Dreaming Again, and the Dreams are Strange, of Course

I dreamt on Monday. I don’t recall having any dreams in quite some time. Usually, if I dream in the morning, I forget it by the time I get out of bed, no matter how hard I try.

So, Monday I was waiting for a message to let me know my call time to be on a movie set.

[ I had driven to Santa Fe three days earlier to work as an extra, but we all call that “background” now. We say we are background actors, which is to say we are like moveable set decorations. However, that day, after getting stuck in highway maintenance that had Interstate 25 almost at a standstill – it took 20 minutes to go 4 miles – we were informed that production was behind schedule. They couldn’t use us yet, and couldn’t afford to pay us to stay. (It’s a low-budget pic). But, we were asked to come back the next day. They had only planned to use us for four hours, but if we would come back the next day, they would pay us for eight hours. Well, that took some of the frustration out of having to drive up and back for nothing. So, I went back, and got stuck in traffic again. We were on set, however, not for four or eight hours, but from 11:00 am to 11:30 pm (12.5 hours). I was excited about the overtime, but that didn’t happen. Just a flat $120. Still, money is money, and they needed us back the next day too. So Saturday, Oct. 15th, found me on set again. This time they only used some of us to complete a pivotal scene we’d been in the previous day. This time we were there from 6:00 pm to 1:30 am the next day. Pay: $90. Like I said, it’s a low-budget pic. On certain projects, we work at a rate of $100 for eight hours. ]

I got to sleep in on Sunday, and I had back-to-back acting classes to attend that afternoon. I was able to sleep for a reasonable time Sunday night. But, my system was still adjusting, so, while waiting for a new call time on Monday morning, I took a nap.

That’s when the dream hit me. In it, I had just picked up my mail and was walking up the stairs of a porch to my house. (It seemed like I lived there, but I don’t have a porch.) As I was standing on the porch, absorbed in opening my mail, I glanced left and saw my former stepdaughter there. She was wrapped in blankets, one of which was very colorful. She was in a bed or on a small sofa. There was a young woman sitting near her. Both of them were smiling. It was a shock to see her there. (Recently she moved away from here to California.) I sat down next to them and asked what was going on. She and the woman laughed, but she turned to me, and said, “I have to go.” The dream ended, but there was a red/yellow afterimage of her in my eyes and she seemed to wink before she disappeared, like Lewis Carroll’s disappearing Cheshire Cat. I messaged her, telling her about the dream, She replied: “Interesting dream and very vivid!” I was surprised to hear from her at all because sometimes she doesn’t reply.

The Cheshire Cat — with whom Alice had just had a conversation — fades away as it sits on a tree branch. Date first published: 1865

Anyway, I never got to set on Monday. There was a 3:00 pm call time, but then production cancelled shooting that day, and for Tuesday, because of the heavy rains we were having. I expected to be on set today, but production took another day off (“company day off”) so it’s Wednesday, and I’m waiting to hear about the call time for tomorrow,

Meanwhile, I had another dream about my former stepdaughter this morning when I woke up. In it, I was standing around with several people, like at a party, and she was there, speaking with her father. Someone came up and asked her about her brother, she reached into her cell phone/wallet case, pulled out a folded newspaper-like photo with her brother and others in it, and handed it to them. She went back to her conversation with her dad. The person she’d given the photo to tried to give it back to her, but she was still busy in her conversation so they handed it to me and walked away. I tried to give it to her, but she ignored me. I put it in her hand. She grabbed it and tore it up, without looking at it, tearing only about a third of it off. That was strange and rude, so after a few moments, I walked away.

I still miss my former stepdaughter. I say former, because, over a year ago, long before she left, in a Father’s Day message to me thanking me for all I had done for her, she referred to me as her ex-stepdad. I didn’t like the sound of that, so I use “former” instead. However, perhaps “ex” is appropriate after all. She posts updates and photos on Facebook, and I comment on them; sometimes she likes or comments on my FB posts, but that’s the extent of our relationship now – digital only – after she’s been gone for four and a half months. I wrote letters to her twice, hoping to revive that antique custom, but it hasn’t happened. In fact, it turned out that she took a trip back here, and went out to see the balloons during the Balloon Fiesta in Albuquerque, but never let me know she was in town. I didn’t find out until she posted a photo. I messaged her why she hadn’t at least called while she was in town, but she never replied. Her house had been on the market since she left. Perhaps it sold, so she had a reason to come back for that, or just to visit her dad and her friends, and was just too busy to want to deal with me too. My status with her is vague.

I have to think she appears in my dreams because I’m still trying to accept that she’s gone, and the old days of sharing our birthdays and holidays together, or of blind wine tastings, or lunches on the patio I built for her, are gone. We had kept our relationship after her mother and I divorced, seeing each other for birthdays and holidays. For a year and a half, after she could no longer drive, I picked her up to take her to her job and back to her house. Her brain surgery for a tumor had ruined her peripheral vision on the left side, and after totaling four cars, she gave up driving before she hurt someone. Then I began working for a winery for ten years, and six months after that, she joined me in that endeavor on weekends, and on holidays from her jobs. I enjoyed driving her to the winery in the mountains east of here and working with her, picking fruit, filtering, bottling, labeling, and selling wine together at festivals and at the winery. She has ended her life here. She had put her house up for sale, and then sold, donated, or threw away nearly everything she owned before she left. It is a new start for her, a new job, a new place, a new time. I accept, realistically, that she must live her life on her terms, and try new things.

But, to never see her again after 30 years? That’s hard. Family is still important to her, but I am not family to her anymore, I think. I asked her what I am to her now, but she never replied, I mentioned coming to visit her, but I received no response, no welcome to do so. I had told her how much I missed her, but for her to come back and not even say hi – that’s rough. She hasn’t severed her connection with me totally (It’s just digital now) but it seems tenuous, like a rubber band stretched beyond its elasticity until it breaks. And now, I’ve made myself sad again. Any more of this and I will cry. I guess there’s a reason why I prefer to just post photos now. As much as I love her, I suppose I will stop dreaming about her someday.

She’s Gone Now

MAYA self-portrait

She is out of state now, riding with her dad and her small pile of simple possessions. She is going to try driving a little on the straight sections of Interstate 40. I hope her dad lets her. She misses that bit of independence. The lack of peripheral vision in her left eye is due to the operation to remove a cancerous growth in her brain. It’s all that remains of her illness and treatments. Her doctor said she no longer needed testing, and she didn’t need to see him anymore. She says it’s the best breakup she’s ever had. That was years ago. She always runs a lot and stays healthy. Her body looks extremely fit at 38 years old, although she has found a few grey hairs.

Trying to avoid obsessing about her departure, I read a book called The Death House, by Sarah Pinborough, about a place in a dystopian future where the British take children with defective genes who are going to die horrible deaths. It is a great story of resilience in the face of tragedy and the power of the human spirit. I enjoyed it, but it is a tragedy, and the ending was a bit more than I could take today.

My thoughts just keep going to Maya. Sometimes that’s OK. She’s on her way to a new life and her future is unknown. I am happy for her. Her happiness has always meant a lot to me. I love her. But then this malaise (anxiety?) comes upon me, and I don’t know how I will survive. Really. That’s not hyperbole. Tears appear on my cheeks from time to time. I’m restless, pacing, and unable to eat right now, although I ate well yesterday. Emotions make my throat constrict. It’s so bad now that I can hardly get a bite of food down. It all comes and goes. Writing this is painful, but what else am I to do? I drank two beers talking with my neighbor last night, but it didn’t help. I wrote a poem a few days ago about Maya and her imminent departure. I sent it to a poet I know, but there’s been no reply yet. It’s painful to read now. It hurts so bad. All those years I’ve known her, 30 wonderful years of having Maya in my life. The joy I feel every day that she survived brain cancer, that she is alive and healthy, is overshadowed by my selfish despair at the lack of her presence in town, my inability to see her, have lunch with her, go to dinner with her, or enjoy a fine wine tasting at the Slate Street restaurant. It’s all just memories now. I find it hard to take. She kept me stable, alive, and happy. I have no family here, no close friends. I didn’t need anyone with Maya around.

Now I’m lost. More alone than I was when she was here and often unavailable. More alone than I’ve ever felt. The tears are rolling down my cheeks again. It’s happened in the past. It’s not the first time I’ve been through this: the first lover I lived with who left me suddenly for another after I’d moved here to start a life with her, the two marriages over a combined twenty-one years that ended in divorce, the death of my father, the dread that hit me when Maya was first diagnosed with a brain tumor, the fear that she would end her existence in this world.

It feels like all of that rolled into one terrible waking nightmare. I can’t wake up from this. I try reading. I signed up for a hiking trip to the Capulin Volcano National Monument. I lost my Shadow motorcycle a while back to a mechanical failure that I caused accidentally. I finally found one to replace it. Actually, I hadn’t liked it as much as my old Honda Magna with its four cylinders, four carburetors, and four exhaust pipes. That one was stolen from me two years ago. I replaced it with that Honda Shadow Phantom that I broke. I have not been able to ride with my biking buddies, and they have been riding a lot lately. I couldn’t find a bike here in town – one has been “on the way” since late April with no sign of it yet. Honda is having problems with inventory and is experiencing shipping delays, and their model offerings are slim. I can’t afford a Harley, even a used one, and the local dealership is corrupt with price gouging and high-pressure salesmen who kept saying: “But it’s a Harley,” while they try to get me to sign up for a used bike at new bike prices, said prices more than twice the MSRP, and at an 8.99% finance rate instead of the 3.99% that the Harley-Davison company itself has been offering on used bikes.

I looked around through Cycle Trader and similar places. Eventually, I found a bike I like, with good power, and good looks, and only a year old. Kawasaki – I never in my life thought I’d ride a Kawasaki. But almost new? A four-stroke? 903cc? Belt drive? High tension steel? 5 speed? With large, hard case, locking bags, a highway bar, and dual backrests with a luggage rack? It’s in Tucson, Arizona. I sent the money, and am hiring a man to haul it here. I don’t have a truck, and can’t hook a trailer to my car, and it’s a thirteen-hour round trip at best. I could have taken a bus there, maybe even a cheap flight, but then I’d have been renting a truck and trailer to haul it all that way (gas prices are too high for that to be economical), or riding a bike I don’t know 450 miles in the desert heat. Hell, I’d still need to have it registered and licensed in New Mexico and transfer my insurance over. Better to get it here first.

So, yeah, I’ve been looking forward to getting it. Now, however, that happiness is eclipsed by my sorrow at Maya’s departure. Nothing matters much. My life here feels suddenly empty without Maya here. Where’s here? Why am I here? What does it all matter anymore? It’s hard not to think about Maya. It’s hard when I do think of her. I’ve been stupid to have invested so much emotion around her. She means so much to me. Her happiness means more, so I can’t even tell her these things. It’s killing me.

I know the new bike will keep me entertained. I don’t care at the moment. I’d give it up in a heartbeat to have Maya back here. But, there is nothing I can do. Nothing. I will continue to love her. But I feel so empty, so drained of life, with no clear way forward. It’s much the way she feels herself, but she took action. She moved away. 940 miles away. Not insurmountable. But I’m part of the past she’s leaving behind. Her last message said to take care of myself. That’s it? Take care? How? Why? She knows I love her. She said she loves me too. It hurt so much for me to write those words. My throat tightened up. Tears in my eyes. I’ve been deluding myself for years. 30 years we’ve known each other. Now I’m just someone that she used to know. She always says “Cancer Sucks.” Well, this sucks too.

That’s all I can write now. Enough of this pity party. Enough wallowing in despair and regret.

Maya Leaves Today

I cry every time I think of that… .

She’s Almost Gone. Good-byes Suck.

My chest feels tight. I woke up around 4:00 am. There was no way I could sleep. I tried to hold it together yesterday, but parting from someone you love is always hard. Maya has been such a joy in my life for thirty years. I knew her first as the child of my lover, who I married after we’d known each other for four years, but we divorced 10 years after that. Maya was so full of life and spirited. I worked with her on her spelling while her mom worked one of her jobs. Her mom had been divorced from Maya’s dad for about as long as Maya had been alive. She and her brother spent time with their dad on Thursday nights and on alternate weekends., so at first I didn’t see much of them, but over time I spent more and more time at their house until I came to live with them after marrying their mom.

Maya and her brother Noah were always fun. While their mom was out, they’d entertain themselves as siblings do, running around the house, chasing each other, playing, and enjoying the absence of parental control. Maya’s spelling improved over time, and perhaps it created a bond between us. I saw her most often, as her brother was often at a neighbor’s house or at school playing basketball. practicing, practicing, practicing. He had also played soccer. He seemed to live for those games. Maya herself played basketball in grade school. I went to their official games. Noah was captain of his basketball team and played smart games, helping to drive his team to a state championship.

Maya, I could see, was more of a runner. As the point guard, she ran from one end of the court and back so fast that I was astounded by her speed and agility. When she reached high school she went out for track. I had never been interested in sports, but between those two, I watched years of soccer and basketball games. With my job, it was hard to get to Maya’s track events, but her mom took photos once in a while.

From that time on Maya ran, eventually running long distances. She ran marathons and traveled to different events around the country. It is still a passion of hers. She organizes her oldest friends to run relays in the Duke City Marathon in Albuquerque. It’s more than a sport for her; she uses it to relieve stress and for time to think.

It’s been thirty years since I’ve known Maya. She’s a tough woman. Cancer tried to take her down shortly after her 21st birthday, but she fought back. With the help of modern medical techniques and the support of friends and family, she won her battle with brain cancer.

It was a difficult time for her, and the rest of us. The day-long operation, the chemo, the radiation, the drugs that put her in a brain fog. And the scare later on when it appeared to have returned. It turned out it was simply scar tissue from the radiation treatments and was removed. She is cancer-free.

Maya was able to finish college. She’s had several jobs, and while working, continued her education, earning a Master’s Degree. But she’s reached a point in her life where she must move on. She’s cleaned out her house. It’s for sale. She disposed of almost everything she owned. She’s taking a couple suitcases, some bags of clothes, and not much else. She has a job waiting for her in California, but it’s not the main reason she’s going there. She needs a change. Although she has traveled to many countries, she is restless now. It’s always been her plan to live the rest of her life fully, but her jobs were unfulfilling, and sometimes spirit-crushing. She needs more. She’s not quite sure what, but first of all, she has to leave here. I had noticed this about her last year, as she seemed to be distancing herself, already moving on in her mind. I felt it was just me she was moving on from, and I took that hard, but it was more than that. She will soon be gone from here. I have never loved anyone more than Maya.

So, since the two of us had worked part-time for a winery for close to eight years, I took her to the New Mexico Wine Festival here in Albuquerque yesterday, and we tried to have fun. It was an extremely overcrowded event, with an hour and a half wait to get in, and long lines just to get a few quick tastes and a glass of wine each. Afterward, her dad and stepmother had a gettogether at their house, we ate a little and drank some champagne. I brought a bottle of liquor made from those tiny little grapes called black currants to blend with the champagne. The liquor is called Creme de Cassis. It is very sweet. Mixed with champagne, it is a French cocktail called Kir Royal. A tablespoon per glass of champagne is plenty. Tasty. I brought a bottle of dry French champagne, because, well, it’s a French drink.

It was very hard for me to leave her dad’s house. Maya and her dad had things to plan as he is driving her to California two days from now. Her stepmom prepared a bed for her, so it was time for me to go. Since Maya’s house is now empty, she stayed at her dad’s house last night and will be there tomorrow night as well. Everything Maya is taking will fit in her dad’s vehicle. I don’t know if I will ever see her again. I couldn’t say goodbye. We had one last shared look into each other’s eyes.

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BRAIN PHONE

February is National poetry month.

This is not a haiku, but a much older, traditional verse form in Japanese poetry called a tanka.

As you can see, it begins like a haiku, followed by a couplet of two additional lines of seven syllables each.

It does not use an ellipsis – I added that simply to emphasize the similarity and difference.

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A phone in my head

Powered by blood from my heart

so every thought

…

with my every heartbeat

my brain could send you my love.

Popcorn, Pears, Pebbles, a Pipe, and sweet Potato fries

I love pears. Lately, I’ve been buying pears at the market every time I go. I eat them quickly. When they aren’t available, I buy canned pears, but those are always horrible. I always forget how horrible they are. I can’t find pears in a jar, which are better. The pears I’ve been buying were gone yesterday. In their place were bags of pears, slightly smaller. I bought them. They felt hard and were a bit green yet. Today I had one while I was waiting for my cast iron pot to heat up for popcorn. It could have been riper, but good enough. I have always liked popcorn. At one time in my life, it was the only snack I ever bought. I make my own because I was always good at it. Done right, I could get all or 99.9% of them to pop fully. Without butter, popcorn is just fiber, which I don’t eat enough of. With salt and a thin coating of the vegetable oil I cooked them in, they are delicious. Bits of kernel always get stuck under my gums and between my teeth, so I don’t live on it like I used to.

I wanted a snack while I watched a movie made from the novel The Accidental Tourist. I was certain I had bought the book, but I couldn’t find it. Perhaps I skimmed through it and sold it or gave it away since I decided I wasn’t ever going to read it. So, Netflix had the movie.

The movie is slow and a bit tedious, which is what I had suspected about the novel. But WILLIAM HURT! and GEENA DAVIS! Yeah, I watched the whole movie just to watch them in action. I think William Hurt’s role was too understated for all of his talent, but he nailed it. Those gray people who need absolute order in their life, to an extreme, are as boring as those who just wait for death. Perhaps there’s no difference.

Geena Davis made this movie work. She is, of course, beautiful, but she always has fun with her roles and draws me into the stories. Irrepressible is what I’d write about her for a review. She’s so full of life and laughter and emotion. When she smiles, it is real and heartfelt; it includes her whole face and the way she moves. Her smile is infectious is what I should say.

There is a woman I know, one I love, and Geena Davis’s smile reminded me of her. When she came back from a trip to California, and she’d had time to start her new job, I messaged her – she doesn’t like talking on the phone. I asked her about lunch – sometimes, during the worst of Covid, I would pick up lunch – she worked at home often – and we’d have lunch on her front patio. It has a block wall around it because it’s alongside a heavily-trafficked road, but the area used to be dirt, covered in gravel. Her new job also allows her to work at home sometimes. It is pleasant on her patio. I paved it in concrete. Her mother paid for all the materials, and her dad came by to help me get all the wet concrete out of the chutes from the delivery truck and spread out on a section I’d leveled and prepped with expansion joint. Before I had reached that point, I had noticed that water seemed to pool in the center, so I had created a slope that would not only allow the water to drain, but I angled it to channel the water to an open space in the concrete wall. Her flat roof drains all of its water down a pipe to her patio. I left a bit of gravel-covered dirt by the drainpipe, so light drainage could simply return to the ground

Once I had that first section of concrete done, it was easy for me to pour and level the rest by myself. I had made sure, first, that the dirt and a thin gravel layer covering it were well-watered before I had started. As it set, I smoothed it so there were no dips, no swells, and no rough spots. I broomed it lightly and I put a nicer smooth edge all around with my edging tool. The patio looked professionally done. I added a bit to it. There were some multicolored glass pebbles around that she no longer wanted, and I embedded them into the wet concrete on the south side before it completely set. Since I’d spent way too much time with the finish on a very hot day, it had almost set by the time I tried adding the pebbles, so I had to hammer them in with my rubber mallet. I had enough pebbles to spell out her name because she loves her house, her first ever, and takes pride in it. I also created a small peace sign near the west wall, because she often wears one on a chain around her neck. I also kept it wet until I left, and left her a note to wet it down heavily when she got home from work and the following day. However, she had never invited me over to use it. We had never sat on it. Her mother had come over to see it, and they enjoyed chatting and drinking there. Since then her mom has moved away, to California.

It was a labor of love. I had enjoyed the project, the hard physical work, the details, and the craftsmanship. But mostly I enjoyed doing something nice for this woman I love. There are no cracks in the concrete, and the pebbles had settled in tightly for my decorative touches. It was not a large patio, so I was worried that the slope would make sitting on chairs awkward, but I cannot notice that now any more than she does. But she did notice that it drains very well. I felt pride in my work and great happiness that she liked it.

Alas, when she returned from a Califonia trip, she told me she had picked up Covid from a few of her relatives (not her mom). I had bought her a small present for her birthday that I’d not had the opportunity to give her, and I wanted to drop it off. She asked if I could also take her recyclables to the city collection area – she has no vehicle of her own anymore, since a brain operation had destroyed her peripheral vision on the left side, and she’d wrecked a few cars. She also had some used clothes to donate, so I drop those off for her sometimes.

I tried ringing her nail-polish-painted doorbell, with no response. We hadn’t set a specific time for me to come by, but she’s a runner – can’t live without running – so I suspected she was out running her troubles off, staying healthy in mind and body. I opened her garage door to get her recycle items and her donations, which set off her alarm, so she heard that and came out. As I was loading her stuff in my car, she was smiling. She had a black KN95 mask on, but I could tell she was smiling. It was in her eyes. However, it wasn’t a good time for a hug. She was dressed for a run, so I’d been right about that.

I messaged her later and told her that I could see her smiling with her eyes, and she liked that. Once she had isolated herself long enough, I asked her about lunch. I hoped to see that smile again and her whole face. She said yes since she would be working at home one day soon. She wasn’t in the mood, she said, for fish, so I got her an Albuquerque Turkey sandwich with sweet potato fries on the side, but I got the baked fish on a bed of couscous, with spinach.

She liked that, but there was very little smiling. I knew something was wrong. She denied it at first. Next time I’ll tell you about that unexpected revelation, and an odd lunch I had with a motorcycle buddy a week later, and what he asked me to do, which is something I had not expected from him, and how it was related to her.

And maybe next time, I’ll talk about the movie I’ve auditioned for and the role I hope to get. In fact, I can even insert a link to one of my auditions for the role.

Excursions and Leftovers

Brunch

First off, before I talk about musical “excursions”, I’ll explain the photo above. When I got home from the Chatter Sunday weekly concert, I was hungry. It was about noon. I was about to make an omelet, but noticed the leftovers. I had some black beans, pinto beans, saffron rice, and a little bit of crabmeat. All that sounded good. I put them all in a bowl to heat up. Meanwhile, I fried an egg, over easy. I slipped the egg over the leftovers and punctured the slightly runny yolk to add some color and flavor. I also tore up a green chili pepper (much hotter than its green pepper cousin). The combo was delicious and certainly satisfied my hunger – hunger, in my case, not starvation, but simply wanting something flavorful. It could be said that I didn’t really NEED to eat. That was something like my friend Maya had said to me recently; she said, about my having spent eight years working for a winery without pay, that I didn’t really NEED the money. While it’s true that I could survive without pay for that work, I was really broke for three years after retirement, having only enough money to pay for rent, food, utilities, and some gasoline. I couldn’t afford long car trips (in fact, when by myself, I rode my motorcycle to and from the winery to save gas, even on the coldest winter days). I couldn’t afford to travel or go out to movies or nice restaurants. No excursions for me.

Maya doesn’t drive, due to a loss of peripheral vision after brain surgery, and subsequent car wrecks, so I drove her back and forth to the winery and winery tasting events, and for a short time also back and forth to her regular job, for which she insisted I take $100 a month. And really, the old car I had then drank gas like a wino drinks cheap wine. It was costing me over twice that monthly to drive that car for her benefit, and I otherwise only used it for grocery shopping. I didn’t mind chauffeuring Maya, she had been my step-daughter for 14 years and all through her cancer operation and subsequent treatments, and then later for eight years as a coworker. But, I was perpetually broke, until years later I began getting the Social Security money I’d accumulated over 45 years.

Maya and I had worked together at a winery in early 2010 until the end of 2017. She was paid to work selling wine on holidays and certain wine tasting events, occasionally having time to help pick fruit, bottle, or label on weekends, but I worked much more often, weeding, ditch cleaning, irrigating and pruning and picking our fruit trees and grapevines, and cleaning the fermentation tanks, pumping and filtering wines, and bottling, labeling, and inventorying and selling wine. It was hard physical labor for the most part. It wasn’t a full-time job, and the hours varied. The problem was that I wasn’t getting paid. I had agreed to work for shares in the winery. It was a small independent winery, and the (private) shares were counted as income by the I.R.S., for which I had to pay taxes. The idea was that when the winery was successful, and money had been made, that there would be a point at which the winery would be sold for a large amount of money, and I would get my wages based on my shares, and the other shareholder investors would get a return on their investment. It didn’t work out that way. The man who had created the winery, our vintner, died in mid-2017 while hiking around the Capulin Volcano Monument in Northern New Mexico.

2015 PARTIAL WINE LIST

We kept it open until the end of the year, only bottling some favorite wines, and selling off some of our stockpiled wines. The decision was made to close the winery after that. No one had the time for or wanted the vintner’s unpaid job. No one wanted to put any more money into the business. There was not enough money to order bottles, so all of the 6000 gallons of the bulk wine in tanks was destroyed, per state law. We had been selling bottled wine at half-price, but after we closed, all partners could take whatever bottled wine they wanted. Since many of them lived in Placitas, and I live 25 miles away, I didn’t get out there before most of the best wines – in short supply – like the Rojo Seco, Blanco Seco, Cranberry, La Luna, Wild Cherry, Chokecherry, and Synaesthesia were gone. I took what was left of a few of those, but mostly the less desirable wines, about six cases. I don’t have a cellar, so some of what didn’t fit in my refrigerator I put in my unused dishwasher – it’s well insulated and seals tightly. The rest went in a storage room (not temperature regulated), so I will likely end up throwing it out. I don’t drink by myself. I sold some cheaply and gave a lot away.

The point of this story is that I was losing money, not just from not getting paid, but having to pay taxes on the shares. It made me angry that Maya – to my mind – dismissed all my hard work and lost money as unimportant since I didn’t NEED the money I had been promised. I still find that hard to forgive. It wasn’t the only thing she said that I found disturbing, and I may have inadvertently insulted her, so I ended up feeling like she didn’t like me, had moved on, and we were no longer friends. That had never happened to us before. I love her very much, but suddenly I didn’t want her photos on my wall, didn’t want to see her posts or photos online or even think about her. I had been divorced twice in my life, including from her mom, and although it was bad, I never felt like I didn’t want to ever see them again. In fact, I missed them a lot, but I’ve gotten over that. I live alone. Despite having many interactions with fellow actors, with hikers, and with neighbors, I felt cut off. Hollow inside. Depressed and ready to leave the state forever.

Although I did end up missing Maya, we finally met for a wine tasting on neutral ground. It was a subdued get-together, and although we touched on a couple of sore points (for me), she didn’t understand why I took things the way I did, and I dropped it. Although I was happy to see her, I ended up rambling and boring her (I’m old). She was anxious to get back to her house. She didn’t want a ride home. In fact, she hadn’t wanted a ride to the wine tasting, hadn’t wanted me to come over for lunch as we had done fairly often last year, and she hadn’t wanted to have my signature black-bean chile con carne, paired with red wine at my house.

So, I haven’t moved away yet. In fact, I went to Sunday Chatter this morning. It was not the concert that had been planned – that was supposed to be Spektral Quartet, a string quartet based in Chicago. It is the ensemble-in-residence at the University of Chicago’s Department of Music. They had to cancel. But pianist Luke Gullickson played some amazing music to make up for it, like a six-part composition called Walk in Beauty by Peter Garland, the Night Psalm by Eva Beglarian, and the wonderful EXCURSIONS op.20 (1945) by Samual Barber. I do hope Spektral Quartet will be able to make some other time. They blend music from different centuries into eclectic concerts described as creative, collaborative, thrill rides, and magical.

There was poetry and spoken word by Nathan Brown, a favorite of mine and the Chatter crowds. He is an award-winning poet, an author, and a songwriter. He has 25 books to his credit.

Nathan Brown

We’re very lucky to have him from time to time. He taught at the University of Oklahoma for twenty years. He taught memoir, poetry, songwriting, and performance workshops from Tuscany and Ireland to the Sisters Folk Festival in Oregon, the Taos Poetry Festival, the Woody Guthrie Festival, Laity Lodge, the Everwood Farmstead Foundation in Wisconsin, as well as the Blue Rock Artist Ranch near Austin, Texas. He seriously made me laugh today numerous times.

And, there were free cookies and banana bread. And I have an acting class tonight.

Transgressive Spoken Words

LOVE POEM

Sometimes love
is unrequited.
Painful.

Sometimes love
just ends.
Painful.

Sometimes you wish
it would end.
Painful.

I want to tell you
about a love that
is always always
there for me.

Bacon.

O, bacon, bāācon,
wrapped around my…………..tongue
how I love you
hot and juicy.

O, bacon, tit–illating bāācon
Let my tongue probe you
taste you, devour you.

O, bacon, flirty bāācon
tempt me
satisfy me
stay with me.

O, bacon, bāācon
in my heart forever.
Oooooh, bacon.

One thing to accomplish

Most of us would like to end our lives without regret. I think one way to do that is, of course, to accomplish something. To that end, I think I’d most want to have passed along some tidbit of knowledge, something that has made someone think. It’s not that I need to be remembered, because, as I’ve looked at that, I realize I’ll be gone, dead, without any way of knowing or caring about that.

Statues mean nothing to the dead. Moving tributes mean nothing to the dead. Our dead ancestors don’t hear us, except in our heads. We carry memories of people: how they lived, what they said to us, what we said to them, how we interacted, and all of who we think they were. We can interact with those memories; they can drive our behavior in the present. We may derive some satisfaction from following in someone’s footsteps, or following their advice, or perhaps doing something for ourselves that would have shocked that person, or disappointed them or even made them angry.

So, in a real sense, they are with us, not as a physical manifestation (a visible spirit), but as a memory, which is after all, the real ghost of that person. We all carry ghosts with us, and, perhaps not just of the dead, but the living we no longer see or interact with.

What I’m attempting to get at here, is that I thought of something, something I’d like to know someone I love would remember, something that changed them, or gave them something to pass on. But, in the time I spent preparing my breakfast until sitting down to write, I’ve forgotten what it was. I can come up with many things, but can’t recall what was on my mind an hour ago. Live a full, active life? Live for today? Love for today? All seem trite, but, then again, it may just be a very small thing, but small things can make a difference.

For instance, a carrot seed. (The Carrot Seed). I read and passed along Dihedral‘s interpretation of that short wonderful story. He noticed that other people interpreted it in wholly different ways than he thought possible. Is it a story about gardening? about carrots? about a young boy? or the pointlessness of planting one seed? It is none of those things. I agree with the author on this one. Read it (linked above) and see if you do too.

So, what is that little carrot seed I could plant in the head of someone I love? I wish I knew. I’d want them to know that love is real, and real love is not about sexual attraction. So many people confuse sex with love. Notwithstanding that one can love the object of one’s sexual couplings, sex is not love, love is not sex. Leaving aside the Freudians, we do not usually desire sex with one’s parents, siblings, coworkers and friends because we love them. We do not (generally) try to have sex with every person we love. Some people feel that we should love someone before we have sex with them, but that presupposes that love is the object of the relationship. Sometimes, and often when we’re young, it is not. Hormones, loneliness, and sexual objectification can overwhelm us and actually blind us to who a person actually is. Sex is great, but it is hardly the be-all, end-all goal of life, although procreation is certainly a driving force.

I once read that love is when you care about someone without ANY anticipation of reciprocation or reward; that is real love. Infatuation? – no, you want that person, or at least sex with that person. Unrequited love (limerence)? – no, same thing, but you hope that person will feel the same way about you, and sometimes you believe it to be true, and you are hoping for your dream of being together to come true. You want your own satisfaction, you need something, and without that, you are miserable.

No, love is given freely, as trite as that idea sounds. I believe, when you love someone, you want what is best for that person, you want them to be happy, to have a full and loving life. You want that person’s success and happiness, even if you can’t be with them. Their successes make you happy, their happiness makes you smile. Their joy alone satisfies you. That is love, even if you never see that person again for the rest of your life or theirs. Many parents feel that way. Yeah, they love us, but they aren’t really expecting anything in return, in general. Some can demand your time or shows of affection. Or use their love for you as a means of control. I don’t think that is really love. Sometimes it is loneliness, and you’re handy.

But, I don’t care. By which I mean, I have discovered that I can love someone with all I’ve got to love them. I desire their happiness, their success, their joy, their zest for life, and their resilience to setbacks and hardship. And while I certainly enjoy seeing them, I can see only a photo of them smiling at an event posted on Facebook, or hugging a friend, or being on vacation somewhere in the world, or sending out a broadside message to all and every, and that gladdens me. I need nothing from them. Even if I knew nothing of their life anymore, even if they wanted nothing more to do with me, unfriended me,  ignored me, disappeared entirely – I would still love them. I know who they are, and why I love them, and well, that is not going to go away.

Friendships can be fleeting. Sexual attraction fades over time if you never see that person again, and know you never will. There’s a plenitude of people to know, and love, or have sex with, or all three. But when you discover that you love someone truly, you realize you will always love that person and that it simply cannot fade. It is not a wish or a hope, or a desire, but a reality. Something you know. You know. I cannot convince people of that, I’m sure, but, if I could convince that special person I know that: that is all they need, to love someone else, unconditionally, I will have done that one thing, passed along that one tidbit, that one carrot seed. That person they love does not need to be me, and I do not need to know it.

It certainly took me long enough in this rant to get around to it, but yeah, I’m pretty sure what went though my mind earlier was this desire to accomplish that: to leave this world having convinced someone that I love: to love, just love, and realize how wonderful that is, alone and of itself. Maybe I’m just full of myself, but I believe it.

Imperfect as I am

I am a very imperfect man, with many flaws. That said, I’m going to tell you some things about the concert I went to this morning. There is a classical concert 50 Sunday mornings of the year here. I do not go every Sunday. For one thing, it costs $15, and since there are espresso baristas who provide great free coffee, tipping is a nice thing to do. There are people who bring fresh home-baked sweets as well, and there is another tip jar there, so it’s easy to spend $17 or more, and I’m not going to do that every Sunday. Besides, sometimes the music is choral, or operatic, and I’m not going to those. I like my classical music, old or modern, to be instrumental only. Perhaps that’s a flaw, but I do not care to change it.

This was Bach, Johann Sebastian Bach, to be exact. Born 1685, died 1750. It was a sold out concert accommodating 150 ticket purchasers, and the volunteers who make it possible. The first part of the program was performed by a fantastic cellist who was solo cellist of the Bergen Philharmonic Orchestra in Norway, among other positions in the U.S. She played Suite No. 4 for solo cello in E-flat major. It is a complicated piece, and a very busy one, with seven parts. I remember thinking how thickly populated with notes it was. The notes seemed mostly brisk and sharp without long duration. Since I am not a musician, I cannot speak technically about the music, but it rocked!

TRANSexCENDENCE

Two Lips

I like kissing. I like the feel of silky skin on my lips, and of moist lips buried in my lips. I like the give and play of the lips, hard and yet soft at the same time. When you’re in lust with someone, kissing is the most delicious and delirious thing you can do. Well, it is, until you factor sex in. Kissing stimulates blood flow throughout one’s body: the skin is sensitive all over, blood  feeds the skin. Blood flows to the genitals as well, and the whole body participates in the arousal of sensual pleasure. Still, for me, even with skin to skin and genital to genital, I still like to continue kissing. Near orgasm, I can lose track of my lips, but as that height is reached, I want to kiss. And oral sex before the genital sex just increases that juxtaposition of mouth and groin, of pleasure above and below. Passion. That’s what it’s all about. Passion can supercede reason, as least temporarily. There is a state of bliss we reach when we have sexual congress. It is exquisite.
Only love, real love, can surpass it, but the two of them together? It is transcendent.

However, not all sex is like that. Even when some relationships start that way, or become that way over time, it can fade, can slow, can cool, until it is a simulation of passion. There is still the quickening of pulse, and usually an orgasm, but sex can become like kissing a distant relative. Dry lips, tightly drawn together. No give. No take.

Sex is like a kiss. If the kissing is perfunctory, passionless, then the sex will be too.

When I was young, all sex was wonderful, exciting, new and intense.

Dreaming of Random Acts of Sex and Situations Intolerable

 Woke up this morning early, dreaming. I had stayed up until 1:00 am, but I was wide awake at 5:30am. I ran a lot last evening, in the rain, with lightning just a few miles away. It was the first time I’d run in the rain. I liked it; I was able to keep my body temp down while running. Cool, in reality.

The doves are cooing and I have my coffee now. I decided to post because my dream fascinated me. In my dream, I had decided to live on the street. I know, I know, one does not just “decide” to do such a thing, but hey, it was a dream. I had some sort of small tent or structure over me, and I was under a large blanket, peering out at life on the street. Part of me wondered what I’d done with all my stuff. That part of my brain decided that I still had a car and had my stuff in that.

As I peered out, I saw a couple I knew. I knew the male better than his partner, but they came over and looked in at me. Suddenly the woman was getting into my tent, box or whatever it was I was in, and she was naked. So was I. She climbed under my blanket and lay on top of me. Her skin was warm and smooth. I was in heaven. Then, of course, this guy also came in. He seemed a bit hesitant at first, but he came in and lay down next to the woman. I had no idea what was going on.

In fact, I quickly realised that the two people didn’t know who I was, that I was out of context, and in the poor light available, they hadn’t recognised me, as I had thought. That raised interesting questions to me. Did they do this sort of thing all the time? Did they seek out homeless men to sleep with? Should I tell them I know them? As I pondered ways to shock them with my knowledge of their identity and introduce myself, I realized I’d forgotten their names, which killed my element of surprise, so I said nothing about myself.

Realizing that they were probably expecting sex, especially since the woman had her hand on my erection, but I wasn’t into either this ménage à trois stuff, or sex with men, I wasn’t sure what to say or do. The male asked me if it was alright. I said I wasn’t into men sexually. He asked me why. I told him that men just didn’t turn me on, and he, of course, wanted to know why I wasn’t curious. I told him, I had been curious, but I had gotten over that. I went into a reverie, and could no longer tell if I was just in my head or speaking out loud.

I remembered my roommate from when I’d first left home. He was into young boys, his words. I accepted that about him, but came to realize he was also interested in me. In fact, he was four years older than me. I’d thought of him as a friend, but he had other ideas. Nothing ever came of that, not for lack of trying on his part, but I’d had to punch him a bit to finally dissuade him.

Shortly after that experience, my best friend had been a lesbian. That doesn’t mean that I learned anything from the experience, but years later, on a trip to Canada, where my old roommate had become an expatriate, I had needed his help getting across the border, after a run in with the border cops, and I was staying in his apartment. He made it clear I couldn’t stay long, as he couldn’t afford to feed me. It was clear that he wanted me to feel grateful for his help, and he told me to go ahead and make myself breakfast while he went off to work. I had very little money at that point, having lost $50, half of all the money I’d had a few days earlier, and I was feeling a bit desperate.

When he came home later, it seemed clear from a number of things he said, that, if I were to be open to sex, he could possibly put me up longer. That was consistent with his previous attempts, and I figured I should consider that. However, the sight of him naked didn’t excite me, in fact, I was totally flaccid, and couldn’t get it up anyway. That seemed to settle the issue for him. Somehow, people always seem to assume one can get into something they have no interest in, if only they try. It often doesn’t work for heterosexual relationships; so there wasn’t any reason to expect it would work for a homosexual relationship either, except that young men seem to always be ready for sex at any time.

I really do think that there has to be some physical attraction, and some hormonal signaling, for this whole sexual attraction thing to work. I don’t think one should ever have sex with someone one is not attracted to. Random sex with strangers is just not a good idea, in my opinion.

So, that is what I told the couple. The woman still wanted to have sex with me, and, as had happened before, the man said he would just watch. I had turned down that offer as a young man, but I was very much interested in this woman, so I was considering it when I woke up.

Ah well, it would have been a much more interesting dream, I think.

Once, while I was young, tanned and muscular, I met a couple who invited me to their home for a party, and since I didn’t have a car, they drove me there. However, there was no party, except for the three of us, and the man had made that offer: I could have sex with his wife, if he could watch. It was the first I’d ever heard of such a thing. I considered it for a nanosecond, but at 25 years of age, I turned them down. I felt vulnerable, and a bit worried about what would happen. Rape came to mind. Being bound and tortured came to mind. But, most of all, I knew damn well I couldn’t have enjoyed myself with the woman with anyone else watching, much less her husband.

Once I told them I wasn’t interested, we had a few drinks, talked some, and slept, since it was very late at night. I slept on the couch and they didn’t bother me. In the morning they drove me back to where I lived. I never heard from them again, but it was fascinating to learn that there where people who did such things.

I don’t know why all this bubbled out of memory last night.

Perhaps I was curious about what my stepdaughter was up to. She had texted me to pick her up from work, but hadn’t said where she was going, Her evening class was over, and I thought she might want to have me take her food shopping, since she doesn’t drive. However, she had wanted me to take her to a certain bar, a favorite of hers, one not far from where I live. I was going to be running with my running group, and would have to turn around as soon as I dropped her off, and go right back to near where I’d picked her up. I remarked on that, since I thought it was kind of funny. She was apologetic, as she thought it would be easy for me, since I’d be so close to my home.

I asked her if she was meeting someone, and she said, “Yes.” I asked her if she was having dinner or just drinks. She said, “Dinner.” And she said, “Bye, See you next time.” I was curious who she was meeting, but she didn’t seem to want to say, or give me any information; I was curious why.

I love that woman a lot. She inspired me to run. She runs a lot, always has, except during her cancer treatment. It took a lot of work on her part to get back into running, but she runs marathons these days. I ran a half-marathon last year for the first time ever, four months after my heart attack, and will run one this year. She will run a full marathon at the same time, probably in little more time as it takes me to do a half.

When I got back from my run last night, I thought about stopping into the bar where she was, but I know she likes her privacy. I remember thinking that I’d have joined her if she’d asked, but three can be a crowd, and anyway, we don’t hang out much anymore.

When I say I love this woman, I mean it. I love her with all my heart, and always want her to have a great life. I’d love her even if I never saw her again, but I hope that doesn’t happen.

Some day, she’ll be married, with a kid perhaps. Maybe we’ll drift further apart. I used to drive her to and from work, but she doesn’t need me for that anymore, just an occasional lift here and there. I’m divorced from her mother these last seven years, and her mother avoids me like I have bubonic plague. No communication or rapprochement with that one. She’d kill me if she believed I had any designs on her daughter. Hell, my stepdaughter would quickly terminate all ties with me too, if she thought I’d ever thought of such things, even in a vague association with a dream.

I don’t know why I even brought it up. It is nice to have someone to love like her, even in a non-sexual, platonic way. In fact, I’d find life a whole lot less tolerable without her. It’s bad enough my cat got eaten by coyotes. “Situations tolerable” the Traveling Wilburys sang, and really, my life could be worse, but it could be better.

Dream a little dream of…, what?

I have the most bizarre dreams sometimes, but I forget them quickly. This one stuck with me. I’ve a friend I see occasionally. We used to travel a bit with a group that visited state monuments, went rafting, saw the sights, etc. She is the daughter of an old lover, from many, many years ago. She is 30 years old. Lately she has returned to school to work on a graduate degree, so she doesn’t get out much. However, she does like to catch movies from time to time, and set up a regular trip to the dollar theater for anyone who wanted to share. I was part of that group, but, eventually, it dwindled down to me and her. She is a lovely woman, bright and funny, and good-looking. I enjoy her company. We don’t date, as she considers me a family friend. Even after her mom had dumped me for another guy, I was still invited to family gatherings, especially after that guy dumped her mom, and she has since remarried and divorced two more times.

Anyhoo. This dream was about Mona  (name altered to protect the innocent). Mona is attractive to me, but off-limits. And, after all, she is quite a bit younger. In this weird dream, Mona decided one day that we could be lovers after all. I was really excited about that, and, oddly, in this dream, we were going to move in together, before we even had sex. We went to a house that belonged to neither of us, perhaps the new one we’d be living in and ended up in bed quickly. Now, that was a scenario I was really happy about. I would love to see her naked. I would love to fuck her, perverted old man that I am. In bed, Mona was next to me, naked. I swung her over on top of me, and in the process spread her legs wide. Instantly, this tremendous fart escaped from her, and I could feel it on my toes! I could even smell it, but it was not so terrible. Mona was really embarrassed, but I told her it was no big deal, and it didn’t matter to me; in fact, I laughed. She laughed with me, but then, of course, I woke up. Damn. I would have enjoyed the sex part. Well, fantasies are fantasies, and sometime they must remain so.  Sigh.

I treasure Mona’s friendship. I do not want to alienate her. However, the last time we saw a movie, the weather was still warm. Mona wore a short-sleeved shirt, and as we got up to leave out seats, our arms brushed together. The sensation was electric! (No, it wasn’t static electricity). The sensation was one of extreme pleasure. I know from that what the effect of climbing into bed with her would be. Be all that as it may be, however, Mona is a masseuse. We had arranged a massage session for after the movie. Mona has a massage table, and oils, and incense at her house. The massage took an hour. Mona took the pain out of my neck, and rubbed all of my body from my neck to my toes, except for my penis, of course. She’s not that kind of masseuse! It was a wonderful massage. There was no sexual element to it at all. I was extremely relaxed, and did not experience an erection, which I was afraid I would, given how sexy Mona is. It was the best massage I’d ever had, without any element of sex involved, although I was indeed naked. Mona rubbed my arms and legs and kneaded my back. She worked my neck good. It was heaven.

I’m not sure I should relate this dream to Mona, but I’d sure like to share it with her. She has a good sense of humor, but I’d hate to have her think I’m dreaming about sex with her. That might make future movies or massages difficult. I always seem to find ways to alienate women.

 

Dreaming of a Woman Again

Haven’t had many dreams that I remember in some time. Maybe it’s because I sleep poorly. At any rate, my ex-wife was in my dream this morning. I hadn’t seen her in four years until just recently, when I spotted her dancing at a Salsa event one night. That was something we always did, mostly every week for fourteen years, so it upset me to see her dancing, knowing we could never dance again. She was on my mind for weeks after that, almost all the time. Spending time recently with my siblings and cousins, and laughing with them, broke the spell, and I hadn’t thought about her as much.

Suddenly, I’m dreaming about her this morning. In my dream, I run into her at a party at a friend’s house in the mountains. She asks me to go home with her, so we are driving up this steep mountain road to her place, somewhere deeper up in the mountains. She was always a drinker, so she has concocted a way to drink while driving. She is wearing one of those camelback water bags that hikers use, except that it is filled with wine. She attempts to take a drink from the tube but is having a hard time getting it to stay in her mouth. She is driving, and I realize she is drunk when she swerves across the road into the opposite lane of traffic. It is very late at night, so there is no other traffic, but there is some light snow on the highway, left over from an earlier storm. I am not concerned, as she has slowed way down, aware she is in the other lane. When she gets the wine tube in her mouth and takes a long swallow, she attempts to move back into the right lane when we see headlights behind us. So, she stops the car, on the left side of the road on the shoulder.  When the car passes, I look at her, realizing that she never used to drive when drunk. It was always my job to drive her home. I am wondering why I am not driving. I am wondering why I am with her at all, except I know I am still sexually attracted to her. Jokingly, I tell her that drinking WHILE driving will make them throw the book at her. She tells me to get out. It is cold, the wind is blowing powdery snow around the highway. I can’t believe she is serious. I tell her I was only joking. I want, after all, to go home with her.

All this thinking wakes me up: wrong part of the brain for dreaming, I guess.

I am left wondering why I would have a dream like that! Of course, the car ride could have been a metaphor for our marriage, but I don’t know why I would invent such an elaborate story. Perhaps I am correct, and it was a metaphor.

In a car = in the marriage

Worried about car ride = worried about marriage

Not in control of the car = not in control of marriage

Unwilling to get out of car = unwilling to get out of marriage

Warning her in car = telling her I was unhappy, wanted counseling

Cold, snow, mountain = there be monsters outside marriage

Pissed her off; she says get out = pissed her off; she said I had to go

I guess I never resolved that whole thing. I need to let go; thought I had.

pɐoɹ ǝɥʇ ƃuıssoɹɔ ʇsoɥƃ ǝןɐd

˙ǝɯ punoɹɐ sɯɹɐ ǝsoɥʇ ɟo ssǝuʇɟos ƃuoɹʇs ǝɥʇ sı sɹǝʇʇɐɯ ʇɐɥʇ llɐ ˙uǝʇʇoƃɹoɟ sı ǝɔuǝıɹǝdxǝ ɥʇɐǝp-ɹɐǝu ɹno ˙ɯlɐɔ ɯɐ ı ˙sǝɥɔuı ʎq ǝʇoʎoɔ ǝɥʇ ssıɯ ǝʍ ˙ǝɯ sǝʌɐs ʇɐɥʇ ǝɔuǝsǝɹd ɹǝɥ sı ʇı ˙ǝɯ sɹoɥɔuɐ ǝɥs ˙ʎʇıɹnɔǝs ˙ʇlǝq ʇɐǝs ɐ ǝʞıl ʇsǝɥɔ ʎɯ punoɹɐ sɯɹɐ ‘ǝɯ puıɥǝq ɐʎɐɯ ˙ɹǝʇsɐsıp ɹɐǝu ˙ɥdɯ ǝʌıɟ-ʎʇɟıɟ ʇɐ ǝlɔʎɔɹoʇoɯ ˙puɐs ɟo ɹoloɔ ǝɥʇ ‘ǝʇoʎoɔ ɐ ˙pɐǝɥɐ pɐoɹ ǝɥʇ ƃuıssoɹɔ ʇsoɥƃ ǝlɐd

THE JOY OF BRAIN TUMORS

I didn’t know I could find joy in
a brain tumor
I never really felt love before
the brain tumor
I never felt such fear
a brain tumor!?

We joke about it
It’s not like you have a brain tumor
We compare headaches to
brain tumors.

It’s my step-daughter that had
the brain tumor
I never knew such fear
– the all-day brain surgery
– the chemotherapy
– the radiation.

I never knew I felt such love
this young woman I’d known
thirteen years from girl to woman
I never knew such joy
– after the operation she survived
– still needed chemo she survived
– still needed radiation
gamma knife
– a high-tech magic bullet.

Damn brain tumor
fuckin’ damn brain tumor
dead brain tumor.

She survived
She’s alive
She’s healthy
She’s whole.

My chest loosened
I can breathe
My heart
is beating.

I never knew such joy before
the brain tumor.

QUE PASO?

When I was a very young man
I asked my father to please tell me
Will I get lucky Will I get laid
Here’s what he said to me

Que sera, sera
Whatever will be, will be
The future’s not ours to see
Que sera, sera
What will be, will be

When I grew up and fell in love
I asked each lover what lies ahead
Will there be love and sex every day
Here’s what my lovers said

Que sera, sera
What will be will be
The future’s not ours to see
Que sera, sera
What will be, will be

When I was just an old man
I asked my shrink what should I try
Could I fall in love again or fucking give up
This was his wise reply

Que sera, sera
Whatever will be, will be
The future’s not ours to see
Que sera, sera
What will be, will be

What will be, will be
Que sera, sera.

SMOKE, LIGHT, AND SCENTED LOVE

I’d like to be
a scented candle
in your room
burning for you
glowing
scenting

I’d like to please you
make you feel good
fill your senses
relax you

I see my scent
clinging to you
swirling
falling
rising
caressing you

I see my scent
clinging
to your hair
to your skin
long after
you blow me out

you set me aflame
you made me glow
incandescent
iridescent
you put me out
quenched my flame
I smolder
a smoky ember
yearning to
make you happy
light your face
make you smile

Your lips are a torch
when they smile
Should you smile
if only you would
I think it could
fan my ember
into a wildfire

light me up
so that
I may swirl around you
touching you
pleasing you

O to burn so brightly
even for a moment

ecstasy

though I be totally
consumed.

I REMEMBER TASTING ORANGE

I remember tasting
orange liquor
in your navel
drank it
ran my tongue
down
between your legs
thrusting it

into your sex
your red almond
of sweet
honey joy.

IF LOVE EXPECTS FOREVER

There’s more to love than romance and lust
more to love than sharing and caring
or kissing so looong you forget to breathe.
There’s more to love than even that.

I lost a love
a special love     comforting,        relaxed
sensual              full of future,
an obliteration of all failures.

I hurt.

How to describe the pain?

I hurt:

everywhere          all at once
skin    muscle     bone
every cell in my body

hurt.

I’d lost more than a lover
more than the comfort of her flesh
more than her presence in my life     her beauty     her wit
I’d lost more than a mate to share sorrow and joy.

I’d lost more than the children we might have had
the feel of her swollen belly
the cry of our infant
the joy of teaching, nursing, nurturing
our children          our children         our children.

I cried at first
pounding my hands on a floor wet with tears
I played with her gun    —    carelessly left behind.

No. Not that.
Shot a bullet into the desert.

The knowledge of death sweetens life
sharpens experience
reminds me to live.

I imagined her return

believing

really believing

our love would bring her back.

“I couldn’t hurt him,” she told me
She had to do what was best        for her.

So she went to him

she didn’t talk                     about us
she didn’t want to care.

I couldn’t live                I couldn’t die

I was dead.

Radio, sweet music, had lost its power
The birds just screeched         flowers only smelled
I couldn’t eat        I couldn’t drink        I couldn’t feel
No food    no water   no love
Too late     too late     too late.

“Our love is over,” my love told me.
“Men always want to hang on.
When it’s over — it’s over.”                    It’s over.
“We’ll still be friends. Really.”               Really?

Once we shared ideas
Now she’s too busy      his politics are her politics
my ideas are wrong       my friends are mistaken.

Love is more than                                 that
more than expectations
more than pain                            pain goes away.
Love is learning how to survive
day-to-day
and love again
no expectations                             now.

Losing love showed me a soul

I never knew I had.

© O’Maolchathaigh