Inky sky in the frigid morning gives way to slate grey and snow. Soon it will be spring, but not yet. Today, still, the wind blasts me in the face like a power drill forcing its way into every pore. Someone leaves their takeout on a post box and it has frozen faster than a hungry mouth could find it. The barker selling papers on the corner makes a "wooooooo wooooo" song that he does when the wind whips up real cold. Sometimes, on particularly warm mornings, he's out there singing a tune at 7 am, but he pipes down when someone gets close. I've started saying "good morning" when I go by, even though he seems to ignore me.
I walk into the gym, the same song comes through the speakers as was playing when I walked out yesterday morning. In the locker room I run into the "running granny" as I call her. She's in her 60's, runs marathons, skinny as a bird. Today I'm a bit earlier and she's just stepped out of the shower. Perhaps I've surprised her but we look at each other for a long second. Hair wrapped in a towel, the bones of her face seem to jut out further and I see how dark and sunken are her eyes. Is that where I'm heading by going on 5 hrs of sleep a night?
That same PM at work has been offering me beers for over a year now. Finally just tell him "allergic...sorry". Maybe the allergy theory of alcoholism is bunk, but I happen to like it and have repurposed it handily to circumnavigate events I don't wish to attend. Company lunch at a Chinese restaurant. I could do that, consume almost 1000 empty calories and spend 2 hours in awkward conversation not working - or I could just beg out thanks to an MSG allergy. Pizza? Gluten intolerant!My rarified system can only tolerate the finest sashimi and European chocolate!
Now if only I could beg off being allergic to silliness and stupidity. It still chaps my hide, that person who seemed so shocked at my suggesting they take the CTA."I'm from Texas! We don't have trains there!" Yet you've lived in a city WITH trains for long enough to get a medical degree. I moved from a tiny town of 900 to New York City in 1988 and after 5 minutes with a map - I spoke 'public transit'. Ok ok, drop it.
It's light out at 6, but sooner or later the sun must slide under the bend in the Earth. Night like a stain that won't go away. Dark that one has to wipe out of your eyes upon finally arriving home.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Thursday, March 5, 2009
1300: Over the moon
Another abnormally warm late winter day. Waxing gibbous overhead reaches its zenith in the early evening sky as I turn onto the lakeside path for a run. Remnants of melted snows catch her like many tiny mirrors and I step over the moon.
The lights on top of the Hancock have gone back to white with the passing of Valentine's day. It's like a big fake moon hanging over the city. And at 11pm, the moon shuts off. In the darkness I hear the purring next to me. Man - cat sleeps happy.
At Foster beach I take the unpaved, unlit path next to the water. In the eastern sky approaching stars move and weave as they come in for a landing at O'Hare. Our conversation keeps running through my head. His constant worry is his green card. While we watch the telly a birth control commercial comes on and I hear myself making the comment about how I hate the pill - how it felt like having the steering wheel to one's brain stolen by an angry monkey.
Then, he says it. "If you got pregnant I could get my green card."
"Neither of us needs that mess."
"But I could get my green card!"
"You run that idea past your momma, see what she says." Me, I know what mine would say. I know what she'd do and how she'd feel. It's the wrong reason. Of all the ways to fall of the horse of independence that would be the worst. What if he tricks me and sabotages the birth control?
The melt off has left puddles in the pathway which do not refreeze now that night has come. I'm hitting the wall a little early and my legs feel weak and light. Still, I step over the moon.
It's tempting, though, if for no other reason than it's nice to have the brief illusion of being wanted. In the early morning, before the sun has arisen, his form covered with soft skin finds me. His arms feel good. His back feels good. His head rubbing against my neck feels good. His cock feels good. Afterwards we both lay silent, playing possum, when I hear the whisper.
"You awake?"
"yes"
"Tell me, what makes me such an irrisistable lover?"
"Hm. Let me think about it."
"Ok, talk to you later."
"Ok, I'm just going to go to sleep and take over the whole bed now. That's my German half that does that!"
I roll over to fall asleep. The smell of his sweat is on my skin. I love it and feel sorry to have to wash it off in the morning. I don't know what it is that makes him irresistable. He's like catnip.
The wind along the lake is terrific. It pushes me backwards and threatens to tear the hat off my head. I turn back and finally hit a groove. In the dark the puddles collect her silvery light. I know she's high over my head, and leaping over water, I step over the moon.
Can I trust his being kind? Now that the idea is out there, that the green eyed lady could double as a green card lady, how do I know that the friendliness is genuine? He wants something. But then, we all want something and pose hard to the side that will get us what we want. He won't be content to be my hostage for long. In the morning I come to the end of the cereal. Do I buy more cereal or stop coming over?
By the elevator I grab his chin to kiss him goodbye. "oh, your question..." He seems a bit baffled that I would answer it there! "I need to do some more experimenting!"
The walkway to my front door is terrific for collecting water and so her reflection lights my path like a celestial guide. Coming home to independence, to strength, to me, I step over the moon.
The lights on top of the Hancock have gone back to white with the passing of Valentine's day. It's like a big fake moon hanging over the city. And at 11pm, the moon shuts off. In the darkness I hear the purring next to me. Man - cat sleeps happy.
At Foster beach I take the unpaved, unlit path next to the water. In the eastern sky approaching stars move and weave as they come in for a landing at O'Hare. Our conversation keeps running through my head. His constant worry is his green card. While we watch the telly a birth control commercial comes on and I hear myself making the comment about how I hate the pill - how it felt like having the steering wheel to one's brain stolen by an angry monkey.
Then, he says it. "If you got pregnant I could get my green card."
"Neither of us needs that mess."
"But I could get my green card!"
"You run that idea past your momma, see what she says." Me, I know what mine would say. I know what she'd do and how she'd feel. It's the wrong reason. Of all the ways to fall of the horse of independence that would be the worst. What if he tricks me and sabotages the birth control?
The melt off has left puddles in the pathway which do not refreeze now that night has come. I'm hitting the wall a little early and my legs feel weak and light. Still, I step over the moon.
It's tempting, though, if for no other reason than it's nice to have the brief illusion of being wanted. In the early morning, before the sun has arisen, his form covered with soft skin finds me. His arms feel good. His back feels good. His head rubbing against my neck feels good. His cock feels good. Afterwards we both lay silent, playing possum, when I hear the whisper.
"You awake?"
"yes"
"Tell me, what makes me such an irrisistable lover?"
"Hm. Let me think about it."
"Ok, talk to you later."
"Ok, I'm just going to go to sleep and take over the whole bed now. That's my German half that does that!"
I roll over to fall asleep. The smell of his sweat is on my skin. I love it and feel sorry to have to wash it off in the morning. I don't know what it is that makes him irresistable. He's like catnip.
The wind along the lake is terrific. It pushes me backwards and threatens to tear the hat off my head. I turn back and finally hit a groove. In the dark the puddles collect her silvery light. I know she's high over my head, and leaping over water, I step over the moon.
Can I trust his being kind? Now that the idea is out there, that the green eyed lady could double as a green card lady, how do I know that the friendliness is genuine? He wants something. But then, we all want something and pose hard to the side that will get us what we want. He won't be content to be my hostage for long. In the morning I come to the end of the cereal. Do I buy more cereal or stop coming over?
By the elevator I grab his chin to kiss him goodbye. "oh, your question..." He seems a bit baffled that I would answer it there! "I need to do some more experimenting!"
The walkway to my front door is terrific for collecting water and so her reflection lights my path like a celestial guide. Coming home to independence, to strength, to me, I step over the moon.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
When the cereal runs out
I wonder who will tire of this first? I don't wish for the affair to end - but I don't care to be the curb kick-ee either. Sometimes I wish I could fold him up and put him in my pocket. Sometimes I'd like to just knock his block off. No matter what we try to go out and do he sits there looking bored. I'm far too nice. I've done "relationships" enough to know what I don't like so much. And this? Could be courting disaster once again or - not. Freewheeling. Just deciding to feel differently about some similar circumstances is all.
Who will phone whom first? Was two nights in a row too much? Too close? We run back to our solitary routines in a hurry lest any closeness creep in. Back in loneliness I buttress feelings and remind myself to not drink of the tempting offer to hope for more. There is no more. There never really has been, ever, in any one's arms, just a cosmic tease of a dream that is in fact, a mirage. I stop and ask, where is it? Where is this love I hear so much about? I don't see it. It cannot survive a face without makeup, morning breath, funny digestive noises, sour pusses, sms messages that go misinterpreted. Thank you for not being too nice. Now I don't have to worry about being in love with you. I don't have to worry about making something last or making sure you love me. I can put on those 4" heels that make me just a bit taller than you - and walk. Whenever I feel like it. Maybe tomorrow.
Does he make sure there is milk for my cereal because he cares or because he's unable to prevent himself from planning everything? Does he fix me breakfast out of courtesy, caring, or because he just doesn't want me dickering around in the kitchen, spilling the chocolate milk and making him late? Why did he make sure to stash some of this tea he knows that I like - yet point out its procurement with such show? When my gluten-free cereal runs out - will the affair be over?
Who will phone whom first? Was two nights in a row too much? Too close? We run back to our solitary routines in a hurry lest any closeness creep in. Back in loneliness I buttress feelings and remind myself to not drink of the tempting offer to hope for more. There is no more. There never really has been, ever, in any one's arms, just a cosmic tease of a dream that is in fact, a mirage. I stop and ask, where is it? Where is this love I hear so much about? I don't see it. It cannot survive a face without makeup, morning breath, funny digestive noises, sour pusses, sms messages that go misinterpreted. Thank you for not being too nice. Now I don't have to worry about being in love with you. I don't have to worry about making something last or making sure you love me. I can put on those 4" heels that make me just a bit taller than you - and walk. Whenever I feel like it. Maybe tomorrow.
Does he make sure there is milk for my cereal because he cares or because he's unable to prevent himself from planning everything? Does he fix me breakfast out of courtesy, caring, or because he just doesn't want me dickering around in the kitchen, spilling the chocolate milk and making him late? Why did he make sure to stash some of this tea he knows that I like - yet point out its procurement with such show? When my gluten-free cereal runs out - will the affair be over?
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Blue run
I had forgotten how it feels, those first few runs in the spring when the air is still cold but the ground is just melty enough. The encroaching evening is kind and doesn't threaten to freeze the slush beneath me into anything frightening. I ease in for a fast run. It's hard to believe this is a workout - it feels too easy.
From the east, through the thickening aqua air, a moving constellation approaches. First Big Dipper, now Orion's belt, the stars fasten their seat belts, put up tray tables and prepare for a landing. Hello Boston, hello New York, hello London, welcome home.
Lighter than air I chase ovals of amber light down the lakeshore, finally turning. Turning from pavement to the slushy path, abandoning the lights, i trot off into the blue cloud of encroaching night and take the way of trust.
From the east, through the thickening aqua air, a moving constellation approaches. First Big Dipper, now Orion's belt, the stars fasten their seat belts, put up tray tables and prepare for a landing. Hello Boston, hello New York, hello London, welcome home.
Lighter than air I chase ovals of amber light down the lakeshore, finally turning. Turning from pavement to the slushy path, abandoning the lights, i trot off into the blue cloud of encroaching night and take the way of trust.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Wise monkey, foolish heart
If we are the "wise" monkeys, why do we keep making such dumb decisions?
I left him cool his heels for a week. Didn't tell him about Aunt Flo, just left him wonder why I wasn't picking up on any of those subtly placed "So...!" trailers he dropped in conversation. I don't have to really know where anything is going or for how long; I've yet to see any amount of hope or determination pay off in a relationship. When push came to shove and the truth got dragged out from behind the curtain of sweet gestures - they were all just friends with benefits. We've only got but just one day. I don't even want to know about tomorrow.
So on this day, after 7 nights of waking up in that big apartment alone and finding the expanse of a king sized bed to be too much for one person, he lights up my phone like a Christmas tree. Voicemail, SMS, begging, "I need your company". Of course you do. It sucks to be alone, to waste this flesh on empty sheets, to know that no one listens and wonders if you twitch from a nightmare or wake up in the middle of the night thirsty. I know. I take some persuading. I have to wash my hair, after all. But... ok. I'm far too nice to you, but OK.
I can make the requisite turn through my home in under an hour and a half. Make a 250 calorie smoothie for dinner, take a shower, blowout hair, change the clothes, pack the bag, grab the mail.
Hey! puffy envelope!!! It could be the proof for my novel come from the publisher! How exciting! I flip the package over and...shit. It is the return of a borrowed novel from the former hostage of my affections. I had completely forgotten about that whole deal as for over a month he'd been only an electronic presence. SMS messages telling me I meant nothing. Indicators on a singles site telling me that he never stopped looking over his shoulder for something better. Emails holding to the politest line of information exchange. This envelope is, at last, the caboose. But it's still funny to see his scratches on the envelope. I'm grateful that there is no awkward attempt at personal communication inside, but I do find a discarded bookmark in the pages. It's a ticket stub to a broadway show dated Jan 21. So that's what you were up to when not returning my calls. For a second a vision of a gesture, the way he looked standing in my vestibule, a scent, wafts through my mind. I let it pass through like a breeze. Not catching it to squeeze forth any meaning, I just let it go, let it pass into the thick forest of memory. Let it mean nothing.
On the bus I send an sms indicating my arrival time. The trail of messages, collected here over weeks, is like a sieve run through our relationship and coming up with the grosser chunks of truth. Here is encouragement, here is longing, here is capitulation. Here I go again - making the same situation that somewhat resembles a potential mess despite what experience has taught me. Smart. I'm on this bus because my apartment is big and lonely, too. I'm on this bus because a destructive spring full of fairy tales about love still bubbles and seeps under my rocky exterior. I'm on this bus because I want something and haven't quite put my finger on just the way to not need it anymore. I'm on this bus because something in my nature always says "full steam ahead" forgetting it's the engine, not the caboose, that kills you when it strikes. I'm on this bus because, today, it just doesn't feel like the most loving thing to stay alone.
I left him cool his heels for a week. Didn't tell him about Aunt Flo, just left him wonder why I wasn't picking up on any of those subtly placed "So...!" trailers he dropped in conversation. I don't have to really know where anything is going or for how long; I've yet to see any amount of hope or determination pay off in a relationship. When push came to shove and the truth got dragged out from behind the curtain of sweet gestures - they were all just friends with benefits. We've only got but just one day. I don't even want to know about tomorrow.
So on this day, after 7 nights of waking up in that big apartment alone and finding the expanse of a king sized bed to be too much for one person, he lights up my phone like a Christmas tree. Voicemail, SMS, begging, "I need your company". Of course you do. It sucks to be alone, to waste this flesh on empty sheets, to know that no one listens and wonders if you twitch from a nightmare or wake up in the middle of the night thirsty. I know. I take some persuading. I have to wash my hair, after all. But... ok. I'm far too nice to you, but OK.
I can make the requisite turn through my home in under an hour and a half. Make a 250 calorie smoothie for dinner, take a shower, blowout hair, change the clothes, pack the bag, grab the mail.
Hey! puffy envelope!!! It could be the proof for my novel come from the publisher! How exciting! I flip the package over and...shit. It is the return of a borrowed novel from the former hostage of my affections. I had completely forgotten about that whole deal as for over a month he'd been only an electronic presence. SMS messages telling me I meant nothing. Indicators on a singles site telling me that he never stopped looking over his shoulder for something better. Emails holding to the politest line of information exchange. This envelope is, at last, the caboose. But it's still funny to see his scratches on the envelope. I'm grateful that there is no awkward attempt at personal communication inside, but I do find a discarded bookmark in the pages. It's a ticket stub to a broadway show dated Jan 21. So that's what you were up to when not returning my calls. For a second a vision of a gesture, the way he looked standing in my vestibule, a scent, wafts through my mind. I let it pass through like a breeze. Not catching it to squeeze forth any meaning, I just let it go, let it pass into the thick forest of memory. Let it mean nothing.
On the bus I send an sms indicating my arrival time. The trail of messages, collected here over weeks, is like a sieve run through our relationship and coming up with the grosser chunks of truth. Here is encouragement, here is longing, here is capitulation. Here I go again - making the same situation that somewhat resembles a potential mess despite what experience has taught me. Smart. I'm on this bus because my apartment is big and lonely, too. I'm on this bus because a destructive spring full of fairy tales about love still bubbles and seeps under my rocky exterior. I'm on this bus because I want something and haven't quite put my finger on just the way to not need it anymore. I'm on this bus because something in my nature always says "full steam ahead" forgetting it's the engine, not the caboose, that kills you when it strikes. I'm on this bus because, today, it just doesn't feel like the most loving thing to stay alone.
Friday, February 20, 2009
tasca
Let me stick you in my pocket. You'd be warm and cozy and well contained in there. I would feel you curled up at my hip and pat you softly with silent contentment, knowing that you are safe.
Your dimples and soft skin need meet no more harsh gusts of reality. They need face the possibility of judgment and rejection no more. The guarantee of regular visits from adoring fingers seeking your warmth would be the only surprise. But these would come often to curl up in your flesh. I know you're not a cat, and that a life of safe contentment isn't the vision you hold for yourself. But then why do you purr in your sleep?
No, this isn't a proposal of love; we're both too selfish for that. But no one wants to go through life with empty pockets and find their heart shivering out in the cold.
Your dimples and soft skin need meet no more harsh gusts of reality. They need face the possibility of judgment and rejection no more. The guarantee of regular visits from adoring fingers seeking your warmth would be the only surprise. But these would come often to curl up in your flesh. I know you're not a cat, and that a life of safe contentment isn't the vision you hold for yourself. But then why do you purr in your sleep?
No, this isn't a proposal of love; we're both too selfish for that. But no one wants to go through life with empty pockets and find their heart shivering out in the cold.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
child of god
Empty 2 quart bottle next to him on the floor. Stink and cloudy gaze cast hazily about the fellow passengers. On a crowded train where people are standing, the seat next to him is empty. His pants aren't all the way up because there's no belt. It could be some fashion statement, or he could really be 'jailin' as the smell of him denotes a stint in the clink during recent hours.. But as he sits it's obvious the waistband stops well short of the tighty whities. It's this, more than the smell and curious, hazy begging in his eyes that keeps that seat empty. One might sit down and find yourself in contact with that naked bit of upper thigh.
The fragrance of hard liquor on breath is broken up by the aroma of tomato sauce and oregano coming from the take home pizza a woman boards, clutching in her hands. He points a dirty finger toward the box, asking if he can have her leftovers. By the looks of her, she's chubby enough to not warrant needing anything in that box, but she refuses. Turns to keep the box away from him.
It takes him minutes to stand up and get ready for the next stop. I keep hoping that those pants timidly holding to his thighs won't fall. He picks up his empty bottle and tries stuffing it under the mass of his many layers of shirts, dropping it once. When the doors open he lurches out and we all hear the smash of that bottle onto the platform. Passengers react, shake their heads. He staggers off down the platform, child of god.
The fragrance of hard liquor on breath is broken up by the aroma of tomato sauce and oregano coming from the take home pizza a woman boards, clutching in her hands. He points a dirty finger toward the box, asking if he can have her leftovers. By the looks of her, she's chubby enough to not warrant needing anything in that box, but she refuses. Turns to keep the box away from him.
It takes him minutes to stand up and get ready for the next stop. I keep hoping that those pants timidly holding to his thighs won't fall. He picks up his empty bottle and tries stuffing it under the mass of his many layers of shirts, dropping it once. When the doors open he lurches out and we all hear the smash of that bottle onto the platform. Passengers react, shake their heads. He staggers off down the platform, child of god.
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