Lonely Man's Spot?

Standing in the kitchen waiting for my tea to steep Saturday morning a phrase entered my head, "careless in the face of opportunity." That phrase prompted the origin of the following poem reflecting the state of two people: one holding onto a dream that's never been shared with the other, and this same "other" who hasn't ever recognized (or acknowledged) the dream.

Image by ecstaticist via FlickrSoul gets high
Promise in verbs.
World between
She said, he heard.

Never to be
Bored when free.
Right of way
In the lee.

Many routes
Selection none.
Somewhere lives
The right one.

Fire's slight.
Liquid's might.
Head full of...
Needs this night.

Silent moods
Never to see
Ticking unto
Time of we.

Abandoned clench
This one dream
Lonely man's spot
Naked moonbeam.

Glimpse of a Cat

A glimpse, maybe a clue, but last night I experienced another piece of the puzzle, for sure. It's a game. At least, I've decided to start calling it a game, which should make it more fun to play than a mission in life. A fucking mission exudes the word "pain" in its ultimate reward. Believe me, I get that already; I don’t need a reminder every single time I hear it.

Snap.

Simply put, I saw her.

Now, I suppose that I could argue that I saw a vision of her, for I haven't yet answered the question about whether Promise is one singular person or many. I believe in the many over the one. However, finding the piece of hay that fits so comfortably out the side of my mouth in this stack of painful needles might aptly describe the search process, so far.

The soul medicine that I'd so desperately needed came in the form of the night, oddly enough. Which reminds me; never confuse The Black and the night. Never. Under the stars and the limp threat of storms, far from those polluted by their own urbane nature, where the man in the moon provides the only true light--a telling light, but not a truthful flood, for many things hide in its glow--I found my rest among things that sleep, and things that don't, under no cover but that which the earth or from simple construction of its assets does provide.

On most nights I only hear the beating of my own heart—that constantly beats too fast, even more so with the punishment that I've been putting upon it. Kick ‘em when they’re down. How quickly can I plug my arteries with poison to get the fucking lub-dub out of my head? On most nights, not quick enough, so I've prayed for the nectar squeezed from grapes, permitted in our most hallowed cathedrals, to lead me on hands and knees into oblivion. Together we crawl into the mysteries of the dream-hungry mind. Yes, on most nights, we do.

As I lie there last night, I could feel It coming. It walked in eternal shadow; no light from the moon revealed its face. It made no shortest-distance-between-two-souls-is-a-straight-line path toward me. It meandered, whether toying with little lives, suffocation by approximation, or simply testing my own constitution, it approached slowly... and, like I said, I felt it. I don't know if it walked, floated, or danced; I just know it was there. It was there in the real world.

I deliberately metered my breath to calm my heart. Deeper. Slower. Calmer. By not dwelling on its presence, I could force myself to transition into my dreams where I was more familiar with the tools that I had at my disposal to fight or parry. Yet, it still moved, determined and closer. The lone sheet became my shield; its warmth forced my body to sweat, but I pulled it up until it covered all but my nose. Any higher and I'd feel my own suffocation begin. The only thing I need to sleep is fresh air. No human body, no pillow, no blanket, no forceful hand can cover my means of breath and still expect me to sleep. This long hair on my head would serve as a dark helmet, perfectly camouflaging my only exposed body part.

It still came... until the sweet state of intoxication whisked me away.

--

"You don't have any idea what she's doing to you, do you?" she asked.

I didn't recognize her and I had no idea who she was speaking about. But, I was lucid and active in this dream rather than a passive observer.

"Soup?" She waved her hand front of my face before repeating her question.

I focused my eyes on her trying to place the face.

"Been somewhere?" she asked.

"Something like that," I replied.

"I know your mind travels. I know it brings back all these wonderful stories," she said while pointing to the bookshelves and piles of paper that hadn't yet made been bound. "But, I need you here. Now. I need you to listen to me in this life."

This life? Which fucking life is this? "I'm here, Cat. I'm here." CAT! With a "C" and not a "K," which must mean that it's Catherine, not Kathy, not Katie, but could be Cathy. It wasn't lost on me how strange it felt to discover something that it seemed I already knew. I study the shape of her face to give me a small chance of remembering it in what would surely be some split-second, chance meeting at some point later in life.

"Well then, if you're here, do you mind talking with me instead of over-heating that brain of yours with the possibilities?" she asked as she turned her seated body slightly toward me.

"Okay," I replied.

We sat in a dimly lit room—a bedroom—that felt like my bedroom, but not one that I was currently familiar with. The light came from over my shoulder to light up her face. Don't forget her face. After all of these experiences with Promise, none where I've ever been able to see her face, it surprised me to have hers facing me. Pudgy cheeks and soft lines gave her that naturally cute look. Her hair, which looked like it was between where it used to be and where she wanted it to go, tickled her shoulders where several pieces had escaped the knot that held its relatives captive. It was too dark to see the color of her eyes, but her hair grew a reddish-brown and I wasn't able to determine whether it was red by nature or by choice. Nor did I care.

Can she see my face? With the light behind me, can she see my face? This strange thought surprised me.

"HEY! DID I LOSE YOU AGAIN?" This time she snapped her fingers when she said it.

I mumbled, "I can't place myself."

"What?"

"Nothing." And suddenly found the place in short-term memory that replayed that question she'd asked a few moments prior. "I know what she's doing, I just don't want to believe it."

"Why do you try so hard?"

"I want to believe. I want to believe in the good-natured heart, the wise soul and the comfort of trusted commitment."

"You sometimes want to believe it so much that you create a fantasy amidst reality."

"At least I know it."

"Knowing it and doing something about it are two totally different things," she said flatly. "Well, all of that's going to change tonight."

Somehow, I just knew that things were about to me exposed in such a way that I could no longer deny their existence or believe the lies that gave me the opportunity to suspend disbelief. I knew all of this and it didn't bother me. In fact, it felt a welcome coming. I didn't know what Cat expected of me, perhaps not such a state of calm, but that's what studying her face gave to me. How long had I known her? Forever. Duh. She didn't back down from my gaze, simply held her strength in the light, making her even more beautiful.

When I brought my lips to hers, she didn't move, didn't act as if it was something that she'd always wished for, but had too much respect for what's right to pursue. She didn't wrap her arms or legs around me, and didn't turn her body into mine, not even a slight opening of the shoulders to my kiss. She did, however, purse her lips milliseconds after mine touched them, and that was all the reaction I needed to linger, lips brushing across each others' like fingers tracing the names etched into monuments--as if you could reach out and touch history; feel the sense of struggle, but ultimate accomplishment of the men and women in our past.

She pulled away from me and quickly jumped out of bed. Before she spoke, I realized what she'd already heard; quick, bare footsteps on the floor above.

"What do we do?" she whispered. I looked at her blankly and she returned a shrug of her shoulders that reiterated her question.

I shrugged my shoulders in return before saying, “You just told me that everything will change tonight, is this"--I gestured around the room drawing a circle that encompassed us--"not what you meant?" I knew it wasn't what she meant, but didn't miss the opportunity to employ my wit.

"NOOOO!" she whispered with as much authority as she could and still have it labeled a whisper, then checked her clothes as if she’d just put them back on.

I reached for her, hoping that my touch on her elbow would bring calm, but as I reached...

--

I woke to a night where even those awake at night had fallen silent. I often forget that there comes a time in the night when the night itself is completely still. I felt calm, resting with everyone and everything, which was very different for me--in the majority, a group that I'd not felt a member of in a very long time.

The pillow, as is often the case during a deep sleep, was wet with saliva in a circle that I knew from memory would be about the size of a silver dollar, though I couldn't confirm it in the darkness. I made my one hundred and eighty degree flip, from left side to right, adjusted the covers and thought hard to capture the face that I'd been so intent to study in my dream.

Cat. Catherine. Not Kathryn, or Kat. Cats and I have an unspoken deal since I'm allergic to them: if they don’t mind me not petting them, I don't mind them spending time around me or on me. With most cats, it works out. Wouldn't it make sense to find a Cat that I wasn’t allergic to? I mean, really, wouldn't that just bring my life into the balance I always claim to seek.

I fell back to sleep with something that I hadn't had in ages, a smile.

One Last Thing To Do (and then...)

Image by Idhren via Flickr

In front of me, nature thrives. Miles of green. New leaves.
Behind me there lies Death. Vacuous nature of (the) Black.
It lies on the ground, leg precariously angled in pain. Crying.
From there to here runs a slacked cord tied to my soul,
Inches from the reach of the disfigurement.
From here to there is The Leap.
I followed my Path and it led to this ledge, again.
Many footsteps go back the way I've already come.
In fact, steps less full than mine--
Steps that were next to me not so long ago--
They go back.

So far, I've managed only to look over my shoulder.
I fear turning my body to feel the inertia of addiction.
My back is my shield.
Fifteen years of questions.
Thirty steps back into the fray.
Three feet from flight.
Seven years anew.
Threes and sevens, not fifteens.
So my mind has always said.
At 98 we all rotate.
In excess; time equal to thrice what others would have given.
I prefer words to numbers. Always have.
Maybe now I understand that she will never understand.
So lost from her Path that "good enough" led her back.
Her choice is my education, "good enough" is death.
Good enough is a numbers game.
Good enough is a product of the head, of logic.
Good enough is a heart that no longer beats.

I watched her go.
She looked back over her shoulder, as always.
No smiles, as never before.
She disappeared into the dark,
Soulcord tethered to The Black.
Unnecessary sacrifice.
For me.

Now I know, I wouldn't go back for her.
I'd only go back to give myself to The Black;
To understand the opposite of Love's Promise.
My creative curiosity sings. Input.
How can you know Good without experiencing Evil?
How can you know Evil without experiencing Good?
The teapot whistles and the train leaves.
The soup kettle boils and the earth erupts.
Both The Black.

I don't look for her any longer.
I watch The Black's chest rise and fall.
Heart not yet dead.
Dark eyes from deep sockets see right through me.
For how much longer, that is the question.
Sorrow for what was meant to be pours into me.
Except, it's not my sorrow, nor is it my dream.
My heads turns back to my fate,
And I know that a misstep on a Path thousands of years ago can be erased if I could simply...
Believe.

I don't have the energy left to Believe.

One last thing to do, yet I'm struggling to do it.
The flashlight inside runs my battery into desolation.
Even though she can't see me, she can still hear me.
The stone in my pocket warms the letter that I wrote--
The letter that I need to read aloud.
Words to mark the waypoint of one decision,
Nature records and remembers.
This place will be marred with a bad decision,
And that gives me guilt.
Children and nature rebound in kind--
Resilient life--
These are the things that I must remember.
Life hangs in the balance of black and white, live or die, a daily fight to be more than good enough.
We live among those who choose by good enough:
Good enough to fuck.
Good enough for government work.
Good enough, but not great.
All far-short; the broken legs of dreams.
Good enough fills time, a parry to boredom.
Dreams aren't filled by others for the lazy;
They are earned.

It is time to read my letter.
And then...

12/20: Late Night Poetry w/ Zamees

Rain in my room
Flood of spring
The end of death
Yet with one last gasp
He quiets the storm
Promising to take
This ache
In exchange
For my breath.
And, when I close my eyes
The pact will be sealed

The World I Know

Working on the "book behind the book" for the fictional tale that I've been writing for the past year, off and on, that is. You wanna know what my mind looks like... well, this output was transferred to paper in about 30 minutes of my Saturday afternoon...

Uh-huh... well, if you can figure that out, then you will really have a nice chance at understanding me. Meanwhile, if you'd like to read the book excerpt, then go check out the introduction of the two main characters, Promise & Soupy.

Introducing: Promise & Soupy

On the night of my thirteenth birthday, I had a dream that I’d never forget for the rest of my life. It was the first time that I’d heard a voice in my head that seemed more familiar to me than my own Mother’s.

You must find me. That is your mission in life… to find me.
“Who are you?”
I’m your dream.

“Yeah, well that’s obvious, just look around,” I said. I was sitting cross-legged in a small, round room that was completely black aside from one light that glowed behind this angelic voice. The walls were well above my height should I have been standing, but the wall between the voice and myself was built only high enough to prevent me from seeing the other side from my seated position. The floor felt dusty and smelled slightly of fallen leaves, while above me, there was no ceiling at all; just an endless, dark night. Upon closer inspection, the wall between us was actually built of various sized, shaped and colored Etch-a-Sketch tablets; the discarded toys from my past.

I continued, “I mean, you’re right here, doesn’t that mean I’ve already found you?”

You must find me in the real world, Soup, not the world of your dreams. I know this world—the world of dreams—and I’m here to help you navigate through it so that you can better understand your reality.

As I looked more closely, the surrounding wall of the circular room was also built from the toy-like bricks that made up the wall between us. The main difference between the walls of the room and the wall between us was that they were black and in constant motion. They etched words, shapes and some even scribbled randomly without direction.

Pay no attention to them; they represent all that is going on in your mind right now.
“My mind is an Etch-a-Sketch?”
Hundreds of them, apparently, it may be my world, but it’s “your” dream.

In the real world, I would have thought I’d gone insane, but in the world of my dreams, where anything could happen, I just went with it.

Though I was curious about our conversation, the world outside of our walls proved to be a distraction. It sounded as if things on the outside wanted frantically to get inside. I’d not yet mastered the concept of flying in my dreams, though I’d been getting better with years of practice behind me, so I began flapping my arms erratically, which I knew would start a slow ascent from where I sat. With great and ridiculous-looking effort, I reached a height of twenty feet off of the ground and hovered so that I could look around. Even in the night, it was easy to discern that a desolate land at the top of mesa surrounded us; sparse shrubbery grew in the cracks of the land where it could hide its roots from the torturous sun and spying moon. There were no lights to be seen in any direction all the way where land met sky. I hadn’t gained much altitude, but from my hovering perch, I could see that our room resembled a circle with a slash dividing it into two halves; commonly called a Do Not Enter symbol.

Don’t leave me yet, Soup, your mind wanders and we have much to discuss.

Though above her, I couldn’t make out any physical features of the voice that was speaking to me, but I felt like I’d known her for my entire life. On her directive, it felt wise to obey, so I floated silently to the ground and resumed my cross-legged pose.

“How do I find you in the real world?” I asked.

Despite what others believe, life is not mandated, predetermined, or about fate; it’s simpler than that. In life you are given a mission, call it homework or a task to complete if you like, but it is that mission that ultimately defines who you are. When they look back on your life, you’ll be graded solely upon how effectively you’ve accomplished your life’s mission. Completing your mission becomes your contribution to the good of the world.

“They?”
Yes, they.

I knew I wouldn’t get much more from her about “them,” plus I was still bewildered by the mission that she’d thrust upon me. “I don’t know you, so how am I supposed to trust that this mission to find you is actually my true path? That’s like programming me without my questioning the programmer. I wouldn’t be able to accept that I’m just a drone.” I couldn’t tell how many, but several of the black Etch-a-Sketches shook hastily back and forth.

Think, Soupy. You are the ultimate believer in true love and you always rise to a challenge. No one will have walked before you down the path that you must take. It’s not that clear. There are no footprints to follow. You’ll have to make your own path. If you want to show the world that true love actually exists, then you will make it your life’s mission to find me.

My inquisitive self gave way to acceptance. All of the Etch-a-Sketch tablets shook like a low-grade earthquake.
You can look at them now.

In unison, they all sketched the shape of a heart and filled it in.

I smiled though still confused, “But how will I know when I’ve found you?”

You will know because our togetherness will prove the existence of true love. We will be a beacon of light for others; an example to emulate in their own lives. The world will once more believe in love and will use this belief to heal itself.

“Great, not only am I in this weird place, but your answers are purposefully vague. I’m confused.”

You will learn at least one thing from every person that you meet in your life. Dating will always be about your heart; don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I know you well enough to know that you begin measuring whether you want to spend the rest of your life with a woman from the first moment that you set eyes on her. So, make darn sure that you learn something from every woman that you date in your life.

“Okay.” Though I was new to my teenage years, I’d already learned that kissing a girl just to kiss her felt emotionally hollow.

You’re too young to completely understand what I’m telling you about your mission because you’ve so many things in your head that you believe are important to accomplish in life. You’re young and overly focused on short-term goals.

“Yeah, it’s hard to think that I’m supposed to find a love that will shine when I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.”

This task that I’ve given you, it’s a numbers game, a game of volume. Only by accumulated experience will you eventually figure out who I am and where to find me. So, like I said, make sure you learn from everyone because each woman will unlock another piece of the puzzle. You will fail at finding me over and over again. You will fail with consistency until you succeed. It sounds daunting. It doesn’t sound like much fun. In fact, it sounds down right miserable for someone that lives in a glass half empty world. But you, Soupy Heller, I know that you live in optimism. I know that you’ll learn from both failure and success. You will come off as brash, at times, but you will develop a sense of “knowing.” And from this sense, you will learn to manage your failure. Believe this, Soupy, and believe in me. When you find me then you’ll have found success and that success is true love.

“Perhaps you can make my task a bit easier by telling me your name?”
Until you find me in the real world, call me “Promise.”
“Do you promise, Promise?”
Like I’ve never heard that one before? You’re such a dork, but I love you for it.
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