Musings

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No Regrets

Your eyes meet mine from across the room and I resist the sudden urge to giggle. What you're thinking is highly inappropriate considering the business setting we find ourselves in. I can feel the heat in the way your gaze caresses my face. We've never needed words to talk. We've always been two peas in a pod. Your eyes are like hands touching my skin, teasing me, looking for that matching response in my gaze. You wonder if you're still welcome. I smile and ease your fears.

I can see that you're looking for an excuse to cut loose, to enjoy...in a way you haven't been able to in a while. If I wanted to, I could remind you of exactly when things changed for you, when you ceased to have fun. It was the day you let her in. On that same day, I walked out.

And now, here we are again...almost like the day we met. The instantly flammable chemistry, still there, burning brightly. There's a bit of danger in the fact that we're forbidden to each other in so many ways. If I were honest, I'd say that I don't care, we were never meant to be tame. Instead, you're the only one who knows my soul, and I'm still careful what I show. We have careers to think of. You have that on-again-off-again thing you deal with at home.

But they're not here. Tonight, when all is said and done...it's just you and me. No words, no promises, just you and me and no regrets.

Hear The Sizzle, Taste The Flavor

So, I'm back from the Great White North. No I didn't see Bob and Doug Mackenzie, Yes I did pay too much for gas, No I did not meet any cool Moose, Yes I did find myself wondering why we don't own Canada or something...I mean, it's like the U.S., only really really boring. But I kid. I love Canada. I'm the only guy who (still) sings "Oh Canada" in the shower. Usually just before the "Star Spangled Banner" (or "Fame"). I can probably name more Canadian cities than anyone except Shamus.

One thing, while in Toronto I spotted an advertisement for what I thought was a ridiculously named casual dining facility. I'm speaking, of course, of

The Extreme PITA

Now, mind you, I actually like Pitas. Or pitas. But I hardly see the need for them to go "Extreme". I wandered over to this place, by the Eaton Centre (or Center for you Yanks), just to see.

I pressed my nose up against the display glass, but couldn't see much and had to venture inside. The questions roiled through my head.

Are they alternating fistfulls of bean sprouts with crushed glass? Are they slathering turkey with motor oil, holy water, and aquanet and cramming it up my pita? Do they have a peanut-butter and ginger tuna sashimi pita? Would they consider making me a regular pita, say one without monkey feces? Can I get a side-order of burnt fraggles?

Needless to say, the 6-Looney-per-hour counter staff was none too plussed with my questions and haranguing...in fact, I'd go so far as to say they were non-plussed. Which in Canada means frothing at the mouth, about-to-kill-you-with-a-soup-spoon kind of angry.

But then I looked around at the menu. My smile abruptly faded. Why, why...There was nothing at all "Extreme" about these pitas! WTF? Chicken Salad pita? Philly Cheese Steak? Ranchero Chicken?

Lies, lies, lies. Extreme my ass. I've seen more extreme food at the local SuperFoodTrough. This was all shouted (mumbled) as I stumbled past the half-day bankers, nursing mothers (should've been my first clue), and lanky University students.

Thankfully I found a deli that indulged in any extreme sandwich you could concoct, as long is it was based (or basted) in Boar's Head cold cuts. My salami, roast beef and head cheese with chipotle mayo on pumpernickel was freakin' EXTREME I tells ya.

So how about we keep all these "Extreme" crap where it belongs - firmly entrenched with the 11 year-olds who ride their bikes off ridiculous jumps, only to watch said bike disintegrate into pieces before falling to earth with all the grace of a hammered cosmonaut riding the last vestiges of Sputnik into New Mexico.

And please, if you go to Extreme Pita, ask them for a side of botulinum, you know, for dippin'.

'k

Good Lust

What so wrong is there with lust...
If in such a way one can feign desirability?
If one can sense an embrace
even alone in the dark and behind
closed and bolted doors...
What so wrong is there with lust?

And to reduce a love to one without lust
is to know a soul so lonely that it even crys for pain...
To burn - just so that it may experience heat once more,
To bleed - just to ooze something that is not nothingness,
To sweat - just in hopes of thirsting again.

More than to love once again, let me remember...
let me drive this memory of acceptance deep into my heart
let me lust after the days of love...
and to love the bitterwweet reflections!

What so wrong is there with lust?
Dare a seed not to grow!
Dare a flower not to bloom!
Dare a child not to ask!
But dare NOT a love without lust...
For death in one form or another will find you.

January 21, 1999
(in response to someone)

Only The Strong

Got a call today from a friend I hadn't heard from in a while.

Matt's one of those silently amazing guys...women all adore him-they sense he's honorable, kind, loving, strong. He's a rock. In times of crisis, he can be counted on. And, oh, is he so modest.

This guy has led an interesting life. He's a Vietnam Vet, he's former NYPD, former Counter-terrorist Unit... Although he's been retired from the military for a while now, he still consults with them. Especially after 9-11. Which means he's been spending a lot of time in D.C. and I haven't seen him nearly as often as we both like.

Somehow, we became good friends. Maybe it's the whole kindred spirits thing. He gets me. He hears a lot of what I don't say.

The thing about him though...is he's modest. Matt was captured in 'Nam. He had both his knees broken, his hands broken...his knuckles in those hands badly damaged. He's self conscious about wearing shorts because he's still got scars on his knees from recovering. The knuckles of his hands will never be quite the same. The man was, afterall, tortured. He's a bona fide P.O.W. But he doesn't see it that way...because he was rescued within hours.

But he survived the torture... And he's a very gentle man. And an amazing friend.

So it blew me away today when he told me that he thinks I'm a strong person both mentally and emotionally. Coming from him, that's a huge compliment.

I really didn't know what to say.

He really needs to look in the mirror.

Wait

A call, then another call...you always say you'll leave in 5 minutes. You were supposed to meet us at the restaurant an hour ago. I ran an errand first because I knew you'd be late. The kids are hungry and they're bickering and we should be on our way home by now.

I am so lonely. Other people are all around me and I don't know them but they seem so much happier than I feel on the inside. That's why I act the way that I do.

When the waitress said 'do you want to just go ahead and order?' she must have seen how I felt, because she joked that maybe she would just sit down and join us.

Then a few minutes later, she did. She made the kids laugh and I wanted to hug her, but People don't hug Waitresses because other People might think they're weird.

What Was I Thinking?

Lord, I've left an 18 year old running rampant on the streets of Orlando....

With his own hotel room.

I hired a new guy. And now I'm apparently "the coolest boss EVER!"

Just what I've always aimed for. Wonder if he's gonna learn anything?

Apparently he was so prepared that he felt like the cool kid in class...and I came off looking like a rock star. If this is what I get for making sure that a new hire has things like a name tag, log ins to the computer system, and an employee number... I wonder what these other bosses are like.

And I guess his hotel serves a hot breakfast for free and has internet access.

What more could a guy ask for?

Flashlight

I went for a walk tonight, because I was angry. It was after dinner, and I'd had ENOUGH, of dentists and grocery stores and dinner that didn't come out right and shoes everywhere and dirty clothes dropped in little heaps, and homework that still wasn't done, and so I put on my sneakers, picked up a flashlight, and walked out the door.

There are not enough hours in my day, and sometimes the walls start to close in on me. I run from work to my parenting duties without a "me zone" in between. It is a blessing to have children, but it is also a hell of a lot of work. "Work out to lose weight" people say, so matter of factly. My own sister - (single, and child free) "I work out an hour a day, and eat whatever I want." Hey, I can't fault them. They're trying to help.

But an hour? Are you damn kidding me? Sure, I could get up at 5 A.M. tomorrow. Kiss my exhausted ass. That's the only way I'm going to get an hour to myself in THIS house, without some serious committment from a hostage negotiator-- get up at 5 am, stumble to the family room and put the tv on low (read, Non-Motivating) so that I don't wake anyone, and try to do aerobics between the loveseat, the recliner, and various toys. Mmmm, yeah-right.

Tonight, a walk will have to suffice. At least the route I take will be almost 30 minutes, and take advantage of the only decent hill in the neighborhood.

As I was walking through my neighborhood, I looked up at the sky and noticed a murky haze -- a cloud had passed in front of the moon, which wasn't exactly full, but didn't look like "the man in the moon", either.

I was still stamping down the street, irritated. The flashlight felt reassuringly heavy in my hand. A thought flicked through my mind. "Mug ME? I don't think so." I momentarily fantasized about how good it might feel, smashing the flashlight into the skull of a would-be assailant, and then snapped out of the reverie, surprised at myself. Apparently, the stress relief potential of my after-dinner stroll had not yet been realized.

Happy Birthday

Today's been rough.

I don't know how else to say it.

I don't have the energy to put on my happy face. And even if I did, I don't have the heart. My head is so full of images...my heart so heavy. Today my brother would've been 28.

And I'm tired of hearing the platitudes.
"He wouldn't want you to be sad."
"He'd want you to be happy."
"He's still with you....in your heart."

Exactly. He's still with me, in my heart. And one day of 365...if I miss him more than usual...I'm sure he'd understand.

He was my best friend. We were opposite sides of the same coin. We were so much alike in look and demeanor that it was uncanny...except he was four years younger...and gone way too soon.

It's hard to believe that I haven't seen him in 18 years. I close my eyes and it feels like yesterday.

I'll smile again tomorrow. But today...I'm just gonna miss him.

Victorious Goldfish

Just back from the ocean, and a crappy efficiency, but that's another 2 stories. Now, apparently, I only receive inspiration from spam.

Hey Liza (No, my name is not f*cking Liza),
Blahblahblah
Call us today 800-940-1731

Now for the good stuff - punctuation added by me:

Earthquake
Cherub flatland protagonist
Isis?
Cubbyhole algae!
Bigotry swept dessicate, bobby dying, anti gild assailant
Denounce!
...grunt
Symbiotic bangkok experience - luminance
Camera tank
bullfrog unanimous
candid garble,
Haifa...
Victorious goldfish!

There you have it. Somewhere out there, a goldfish has just won a super sweet backgammon game against a cuddlefish, or perhaps an eel, and they are lurching around, curling one fin, and screaming, "Yes! Yes! I'm Number 1!" Or maybe it's a badminton game against a bunch of anemones...

The Victorious goldfish.

Museum

I went to see the 9/11 exhibit at the NYS Museum.

At first, it didn't move me because it's so quiet and still, and the room is fairly dark. Museum-like, of course. You don't REALLY get a sense of the chaos of that day, walking around a dim, nearly silent room looking at the exhibits, especially if you're with small children who don't linger.

There are two helmets on display. One is from Ireland, one from England. Sent covered with written messages, of condolence and support. A coat from West Palm Beach fire department. When you have time to READ the messages, it's so much more powerful. "Stay strong" (with a little drawing of a hatchet). "Our hearts are with you." Names, badge numbers of other firemen who were reaching out.

To the right of the jacket is a piece of the fence. It's dotted with bouquets, which are dried out now, of course. You can see that the paper around the flowers is rippled from being out in the rain, and the sun, and the wind. Stuffed animals. Photos. Notes. Wreaths. It's when you stop and read, that you really can reflect on the avalanche of pain that fell down around so many people.

There is a fire truck, from company number 6. It was under a pedestrian bridge, which collapsed. The back is partially crumpled, parts bent here and there. But the front was ravaged by fire. It's rusted and thin and somehow the wires are visible for all of the lights and sirens. It looked to me like a skull. The face of the truck is just gone. Peeled away - the skin of bright red paint, the "eyes" of headlights, the grillwork. Obliterated.

On the front bumper of the fire truck, more flowers -- roses. People seem to be bringing flowers and laying them on the railing at the front of the truck, because there were two bouquets , dried and resting there.

The walls are large photo murals of the images we know as "Ground Zero". The height and size give you only a faint sense of actually standing near the scene.

Along the barrier around the truck, on the long edge, is a printed timeline, with photos. At 6:30 am the entry reads, Sunrise in New York. Temperature 66 degrees. You can walk down the length of the firetruck and see the events unfold. Maps of flight routes. Details of each step in the day. The mounting chaos (bridges shut down, tunnels closed, part of lower Manhattan evacuated...parts of the Pentagon building collapsing...)

There's a charred seat belt / buckle assembly from one of the planes, at the beginning of the timeline. It all started with men buckling themselves into their seats. Bastards. I feel a sudden surge of anger. How dare they?

If you turn away from the truck and look behind you, there are pieces of plane. Any one of them would fit in my car. A PLANE is in little pieces. The magnitude of the collision starts to sink in when you see how far away from the footprint of the towers these pieces were found.

There is a piece of a beam from one of the towers. It's surrounded by a very low barrier, only about a foot high, which is very close to it. I couldn't help myself, I didn't mean to be disrespectful, but I just had to touch it. Maybe they placed it that way, so that you COULD put your hand on it, to try to absorb the reality. I don't know.

The Sea

There were times loving you
when I felt I was floating in the middle of a perfectly calm sea
surrounded by crystal clear water and blue sky
dazzling beauty....serenity


And then the feeling of dread would take hold of me
as the wind and waves rose
and I was tossed through the churning storm
unable to catch my breath or find solid ground.
.....terror

In the darkness
the waves hurled me against the rocks on the shore
crushing, pounding, battering me mercilessly
......helpless, crushing agony

Now you are gone
the storm has died
but I must find my own way back.
I will wait for the tide to carry me out to the center of the sea
Where I will again drift in peace and stillness.

Welcome

I'm still setting things up, so bear with me.

~Carly