The sun pressed in through the windows and I drew the gauzy shades to filter its unrelenting light. As if I could somehow edit, or delay its ability to expose all the tiny imperfections. Flipping switches in an ever-evolving strategy of controlling what is uncovered, displayed, found out. But I underestimated the voracity of a balmy late-spring Ohio afternoon, and how sometimes it feels better to just, let, go.
I asked him, tell me why, is it okay if I ask you why? He told me how it ended, as we sat on the over-stuffed leather cushions, legs entwined and bodies sinking into the fluff of the couch. We were on opposite ends and I would not let his gaze go, as if there were some kind of telekinetic opportunity, if only we could just lock our eyes for long enough. As if I could reveal my entire heart to him with the right amount of determination. He looked at me softly and told me about the way one could be defeated so thoroughly, and that he never in a million years could have imagined, after leaving a situation so devastated (though he amended it to say that it was not the right word, but did not know what would be, and I thought of P and understood) that he could find something so real, so simple in its perfection. And I told him my story, of disappointment, and how my father told me that you cannot make your own happiness beholden upon someone else. We talked about our families, and what was important, and he made the correlation between cakes and cookies and brownies and all of the support in the whole entire world, and how he felt that he was a shadow most of the time, how no one knew to whom he belonged. And I pieced together the thought process that led us to the conversation, and what that meant to me, how my heart overflowed and I thought of that black lab in Arizona, with Ranger on the food bowl. And of my forebears, and the ponderosa, and mi gemela, and how I never, not once, not ever, doubted that I would have 25 generations of their love and support no matter what this life brought me. And how that made me invincible.
And how all I wanted to do was to wrap him up in me and let him know that he would never have to worry about belonging ever again, and that I would protect him against the ugliness of the world for as long as he would let me.
Later, it was dark, and he pulled me close and we rubbed noses, and he kissed my forehead, and I held him until his breathing slowed and his arms twitched, and I just watched him, sleeping. And I wondered, how on earth did I ever get so lucky? And I sent up a quiet and fragile prayer to make me worthy of such a man.
14.6.10
1.6.10
Children of God
It had started out as a bad day. Nothing major, no meteorites dropped like funk bombshells in the middle of my afternoon, but more like minor grumblings throughout the morning and into the hot, late, humid evening. The haze pressed oppressively down through flaccid leaves, onto the pitch-colored asphalt and reflected back up like dirty lake water. I told her that I was a hermit crab, and told him that I kept my post like a lone wolf, let no one bother me. Irritation like tree pollen getting into my eyes.
She flagged me down and I was annoyed. Because I knew her, knew her type of crazy, and still had my rifle sights on her brother. I called it in and asked for another car when I saw the rabid dog that was the source of her emotional outburst that night. She talked into my ear but all I could take in was the front porch, and the pacing. And despite my training I told her to stay by the car and I swaggered to him, alone. He was crazed. His breath smelled of cheap booze and his eyes darted from the PCP coursing through his veins. There was nothing about it that was good.
The others arrived, and we came to some type of solution, though I hated every inch of it. And when I pushed him back and said get up off of me I knew he should have been wearing handcuffs out of there. But I deferred, and it ended up that I was right.
Ten minutes later and we get the call that he is back, and she is screaming bloody murder, and all of the neighbors are calling, and step it up, just step it up. My partner got there first (this time) and he, big strong tough guy that he is, got on the radio and said A-, expedite. On the radio when I played it back you could hear the V8 roaring in the background and the tires squealing as I took the turn and said I am just down the street, almost there. I put my sunglasses away because I knew what was coming.
I parked and she was possessed, in the treelawn, and just pointed and said he is inside. She grabbed my arm and tried to approach with us, but I pushed her and said, no, you aren't coming. My partner and I looked at each other as we walked to the house and I told him that I was done, that it was ending here, now. He nodded and we saw him come to the door. Rabid dog foaming at its mouth. He came out briefly, then tried to go back inside through the door he had smashed in, but D grabbed his arm and the fight was on. It was ugly, it is always ugly, but we spun him to the ground and landed on top of him and he kicked and pushed and hissed like the devil was trying to come up out of him to fight off the hands of St. Michael. And his legion. I grabbed the back of his head and pushed his face in the dirt and called him a m---erf---er and bent his arm back as far as it would go and twisted his wrist and put the cuffs on too tight and dug my knee into his back. D- slammed him down onto the trunk of his car and grabbed him by the belt and pitched him into the backseat like a sack of potatoes. Before I shut the door I stuck my face into the darkness and whispered the cops always win.
The next day she came to the station and said she wanted to drop the charges because she had too many other things going on currently. Was incredulous to find out that it was out of her hands and that yes, her dear boyfriend, was likely going back to prison. And what we had put ourselves through and for, in her mind, nothing.
I went to his house, and I sat in the garage for awhile, not knowing what to say. Or not say. I went in, climbed into the shower and let the hot water play on my skin for a very long time, as if I could somehow wash the cynicism and grittiness off. When I climbed in next to him he was asleep, but woke long enough to wrap me up in his arms and with a big smile say hello before falling back into sleep. I lay there, in the darkness, surrounded, and wondered if it was okay if I didn't tell him? If it was selfish of me to keep it bottled up inside and shield him from how bitter I can be, from how ugly and dangerous some things are.
The next morning I think I realized that I am vulnerable, and that I don't want anyone to know.
She flagged me down and I was annoyed. Because I knew her, knew her type of crazy, and still had my rifle sights on her brother. I called it in and asked for another car when I saw the rabid dog that was the source of her emotional outburst that night. She talked into my ear but all I could take in was the front porch, and the pacing. And despite my training I told her to stay by the car and I swaggered to him, alone. He was crazed. His breath smelled of cheap booze and his eyes darted from the PCP coursing through his veins. There was nothing about it that was good.
The others arrived, and we came to some type of solution, though I hated every inch of it. And when I pushed him back and said get up off of me I knew he should have been wearing handcuffs out of there. But I deferred, and it ended up that I was right.
Ten minutes later and we get the call that he is back, and she is screaming bloody murder, and all of the neighbors are calling, and step it up, just step it up. My partner got there first (this time) and he, big strong tough guy that he is, got on the radio and said A-, expedite. On the radio when I played it back you could hear the V8 roaring in the background and the tires squealing as I took the turn and said I am just down the street, almost there. I put my sunglasses away because I knew what was coming.
I parked and she was possessed, in the treelawn, and just pointed and said he is inside. She grabbed my arm and tried to approach with us, but I pushed her and said, no, you aren't coming. My partner and I looked at each other as we walked to the house and I told him that I was done, that it was ending here, now. He nodded and we saw him come to the door. Rabid dog foaming at its mouth. He came out briefly, then tried to go back inside through the door he had smashed in, but D grabbed his arm and the fight was on. It was ugly, it is always ugly, but we spun him to the ground and landed on top of him and he kicked and pushed and hissed like the devil was trying to come up out of him to fight off the hands of St. Michael. And his legion. I grabbed the back of his head and pushed his face in the dirt and called him a m---erf---er and bent his arm back as far as it would go and twisted his wrist and put the cuffs on too tight and dug my knee into his back. D- slammed him down onto the trunk of his car and grabbed him by the belt and pitched him into the backseat like a sack of potatoes. Before I shut the door I stuck my face into the darkness and whispered the cops always win.
The next day she came to the station and said she wanted to drop the charges because she had too many other things going on currently. Was incredulous to find out that it was out of her hands and that yes, her dear boyfriend, was likely going back to prison. And what we had put ourselves through and for, in her mind, nothing.
I went to his house, and I sat in the garage for awhile, not knowing what to say. Or not say. I went in, climbed into the shower and let the hot water play on my skin for a very long time, as if I could somehow wash the cynicism and grittiness off. When I climbed in next to him he was asleep, but woke long enough to wrap me up in his arms and with a big smile say hello before falling back into sleep. I lay there, in the darkness, surrounded, and wondered if it was okay if I didn't tell him? If it was selfish of me to keep it bottled up inside and shield him from how bitter I can be, from how ugly and dangerous some things are.
The next morning I think I realized that I am vulnerable, and that I don't want anyone to know.
27.5.10
Lightning Bugs
We sneaked kisses in between chopping and marinating and sidewalk chalk and fake plastic bowling. His lips smiled on mine as we stood, lingering, when she called out daaaaaaaaadcomehere! She wanted to show us the giant ant she found, and for me to help her fill the heart she had drawn on the driveway with pink chalk.
We sat on the concrete and she told me all about her day in between directing the grand illustration we were engaged in. He stood at the grill and watched, and when I looked up the held gaze and smile made it too easy to read what was in his heart. And mine, too. Later, later, she wanted me to help her with the nightly rituals and her wiry little girl body gave me a big hug before climbing into the shower. She sang loudly under the tap, and we stood in the living room listening, suspended in each other. A perfect moment. A pause, a slip, a thud, a silence and then crying and I watched as he ran to see what had happened. I watched as he performed a comedic assessment to make her laugh, and listened as his voice went soft as he asked her but you are okay, right? He was so young when his own father died, and I wondered how that influenced this perfect little vignette that I was thankful to be a part of.
I combed her hair when she got out and in her pink pajamas she put on a show for us and then nearly immediately fell asleep. We stayed, after she went to bed, and he put his arm around me and drew me close. Told me stories from his childhood, made plans for us to visit an old friend and said he had told her about me. When I laughed and could not imagine what she must already think based on his exaggerations, he turned serious for a moment and said he had never introduced her to anyone before and what that meant.
He kissed my forehead and pulled me in closer and with his lips next to my ear told me that when it's time for his long nap he is going to sit down on his bench and tell everyone that he's just waiting for me to get there, too. His way of telling me. His hand on my hand and the line where one started and the other stopped was blurred, electric current binding us to each other, blending everything.
My heart is full. Lord, thank You, because I know that I am not deserving of this much happiness on my merits alone.
We sat on the concrete and she told me all about her day in between directing the grand illustration we were engaged in. He stood at the grill and watched, and when I looked up the held gaze and smile made it too easy to read what was in his heart. And mine, too. Later, later, she wanted me to help her with the nightly rituals and her wiry little girl body gave me a big hug before climbing into the shower. She sang loudly under the tap, and we stood in the living room listening, suspended in each other. A perfect moment. A pause, a slip, a thud, a silence and then crying and I watched as he ran to see what had happened. I watched as he performed a comedic assessment to make her laugh, and listened as his voice went soft as he asked her but you are okay, right? He was so young when his own father died, and I wondered how that influenced this perfect little vignette that I was thankful to be a part of.
I combed her hair when she got out and in her pink pajamas she put on a show for us and then nearly immediately fell asleep. We stayed, after she went to bed, and he put his arm around me and drew me close. Told me stories from his childhood, made plans for us to visit an old friend and said he had told her about me. When I laughed and could not imagine what she must already think based on his exaggerations, he turned serious for a moment and said he had never introduced her to anyone before and what that meant.
He kissed my forehead and pulled me in closer and with his lips next to my ear told me that when it's time for his long nap he is going to sit down on his bench and tell everyone that he's just waiting for me to get there, too. His way of telling me. His hand on my hand and the line where one started and the other stopped was blurred, electric current binding us to each other, blending everything.
My heart is full. Lord, thank You, because I know that I am not deserving of this much happiness on my merits alone.
18.5.10
The glowing green
I read him like that untamed dog, all crazy energy and frenetic movements like the lake when it storms, his mouth foamed when he spoke. More than once I stepped out of my role as cover and in my fiercest Rocky voice condemned him to silence. He is swagger and ego that will pop with the slightest pin-prick. And the explosion will be loud, violent. It is odd to look through someone's eyes, and to see that lying dormant inside. To wonder when not if we will get the call and fly down there with .223s and aggression. It was bile on my tongue that I tasted as I yelled at him. And he knew that I hated him, and I watched him file it away in his mind. A test for later, I thought. And Lord knows, I do not like to lose.
If I had a mohawk (like Etienne) it was certainly standing on end as I walked down the driveway, tail bushy and poised, as if I could make myself look bigger, meaner. A look next door as I cleared the side of the house, and there she was. All nine years of her little kid jeans and pink shirt, and she was waving me over. The smile on my face belied all the steeling of my flesh and I changed direction and went over. She was wide-eyed-stream-of-consciousness excited and after taking a breath she told me to wait right there. Went inside and in a second came out. With a bunch of flowers. That she had picked from their garden. When she saw my cruiser pull up.
I took the flowers and she gave me a big hug and her mom and I talked while she ran around but I could not hear her. The bouquet in my hand sent a warmth through my arm and into my heart and like an electric current through the rest of my body rendering me numb, idiot grin on my face as if there were a perfect moment to life, a tiny microcosm where everything was all in its right place, this was it, and I stayed as still as I could lest that feeling go away.
Jaysus, you hear your grandfather say.
And then the scratch scratch next to my ear called me away, and I wound my way back to my car and away, away. But the feeling remained and I wanted so desperately to call someone, to tell someone, to have them explain to me how my life could encompass such extremes (hate and love being neighbors?!) and how I could walk between the two worlds without going utterly insane. How I would define normal if someone were to pose the question.
There is no normal life, he whispered, again, in my ear.
On station they made fun of me, but it was no joke when, at the end of shift, I told them that today we were difference makers, even though they laughed. And I laughed too. There are people whom we prey upon, they decided to partake in the hunt and it is always open season, always. And there are those whom we protect. And me, in my black and white mind, take it to the extreme and want to put those fragile parts of the world under my wing and snuff out the evil parts until not even the smoke of their existence remains.
The flowers are in my kitchen now. And I have told the story many times, but I don't know how to show anyone what is in my heart.
Lord guide us when our experience out-paces our understanding.
If I had a mohawk (like Etienne) it was certainly standing on end as I walked down the driveway, tail bushy and poised, as if I could make myself look bigger, meaner. A look next door as I cleared the side of the house, and there she was. All nine years of her little kid jeans and pink shirt, and she was waving me over. The smile on my face belied all the steeling of my flesh and I changed direction and went over. She was wide-eyed-stream-of-consciousness excited and after taking a breath she told me to wait right there. Went inside and in a second came out. With a bunch of flowers. That she had picked from their garden. When she saw my cruiser pull up.
I took the flowers and she gave me a big hug and her mom and I talked while she ran around but I could not hear her. The bouquet in my hand sent a warmth through my arm and into my heart and like an electric current through the rest of my body rendering me numb, idiot grin on my face as if there were a perfect moment to life, a tiny microcosm where everything was all in its right place, this was it, and I stayed as still as I could lest that feeling go away.
Jaysus, you hear your grandfather say.
And then the scratch scratch next to my ear called me away, and I wound my way back to my car and away, away. But the feeling remained and I wanted so desperately to call someone, to tell someone, to have them explain to me how my life could encompass such extremes (hate and love being neighbors?!) and how I could walk between the two worlds without going utterly insane. How I would define normal if someone were to pose the question.
There is no normal life, he whispered, again, in my ear.
On station they made fun of me, but it was no joke when, at the end of shift, I told them that today we were difference makers, even though they laughed. And I laughed too. There are people whom we prey upon, they decided to partake in the hunt and it is always open season, always. And there are those whom we protect. And me, in my black and white mind, take it to the extreme and want to put those fragile parts of the world under my wing and snuff out the evil parts until not even the smoke of their existence remains.
The flowers are in my kitchen now. And I have told the story many times, but I don't know how to show anyone what is in my heart.
Lord guide us when our experience out-paces our understanding.
12.5.10
My rose
I wanted him to be my Holden Caulfield, but he didn't know. Didn't know, and I did not tell a soul, lest my heavy heart be some kind of sign of weakness. When we got the call and flooded the area, and after I spoke with the complainant and got a better description of who exactly we were looking for, his image flashed in my mind and I could not let it go. Went to his house and like a tidal wave banged on the door and when his small boy frame opened it wide, I realized I had forgotten to plan out what I was going to say. Mother provided a cheap and easy alibi and I left after making him promise he would be at school the next day. And he did go, but left halfway through. I guess he found a loophole in our contract. And I drove around for the next several hours wondering what in the hell I was going to do.
You are responsible for what you tame.
The words pressed in on me and I sat there on my perch, and pondered. I did not want to be one of countless adults whose words promised a lot but whose actions would only disappoint. A wayward country mouse he is, with his too long hair hiding his vulnerable chocolate-brown eyes, and he has managed to find the weak spot in my armor. And for all my over-thinking I can't figure out how or why.
It was surprising to me that he could sense my heavy heart through sanitized and distant texts. Said, you are being soft tonight, what is wrong and the blinking cursor staring back at me would not allow me to lie. The world breaks everyone, and most of the time I can get by with the steeled exterior and heart like a black hole. Most of the time. But some nights the sky coalesces with ether and in my bones I feel the entire weight of everything, the changing of tides, ship lights on and distant, the curling of leaves before a storm. And for a moment, it is too much to bear. And then it passes.
Last night he stopped and I was staring at him and his gaze pierced back into all of the tiny holes. We stayed suspended in time like that and he kissed me and I did not let him go. Later I woke to the two of us entwined like puzzle pieces and I drifted back into sleep to the sound of his soft, warm breathing. And I drifted back into sleep with a prayer on my lips of how grateful I am, and how lucky.
You are responsible for what you tame.
The words pressed in on me and I sat there on my perch, and pondered. I did not want to be one of countless adults whose words promised a lot but whose actions would only disappoint. A wayward country mouse he is, with his too long hair hiding his vulnerable chocolate-brown eyes, and he has managed to find the weak spot in my armor. And for all my over-thinking I can't figure out how or why.
It was surprising to me that he could sense my heavy heart through sanitized and distant texts. Said, you are being soft tonight, what is wrong and the blinking cursor staring back at me would not allow me to lie. The world breaks everyone, and most of the time I can get by with the steeled exterior and heart like a black hole. Most of the time. But some nights the sky coalesces with ether and in my bones I feel the entire weight of everything, the changing of tides, ship lights on and distant, the curling of leaves before a storm. And for a moment, it is too much to bear. And then it passes.
Last night he stopped and I was staring at him and his gaze pierced back into all of the tiny holes. We stayed suspended in time like that and he kissed me and I did not let him go. Later I woke to the two of us entwined like puzzle pieces and I drifted back into sleep to the sound of his soft, warm breathing. And I drifted back into sleep with a prayer on my lips of how grateful I am, and how lucky.
4.5.10
Chain maille
Going into the small white room I instantly hated how the fluorescence reflected off all four walls, ceiling, and floor. Sanitized and unfeeling; institutional. The dad had a mullet and he smelled of sweat that had dried on dirty cotton. The diminutive son did his best to shrink into his corner and be absorbed by the white of the cinder block walls, to disappear. In my mind I was a kid again and had to do my best to remember that of the three of us, I was the adult and had to play my part.
The dad flapped his gums and soon it was just sound reverberating against my eardrums, words obliterated into tiny syllables of meaninglessness. I stared at him, the son, with his too long hair hiding his eyes, almost but not quite buried in his arm resting on the table. A lapse, a silence, and I listened to myself part the air with look at me. No, look me in the eyes, look at me.
Tears wetted his childish cheeks and I held his gaze until it became awkward. I thought about the story at Grandpa J's wake, and the junior detective league, and I wondered how that would translate into the present day with drugs and sex and no parents and so much pressure. All I could think was that I am responsible for you now, and you need to tell me what to do. I am going to help you, but you have to show me how.
A day later and I heard that he had run away again. They did not report it this time because, well, why bother. I filed it away and looked for him on every side street and playground, and wondered, what would it be like? I thought about growing up with E, and what it felt like to be beholden to someone else, and to be raised with strong ideas about what was right, and what was expected. We had a bonfire that night and after too much whiskey the war stories poured out and I thought about all the things my dad said around camp fires in the middle of the night as we stared into the flames. Some kind of purging, you just need someone who wants to listen.
It is a heavy burden to bear.
Today at work they told me that he had attempted suicide the night before. They found him in time and took him to the hospital to be evaluated. He is a child, he is tiny, he has a mom who comes home drunk, a sister who was molested, a father who has thrown in the towel and...... what else?
I remember homemade cookies in grade school, mom and dad being at every game, family vacations to the ocean where E and I made ten-thousand lifelong pacts, band boosters, holidays, Sunday dinners, and an untold number of moments where I knew, I knew that I was loved and supported and that nothing bad could ever happen. That, like she said, our bond was stronger than space or time and that nothing would ever change that.
Whoever you are, if you love someone or are grateful for someone, let them know.
The dad flapped his gums and soon it was just sound reverberating against my eardrums, words obliterated into tiny syllables of meaninglessness. I stared at him, the son, with his too long hair hiding his eyes, almost but not quite buried in his arm resting on the table. A lapse, a silence, and I listened to myself part the air with look at me. No, look me in the eyes, look at me.
Tears wetted his childish cheeks and I held his gaze until it became awkward. I thought about the story at Grandpa J's wake, and the junior detective league, and I wondered how that would translate into the present day with drugs and sex and no parents and so much pressure. All I could think was that I am responsible for you now, and you need to tell me what to do. I am going to help you, but you have to show me how.
A day later and I heard that he had run away again. They did not report it this time because, well, why bother. I filed it away and looked for him on every side street and playground, and wondered, what would it be like? I thought about growing up with E, and what it felt like to be beholden to someone else, and to be raised with strong ideas about what was right, and what was expected. We had a bonfire that night and after too much whiskey the war stories poured out and I thought about all the things my dad said around camp fires in the middle of the night as we stared into the flames. Some kind of purging, you just need someone who wants to listen.
It is a heavy burden to bear.
Today at work they told me that he had attempted suicide the night before. They found him in time and took him to the hospital to be evaluated. He is a child, he is tiny, he has a mom who comes home drunk, a sister who was molested, a father who has thrown in the towel and...... what else?
I remember homemade cookies in grade school, mom and dad being at every game, family vacations to the ocean where E and I made ten-thousand lifelong pacts, band boosters, holidays, Sunday dinners, and an untold number of moments where I knew, I knew that I was loved and supported and that nothing bad could ever happen. That, like she said, our bond was stronger than space or time and that nothing would ever change that.
Whoever you are, if you love someone or are grateful for someone, let them know.
30.4.10
In lit.
The radio was off when I turned the key in the ignition. The v8 roared to life with a familiar rumble and I pointed the push-bumper north, towards the lake turned orange with the setting sun. A scratch and a silence put my foot on the brake as I waited for what was to follow. The call came out and it was not without irony that I flipped the light switch all the way to the right and dialed on my sirens as I peeled out of the middle school parking lot. Moments earlier the principal wishing me a quiet night, and me just laughing and saying, yeah, well, I hope not.
I kept the radio off as I drove, car outpacing sirens, lights reflecting blue and white off houses and oncoming traffic. It was strangely quiet in the cab and as I passed the people stopped and pulled off to the side of the road I realized that they were all wondering where on earth I was heading and what was happening. A very slick and devilish smile played on my lips as I hurtled down the road, iron and steel and rubber and authority. I felt my pulse quicken, my heart stir and my entire body tense as the euphoria of being able to ply my trade entered my blood stream. First to arrive, a habit I cannot break, I kept the lights on as a beacon to my backup, and I hurled myself into the reason why someone would dial 911 on an otherwise sleepy and beautiful Thursday night.
Somewhere along the way the switch flipped on and I watched myself come to some type of reasoning with a drunk woman and the rabid others involved. The sorting out of the particulars of a crisis followed, and when I dropped her off she bawled, and wanted me to meet her dog. She had lost her shoes somehow, and stood there in her driveway barefoot, stooped, sobbing. I faked a call so that I could leave and wondered what her tomorrow morning looked like. And wondered what the choices were that led to us meeting that night.
A busy shift, a rare and precious thing in my new digs, and later, much later, as the sweat soaked my clothes I realized that it had been a long while since I felt, truly, like a cop. And that it was a feeling unlike any other, and my God, I am lucky to know it.
And throughout it all, there is you. And the words you choose and the way they come out and the tenderness and how much I trust you. To keep my heart and guard it, and that I will do the same for you, more than I ever would my own. The smile still playing on my lips as I drifted off to sleep.
I kept the radio off as I drove, car outpacing sirens, lights reflecting blue and white off houses and oncoming traffic. It was strangely quiet in the cab and as I passed the people stopped and pulled off to the side of the road I realized that they were all wondering where on earth I was heading and what was happening. A very slick and devilish smile played on my lips as I hurtled down the road, iron and steel and rubber and authority. I felt my pulse quicken, my heart stir and my entire body tense as the euphoria of being able to ply my trade entered my blood stream. First to arrive, a habit I cannot break, I kept the lights on as a beacon to my backup, and I hurled myself into the reason why someone would dial 911 on an otherwise sleepy and beautiful Thursday night.
Somewhere along the way the switch flipped on and I watched myself come to some type of reasoning with a drunk woman and the rabid others involved. The sorting out of the particulars of a crisis followed, and when I dropped her off she bawled, and wanted me to meet her dog. She had lost her shoes somehow, and stood there in her driveway barefoot, stooped, sobbing. I faked a call so that I could leave and wondered what her tomorrow morning looked like. And wondered what the choices were that led to us meeting that night.
A busy shift, a rare and precious thing in my new digs, and later, much later, as the sweat soaked my clothes I realized that it had been a long while since I felt, truly, like a cop. And that it was a feeling unlike any other, and my God, I am lucky to know it.
And throughout it all, there is you. And the words you choose and the way they come out and the tenderness and how much I trust you. To keep my heart and guard it, and that I will do the same for you, more than I ever would my own. The smile still playing on my lips as I drifted off to sleep.
22.4.10
SPQR
Maybe there is some truth to the notion of disquietude being an efficient muse. Perhaps spring and regeneration puts pens on shelves and locks the mind in a sort of lazy and superficial vacation. Whatever it is, it has been awhile.
But my dreams at night and in the early morning belie the calm routine of daytime. I have woken sweaty, and shaking, and uneasy, with a vague notion that I should look for an intruder that was getting away, that I had shot, or that had buried cold steel and aggression in me, just moments earlier. Taking to my feet slowly, last night's reheated coffee playing acridly on my tongue I can't help but wonder, where is the disconnect between what swirls in the unconscious and this, the unassuming day. But I give up my pondering very easily. Lately.
I had a dream last night that in a text message he asked why I had stopped calling. There was a picture attached of a sad smiley face crying its eyes out and the totality of it disgusted me. I knew that I would never give an answer because, frankly, I did not care. At the same time I was yelling profanities at an idiot teacher who was giving a class that I had forgotten to show up for, save the last day. Again, I did not care. I remember seeing that she had given me an "A", but since I had not attended I had no idea how to participate in the routine of the class, and I was holding everything up. She would not explain and I was furious. I stood up, unleashed an ugly verbal attack and just, walked, out. My parents were waiting outside to give me a ride home and they laughed when I told them what had happened. As if the outlandishness and incredulity, from me, was formulaic.
I remembered this conversation that I had in Olympia with this crazy woman I used to live with. It was, I think, a lifetime ago. At least, I was certainly not this person then. She was talking about how men have an easier time claiming what they want, their space, being generally entitled about this life. We gave each other the example of my ex (then current) and how he would have no problem taking the last seat on the couch if there were several other people still standing. As if to say, if you won't make space for me, I'll just make my own space for me. And how we (then) could never do such a thing.
And how that has all changed. Life has become a much more angular place since then. Soft edges chiseled down into right angles, hard, gritty, the black and white receiving and parsing out what used to be mostly grey. I can't even remember all of the different homes I have been in, people I have yelled at, or escorted to jail, or written off in my mind as a lost cause. I would not be able to even estimate how many times I have sat alone, in my cruiser, hair on the back of my neck standing up, playing over and over how I was going to kill each and every occupant if I had to as I waited for backup to arrive. I think, maybe, the experiences change your perspective, of yourself, of life, of what other people are capable of (I take that back, I know it changes you) and one day, without realizing it, you are just different.
It has been so long that the thoughts are all jumbled and difficult to lure out in a sensible way. The sea is like glass on top, but the rip tide churns underneath.
And underneath it all there is still the vulnerability. But maybe that's the most important part. And as the sun sinks, the town condenses around me, I turn my lights out and snake around the underbelly of its streets and alleys I think, I have your name tattooed on my heart, where no one can see.
But my dreams at night and in the early morning belie the calm routine of daytime. I have woken sweaty, and shaking, and uneasy, with a vague notion that I should look for an intruder that was getting away, that I had shot, or that had buried cold steel and aggression in me, just moments earlier. Taking to my feet slowly, last night's reheated coffee playing acridly on my tongue I can't help but wonder, where is the disconnect between what swirls in the unconscious and this, the unassuming day. But I give up my pondering very easily. Lately.
I had a dream last night that in a text message he asked why I had stopped calling. There was a picture attached of a sad smiley face crying its eyes out and the totality of it disgusted me. I knew that I would never give an answer because, frankly, I did not care. At the same time I was yelling profanities at an idiot teacher who was giving a class that I had forgotten to show up for, save the last day. Again, I did not care. I remember seeing that she had given me an "A", but since I had not attended I had no idea how to participate in the routine of the class, and I was holding everything up. She would not explain and I was furious. I stood up, unleashed an ugly verbal attack and just, walked, out. My parents were waiting outside to give me a ride home and they laughed when I told them what had happened. As if the outlandishness and incredulity, from me, was formulaic.
I remembered this conversation that I had in Olympia with this crazy woman I used to live with. It was, I think, a lifetime ago. At least, I was certainly not this person then. She was talking about how men have an easier time claiming what they want, their space, being generally entitled about this life. We gave each other the example of my ex (then current) and how he would have no problem taking the last seat on the couch if there were several other people still standing. As if to say, if you won't make space for me, I'll just make my own space for me. And how we (then) could never do such a thing.
And how that has all changed. Life has become a much more angular place since then. Soft edges chiseled down into right angles, hard, gritty, the black and white receiving and parsing out what used to be mostly grey. I can't even remember all of the different homes I have been in, people I have yelled at, or escorted to jail, or written off in my mind as a lost cause. I would not be able to even estimate how many times I have sat alone, in my cruiser, hair on the back of my neck standing up, playing over and over how I was going to kill each and every occupant if I had to as I waited for backup to arrive. I think, maybe, the experiences change your perspective, of yourself, of life, of what other people are capable of (I take that back, I know it changes you) and one day, without realizing it, you are just different.
It has been so long that the thoughts are all jumbled and difficult to lure out in a sensible way. The sea is like glass on top, but the rip tide churns underneath.
And underneath it all there is still the vulnerability. But maybe that's the most important part. And as the sun sinks, the town condenses around me, I turn my lights out and snake around the underbelly of its streets and alleys I think, I have your name tattooed on my heart, where no one can see.
27.3.10
The only exception.
The grey came in cold and pressing, clouds touching the rocks on the beach below with their wetness, leaving us on the shore damp, and chilled. I parked with my headlights pointed east to the city line, and looked north out at the melting and moonly expanse of ice and slush and garbage, floating in the quietly thawing lake. There was no point on the horizon where land or water became sky, or cloud gave way to white capped wave. All was obscured and blended together in a dingy white that crept in between the spaces of flesh and bone, carving out a stark and lonely outpost. A washed out photo from another century.
There was a small dark spot among the translucence of the melting snow, turning into ice with the rain. It caught my eye every now and then as it fluttered in the wind, some discarded garbage bag caught in the freeze. And then it moved, and then it moved again, and like all of those nights of figure-eights in isolation, some part of my mind put the forms together like a patchwork and I knew. I kept the car door open when I got out, and walked down the rain-slick pier to where it ended in the ice. The lake looked different so close-up, slush suspended in dirty runoff, the waste of three or four months floating on top of it all.
There was blood on the ice. Bright spots of crimson that made a technicolor trail to where he lay, dying. His coat was matted from the dampness and he looked around at me as I stood there, looking at him. Nothing that I could do. He floated on the tide about fifty or sixty feet off shore in a nest of snow he found when the lake had been frozen solid enough to walk on. A viking funeral, I thought, but sometimes there is no boat, sometimes you just have to make-do. The crushing greyness of it pressed in as it hit me again that there was nothing I could do. I thought of her photo from several summers ago of a solitary flower sprouting from a crack in the asphalt, and how there is always hope. And somehow in my mind it made sense that this stark image was my version of her parking lot, that the picture of ice and wave and blood and fur and bleakness inspired the same feeling of renewal. Even if it is impossible to elucidate. The world breaks everyone, we said, and it is not meant to be a condemnation, she said. Amen. And Thank God for you.
And then, later, what we thought the other meant by silence, and what we said, after it was explained. He lay next to me and pulled me close and in a moment of tenderness told me what his mind said to him, and how vulnerable he made himself. And I lay there with his heartbeat on my chest, and ran my fingers through his hair, and stroked his cheek, and chin, and could not look away from the blue of his eyes as we lingered there, in silence, after. I love you. And I wondered how it was possible for there to be so much convulsive beauty left in the world, ten years later and I was still shaken to the core by how fragile and perfect this life can be.
There was a small dark spot among the translucence of the melting snow, turning into ice with the rain. It caught my eye every now and then as it fluttered in the wind, some discarded garbage bag caught in the freeze. And then it moved, and then it moved again, and like all of those nights of figure-eights in isolation, some part of my mind put the forms together like a patchwork and I knew. I kept the car door open when I got out, and walked down the rain-slick pier to where it ended in the ice. The lake looked different so close-up, slush suspended in dirty runoff, the waste of three or four months floating on top of it all.
There was blood on the ice. Bright spots of crimson that made a technicolor trail to where he lay, dying. His coat was matted from the dampness and he looked around at me as I stood there, looking at him. Nothing that I could do. He floated on the tide about fifty or sixty feet off shore in a nest of snow he found when the lake had been frozen solid enough to walk on. A viking funeral, I thought, but sometimes there is no boat, sometimes you just have to make-do. The crushing greyness of it pressed in as it hit me again that there was nothing I could do. I thought of her photo from several summers ago of a solitary flower sprouting from a crack in the asphalt, and how there is always hope. And somehow in my mind it made sense that this stark image was my version of her parking lot, that the picture of ice and wave and blood and fur and bleakness inspired the same feeling of renewal. Even if it is impossible to elucidate. The world breaks everyone, we said, and it is not meant to be a condemnation, she said. Amen. And Thank God for you.
And then, later, what we thought the other meant by silence, and what we said, after it was explained. He lay next to me and pulled me close and in a moment of tenderness told me what his mind said to him, and how vulnerable he made himself. And I lay there with his heartbeat on my chest, and ran my fingers through his hair, and stroked his cheek, and chin, and could not look away from the blue of his eyes as we lingered there, in silence, after. I love you. And I wondered how it was possible for there to be so much convulsive beauty left in the world, ten years later and I was still shaken to the core by how fragile and perfect this life can be.
12.3.10
Laundry detergent.
There was an electricity in the air that reminded me of two summers ago and one early morning run after a flurry of text messages when I set out, one foot in front of the other, to claim my territory over ten miles of the town's streets, and sidewalks. A route I had not visited since at least the early summer, and I claimed it, slower, but steady, for my own. The wind cut into me as I wound my east, buffeted and resolve weary, a test. What came to me was the cadence of three summers gone, and the steeled warrior that waited to be found again, and called to duty. The way back was downhill, and tailwind, and strength and focus and the words looped, if you want to be the po-lice you gotta be thin.
In the stupid movie he said to Stay Hungry, and Lord knows that it's true.
A missive sent at the closing of the tab, of sorts, and afterward I pulled the silicone, black and dusty, out of retirement and took it with me for duty, for the hunt. It had been a long time. The words hit me like arrows, little pieces of acid that penetrated what I thought was immutable, resolute. The afternoon waned, and the drive home was bittersweet in a way that it had not been for a long, long time. How funny it was, to realize how so much remains, despite the will's attempts to excoriate the weak spots.
I focused on the movement of the calves kicking up towards the back of the thigh as I tired near mile five. I thought of a waltz, and how the irregular and unfamiliar cadence could keep the body moving, engaged. My toes dug in towards each other, and it hurt, and I told myself that pain is a good teacher, and helps us to remember how to be strong. Made a mental note of what to do in May, when the goal was 13.1 and not just 6, and how to make it more comfortable for myself. Because everyone has a breaking point, even the stubborn.
Later, later, he wrapped me up in his arms and kissed the space next to my eye that closes when I laugh. Kissed the bone under my chin, my neck, my ear. I turned my body and breathed in a deep and greedy lung-full of his smell, kissing his neck and collarbone and the corners of his lips as a mutinous smile played on my own. What is this road we walk, how do we pretend to know where we are headed when the fog is so thick that even the tiniest light obscures the smallest insight.
All that remains is to be grateful. To cherish (perhaps greedily) the dance while we are able to move, and to not look back on the fools that we have been before. The naivete, the posturing, the needing to prove oneself, to belong. All we can do is soak up every ounce while we have it. The perfect simplicity of imperfection (indulge me).
How easy, and yet how uncommon. Thank You. God speed, good luck. May You watch over us all.
In the stupid movie he said to Stay Hungry, and Lord knows that it's true.
A missive sent at the closing of the tab, of sorts, and afterward I pulled the silicone, black and dusty, out of retirement and took it with me for duty, for the hunt. It had been a long time. The words hit me like arrows, little pieces of acid that penetrated what I thought was immutable, resolute. The afternoon waned, and the drive home was bittersweet in a way that it had not been for a long, long time. How funny it was, to realize how so much remains, despite the will's attempts to excoriate the weak spots.
I focused on the movement of the calves kicking up towards the back of the thigh as I tired near mile five. I thought of a waltz, and how the irregular and unfamiliar cadence could keep the body moving, engaged. My toes dug in towards each other, and it hurt, and I told myself that pain is a good teacher, and helps us to remember how to be strong. Made a mental note of what to do in May, when the goal was 13.1 and not just 6, and how to make it more comfortable for myself. Because everyone has a breaking point, even the stubborn.
Later, later, he wrapped me up in his arms and kissed the space next to my eye that closes when I laugh. Kissed the bone under my chin, my neck, my ear. I turned my body and breathed in a deep and greedy lung-full of his smell, kissing his neck and collarbone and the corners of his lips as a mutinous smile played on my own. What is this road we walk, how do we pretend to know where we are headed when the fog is so thick that even the tiniest light obscures the smallest insight.
All that remains is to be grateful. To cherish (perhaps greedily) the dance while we are able to move, and to not look back on the fools that we have been before. The naivete, the posturing, the needing to prove oneself, to belong. All we can do is soak up every ounce while we have it. The perfect simplicity of imperfection (indulge me).
How easy, and yet how uncommon. Thank You. God speed, good luck. May You watch over us all.
8.3.10
The post-it.
Watching her die from a folding chair in the corner of the room, I moved it from the bedside to the wall to escape the crushing insistence of the fan. The room smelled of lily flowers, and incontinence, and old coffee. She woke, and slept, and woke to sleep again, and talked through the surreal thrush of worlds that bridged the gap between lucid, and not. Over red wine and steak she told me that the night before she, my grandmother had a waking nightmare and in the hallucination told her I am evil, I have been bad, I am going to hell and can I kill myself? In her sobering honesty she answered, no you cannot, do you want to? She replied, Yes, yes I do. I do.
The sun was setting red and fat and vein-glorious to the west when I backed my car into its spot and, dismounting, wound my way inside, letting the smell acquire itself to my nostrils. The view at the threshold still startles me, she looks so wasted, small, defeated. She does not wear her false teeth anymore and her face caves in on itself around her mouth in a way that I am not yet used to. I remember the story I wrote in college, of the spunky old woman who wore lime green jackets and gold ballet slippers on Sunday to church, and led the charge out the door into the waiting Spring after the sermon had been delivered, guilt weighing heavily on all of the parishioners' shoulders, save hers. She told me then, God wants us to greet nature, and to find Him in the out of doors. We followed my grandfather's broad back into the sunlight and the smells of cut grass, and daffodils. Now when I tell her that in the morning the world smells of budding flowers and nectar it is with a resigned look of sadness that she accepts what is coming.
The color has been bled out of the room, and everything whispers in a hushed tone of grey and biege and quiet. She asks me questions about things that even I do not remember, and I wonder, is this how it happens? Do we even know what is important while we hold it? My phone vibrated in my pocket and he teased me, and I smiled, and I thanked God for the momentary lapse of introspection.
My mind turned back to a winter evening, years ago. We were so young, it is almost painful how young we were! The sun waned and cast their bedroom in an orb of blinding orange, and magenta. She sat, on their bed, soaking in the taste of loss, soaking in God knows what, because I was not there. Downstairs, but far enough away. A yellow sticky piece of paper, next to a makeup encrusted phone, next to a pushed together bed, next to five million years of history. She wrote hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all.
Amen. God speed. Tomorrow is a last day for many of us. Let us live it to its full potential, let us never stop or doubt or wonder. May we love what we love, without exception.
May God hold you, and guide you, amen.
The sun was setting red and fat and vein-glorious to the west when I backed my car into its spot and, dismounting, wound my way inside, letting the smell acquire itself to my nostrils. The view at the threshold still startles me, she looks so wasted, small, defeated. She does not wear her false teeth anymore and her face caves in on itself around her mouth in a way that I am not yet used to. I remember the story I wrote in college, of the spunky old woman who wore lime green jackets and gold ballet slippers on Sunday to church, and led the charge out the door into the waiting Spring after the sermon had been delivered, guilt weighing heavily on all of the parishioners' shoulders, save hers. She told me then, God wants us to greet nature, and to find Him in the out of doors. We followed my grandfather's broad back into the sunlight and the smells of cut grass, and daffodils. Now when I tell her that in the morning the world smells of budding flowers and nectar it is with a resigned look of sadness that she accepts what is coming.
The color has been bled out of the room, and everything whispers in a hushed tone of grey and biege and quiet. She asks me questions about things that even I do not remember, and I wonder, is this how it happens? Do we even know what is important while we hold it? My phone vibrated in my pocket and he teased me, and I smiled, and I thanked God for the momentary lapse of introspection.
My mind turned back to a winter evening, years ago. We were so young, it is almost painful how young we were! The sun waned and cast their bedroom in an orb of blinding orange, and magenta. She sat, on their bed, soaking in the taste of loss, soaking in God knows what, because I was not there. Downstairs, but far enough away. A yellow sticky piece of paper, next to a makeup encrusted phone, next to a pushed together bed, next to five million years of history. She wrote hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all.
Amen. God speed. Tomorrow is a last day for many of us. Let us live it to its full potential, let us never stop or doubt or wonder. May we love what we love, without exception.
May God hold you, and guide you, amen.
2.3.10
A week and a wake up.
We sent each other messages a year after it happened, and my mind fell back into the cold earth of that day, and where I was, and how I found out. The spiderweb of our network, how it was fragile but unbreakable and, like my mom used to tell us, that it knew no distance and could not be disrupted. No matter what. I talked to a few of them for hours the moments and days after, looking down upon a distant and gritty world from the high and sunny vantage point of a rented room, an isolated chamber. He told me that they left him alone for too long in a stark room of boiled fluorescence, dust on the floor. And what he thought, and the advice he told me to keep my loved ones close, and to keep God even closer.
A prayer offered up for him without fail everyday thereafter. He told me they won the challenge, despite my absence, and my happiness was bittersweet.
And then the debacle of the year to follow, and how crazy it is to look back now at all of the broken glass on the trail, all the snares and pitfalls. And the voice in the back of my head telling me to not worry, keep walking, you have shoes on. I still think of seeing the bullet-riddled car, with the cigarette packs and mix CDs laying on the passenger side, and how real it all became. Blood on the door. And that I can't watch the video anymore, like other memories that some self-reliant part of me has taken, and locked away, keeping it hidden from that part that might feel nostalgic one night, and run down the furrows of what should have been left behind, and perhaps never sowed at all. The feeling of the cold earth on bare feet, sometimes you can convince yourself that it's part of an effort to remember that you still feel.
The worst lie being the one you tell yourself.
It is different now. Morning light I slowly wake to the warmth of him, and a feeling of protection, and just being so lucky that it is almost unbearable. We dance and I focus on getting all of the moves right, as if were I to miss a step, the dream would be over and I would wake up to how it was. Before. Sometimes I pinch him just to be sure. No Christmas lights in a far away courtyard, no fleeting moments of normalcy, no more of that music, I threw it all away. Just a naked smile on my face and the way he kisses the corners of my lips when I laugh.
Be safe, be happy, keep running.
A prayer offered up for him without fail everyday thereafter. He told me they won the challenge, despite my absence, and my happiness was bittersweet.
And then the debacle of the year to follow, and how crazy it is to look back now at all of the broken glass on the trail, all the snares and pitfalls. And the voice in the back of my head telling me to not worry, keep walking, you have shoes on. I still think of seeing the bullet-riddled car, with the cigarette packs and mix CDs laying on the passenger side, and how real it all became. Blood on the door. And that I can't watch the video anymore, like other memories that some self-reliant part of me has taken, and locked away, keeping it hidden from that part that might feel nostalgic one night, and run down the furrows of what should have been left behind, and perhaps never sowed at all. The feeling of the cold earth on bare feet, sometimes you can convince yourself that it's part of an effort to remember that you still feel.
The worst lie being the one you tell yourself.
It is different now. Morning light I slowly wake to the warmth of him, and a feeling of protection, and just being so lucky that it is almost unbearable. We dance and I focus on getting all of the moves right, as if were I to miss a step, the dream would be over and I would wake up to how it was. Before. Sometimes I pinch him just to be sure. No Christmas lights in a far away courtyard, no fleeting moments of normalcy, no more of that music, I threw it all away. Just a naked smile on my face and the way he kisses the corners of my lips when I laugh.
Be safe, be happy, keep running.
23.2.10
dog fight
I fell into the dream as if my bed parted and the floor opened up beneath me. All at once an quickly I was on Forestview, on the hunt, walking through the thick blackness of spring's nighttime. A call came out, an area where the fugitive was last seen, not far from my prowling. I tracked him down into a dilapidated house sloping lazily to the west of the river that slices the town in half. No one had lived there for some time and inside it smelled of dust and animals and air that had been deprived of sunlight for too long. He heard my approach and I watched as he ran down a hallway and slithered into a hole in the drywall, small and scared and like a wayward country mouse. And in the next instant we were outside, feet digging in to the slipping mud, thawing snow guiding our tangled limbs down into the swollen river. And then, it was just churning water, and nothing working, and fighting, and mud, and being carried quickly away. The flotsam and jetsam of the lake sluicing past as I struggled for higher ground, to just not be pulled under.
And then I woke up and it was early morning, my clock tick tocking in the corner and the world outside still dark, and pure. And my first thought was of him.
And then I woke up and it was early morning, my clock tick tocking in the corner and the world outside still dark, and pure. And my first thought was of him.
17.2.10
Try sleeping.
I try to figure out what makes the difference, a slight variance in piece of paper, one in triplicate, the other, not. Two aluminum casks in my black cordura, one my father carried with him, the other given to me by a mentor. Hubris plays its part, makes my hand reach for the one emblazoned with Irish, and I wonder if that is a failing on my part. But mostly it is random, and happenstance, and governed by circumstances that I do not think I even understand. And does it matter? But I wish that it did. Sometimes the easiest decision is the one that has already been made for you. He told her, my world is too black and white, and I, I thought, I think that mine is too much in the grey. But what can we do but play our cards and do the best we can to conjure up some kind of poker face.
And I was so distracted, today. When I closed my eyes I could still feel the warmth of my bed, and the two of us tangled up in sleep, and the tired feeling behind my eyes only fueled my happiness because it made me remember. The scent of salt and sweetness filled the cab and I could not help but smile, even as it snowed, even as the world proved itself to be raw and cutting and visceral. And that it could not touch me, that it did not matter as my phone beeped and there was a whole other world beyond the reach of frost and ice and incredulity. It is like a secret that I keep locked up and hidden on a top shelf so that the grittiness of my daily slogging does not find it. A touch, a whisper, his voice, what he says and how it can make me feel so vulnerable and that I am addicted to the dance. And still, I am smiling.
I am a fool, I know. But it is wonderful to let go.
And I was so distracted, today. When I closed my eyes I could still feel the warmth of my bed, and the two of us tangled up in sleep, and the tired feeling behind my eyes only fueled my happiness because it made me remember. The scent of salt and sweetness filled the cab and I could not help but smile, even as it snowed, even as the world proved itself to be raw and cutting and visceral. And that it could not touch me, that it did not matter as my phone beeped and there was a whole other world beyond the reach of frost and ice and incredulity. It is like a secret that I keep locked up and hidden on a top shelf so that the grittiness of my daily slogging does not find it. A touch, a whisper, his voice, what he says and how it can make me feel so vulnerable and that I am addicted to the dance. And still, I am smiling.
I am a fool, I know. But it is wonderful to let go.
12.2.10
Wolves at night.
The snow reflected blue like millions of tiny diamonds under the streetlights and the rising orb of the moon, hanging listlessly to the east. Piled high and sloppy under feet, the dew point was pregnant and waiting to explode, again. And he comes, headlights illuminating the pale of the garage door, exploding incandescence out into the night. It is like a tiny seed that I planted, and put a fence around, and water, and keep warm against the threat of frost. Beautiful for its simplicity.
And then lately in the thick darkness of the early morning I wind my way to my father's house and we make the long and sluggish trek to our bailiwicks together. He tells me stories from the past, and I laugh and we swear together and the cab smells like coffee, and old smoke.
Let me always remember when we first met. Today at work one of my colleagues had me laughing so hard that my eye watered for two hours. So hard that it physically hurt. How did I get so lucky? What have I done, just Lord let me be always grateful.
And then lately in the thick darkness of the early morning I wind my way to my father's house and we make the long and sluggish trek to our bailiwicks together. He tells me stories from the past, and I laugh and we swear together and the cab smells like coffee, and old smoke.
Let me always remember when we first met. Today at work one of my colleagues had me laughing so hard that my eye watered for two hours. So hard that it physically hurt. How did I get so lucky? What have I done, just Lord let me be always grateful.
7.2.10
5.2.10
A.M.R.
He smelled like sunshine and salt and I pressed my nose into his stomach and drew in a deep breath. The littlest hand in the whole entire world encircled my one finger and squeezed and did not let go. She scooped him up and handed him to me and he was the most fragile and beautiful and amazing thing I had ever held. Every moment of him sleeping in my arms was a small miracle, and I kept thinking that it was not even yet a full day that he had been on this earth. He snored, and woke, and ate, and I remained mesmerized by every tiny detail. Welcome to this life, kiddo, I cannot wait to help you figure it out.
Just, thank you. The tiniest blessing, may we all be always grateful.
Just, thank you. The tiniest blessing, may we all be always grateful.
3.2.10
Butterflies
It's like falling into an already written plot, but that it's not bad in any way, in no way at all. Overwhelming and all at once like a rip tide. Because it is easy, and unexpectedly works, and somehow makes sense. Forgetting everything you knew in an instant, and being ecstatic to learn it all over again. A whisper, a laugh, a glance in a roomful of people, a parting of the sea. She said, it's like forgetting the words to your favorite song, you can't believe it, you were always singing along. And it was, so easy.
My heart contains all of the giddiness of a child on Christmas Eve and it brings a self-conscious smile to my lips.
And the daylight. It is so different, and I do not take myself nearly so seriously, though I do catch my brain giving my mouth reminders to be civil. That I have to pull out a new lexicon for these new situations. I take my cues from the funniest man that I have ever met in my entire life, and make a game of upping the ante. Yesterday I told a high dollar lawyer that this one is on me the next one is on you as I handed him a warning and sent him, nervous and over-joyed, on his hurried way. Progress. Each step counts and considering that I started out with my hand on the cold steel as I sidled forward, this is no small achievement.
And how lucky we are, how lucky. She in her world, me in mine, our orbits overlapping every now and then to just, give, thanks. The best day on the hunt yet was when she was sitting shotgun, fleeting as it was. There is nothing we cannot achieve, my dear. Just, remember.
My heart contains all of the giddiness of a child on Christmas Eve and it brings a self-conscious smile to my lips.
And the daylight. It is so different, and I do not take myself nearly so seriously, though I do catch my brain giving my mouth reminders to be civil. That I have to pull out a new lexicon for these new situations. I take my cues from the funniest man that I have ever met in my entire life, and make a game of upping the ante. Yesterday I told a high dollar lawyer that this one is on me the next one is on you as I handed him a warning and sent him, nervous and over-joyed, on his hurried way. Progress. Each step counts and considering that I started out with my hand on the cold steel as I sidled forward, this is no small achievement.
And how lucky we are, how lucky. She in her world, me in mine, our orbits overlapping every now and then to just, give, thanks. The best day on the hunt yet was when she was sitting shotgun, fleeting as it was. There is nothing we cannot achieve, my dear. Just, remember.
26.1.10
Atmosphere
My strategy had been simmering in the back of my mind after I hung up with her, the appointment made. Grace made it so that my mentor, the great verbal manipulator, was on and this time it was all about him. Running in the basement alone in the house our eyes locked, even though he didn't know, and the strategy boiled away. My immature giddiness about these things is trumped only by his.
Driving down the crowded highway in the still black morning, I had Jay-Z as loud as the car would stand, him helping me put my game face on. This is what I'm good at as I caught a reflection of myself under the passing lights. Hunting. Turn me on she arrived early and I could see her sitting in her car in the parking lot. Deep breath in and out, steeling herself, I thought. I made her wait when she found the resolve to come in.
We sat down in calculated silence, her eyes were red and half-shut and belied the strength that she wanted to display in the rest of her face. I flipped the switch on inside, and it was me watching me on the treadmill, removed and distant, with script in hand. I read it. And it worked, and it was instead of like a chess game more just like taking the chess board and throwing it across the room, having no need for it but wanting to hear the sound of it crash against the wall. She was scribbling on the piece of paper I had readied, and I noticed that her hand shook. My lips let loose bits of compassion and empathy, and I laughed cynically to myself that yes, that too was part of the script. When the door closed and she freed herself into the cold dawn air I could not put away the cheshire cat as he spread himself across my face, baring all of my teeth. And the teasing that followed, and that I did not care.
And that I got an atta boy from the one man who still intimidates me there. That it could be so easy to put such a thing together, but that it could still be appreciated.
And I do believe that our hands could wash each other's and that not one speck would remain. And then, and then. If it takes you, then I hope it takes me too.
But my God, how lucky I have been.
Driving down the crowded highway in the still black morning, I had Jay-Z as loud as the car would stand, him helping me put my game face on. This is what I'm good at as I caught a reflection of myself under the passing lights. Hunting. Turn me on she arrived early and I could see her sitting in her car in the parking lot. Deep breath in and out, steeling herself, I thought. I made her wait when she found the resolve to come in.
We sat down in calculated silence, her eyes were red and half-shut and belied the strength that she wanted to display in the rest of her face. I flipped the switch on inside, and it was me watching me on the treadmill, removed and distant, with script in hand. I read it. And it worked, and it was instead of like a chess game more just like taking the chess board and throwing it across the room, having no need for it but wanting to hear the sound of it crash against the wall. She was scribbling on the piece of paper I had readied, and I noticed that her hand shook. My lips let loose bits of compassion and empathy, and I laughed cynically to myself that yes, that too was part of the script. When the door closed and she freed herself into the cold dawn air I could not put away the cheshire cat as he spread himself across my face, baring all of my teeth. And the teasing that followed, and that I did not care.
And that I got an atta boy from the one man who still intimidates me there. That it could be so easy to put such a thing together, but that it could still be appreciated.
And I do believe that our hands could wash each other's and that not one speck would remain. And then, and then. If it takes you, then I hope it takes me too.
But my God, how lucky I have been.
20.1.10
It's, just
Be firm, be men of good faith, let thy will be unyielding. Do not waver, do not let thyself be easily persuaded. So much of this life is dust, ashes -- how can one be bothered by something so easily carried away by the slightest wind?
She looked in the mirror, said resolve yourself and before the glance could be reciprocated the flesh was steeled, gaze iced. How could one fail? All of this time that is spent internally, over thinking he used to say, you know where you want to be. And also, how to get there.
One foot in front of the other, with each step you remain true to yourself. Just, remember. He said, The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. My dad told me to measure myself by what I do when no one is looking, and by no other benchmark.
And to that, a quiet and lonely, Amen.
She looked in the mirror, said resolve yourself and before the glance could be reciprocated the flesh was steeled, gaze iced. How could one fail? All of this time that is spent internally, over thinking he used to say, you know where you want to be. And also, how to get there.
One foot in front of the other, with each step you remain true to yourself. Just, remember. He said, The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. My dad told me to measure myself by what I do when no one is looking, and by no other benchmark.
And to that, a quiet and lonely, Amen.
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