The Wrong Words, The Bookstore And The T-Rex

While driving down the road, I tap out quick messages to Pandora on the qwerty keypad. I ask her why she loves me. A valid question, I feel. I am hoping her answers will be superficial but they aren't. But are they the ones that bind people over time?

The fall night is quickly sinking toward dusk. Pandora shifts from texting to calling. I pull into the parking lot of Barnes & Noble and park next to #1's familiar pastel green Focus. The lot is mostly empty. Our conversation is stunted. I am unsure what to say to her. I have my phone in my hand, the long black cord from my ear piece dangles along beside me, as I walk into the store.

"Can you call me back later?" I ask. "I am about to meet up with #1 for dinner."

It was the wrong thing to say; a time when a white lie would have been better. She already has a deep resentment of my relationship with #1. I wasn't thinking. I feel her disappointment in me in the silence before we say goodbye. Pandora hasn't contacted me since.

Inside a flash of green cuts across the main aisle, a miniature dinosaur complete with soft felt talons, a three foot tail and a toothy grin. The T-rex turns my way. Recognizing me he stops in the middle of his mischief. The child within the costume smiles then takes off as he hears his mom calling his name.

I catch up to them at the information desk. #1 is dressed in a short denim skirt and a blue long sleeve top. She looks slightly flustered. The T-rex bounces around her knees. She's looking for the latest Stephanie Meyers novel. No not one of the Twilight books; it's called The Host, the first book of her new series.
I volunteer to search and she takes off toward the front of the store with her little monster in tow.

The old lady behind the information counter is methodical-- which is a polite way of me saying she is slow. I ask her where I can find the book. I have time to tap out, "old people should not be allowed to work," on my phone while she consults her computer screen. After what seemed like enough time for me to reach retirement, she sends me off to the Science Fiction and Fantasy section.

I bring the thick hardcover novel back to #1. She regards it briefly, changes her mind about it and tosses it onto the shelf in front of her. If it was anyone else, I'd be surprised but not with her. She is onto another mission already and is searching for a book on tattoos.

The T-rex wants to play. I take him over to the children's section where he sinks his teeth into the toy train table. His mom continues on her search.

"Play with me!" He insists.

"Okay, okay!"

I pick up a train and push it along the track. The little T-rex attracts smiles from the passing adults. He doesn't notice, so intent is he on the trains. When it is time to leave, he pouts.

"Pick him up." #1 insists, afraid he will break out in screams.

"What does T-rex like to eat?" I ask to distract him. "Hamburgers? Hotdogs?"

The train table is quickly forgotten as we get into a debate concerning the diet of a dinosaur. The little monster begins chanting, "hungry hungry" as we drive to get food.

"He is his mother's child."

He continues to attract attention from strangers at the restaurant. The little boy in the Halloween costume eating his meal—or not as was the case. Garnishing attention unrealized just like his mom.

Happy In The Shade

There is unrest in the forest
There is trouble with the trees
For the maples want more sunlight
And the oaks ignore their pleas...The Trees, Rush

This blog was supposed to be a creative outlet and I guess it is still.  I've given up trying to control who reads it, or why.  I opened the lid on that one, probably for subconscious narcissistic reasons.  Just one more thing to be aware of when writing to my silent pack of voyeurs.  I tell Pandora not to censor herself on her blog.  I don't like to see such creativity stifled. She would probably tell me the same.  After all our written words originally attracted us.

I think about it though, the feelings I hurt, the egos I stroke, the pictures I paint.  Their motives.  Their thoughts-- especially their thoughts.  I'm left bleeding on the stage, the lights fade, the curtain falls and you can hear a pin drop from the audience.  They shuffle off in silence and wait for the next show.  I am too busy with my act to notice if they are sitting on the edge of their seats.  Is that suddenly drawn handkerchief to blot away the tears or to stifle a smile.  Do they play drinking games over the spelling errors?  One shot for ever time he uses "then" instead of "than".  One shot for every time the wrong word gets passed spell checker.  Two shots if he mentions your name.

We present 2D images of ourselves to most of the world.  Too our friends and family we are 3D, filled in mostly by shared experiences.  We seldom get a glimpse inside the minds of those around us.  Their doubts, dreams and fears, the things we all have but are afraid to share 90% of those I share here.  What does that do?

Both Sides Of The Door

"...We just got to keep the faith..."

"I don't have anymore faith.  Not today."

I am trapped inside a room of induced numbness but the only door out leads to feelings; chaotic passions, debilitating despair. The door is thick oak deeply veined with six opaque glass panes. At the threshold, thoughts flicker almost real enough to feel.  Like images from weird nightmares but I'm awake.  The images remind me how deep the well is beyond the door. For a moment today the door stood ajar.  Darkness spilled through the tiny opening carrying the nightmare images with it.  The chill of the images cause my head to jerk and my skin to crawl.   They did their mischief and evaporated back through the doorway, leaving me with a longing to follow.

The door is a construct, the out side is insanity, the room is where I don't belong.  Lay me down within the well and paint the insanity upon my naked form in bright blues and reds.

I closed the door behind them knowing I did not have the speed to follow.  Not Today.

The Sufferer And The Witness

In fields where nothing grew but weeds,
I found a flower at my feet,
bending there in my direction.
I wrapped a hand around its stem
and pulled until the roots gave in,
finding there what I've been missing.
And I know.... The Good Left Undone, Rise Against

I've read along for so many days, longing to be the shining knight that broke the evil spell, never imagining I'd be another villain in the tale.  No regrets we said, knowing someone was going to get hurt never thinking it would be her.

She blames herself.  Is it her looks, her mind or the sex we shared?  I tell her she is smart, beautiful and one of the best lovers I have ever had.  I don't doubt her feelings for me.  I know I have feeling for her too but not enough.

I am confused, scared--and sorry.  I do not want to bring pain to the one that has brought me nothing but joy.  Maybe I am jaded but I have my doubts.  I do not think it would be fair for me to hold on to her  knowing I can not return the same level of love.

Perhaps I am incapable of having such love without risking my sanity.  I hope not, yet today I feel numb and I should hurt.

So I released the one I professed to love the most-- without signs of another, without hope of finding someone else.  I'll go back to my sheltered existence and dream.

that's when she said I don't hate you boy
I just want to save you while there's still something left to save
that's when I told her I love you girl
but I'm not the answer for the questions that you still have...Savior, Rise Against

Giving, and Giving Up.

The mall hasn't change from in twenty years. The names on the store fronts may not be the same but it is still the place where teenagers go to flirt, to meet and pair off. The Ex and I walk along the upper galore hand in hand, newly paired off. We meet up with a mutual friend. One of my best friends and her loosely called ex-boyfriend. My bolts in a fit of female angst tailor made to gauge my reaction. In that split second, I make a decision and abandon my friend to pursue her.

Eighteen years later, I was no long what she wanted and I was alone. I was taken in by a close group of friends. They became my friends and they taught me the value of true friendship. A lesson I have tried to pass on to others and to my own children.

Pandora questions my friendship with #1. I can understand her doubts and her jealousy. My feeling run deep when it comes to #1. My feelings run deep for all my friends. #1 and I have been through many things. I fell in love with her for a while. I've hated her. She's needed me and she's abandoned me. Still we we comeback to each other. Not as lovers, but as friends.

Friendships are governed by laws that differ from lovers. Pandora and I have crossed the line. She has asked me to pull back from #1. A term I don't really understand. I cannot be half a friend, not when I have committed my friendship to someone.

I am the candle flame. Pandora is the moth. We dance before each other. Avoiding being smothered. Avoiding being burned. Her love for me is frightening. It's manic. Consuming. But I do not come alone. I am myself and the sum of those around me. The ones that prop me up when I can barely stand. The ones that fail to turn from me when I stand stripped of everything before them.

I can give my friendship, my love, my passion my devotion to someone- only one gets all these things. The one I am told I deserve. The one who will stand before the storm. The one who will suffer the void-because I am their strength, I fill their heart. I fire their passion. Like no one else.

How Does It Feel

...And I like it when we are on the bed. I like to kiss her upside down, the feeling of the width of her tongue against mine. I like drawing her full lower lip in between mine.

"That's our kiss, Peter...ours!" Mary Jane to Peter Parker, Spiderman III

I draw back to look her in the eyes. I'll lightly kiss her nose, her eyes and checks before returning to the warm wetness of her mouth. She allows my hands to travel down her torso to the flat of her stomach.

"I was three when I discovered my obsession with belly buttons," I tell her later over the phone. She laughs. She always laughs when I'm serious, seldom believing the bizarre facts I spew forth during my never ending monologues.

She squirms when my tongue rolls around her ear. My face nestles perfectly between her neck and shoulder as I kiss her. In the morning she says her neck looks like a squirrel has been chewing on it.

She thinks I am good in bed. I brush her praise aside. "I am good with you in bed," I tell her.
The passion between us is stronger then either of us imagined it would be.

"What does it feel like?" She asks during a lull between highs.

I lick the dryness from my lips, pausing to focus my attention away from the act momentarily, Breaking my silence I say, "Feels like no matter how hard I push--I can never be deep enough inside you."

Eccentric Much?

She thinks I talk to much. It's her own fault though, I become more exciting, more funny--larger in her presence.

She has figured out how to shut me up though. "It is because I can't walk and chew gum at the same time," I explain.

That's alright with her-- she likes when I chew gum.

I look down into her light hazel eyes, almost green.

"Am I what you expected?" She whispers. Her lips are full and inviting.

"I did not know what to expect," I reply.

My imagination could not have given life to the woman before me. She is whole. I watch her move. Feel her touch. Taste her skin. I realize there is so much more for me to learn and so little time to learn it.

I have no answers for the other questions she asks. Those questions are all part of the real world and we are still underneath the neon lights.

"You brought me coffee, " I tell her. "While I laid here sleeping." A simple act that speaks volumes and sets her apart. I fumble through words trying to explain.

She finds me strange. "As in strangely familiar?" I ask. It is more like strangely eccentric she tells me. I never consider myself eccentric. Different perhaps, but not eccentric. I don't stick out of the crowd. I like to think of myself as a combination of the best and worst of all stereo types which puts me in a category all alone.

No Way Back

Lately, I've been
Livin' in my head
The rest of me is dead,
I dying for truth...

Pleased to meet you take my hand,
There is no way back from here,
Pleased to meet you say your prayers,
There is no way back from here,
But I don't care,
No way back from here.-- No Way Back, Foo Fighters

McCarran Airport is like the rest of Vegas, bright, shiny and in no way connected to the real world. I pace the length of baggage claim area waiting for her to arrive, checking the blue screens announcing flight arrivals again and again. I am nervous and though I have the number of her flight written in ink on the inside of the tip of my middle finger, I still can't help feeling like I'm waiting for the wrong flight to arrive.

Show girls dance above me on giant big screen projectors. From advertisements along the walls, Chris Angel looks down on me with his signature stare; The Killers, Santana and a number of comedians battle him for the attention of the newly arrived.

When she arrives, I watch as she walks toward the baggage carousel in a tight brown shirt and jeans. She has a confident stride and does not waste time looking this way or that for me. I come up close beside her. I hug her tight and some of my apprehension melts away.