A Mother's Plea for TKC

Kansas City is a pretty small town, you know. I regularly smell the path of an ex-girlfriend's rancid perfume or hear a cackle reminiscent of some belligerent yesterday of hair-holding that I wish on no other man. But, the phone call that I got tonight was of a far different matter; a plea from a mother for her son.

You see, Tony has been living in his mother's basement for, well, since he hit puberty, which is somewhere give or take 5 years around when the Royals last went to the playoffs... and darn near as long ago as the Great Plaza Flood of 1977. That's a long time, kids.

How she found me? Like I said, small town.

But the story begins with the unknown tale of Tony Kansas City's long-lost twin, a gentleman also of great basement-residing fame, Mr. Michael Arrington, founder and former co-editor of TechCrunch. Aside from the obvious difference in content--one rants about something most of the world could care less about and the other lives on the west coast--Arrington was wise enough to invest his early returns in Hostess Brands, makers of Twinkies, and PepsiCo, providers of Mountain Dew. Smart decisions, because they allowed him to emerge from the basement with fists and pockets full of riches, a smirk on his face, and the Swedish Bikini Team in his hot tub sans bikinis. Tony, on the other hand, had to work 24/7 to keep up with his online pornography subscriptions--little did he know his own culinary habits would fill the vaults of his unknown twin. Enough of that story... let's fast forward to today...

On the other end of the line, through tears, I heard the faint sound of a woman's voice,

"Por favor, te lo ruego, termine esta novela de amor para que mi hijo puede aprender lo que es, encontrar una buena mujer, y salir del sótano. Ya han pasado 30 años, tengo que contratar a un equipo de Haz-Mat para incinerar todo, fumigar, y la manguera de salida del sótano--casi como esos chicos de Breaking Bad hacer cuando limpiar las ollas de metanfetamina."

Translated...

"Please, I beg of you, finish this novel of love so my son may learn what it is, find a good woman, and emerge from the basement. It's been 30 years, I must hire a Haz-Mat team to incinerate everything, fumigate, and hose out the basement--almost like those boys on Breaking Bad do when they clean the meth pots."

I replied,

"Si, mama, I will do this, And, for you would be enough, but I also know that TKC is solely responsible for bringing us el Google Fiber."

I heard her let out a Spanish prayer of relief before she ended the call. No further conversation was necessary.

So now, I am burdened with the task of teaching Tony about true love. While doing so, I figure I might as well teach the world. Therefore, I have created this foundational project on kickstarter to fund my novel about true love--the bible of my teachings.

FUND TRUE LOVE.

With these funds I will infiltrate TKC's posse (in fact, I already have, that's me peeking in from the left in the photo above) and teach from within using a Men in Black "Flashy-thingee" and a Lasso of Truth, which will be purchased with your pledges.

I urge you, as soon as the markets open, sell your stock in Hostess and PepsiCo, for TKC's singular ability to prop up these stocks will end as soon as my project closes, September 29, 2012.

For love,
Robert the True

Novels about true love await completion.

view full image

"Novels about true love await completion. "

Dream a 'Lil Dream: Coming Home

I had this dream the other night...

I hadn’t forgotten the place, but I didn’t remember it until I returned to this home I own only in my dreams. It had been painted since I left, likely a volunteer job managed by my love in an effort to help some locals that needed some dough to put food on their tables, for I could see spots of pink under the new shade of green in places they’d missed, and that was just fine by me, maybe it’d give us something to do someday down the road. In the dream world it’s easy not to be bothered by trivial matters; it’s something I’d learned long ago that I’ve tried very hard to bring back with me to the real world.

Image via Wikipedia

On the day I returned, the sun was shining bright—a perfect day for spreading my arms to fly, and I realized that it’d been too long since I’d done so, but I could take care of that later—the neighbors were out rocking back and forth in their chairs or talking in the streets, as is always the case. Here it’s always butterflies and ice-cold lemonade, just as it should be. It isn’t often that someone returns, for very few ever leave once they’ve found this destination. Yet when someone does come back, the full-time residents are always waiting with open arms, no questions ever asked about your time away, they move right into bringing you up to speed with all that you’d missed while you were away and treat you as if you’d only left for work that very morning. Time only has meaning here as a measurement of time well spent. I made my way through hugs and handshakes, smiles and smooches as I walked first down the street and then up the incline on the other side where my several-story now house stood, a somewhat Victorian house without Victoria having trimmed it with all her lace, clapboard with the edges and shutters painted white and a wisp of smoke trickling from the chimney. It’s a concrete house, oddly, but is anything really odd in the dream world? So, when I say that it’s painted, given the coarse nature of the concrete surface, you can still see spots of gray in the surface of the paint job where air pockets stood their ground in the concrete forms. They do well to remind us that it is our imperfections that truly make us unique. You can’t be a perfectionist and live in this house otherwise you’d be out there with a paint brush touching up the surface all day—but, I suppose, once the kids get to the age of flight, then we can add that to the list of chores for them to do, too. Our home has all the nooks and crannies one could ever ask for, sort of a Winchester Mystery House of fun places to explore, hide, relax, bathe, swing, sip, chow and sing. A concrete house, yes, but we’ve somehow mastered the ability to weld concrete together when we tack on additions for family or friends who come to live or stay. Finally, the empty lot next door sits next to my heart; a lifetime of memories reside on this “practice” field where I first learned how to hover and still love to play.

As much as I love our neighbors, who’d decided without conversation to bring their tables and chairs into the tree-lined avenue for a street party, I began looking for you, for I was quite sure that I wouldn’t have come home unless you were there waiting for me—wouldn’t have come home unless you’d finally called me home to see you. For you and I, the dinner triangle never rings twice: we hear it and we’re there. Mrs. Johnson from across the street, the prototypical elderly women with a big heart and a slight gimp that always knows what to say and moves more gracefully than you’d think possible, was suddenly whispering in my ear, “Go, honey, your love is waiting for you.” I consciously knew that you’d walked out of the house, down the stairs, a kitchen towel drying your hands from a chore that you never minded doing, like wiping ice cream from kids faces or cleaning ink from their hands, and always, always a smile on your face when I first see you whether it’s been a minute or a month. Our neighbors went silent as they yielded to create a path between us. I knew better than to walk toward you, we’ve never been the type to let a greeting or parting pass without fervor. I braced myself for impact like I’d done with us so many times before. You ran toward me, streaked through the air like a 100mph fastball and I caught you in my arms, our lip-to-lip smack like that of a catcher’s mitt. Our mutual elation caused us to fly backwards and, if not for Mrs. Johnson’s tree swing which caught me right in the rear end and absorbed the energy of our motion in an upward arc, I’m not sure where we would have ended up, tangled in the bushes with a pleasantly irate Mrs. Johnson whipping at us with her own kitchen towel. By luck or design, we swung in great arcs back and forth while the neighbors clapped and cheered in glee, your legs wrapped around me and my arms around you in a swing held up by the largest tree on the block or, for that matter, for as far as the eyes could see.

It’d been too long since we saw each other and everyone knew it. Mr. Miles Gavin, as our delightful, eccentric neighbor from up the street loved to be called, shouted, “Tonight we will extend the day to celebrate the return of this sunrise!” and the crowd roared with electricity once more. “Way to crack the verbal gavel, Mr. Miles Gavin!” another neighbor shouted. Mrs. Johnson rolled her eyes at our public display of affection, jerked her thumb playfully over her shoulder motioning us to proverbially get a room, and then grabbed her own kitchen towel from her shoulder while she said, “Looks like I’ve got some baking to do.” No woman ever smiled as greatly as Mrs. Johnson when she had baking to do, and she always found a reason to do some baking.

We skipped across the air to our home and you gave me the grand tour, showing me all the changes that had occurred since we were last here, all the while dragging me around by the hand or the arm, or stopping to look into my eyes, smile and bury your face in my chest or kiss me on the lips. You verbally, rather in a stream of consciousness, went through the list of all the things that we still needed to do to make this our home. Then suddenly, you stopped as if you’d just discovered the cure to a terrible disease, and said, “Oh my gosh, I have to get the kids ready for the party.” With one hand running through my hair, a moment of sincerity that honored the relief of our once more being together, you said, “I know it’s been awhile since you took flight, so go fly. I can handle all this get-ready stuff for us.” You kissed me on the cheek and I closed my eyes to secure the memory of your touch. As you walked away, you walked like a model on a runway, then pointed to your buttocks and said, “But don’t be too long, or you’ll miss out on this.”

I watched you walk away, looked to the open window next to me in the hall, and took flight by shooting through the window and into the sunlight. I flew in circles. I spun in circles as I flew in circles. I did somersaults as I spun in circles while flying in circles. I was so happy to be home again… and then I woke up.

The problem when you don't know love...

Had a long walk this morning and thought about a conversation I had the other day regarding the rationalization of irrational behavior. The longer I live the more I see irrational behavior that emanates from monogamy. Now, I'm not purporting that we strike monogamy from culture and enter a great sex fest. No, not at all, there are too many good reasons to not do that. I don't think we should live in such a "light switch" world, though. It's obvious that neither "on" nor "off" are working for most people. In this case, neither people are happy committed to each other or sleeping around on each other.

What's the point?

I read an Esquire article many years ago that described the perfect plan for infidelity; it must be with someone in your similar state of relationship (say, both married with kids), this someone must live out of town and you must meet at a neutral location (neither town you live in). The article might have also said something about only meeting once per year for a couple of days since it's hard to cover up much more than that.

I think we can apply the same thought process to our everyday relationships... minus the secrecy.

A big sliver of the happiness pie chart is trust. If one person doesn't trust the other to stay true to the "rules" of their relationship, then irrational behavior becomes the norm. You aren't trusted to go out on a bender with your friends, to meet the gals/guys in Las Vegas, to run into an ex accidentally, carry a conversation with her and act friendly even in the slightest way--men and women both do this--suddenly treating the other like a piece of property. "Hey bitch, that's my man," or, "I don't want you talking to that dickhead."

Damn, seriously? Grow up or get out of my life.

If you trust someone enough that you want to spend the rest of your life together, then you should trust them with these ultimately petty situations. Problem is you can't. You can't because you have no idea what love really is--you don't know yourself, what you want or where you're going--so you don't have any clue what kind of partner works for you. And, because you're in a mad rush to get married and/or have kids, your life equation looks like this:


W x F = P
W = Weddings
F = Frequency of Her/My Girlfriends Having Them
P = Pressure to Marry

You commit the act of accepting a life of unsuccessfully but constantly trying to hammer a round peg into a square hole--neither of you are right for each other, but you believe you can shape the other. Now, change and sacrifice are a healthy part of a good relationship, but the degree to which most of you want your "other" to change is irrational, but instead of the risk of not finding real love, you engage in the ultimate rationalization of a completely irrational act by getting all wedded up for a life of frustration, complaints, constantly picking on each other in public (yes, you pick on the one you like, on the playground in 3rd grade! If you're doing this constantly as an adult, you're not in love), hours in separate rooms watching separate television shows (by the way, if you already spend most every night doing nothing but watching TV and you're not married yet... you're not in love) and probably, some degree of "cheating" because flirting, winking, sexing or having a friend of the opposite sex gives oxygen to the smoldering embers of mistrust that have always been a massive slice of your relationship pie chart, whether you admit it or not.

I don't think everyone gets it wrong. We all, hopefully, have examples of ideal couples in our lives--we want to be like them. In fact, we want to be like them enough that we believe we are without stepping back to look at why we get so frustrated with each other or partake in a jealous fit of rage or name calling when some trivial thing goes awry. Guess what? Just like a driver on the road might not have seen you in a blind spot, therefore didn't cut you off intentionally, a lot of people aren't in the business of intentionally being mean to each other. Just remember, it's one thing if it happens periodically in unique ways, it's another if it's normal behavior. The first is a mistake. The last is an asshole.

In this conversation that I was having the other day, repeated irrational behavior was rationalized by one person claiming to "understand" the reasons for the other person's behavior. A valid statement, but not rational, not enough to make it acceptable behavior. As adults, emotionally immature behavior is simply childish. So, why is it being rationalized? Guilt? Fear? Convenience? Yeah, it's probably a combination of not wanting to be alone, enjoying the convenience of the relationship and, perhaps, retribution for some offense that one person committed to the other. On this last point, you can't have trust if you aren't honest with each other. You'd think that would be obvious, but it's so obviously and frequently not.

Don't confuse guilt with love.
Don't confuse fear with love.
Don't confuse convenience with love.

[Words of advice should you ever date me: I don't intend to offend you. If I do then please consider it a learning opportunity for us both and teach me. And when teaching me, skip the part where you think I'm the biggest slime-ball asshole in the world and get right to why you were offended. Nothing aggravates me more than being told I'm loved to being told I'm a piece of crap. 'Cause if you really feel the latter then it's time for you to leave.]

So, if the traditional template of a relationship is broken for most, and the number of divorces pretty much points to this fact, why don't we change the template? 

We already do this with friends; we have one person that we spend most of our time and conversations with, but we've one or two others that fill-in or provide a completely different support function aside from the "best friend."

Can we do this with love, too?

Think about it.

She was here last night...

Image by primatage via FlickrShe came to me again last night, seemingly in a different form than I've ever seen her before. Hair, not long enough to really be messy, wrapped around her face, strands here and there tickling the grin that she kept sending my way, but never hiding the beauty mark at the peak of her cheek. Last night she was a brunette with mysterious eyes, floating on a wind that she seemingly controlled with her mind; a chariot that teased all who saw her pass. In her silence she told me much, as if her presence in my dream was another sign that was meant to point me in the right direction. Her stature was great though her frame small; a spring-loaded soul capable of sitting idly next to the warmth of a fire or shooting meteors from her eyes to burn holes through those who would dare to impede her path--she's the type of woman you want next to you in a fight or at a fair.

Who does she look like? No one that I can think of. When she comes I don't recall her coming in the same look, often the same shape, definitely the same soul, but not always the same look. I am convinced that should I ever cross her path (or, of course, should she ever cross mine) that I'd know her, that I'd walk up to her in some nervous, dorky manner and say the thing that would seem most strange to every other woman except for her. She'd know.

And that would begin a lifetime of getting to know each other.

Are you there, Love?

When I've gotten enough sleep, I wake up. Sounds simple, doesn't it? However, there's a huge difference between waking up and actually getting up. I usually only need about 7 hours of sleep and then I'm rested and ready for action. If those 7 hours end around 3 or 4 in the morning, I seldom actually get up. And, when I go back to sleep those crazy dreams get to work.

Image by Ramona.Forcella via Flickr

Take, for example, a morning last week. I rolled over after 7 hours of sleep and began to nod off. Suddenly, a female voice screamed inside of my head, "HERE!" Oddly, I knew it was inside of my head (there are times when I'm unsure whether it's inside of my head or in the real world). I immediately snapped fully alert and wondered, "Where?"

I got no answer.

You may or may not know that my book is about the convergence of the metaphysical world with the real world to meet the love of your dreams. That concept stayed with me as I pondered where "here" might really be... there was no other woman in the house, let alone my bed.

So love, if you're really here, shout at me again so I can start walking toward the sound of your voice this time.

Dear Cupid...

I don't think it's a tradition--maybe I should make it one: this time of year, it's a great time to tell the world what I want for Valentine's Day:Image by chicks57 via Flickr

• Female
• Single (you have no idea...)
• Intelligent, introspective woman that puts thought into her conversation.
• Been around the block a few times--wisdom from experience yields street smarts.
• Motivated, goal-oriented, self-driven.
• Likes to hold hands.
• Appreciates chivalry.
• Has a slightly wild side.
• Active, athletic, understands the importance of working and playing hard.
• A woman who can just throw on a hat and head out the door.
• Artistic, cultured, and believes community is important.
• Creativity in task, problem-solving, and spontaneity.
• Keeps her nose in a book more often than a mirror.
• Understands the tension and balance of silly and serious.
• Can join in with a card-playing, drinking, joking, playfully gambling, sports-watching family... like mine.
• See above--and enjoys spending time with her own crazy family.
• Frequently uses her smile.
• When she smiles, it warms my heart. Every. Single. Damn. Time.

I'll go to bed early on Monday night, Cupid, so you have plenty of time to deliver! And, no receipt for this lovely lady being on back order; you've used that one TOO MANY TIMES!

Danger at Dead End Roads

Image by andy in nyc via FlickrWhen the land bears less than the day

My soul no longer knows the way
To age in one distinguished gray

To live, my life begins with you
It's a lonely street once paved true
Now fraught with two lives of rue

Each day without you leaves
Like childrens' snotty sleeves
Behind innocent shades bereave

But, without you my soul erodes
To artificial love that each time bodes
Mysterious danger at dead end roads

And, patience becomes angst that must
Seek a tangible reminder of trust
That our true love isn't meant to rust

Imagine the Life

Image by Stephen Poff via Flickr

A window into the heart
Lights the way home
Prays for a perfect return
Homecoming of true love
When arms and hearts entwine
Imagine the life
Of we

Children verge upon dreams
Launched into their nightly voyages
When one hand switches the light
And another leaves the door
Poised to hear their tales
Imagine the life
Of we

Two souls destined as mates
Seized the opportunity
To show the world
When the window is vacant
The room is filled with love
Imagine your life
Shared with me

Either the Beginning, or the End...

I got some time to work on my book this weekend. Here's a snippet from it...

I stared at her incredulously. To think that I didn't understand her situation after years of doing nothing but discussing her situation--how could I not understand her situation? I mean, that's what all these meetings and emails and texts have been about, right? Understanding her situation? I might be the only person on the planet that did understand her situation.

"Have you known me to be more wrong or right when it comes to decisions about us?"

She paused, knowing the answer, but afraid of where saying it might lead. "Right."

"You, yourself, have said that you made a huge mistake in our past when you didn't take me up on my offer to figure it all out, together, as a team--figure out this connection that we have--before you got married. You've even said that you made the wrong decision by actually getting married, right?"

"Yes," the affirmation slipped from her lips with only meager conviction.

"And," I continued, my frustration bubbling to the surface, "Do you remember when I advised you to be proactive about contraception the first time you confided in me about how terribly your husband was treating you? Do you?"

She shook her head up and down this time, without speaking, and without an ability to look me in the eyes.

"And what happened?"

"I got pregnant," she said.

"You know I have nothing against your kids."

"I know."

"This isn’t about them." I gently placed my hand on her chin and pulled her face back up to mine. "This is about you."

Her face came up to mine, but she struggled to control her eyes, which had welled up with tears. "But it is about them," she pleaded with her own frustration. "It is. If I leave, I impact generations of my family."

"Do you think maybe I know you better than you know yourself right now?"

Hearing my words released her tears. Her hand shook as it wiped away and her voice cracked as she replied in the affirmative.

I knew that I had to hit her with my point before I lost her to emotion. "You don't see your pattern. You don't see the thing that you do over and over again, and you definitely don't see that it never changes anything. In that regard, it does impact your kids--it makes it harder for them to discover the truth because they have no example from which to model it after."

At the mention of the word pattern, I triggered a memory for her of a conversation that we'd recently had about my own pattern. "You're not you in your marriage. You never have been." It was something that I'd said to her many times before. "And, this role that you're being forced to play has nothing to do with decision-making and everything to do with the lack of it. Look at me."

She did.

"You don't make decisions in your relationship. You let the decisions make themselves."

Her look of confusion turned to understanding.

I put my hands around hers and continued, "And that's exactly what you're doing again. This thing that you call 'contemplation' is simply a ruse for not actually making a decision. Just when I'd helped you discover the voice of your heart--and I had so much hope for you, so much hope--that no matter what happened, at least you'd make your decision with your head and your heart involved. Right?"

Her chin had dropped to her chest once more.

"That was the plan, right?” I asked.

She moved her hand to squeeze one of mine, which confirmed her answer.

"Your heart is gone. I don't know where it went, but it's gone. You're back in your goddamn head, probably because I haven't been around to constantly coax your heart into the open. I thought that we'd made progress. When you cried for two weeks about having to endure the possibility of a few months without me, I really thought you'd finally discovered the energy and the strength that's been locked inside of your heart."

I let go of her hands, stood up, and left her sitting along in the middle of the room. "Your contemplation is how you hide from having to make a decision. If you couldn't keep your heart open after all that we shared this past winter, then you aren't ready for true love. And, honestly, you may never be ready for true love. These 'couple of years' that you think you need to figure it all out will turn into twenty years and, seriously, you've already wasted a decade by thinking. Thinking gets you nowhere at all. But, you can sit there in the middle of your lonely room and think all you want because I'm done. Goodbye."

I walked out, without looking back, and closed the door behind me. I didn't want to see what the realization of an entire life without me would do to her, as much as I didn't want to see what it was going to do to me. But, she hadn't left me any choice in the matter. My life was at stake. The darkness drew nearer each day, slowly and surely. Up to this point, I'd used anger to stave it off, but anger was rotting my hope just as quickly as cancer destroys a body. In the worst shape of my life, mentally, physically, and emotionally, I was going to battle The Black. I already knew that most never returned from that battle--artists, writers, philosophers, in their desperate desire to understand the darkness, they'd all fallen victim to a disease found in the bottom of a bottle or a needle or in depression. I'd said my goodbye. No hand-written letters would find me where I had to go. This was either the beginning, or the end.

Knuckle-cracker

Image via Wikipedia

"Why do you always show up after a heartbreak?" I asked aloud to no one while nursing a sore knuckle after having cracked it on the headboard. In my dreams, I'd been trying to save a penalty kick, and after I'd knocked it down, a dive was needed to punch it away. Fortunately for me, there was no one in bed next to me; unfortunately for my hotel neighbor, the punch made quite a noise.

The clock read only a few minutes later than it'd read when I'd asked it for another hour of sleep, which was not going to happen now that I was a soccer hero; there was a corner flag that I needed to hump, shirt over my head, while my team mates all dog-piled on in celebration, of course. But in reality, my hero status quickly faded, while the vision of her did not, hence the question.

We've known each other for many years, met in college, though we haven't spoken in probably the last four of them. I've been jumping around the country--Palo Alto, DC, KC, and now NWA--while she has had the pleasure of wedlock; from what I hear, life is great for her, and that makes me happy, though it was a little strange to walk my friends to a cab, which was going to take them to a plane, which was to deliver them to her wedding. Yeah, a bit strange.

There was a time in my life when I'd dreamed about her nearly every night for a week, and I knew that something was wrong, that she was entrenched in a decision-making muck that was troubling her. And, when I reached out, I found it to be true. However, her presence in my dreams this week hasn't been that type of feeling... it's the one that I so often get after I've struggled with a relationship in my own life. I admit, seeing her in that capacity makes me miss her, though I don't think that the two of us would have worked out; too many depth differences. So, what is she doing in my dreams, if not as a signal to reconnect? My relationship with her was the closest that I've come to considering a life-long togetherness, and I believe my mind prefers to hang out in that memory at night instead of continuing with furrowed brow in the thoughts that the daylight hours have recently presented.

It is the idea of True Love that I revert to in times when I have so recently failed to acquire it. And, in that regard, it is my prayer, my religion, that I have faith in the capacity of Love, and that I will not rest until I've found it with someone that has also found it with me.

The Place of Dreams

When it comes to finding true love, the best Dream Girl to have is one who doesn't require you to be someone you're not. There is a place for love; where the world around the two of you provides love, respect, support. It is a place where you can feel alive, where you have choice, where you are free, and where you know that you'll tackle the responsibilities that come with loving together. And, when you reach the end of your tasks, you have the time to bask in the energy of each other.

Energy is an important word, I believe, because each does it in their own way. Some recharge with others and some recharge on their own. A True Love knows, or accepts, when you need to recharge on your own with a book or a walk. A True Love also knows when the electricity needs to be generated, and strengthened, by the magnetism that is found through mutual touch.

My home is where I find my True Love... where I walk into the house, into a room like an airlock, that helps me to transition from there to here; from a place where there is no oxygen to a place where I have everything I need to breathe. When I hang my coat on the hook, I leave the problems of the world, as yet unresolved, hanging with it. When my hat joins my coat, I no longer shade the Light that radiates from me. On the opposite side of the room, off with my right shoe and then my left, I leave the dirt that I accumulated from my day, so that I can slide across the floor in my socks and into your waiting arms. It is my transition, my rite, from there to here, ultimately out of the airlock, and to you.

And, when she says to me, "This is the place where you're supposed to be," and pulls my cheek towards her chest, I will know that I'm home. As she strokes my hair, all the world stops, and she takes in great, deep, rhythmic breaths because this is the first time since I left that she has the air that she needs to live, as well.

Hey Dream Girl, tell me when it's time to come home... I'm ready.

Proof of Life

A headache knocked me out this afternoon; too much play between the light and the dark

Image by The U.S. National Archives via Flickr

created a conflagration inside of my skull. I took two, found a spot of sun on the couch, and cradled a Ray Bradbury book in my hands. The off-white pages acted as a reflector, angling the rays of sun that penetrated the wall of glass behind me, streaked over my shoulder, and bounced from the pages of the book into my eyes... deep into my soul.

There's more than one way to skin the dark cat--blind it with light.
(Revved up like a Deuce, another runner in the night)

The warmth of the light felt right. I skimmed the pages with my eyes and let my mind wander off to wonder about other things in my life. Because it wasn't forced to focus on these hurdles in the foreground, it was free to see them objectively, and in objectivity it always gains more perspective.

I love, love. I am always at its beckoned call. And, maybe that isn't the right place for me to be. If I walk away from the line between where you are and where I am, would you eventually cross the line to come looking for me where we're supposed to be?

I put my iPhone on my stomach. An intuition shouted that someone had something to say, though I knew not what it would be. When said, I wanted to be there to listen, not necessarily to respond. While my phone sat there on my stomach, the same sun's rays reflected from it onto the ceiling across the room; some symbol from a ancient language of love that stayed in constant motion, dancing on the white paint. I breathed and it moved back and forth with the rise and fall of my stomach. I held my breath, expecting it to be still with me, but it did not.

It pulsed, like the beat of a bass drum, a rhythm from none other than my heart. I am alive.

My intuition was right. The switchboard operators at The Network are doing their jobs well today. Now, if ony they could interpret the messages for me...

I guess that's my job as a writer, eh?

Giving Up on True Love?

I got asked this afternoon, "Have you gotten to the point of giving up yet?" I wasn't exactly sure what I was being asked, but since I was in the process of writing about true love, I assumed that it was from that vein that the question originated.

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This is what rolled out of my typing fingers...

Giving up? On finding true love? Never. I have my days of ho-hum, but I'm a hopelessly hopeful romantic and an optimist about life. I want to believe that there is good in everyone and that I will learn from everything and that someday the world will get back to what's important, turn off the fucking television and innovate for betterment, start with one's self... and that there is someone in the right place, at the right time and right moment who will look at me the same way that I look at her and understand that perfection is not reality, that our imperfections are what make us unique, and that we'll form a plan while things are great on how to deal with it when things aren't so great... and agree that we'll walk hand-in-hand as often as we can, understanding that there are times when we all need to lead or be led, but that the power of what we have when we take steps while holding hands is stronger than anything else.

But, that's just me...

Dear Dad...

Dear Dad,

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I'm glad that we've found my book to bond over. It's a combination of my life and the crazy that I inherited from you. I've always said that you're the most creative person that I've ever known and always wanted to find a way to help you apply it. As you might recall, I sent you something that I wrote years ago as an invitation to toss it back and forth over the fence; a cumulative creation from two. Yet, I never got anything back.

Did you know that you weren't supposed to respond back then?

What I've written over the past 17 months actually has its genesis in what I sent you many years ago. I think you knew that something greater was coming. And now, we have this... 150,000 words about a man's journey to find true love... a merging of the real and the metaphysical, the drama and the dream, a puzzle with purpose... Soupy and his Promise.

True love.

Paulo Coelho has written a manual for my life, Warrior of the Light. And, with all due respect to his great belief in religion and love, he almost got it right. A bold statement, I know. But as time continues, so will I continue to walk down my Path, sometimes being bounced back into play like a pinball and other times taking direct steps toward my true calling. My book is only the beginning of the world that I'm discovering. Yes discovering, not creating.

Since we last had an editing session, so much has changed. That was a completely different draft, a different story, more like a journal than what we have now--a world that the characters live in that has history and rules and dark and light... and future.

I do not know if the world around us will accept what I've written. I didn't start with the intent that they needed to. I wrote for myself, but what I've written is getting praise. I want my story to be read and told and I hope that it generates conversation, two sides of a coin, a deluge of opinion about what I meant and all of the layers that haven't been written, but are there to be discovered because they exist underneath the surface of one night's simple conversation with one man's true love.

Thank you.

Your son,
B

Dear Bee...

Dear Bee Outside of My Window,

Image by Lydia Elle - barely flickring :( via Flickr

I thank you for coming to see me. I thank you for the transference of thought. From you to me, I sense the fact that you are lost. When you saw your reflection in my window, I knew that you, if only for a brief second, recognized yourself and thought that you were home.

You thought you were home, that is, until you received what thought I sent to you; your journey is far from over, but you must continue for there is no time to linger on my sill. The time that you have to find your destination is much shorter than mine--days compared to years--so you must be on your way.

I know that the contemplative sounds of Radiohead in this temporary world that I've constructed for myself are what brought you here, intuitively on both of our parts. No coincidence in manner, but a calling for that moment of transference that I previously mentioned. Thank you for listening and heeding the call. There was purpose.

And now, we can both be on our way, each to our Queen--and her true love.

Safe journey,
B

Is age just a number?

When I was in high school, I used to say such wonderful things like, "Life is more than a series of consecutive years," and "Cold is only in the mind." Yeah yeah, whatever, dude. I was remin

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ded of this when I got into a discussion with a friend the other night about age and whether it's just a number. In my trek for true love, I have to consider age because I'd like to be a father of children that I helped to bear. Although I realize there are alternative ways to do this, my first desire would be to do it with my partner. So, for that case, I'm limited to an upper age limit in my search for the right woman.

Is age just a number?

Growth is an important part of life, physically and mentally. I believe that challenges breed growth. Someone that's 5-10 years younger than another could have easily faced more challenges in life and attained more growth than someone that's been fed with the silver spoon for 35 years. This is where my "horse girls are psycho" comment comes from; when you've been handed everything that you have in life, you'll stand around with your hand out a lot. On the other hand, if you've endured great challenges, if you've had to rearrange the plan that you made for yourself, if you've had to roll with the punches or find a new way, then I think you will be much more mature than those around you that haven't.

My foreign friends always laugh at American girls and their "plan" for life. Why? Because the plan is like a business plan these days, practically out-dated as soon as you finish writing it. If you write a plan in a way that details exactly what is going to happen and when it's going to happen, then you're setting yourself up for disappointment. And, it gets worse, if you do that and the entire thing is given to you, on schedule, then you've likely lost plenty of opportunities to grow and mature.

Emergent theory, expect the unexpected, is found in life.

So, the next time I say that I'm interested in a woman in her mid-twenties, don't gaffaw or tsk-tsk. Just because most women in their twenties are a mess doesn't mean that all women in their twenties are a mess.

And, most women in their mid-thirties are a mess, too. Hell, I'm kind of a mess when it really comes down to it since I'm so hell-bent on finding the right person like I was told to do in a dream 35 years ago... but that is a whole 'nother story.

3 Steps to True Love

In talking to a Twitter friend last week about true love, I asked if she'd ever found it. Her answer, "Yes, but it didn't last." Didn't last? Is it possible that you can find true love, but that it won't last?

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Is that really true love?

I probed a bit deeper, it seems that it was true love for her, but not for the other party. Hmmm. Here's an angle that we don't discuss often, true love for one and not the other. So, I thought to myself, what is true love?

This 3-step plan formed in my head...

1. Wanting to make promises to your partner.
2. Making promises that you can keep.
   
3. Keeping those promises, at least trying like hell to do so.
   

First of all, I want to make promises to you and with you. My desire to do so means that I want to make you happy; I want to improve and survive the things in life, together, hand-in-hand. Words can be so empty these days... how can young adults getting married not have in the back of their heads, "Well, it if doesn't take, we can always get divorced." It's a cynical view, but it's too prevalent not to wonder. Thick and thin, sickness and health, 'til death do us part... those are some serious things to say to each other. Yet, nearly half of marriages in the US dissolve. I'll say what I keep saying, we need to teach our kids how to look for love; understand who they are and what they need before choosing a partner.

Second, I want to make promises that I can fulfill. If I promise to lasso the moon, can I actually deliver? It's one thing to make poetic gestures, they always have a time and place, but in the real world, you must make promises that you can deliver. Be realistic, but challenge yourself. Some hurdles look high when you're alone, but with the right partner, you can give each other a leg up to best them.

Third, do whatever it takes to deliver on your promises. Don't give up. I promised to do something for us and I will find a way to do so. If you are making the right promises, you'll never be able to deliver on them all, but as long as you try like hell, failure is a normal course of events. But, you have to try like hell. More often than not, you can find an alternative, a work-around, another way, put your heads together and make use of that two-heads-are-better-than-one thing. How many times in the movies do we see a main character who wants to do something for their loved one, only to be frustrated by not being able to do so? But then, their partner says that everything will be okay, all I really want is you; none of that other stuff matters as much as you being here for me.

Make promises that you want to make; promises that you will try like hell to keep.

Can You Adjust My Timing?

If things are constantly changing, then what's timing got to do with it? Think about it, if we were in a relationship and I said to you, "Our timing is just all wrong," what would you think?

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Timing. The synchronization of the sparking of the plugs with the movement of the pistons in an internal-combustion engine. Timing.

If we make a little adjustment, our timing could instantly be right... right? Yet, so often we junk the whole sha-bang just because the timing is off. I'll be the first to admit that I'm not a love mechanic... and I sure could use one in my back pocket: trustworthy, friend of the family, gives me the truth and good rates, you know?

If I said to you what I said I'd say to you in the second sentence I wrote above, it'd be a reactive comment about timing. In other words, our timing sucks and I'm tired of trying to fix it. That's one thing, but what about when you've met someone amazing and your timing is wrong? How am I supposed to know how to tune the engine when I don't know that much about how it works?

I've been thinking about this a lot lately and my opinion? You have to take time to make time (or have a really, really well-educated love mechanic in your back pocket that knows how this engine works just by looking at it). When I say "take time," I mean that you have to find the patience to learn about how the engine works--how its timing is supposed to be adjusted. Taking the time to understand its complexity means that you can make time in the future to adjust it.

In my last I'm-still-not-sure-what-to-call-it relationship, the timing was very wrong. Instead of learning more about the engine, we got into the car and jammed down the gas pedal, but left the car in neutral. What happened? We didn't go anywhere. I warned that we were going to spend all this time simply trying not to break it until the timing was right. Sho nuff. We cracked the block, watched all the oil spill out and then shot a piston right out of the side of the car.

Joy ride. But like, joy ride without leaving the garage. *Yawn*

After that, I stood on the street corner, hands in pockets, not thumbing for a new ride, just being contemplative. Even so, a new ride slowed as it passed and a sealed envelope got tossed out of the passenger window, which I caught and read. It said:

"If we take time to make time, then we'll save time when it is time."

I flipped the letter over, pulled out my Capt. Crunch invisible ink pen and wrote:

"Promise?"

And then tossed the letter back into the car.

What if she were you?

A little snippet from last weekend's work on my book...

A few steps toward the other side of the car and I stopped in my tracks. The edge, literally, of the road was right under my toes with nothing but a sea of black below—several hundred feet below. For a brief moment, I dreamed of taking one more step and of the wonderful, weightless ride I’d feel as I floated to the impact to be found below down to the water, where gravity would instantly introduce itself back into my life.

Foamy sea and jagged pillars of rock called my name in the dark. Souuuuuup. Be with us. We want you. No one else does. We doooooo. It was nice to be wanted, to have the company of someone that wanted me as much as I wanted them. Evolve. Rebirth. They were waiting for me below. I had to fall in order to become something else. As if a diver, I stood with my toes over the edge of the platform and raised my arms, outstretched to form the preliminary T.

I felt warmth over my left shoulder. When I turned my head, slowly, the lights of an oncoming car continued around the bend towards me. As they passed, headed in the opposite direction as I, all faces inside of the vehicle were pressed to the glass and looking at my statuesque pose, poised for change. It seemed odd that they didn’t stop, but perhaps I looked more odd than the internal call of their Good Samaritan. When the lights rounded the bend behind me, I felt cold, very cold, and backed up from the ledge. I could drive without removing the leaves on the passenger side; the voices would just have to wait, for I needed to find more warmth.

--
What if she were you?

The book that I'm writing is a translation of the language of my soul. It is written in a way to, hopefully, inspire the masses, but it's really the siren song for my true love (minus the deadly reef, of course)... if there is a woman out there that can understand the lyrics, she just might be my match, my Promise, my forever and ever amen.

So, what if she were you?

What would you do?