trapped in, touching them, moving them with fingertips and pushing them further away with every attempt…that I know about.

Never will I be able to reach those stars. They are just too far away. Now, the moon, though…it’s a little closer. I wonder…I wonder if I get my step ladder…hmmm