missing persons

I miss you. Tonight my parents came to town. We ate dinner and talked and reminisced and they did everything in their power to avoid your name or my current heart ache. They did this because they love me and wish for my pain to end; or to at least be responsible for relieving my mind of its constant thoughts of you. Nevertheless, I brought up your name. How could I refrain? Discussing my life with them necessitates your name and our excursions and time shared. It was so hard for them to attempt changing the subject or not making a big deal of you, and my now very real loss of your presence. Either way, I miss you. I think they miss you too. Just a week shy of meeting a man they thought had stolen my heart and a man they thought they could trust being its keeper. So sad, for me, and yes, for them. They never want me to rush into anything, but truth be told, they hope for my happiness, and indeed pray for some grand babies. I wanted to write to you tonight, right now. It's taking much of my energy not to send you a quick line questioning your mental state. If you want to know mine, it's indecipherable, mottled, tragic and free. All, like me. I'll see you at work tomorrow, but Friday I will be with them, viewing photographs that you'd be so much better off narrating. They planned to meet you, fall in love with the one I love, and now, like me, my sweet parents are bruised and a little bit shattered at the illusion of you. How will they ever believe all the wonderful things I told them about you, while my face frowns? Sighs abound. Nevertheless, my Guardian Gemini horoscope could not have been more accurate. It reminded me that my heart is hurt, and told me to instead focus my energies on the folks who love me most; my folks. And with those fresh Wednesday words swirling in my head, I can depart to my dreams, and hopefully not revisit the paranoia induced nightmares that plagued my Monday night's rest. Good night mister Taylor, love ya, mean it . . . for now.

you say tomato . . .

This Sunday was April 27th, exactly 8 months since he first called me. And who'd have guessed that our relationship would be so prompt and aware of lunar calendars, but never fully aware of each other? My heart hurts. We have not talked since Sunday really, just passing glances down populated, working hallways. I want to hear his voice, and want him to miss mine. Nevertheless, I'll wait. There was no specific closure for either of us. He, masked by sunglasses, holding potted plants in arms too occupied to embrace my shrinking frame; curbside and so alone, it was only a "thanks for chatting" that ended our daisy tearing conversation. We visited the nursery that day. I bought a Wondering Jew plant to hang outside my kitchen window, such a beautiful color palette of sage and violet leaves now hang and need sunlight, demand water and crave attention. I am not Jewish, but feel the wanderer nonetheless. I will plant tomatoes and basil and hope that they flourish in my roof top's sunlight. A bag of potting soil, to be shared with him, sits heated and odoriferous in the backseat of my car. I will soon have to deliver my unused portion. The passing of the dirt. What metaphors, eh? The collective purchasing of plants to be nurtured, given new beginnings, seedlings that crave and require devotion . . . and then dirt. The literal unloading of our dirt onto each other, to be utilized for the purpose of nurturing simpler forms of essential life. Hmmm. It's sad and so very true, this relationship's demise. But how, I really wonder, that after 8 months without seeing a flower, a blossom or any fruit and receiving adequate care, did I ever think this plant, this man, would be fruit bearing? Winters are hard, weather is tainted by a warming of the globe and yet I still thought that he might change, and that I might be the sunlight to help him grow. Not so. My girlfriend told me just yesterday that I am but a girl standing, waiting and hungry beneath an apple tree hoping for a sweet, orange fleshed mango to drop. Alas, no mangoes, no apples either, just a tree with roots hidden down deep beneath the surface, protected by soil that might dirty my hands too much; grit forever stuck in my nail's beds. I hope that he can uproot himself, honestly. Because the saddest part of this scenario, my reality, is that I love a person who is focused on healing his own wounds - raking, tilling and excavating his earth - and yet can't allow himself the opportunity to flourish, fully. Without water we cannot survive, nor plants nor various arboreal types. And now it is time for me to tend to my own little garden, and hopefully watch it grow, threatened all the while by city air, unpredictable heat waves and water shortages. Maybe someday he'll come over for a caprese salad, an assemblage of roof ripened tomatoes and backyard basil, homegrown by yours truly. Or maybe, quite possibly and almost certainly, not.

roar

I took a much needed Mental Health day from work yesterday. I ran errands and took care of some grown-up chores. I also made a visit to my local Kinko's, where a most delightful, Brooklyn bred man named Phil helped me with my little project. My Etsy shop is on hold for a bit while I figure out the date of my next photo shoot. In the meantime, however, I have selected some garments that will fare far better for sale in real, touch the fabric and test the zipper, life. These select pieces just wouldn't work on Etsy, due to odd, super teeny vintage sizing and slight fabrication snafus. Hence street shop!

My dear friend Mike owns my favorite coffee shop. He has been so generous in the past to allow little sidewalk sales to happen just in front of the store. This coming Saturday will be no exception. It also happens to be Faye's Video and Espresso's Birthday! So, I'm going to assist in crowding the concrete and hopefully contribute to peopling the store by extension. I have my garment rack and plan to have a stellar, visually intriguing merchandise set up. So yesterday, at Kinko's with Phil's energetic and sarcastic Brooklyn style assistance, I made tags for the clothes. This time I won't just end up giving everything away . . . I will make a profit. Sure, I'll welcome some bartering, but the price tag is just that: the price tag period. Don't I sound mean? Or maybe just firm? Or maybe like a business tycoon? Either way, I'm excited about my sidewalk business, so much so, that I've coined a name for this impromptu shop of mine. Ready? It's "Lion Tamer Vintage." What do you think? I'm using the above photo of yours truly as the card/price tag. Phil thought that mountain lion was my family pet. Apparently there aren't lots of mountain lions roaming the streets of Brooklyn, New York. On the back will be contact info for Lion Tamer Vintage as well as my Etsy address. Nothing like a little project to get my mind off of the other projects that are currently on hold, in limbo or simply unfinished. And by projects I mean bills, diets, and relationships. I haven't heard from the man I not so secretly admire today. I wonder if he'll call, and wonder if I'd answer. I wonder if I'll get to say my piece or if he'll beat me to it. If he'll be the one to say "I need time," or "things have changed," or "I can't do this." And if he doesn't say anything, what then do I? Taming lions is no joke. Wish me luck.

S.O.S

What I am to you, is not what you mean to me . . .

These are lyrics, but really, they could be my words. I wish they didn't ring so true, but sadly, they tell truths, many, many. Tonight I met up with a friend for a beer. I tried to think it was just friends having a carbonated elixer, but after the man I visited became my patient and I his therapist, I realized that we misread each other. He pined about how badly he wants a girlfriend, someone to punctuate the Saturdays and Sundays of his rigidly scheduled weeks. He knew I had a dinner date, but not with whom. And after feeling good to have been mildly sought after by him yet again, I felt bad for knowingly departing to see the boy I've been spending all of my weekends with. I headed to his home where he made dinner for us. He played guitar for an audience of one, albeit in a posture that acknowledged the wall as his audience rather than my shrinking self. It was late, but we both missed each other and retreated to his familiar, dimly lit room. Talking nose to nose and then not at all, in words unspoken, we found solace in the comfort and ease and excitement of our two faces. And then it became "later than we thought it was." I interpreted these words as a signal to depart sooner than later. Unsettled, I mentioned my interpretation of the false invitation to go. Frustrated and feeling misunderstood, my sweet special friend felt aggravated by my tangling of his words. Why, I wonder, is it, that communication gets in the way of communication? I gathered my things, including my scarf and under utilized dinner ingredients, said goodnight and bid my fair, yet weighted adieu. Tonight, right now, I feel so very sad, so thoroughly confused and yet somehow empowered. Do I need now to make my move? To force him to realize that I could potentially cease being around at late hours, or even at all? Do we break our hearts in premature attempts to save the beating vessel, or do we wait and hope and pray that time will tell, will heal and maybe even surprise us with delights of love? I do not know. And I wish I did. I am at a loss. Imagining my days without him hurts my heart. It makes my already sore, pilates stressed muscles ache more. The notion of his presence no longer being a part of my reality, offers me little comfort, but instead dread. So, tonight, hoping that soon I will tell you of great sacrifice on his part and triumphant overriding of emotion and reason, I will instead ask of your advice, your thoughts and your strength to get through whatever it is this night represents. Life is short, love should be simple. That's the good stuff. The early eve man reminded me of just that; that companionship mends wounds and makes for time well spent. I only wish that my current flame knew that someone else was not just seeking my companionship and humor and wit and familiarity, but that he also knew that people who love us are the best cure for myriad ailments. I want to be his prescription for success. I guess, however, that I better start taking my vitamins first.

MexiCAN't Wait!

Tonight I am off to Mexico with a girl who I'm guessing is my sister from a different mister, we were separated at birth I'm quite sure. Who else finishes each other's sentences without such strong genetic ties? Who else can translate a simple stare into complete experiences, detailed dilemmas and insightful inside jokes that other people just "don't get?" Hmmm. I must question my mom more about this sibling scenario. Either way, we're out of this city for a few days, to catch up on, even redefine R&R. Rest and Relaxation and Rejuvenation and sure some Rock n' Roll thrown in for good measure, we two need this break from our day to days so very much. Will you miss us? We'll miss you, and say salud! to you and yours while we sip a tasty margarita or two.

Sometimes vacations offer timely shifts in scenery, breaks from routines and the occasional moment for reflection. I hope to reflect, reevaluate and really wrangle my self and my senses on this trip. When I come back, I hope to have had my presence missed, but more so, I hope to have found myself to be more present, with myself. Here's to leaving it all behind and then coming back to find . . .

Adios

Chirp

"When you awaken, then you are obligated to think about what to do with all of that glorious energy in the morning, right? You know, when you want to just knock the hell out of what's holding you back from being truly happy or getting what you want out of life. That's the bad energy at work. All you need is the nerve, to find the nerve to do what you really want to do, right? The problem is that it may come natural to you, but it does not always come easy. So, maybe now you've got a clue about what's been on my mind. I think it is still considered an Olympic event nowadays: wrestling. I hear it's Tibet vs. China . . . after Tibet's Independence Day . . . of course. Grappling. I feel someone grabbing my elbow."

Adam J, wrote these words to me in a letter I received just yesterday. Sometimes I wonder how he knows me so well. How can another person feel my pulse race, how can he know that I am not alright, even miles away? Is it that obvious, I wonder? Either way, Adam always manages to instill questions in my ever prolific and imaginative mind and simultaneously quell the insecurities I rely upon. He continues with:

"And in order to win, you need to realize the powerlessness you might feel in any difficult situation, and admit that the reason you feel that way is because you are powerless. So, it's somehow about promoting a wrestling match between you and you. It's the raging battle within that takes your spirit and your sleep. And makes you sweat."

I cannot express to you, my few and far between readers, what these words mean to me. They speak to me on so very many levels. I will conclude with this wisdom, courtesy of a man who knows no limits of compassion and generosity.

"And so you do little things like play your guitar, which takes you away from all of that for a little while. And if you pay close attention you can figure out what I am listening to lately, can't you? (it's Clapton). You have a coffee with your best friend. You can also call your mother on Easter Sunday and ask if she still hears the squirrels running around in the attic - and I don't mean mentally! And you take stock in what is really happening around you, and try to fit it all in. You look for the rescue impulse everywhere. You lay out those personal expectations that fuel the impetus to change. Then you wait . . . for the big event."

This is my big event. This moment, this time, right now - is make or break. I am in love with someone, perhaps an idea of someone, who does not, or cannot reciprocate my sentiments. Tonight I sit, waiting for a phone call, wondering if the phantom doorbell ringing was actually his finger's pressing, and think to myself about deserving, about intention and about fate. I want so badly to be in love. But the love I should be seeking is the love of self and of life and of those who mirror my own profundities. So, I share these inspirational words with you, my loved ones, because it is the truth. We need to wrestle and get dirty with our demons. And then, we need to win, by way of want. So tonight I bid adieu to those feelings that corner my heart, that label my efforts and that seek to quell my creativity. A mouthful, I know, but thanks to Adam, tonight, I see how simple it can be.

Fly away to you. To you and to yours.

Lady in Red

Hi. So sorry I haven't been in touch. As a matter of fact, I've been out of touch, with more than just you. My horoscope warned me of drama this week, and foolishly, I felt it a premature forecast and wholly unparalleled to my current existence. Nevertheless, I was wrong, sorely, painfully mistaken. I don't intend to throw myself a pity party here, but I'm pretty sure that my heart started to break and suffer great pain this evening. It was the conversation that began with innocent questions, and ended with the suggestion that this should be discussed in person. And "in person" shouldn't hurt or be odd or strange or unwelcome, because "in person" means life and love and scents and senses . . . but somehow, right now, the idea is not welcome. He, this gem of a man I've had the luxury of spending days and hours and wee hours and categorically significantly insignificant moments with, has been thinking. And thinking, truth be told, is not what it's cracked up to be. If I think too much, I can imagine great horror, great success, sweet baby faces, off-white wedding gowns and funeral services. Thinking, can be one person's demise via projections and false notions of the future. But, hey, thinking about days ahead can also translate into finishings: goals accomplished, phrases uttered and time well spent - so call me crazy for thinking that I might have found my match. Big sigh.

It's not sadness, this emotion, or emoting, instead it's a check-in. My horoscope was simply reminding me to be true to the one thing I know to be right and wrong and unjust and fair - me. I wish I didn't previously recycle the words, in the hope they were incorrect, or I'd have posted them here. Nevertheless, I'll say this . . . I am, as you may be, like the dress featured above. We are tattered, we are aged, we have seen trials and tribulations and tights, and yet we will still become someone's bookmarked page on someone's wish list, ready to be given new life and readily available to help someone stand out in a crowded room . . . ready to independently shine on our own, in living color, vibrant and beautiful and stained but never damaged goods.

xoxoxox

Sorry, photo is coming soon. It's file was too big . . . soon, however, you'll be able to see, and even purchase her on my etsy shop . . . think vintage, classy, red frock - like us all . . .