Opening lines

The tickle of your words in my ear allows me forget about the endless clutter of my days. I know you . . . and you me. I relish the past that includes us. I hope you know . . . . You are as lost as I; it comforts me. I swore I would save you, but fear I am the cause of your demise. The next words on the page will not be easy to digest. It would have been epic, if only . . . . I changed for you and you consumed it, me, and my future. The curtain will be drawn, and my pain will be hidden behind. A savior I am not. Show me the way. I need you to be strong. The heart is incapable of surviving a passion this devastating. It is unbecoming to lose ones mind at this age. At what point did I become a thorn in your eye? You haunt my days, yet pleasure my nights. I could explain it all, but you would not understand. I am much worse than I appear.*

* When I write, I formulate a central sentence, then I build around it. This is not an exact science, and a lot of deleting takes place. Instead of scrapping the wasted many, I decided to forgo the actual story, and to put them together. The above was tonight's castoffs. Each sentence was intended to be a theme of its own.

Open arms

I hope, beyond all else, that I never forget the generosity that those around this globe have shown me throughout my many travels. It would be easy for all of you, many much less fortunate than I, to write me off as a spoiled American traipsing through your country on a holiday without a care in the world. Instead, I have been welcomed in with open arms and treated as an open mind, desperate to learn all that you have to offer. There is no way to adequately thank you all, but please know that I, a privileged human, will do all I can to return the favor if and when the opportunity arises.

Inspiration

There was girl, who inspired a boy, to want to be more than he was. He saw in her perfection, a life worth being close to, and a person he wanted to be present in his everyday. She radiated greatness, perseverance, and love. Could tackle a challenge at any given moment, and prevail with the success that many only dream of. Now this is not to say that she did not have her moments where she doubted her ability, lashed out at the world, and longed for the simple. But the boy admired this, for it was a sign that she was human, and did not think she was “better” than those around her, which of course, the boy thought she was. And while maddening, the boy appreciated that she would not always accept his praise, admiration, and fawning, for she too questioned her prowess. In her, a goddess he saw, and it made him want to be a god of equal proportion.

Sunday Scribblings (Mess)

This week's word is Mess:

His suit is pressed, shirt ironed, tie perfectly in place and matching, shoes shined, and cufflinks polished. The eyes sparkle, smile radiant, laugh gentle and reassuring, and the walk is purposeful. His speech inspires confidence, his written words are admired, and he is held in high esteem by his peers. His athletic prowess, while weird, and seemingly insane, does nothing to hurt his reputation. In fact, a google search turns up a litany of accomplishments and no failures to speak of. Nonetheless, he lacks focus, desire, and the ability to see past tomorrow. He agonizes about the attire, stresses about his word choice, loses sleep over his inability to connect on a personal level with those around him, and fears that his body will break at any given moment. The faith that a person such as him should have in his ability is nonexistent, and the thought of failing, for that first time, is a weight he cannot shake. Instead of striking out, and possibly showing the world what he is potentially possible of, he will suffer with the mundane, avoiding any “real” challenge, out of a lifelong fear of being exposed as a nothing. He is a beautifully adorned book that has never been opened to reveal his true contents He is, at his core, a complete and utter mess.

A swift current

In my dreams, you are so close, yet so far. I try desperately to reach you, to pull you close, and to comfort you, but I lack the strength to do any of it. Instead, I am forced to watch you drift away, into the arms of a more able protector. It never changes, and it breaks me, a little more everyday.

Silence is rarely golden

I feel to the point of physical pain, but lack the ability to express those emotions in a vocal way. Looking back on my life, I see the littered remains of those that never knew how I felt for them; how much their existence made my life worth living. And it is not because I did not want them to know, because the truth is, I had “that conversation”, the one where I told them that my world revolved around their presence, approval and love; how I cried for them when they were in pain; celebrated when they achieved; and made excuses when they did not. The problem is, ever one of those conversations occurred with only one of the two essential party's.

On more than one occasion, usually centered around the death, or the permanent departure of a non-expendable, I promised that I would change, that the next time, things would be different. But, as is always the case, I was lying to myself. I am, unfortunately, a throwback to the male culture that vilified any sign of weakness; and somehow I convinced myself, at a young age, that any sign of emotion made me less of a man. The sad truth is, that my inability to express myself is my greatest failing. My fear is that when I die, the only way people will truly know how I felt about them will be to read the words I have written here, for complete strangers to read.

9-5

I have been down this road before, the path that seems to lead to isolation, loneliness, and burnout; and it was not pleasant. Nonetheless, I am here, a living, breathing human being with friends, loved ones, and a future that will not end with me spending endless hours behind a fake mahogany desk. Now I value my career, and care deeply about performing my functions to the best of my ability, but I learned, the hard way, that the best of me will never surface if I am so deeply unhappy that the very act of rising from my nightly slumber is a moment of pure depression. The truth is, no matter how important, I, you, or anyone of us feels we are, short of a very select group of individuals, we are fungible. The second I accepted that reality, my life changed exponentially for the better. . . because, at the end of the day, work is nothing more than that, life is something completely different.

Sunday Scribblings (Courage Part II)

Courage for him would be keeping his mouth shut long enough to allow her to move on with her life. Instead, in an act of cowardice, words that he knows will keep her close roll out of his mouth. He should fear destroying the careful balance she has created, but selfishness, a touch of desire, and greed, stops him. In a different place and time, the world he could provide, and he would, with reckless abandon, but that was never an option. From the start, pain was the reality . . . for him, for her, and for countless others. But because of her beauty, stunning intelligence, and the chemistry between them, his words are boundless, his charm unending, and his wit biting. The right thing would be walk . . . far . . . and long . . . out of her life. But courage has never been his strength, so he is here, longing, waiting, and counting down the hours until he whispers sweet nothings into her ear.

Sunday Scribblings (Courage)

This week's word is Courage:

He never once backed down, cowered from a challenge, or tired from the futile nature of his task. He faced the worlds foes, stared at death on a near daily basis, and did so without once asking for fame, wealth or recognition. Instead, he kept his identity secret, worked a thankless nine to five, and toiled with the likes of the normal. At any time he could have demanded riches, pimping himself out to the highest bidder, but he did not. Not once was he provided with monetary riches, even thought they would have been provided. In him, the world saw its greatest, humblest, and most honest warrior. He did what was right, what he could do, for no other reason than that was his talent. He cared, and would stop at nothing to allow good to prevail. In him, there is a lesson to be learned. We ask, all too often, what is in this for me. He was a prince on his planet, but here, he was a man, a man who understood his strength, grasped the same, and made the planet a better place for us to live. Superman may be a joke, a story to be told to a child, a movie to watch on a quiet Friday night; but more than that, he is the epitome of courage, and someone who should be admired.

Pour me another.

A spectacular darkness has taken hold, with no immediate signs of loosening its grips. This storm, like all others, will inevitably pass. My only hope is that it does so sooner rather than later, because I cannot handle this for too long.

In the meantime, the hope remains that a scotch and a cigarette will allow me to push it into the background long enough to sleep.

Cheers.

Women in my life part I

This is inspired by an article in this months Esquire.

Freshman year.

Lori offered me every part of herself, in a way no woman before her had, but all I wanted was a friend; when I repeatedly refused to take her in a physical way, she cut me out of her life. Alicia, for one drunken hour, I was your attempt to make him jealous, it did not work . . . oh how I paid for that. Sarah was an amazing enabler, and looked like a grown version of a cupie doll; for reasons to be explained in a later post/year, we no longer talk. Joelynn was a holdover who willingly provided an outlet for many of my sexual desires; I made a complete mess of her; she was married with a child within a year. Melinda was five years my senior, and I did not love her, my only regret is that she found out at the least opportune moment. There was the nameless woman who boldly asked me to accompany her to her sorority dance; I left with another; the last time I saw her, she stared at the side of my head with an intensity that chills me to this day. Jenny took advantage of a drunken me, it required my first AIDS test, I will never forgive her for that. I never worked harder for any woman as I did for Rochanne; I loved, and pursued her in an unhealthy way . . . we destroyed each other for years.

A possible goodbye...

I need to be unafraid of a world in which you do not exist, because, as we know, this will most likely not last. However, even knowing the reality of the situation—and I am not a forlorn fool—the fear of losing even one crumb of this thing we have built is enough to make my head ache. The thought of you, and where you are, and more specifically, where I am not, makes everything in my mind fly madly, and feel all mixed up. In fact, I want nothing more than for you to tell me that I, we, and this, will make it through the impending storm . . . but you will not . . . because, in your being, as much as you want to tell me to reach out my hand, you know there is no workable way. You will wash me away like dirt from a window. I will protest, arguing that there is a work around, and a way through this roadblock, but you will see something entirely ugly. The problem for me though is that I hold so few in my heart, that the pain is going to be real, palatable, and sickening. My blood will go to a quiet place, followed closely by my words. When you are gone, I will think of a million things I should have said to make you remember me as you ride off into the great bright sunset of your life. Just once before you disappear, I want to feel you hold me like you will never let go....

One day I will ask you to meet me, someplace we have been, talked, or dreamed about. It will be a place where we remember each other in the best of light. You may, or may not show, but I will be there, alone, with no regrets.

Inspired by a random mix of songs.

Sunday Scribblings (Wonder)

This week's word is Wonder:

In the moments not filled with the tedium of the day, he can not help but dream about how his life would be different if she were in it. If it were so, the years of torment, ridicule and bullying would vanish in an instant, for he, armed with his lady love, would be a force to be reckoned with. If only the opportunity would present itself, he would wrap her up, provide her with the strength to stop the mascaraed, and allow her to live freely in a society that seems to only glorify her on October 31. In his moments of private freedom, he can picture her, adorned in red--him in a matching tuxedo--walking triumphantly into the latest caper, and saving the day. Fresh from their joined victory, they would retire to their mansion on the hill, and wait for the press clippings to roll in about the new “dynamic duo.” He can see them, in all their glory, “Wonder Woman and Husband save the day yet again.” It may not be much, but his love carries him through the everyday.

What it is. . .

I have lost count of the times I have given up on you, on “us”, and this thing we have. I know it doesn't show, but I have played this out countless times, and regardless of the scenarios manufactured, I find myself sitting, waiting, and hoping that this, whatever it is, does not fade. I find myself looking around, wondering where you are, and why you are not here . . . with me . . . being with you. The fact is, I am different with you in the picture, and that brings a joy that I--unlike most things in this uber-complicated life--am able comprehend.

The first thirteen words are taken from Beautiful Wreck, by Shawn Mullins.

Part Two -- The Response

Part two to http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2010/03/sunday-scribblings-book-that-changed.html: From: Bert.S.Slesser@optimum.com To: Denise.D.Slesser@optimum.com Subject: MY THOUGHTS Apr. 7, 2010, 2:41am Dear Denise, While it it not leather-bound, did not take twenty-two years to craft, and is significantly shorter than the work you pieced together, here are “My Thoughts”: Dedication: To all those who honored me with their presence. Page 1: I would not change a minute, we had a good run, and I love you all. Bert.

Sudden storm

The stream of urine from the heavens blanketed the islands inhabitants in a blur, myself included. On a normal day, getting caught in this rampage would have infuriated me, but an ordinary day this was not. Minutes previous, the files were put down, the blackberry left on the desk, computer wiped clean, identification card shredded and I vanished. The destination was unknown, but the past was left where it belonged. On my journey into the unknown, the upheaval was welcome. For the first time in years, the smells of the world, in particular, that of the wet dirt underfoot, sparked an indescribable excitement. I was free to enjoy that which I had been avoiding since birth. What that would entail I was unsure, but I appreciated nature providing me with a cover of darkness, a wall of water to mask my disappearing act, and an avenue to cleanse myself of all that kept me down.

Sunday Scribblings (The Book That Changed Everything)

This week's prompt is The Book That Changed Everything: The note and key to the office were next to the coffee maker. Bert, it is done, thoughts? I trembled as I approached the unknown. This was her lair. The walls were adorned with black and white photographs of her favorite authors, the shelves contained the life works of the same, the desk was a dark mahogany monstrosity sitting atop a blood red carpet, and the chair was a weathered hand-me-down from her father. It smelled of crushed daisies. A better part of her waking hours were spent here. As long as I had known her, which was twenty-two years, I had never once been invited in. Truth be told, I had never seen another pass through those doors. In my youth, I pestered, prodded and pled to know the going-ons. For nine years, she withstood my barrage and remained silent. She is tough that way. It is why I loved her. Then one day, to my delight, she stated, after asking for creamer, “I am writing my life's thoughts.” Nothing else was said. I accepted this nugget, imagined a monumental manuscript, and proudly announced to all that would listen that my bride was crafting the next great American novel. In her, I knew nothing less than perfection would find its way to the page. On the desktop sat a leather-bound book wrapped in a carpet matching ribbon. I untied it with the greatest of care, and listened closely as the binding broke. Being the first to open such a magnificent piece was something I did not want to pass me by. It was entitled My Thoughts. The dedication read “To all who have crossed my path.” In anticipation of the read, I called out of work, retrieved my coffee, removed my shoes and sat back in the chair. To say I was overcome with pride would be an understatement. I dove in. Page 1: I was not put on this earth to settle for this. Page 2: I was not put on this earth to settle for this. Page 3: I was not put on this earth to settle for this. Page 4: I was not put on this earth to settle for this. . . . It never changed, six hundred and thirty-three pages of the same line. I leaned back, aching heart in my chest, and cried.

Sunday Scribblings (Fluent)

This week's word is Fluent:

A lifetime of study, hard work and understanding was summarily written off by society as shallow, easy and whorish. But unlike the labels, this was not short sightedness. To the contrary, this was an expertise gained by a relentless passion for knowledge. While others forgetfully floated through their formative years, she spent it studying the other side, trying desperately to grasp every gesture, move and spoken word. It started with her father, moved onto her brothers, and continued with the nameless many who relentlessly pursued. With the knowledge gained through years of tireless research came a power. A power the others did not possess, yet resented with ever ounce of their beings. Because of that, they had no choice but to critique, criticize and push upon her a false moral high ground. What they failed to grasp was that she had done what all should do: become fluent in that which allowed her to control and manipulate one half of the world's population, men.

Sunday Scribblings -- Big Dreams

This week's word is Big Dreams.

Four foot nine, eighty six pounds, with the build of a seven year old school girl; attributes handed down by generations of diminutive men. The heart, desire and anger were of a larger man, but size—or lack thereof—was something he had long since accepted. At twenty seven, the hope that life would change, that a growth spurt would take hold and he would sprout to mirror his peers, was not a reality. Instead, he accepted the ribbing, buried the torment and drifted below the shoulders of those around him. Nonetheless, while the active mind accepted the existence he had been cursed with, his unconscious, which came to fruition in the silence and peace of the night, refused to acquiesce to his miniature stature. In those hours, his brain took over and did what nature denied, it plied him with, what he termed, Big dreams.

tic toc

There was a boy, a girl, and moments. In their brief encounter, Time meant nothing, but was everything.