without words

pt 1

Handsome man walks into a hotel lounge.

It is a Friday evening.

There is a fluidly shifting crowd of afterwork networkers, pre-party supper goers, business meeting lingerers, middle-aged sex shoppers and "traders."

He makes his way to the bar and orders a drink leaning in to take in the scene.

A certain woman stands out to him.  Strikingly different.  Miscast in this crowd.

She is not alone. She is seated at a low cocktail table sharing a tablet with a teenage boy.  

The boy leaves as his drink order is filled.  

He takes a sip and makes his way over to her table sitting next to her.

"What will you have to drink," he asks.

"Tea for now." 

He puts in the order.

Without words they start their conversation.

Her tablet is on the table.

He leans in shifting the screen to see what she has been thinking about.

He glides his finger across the screen paging through her day.

Her tea arrives.  He pours her cup.  She takes it straight.

Lifting the cup and saucer to her lips she subtly blows across the rim.

He hears the whisper of her breath skip across the surface of the tea.

She takes a sip.

As she replaces the set back on the table he observes her firm, yet delicate wrist and grip.

He draws his fingers along the top of her forearm balancing her elbow in his palm as she slides back into her chair.

Her arm brushes along his palm until their hands meet, fingertips lingering for a moment.  

He goes back to her tablet.

From his side sight he sees her relax into her seat.  She leans an elbow on the arm rest closest to him hugging herself for a moment with the other arm.  

As she adjusts, getting more comfortable, her hand moves from around her waist to her ribs.  

Her breasts shift in her blouse resting for a spell on her forearm.

She releases her embrace with a tuning stretch and sigh allowing her to superficially caress her breasts.

The silhouette of her nipples draws him away from the tablet.

He leans back in his seat at an angle where he can face her.

Their eyes meet in smile.

beautiful lie

He was that beautiful lie that I told myself about love. The lesson that truly made an honest woman, an infinite being of me. 

He taught me that no matter what, I am not bulletproof. And that it is not bullets that I should fear. Bullet wounds heal. 

Flesh and mettle melded me into the element of warrior.  She is what I have come to understand is love's most loyal companion. And the only shield I'll ever need is the reflection of my light.

He revealed to me that selfish will is the thing that I fear. And I now know that I have no place in battles with selfish will because it sits on the whim of things constructed and perceived to create barriers. It is among the most unoriginal functions of the human psyche. It exaggerates our natural tendencies to bloom--sharing, showcasing celebrating identity; and misconstrues the equilibrium that is the inevitable balance of time, the definition of survival. It is the seed of all conflict. It is the scourge of existence. 

Alas, because I accept fear at all, like love, I too am and will always be flawed. Incomplete. Now more than ever I seek to see the lie between the beauty that I know is inherent in all things--the deceptive discourse that we use in attempting to translate our dreams into shared consciousness. My truest nature precedes me and unfortunately an open, honest and generous heart is unbelievable to most. It is its own beautiful lie...until it proves to be the truth. By that time, because we are conditioned not to take the truth for granted, because lies fulfill and perpetuate fantastic fantasies that form our captive imagination, we are, I am indeed lost in translation. A beautiful aspiration, a beautiful destination, a beautiful emptiness, a beautiful unknown.  

Come what may, my soul will survive. So too will the beautiful lie that is love. 

dreams

I can't be the woman in your dreams

let me be.

and that is the sadness in me...

and I tell myself...

if I can't be the woman of your dreams 

I can't blame me.

but I still wonder why...

being the woman of your dreams

was my fantasy.

and my heart may always questions how...

I cared about your dreams

but they didn't care for me.

the woman of your dreams

should have never been that important to me.

...though without her, I would not have remembered...

the woman in my dreams 

is who I need to be.

30th March 2013

September

My sister called to tell me to watch a film that reminded her of our father. Today I watched it. Last Chance Harvey. It was the story of a man making a transatlantic trip to his daughter's wedding to take his place as father of the bride. When he arrives, he is confronted with the reality that the festivities around her nuptial celebration are no salve for the scars that his absence mislaid on his relationship with his family.

My mother walked my sister down the isle. The following year, my father attended my college graduation from a distance as the rest of my extended family accompanied me in full entourage fashion from one ceremony to the next and so on. At that time, I had long before stopped inviting him to celebrate my milestones. But, I hadn't given up, or given P.O. [his initials] his last chance.  Not until he abruptly picked up and moved back home, leaving his third wife and another daughter behind.

This installment of Datin' is an introduction to a series of September stories that helped move me past last chances in a psychoanalytic-kind-of-way -- everything and everyone has their moment.

I remember a youth leadership retreat the summer after my first year in college when a bunch of friends got together for a weekend in the mountains to reminisce about high school and dish about freshman year. On a midnight run into the nearest village for a nostalgically familiar trip to Taco Bell, my autumn beau from senior year asked me something that I have yet to hear or ask any of my more recent past lovers: "What happened to us?"

I distinctly remember articulating for the first time, confessing to the entire car--some of us children of divorce, others of single mothers, a couple with solid nuclear fusion--that my relationship with my dad had a lot to do with what happened to us. We'd spent the weekend trying to save the world, sorting out the lot of political and social themes that were defining our generation. Yet, while flirting shamelessly with "Ms. What If" and "Mr. Remember Me," this particular iteration of the concept of us is one that hadn't made it into our formal discussions and brainstorming sessions. Dealing with our personal struggles, required us to share a level of self-awareness that many of us even still have yet to reach. As for what happened to D-Nice [because he looked so much like him] and me specifically, sometimes the answer is clear, others not so much.

We had great fun together. We talked for hours about our days and nights. He was an only child; he and his mother against the world. He didn't speak much about his father; he lived somewhere in Texas.  He adored and respected his mother; I admired that about him. He was one of my first deep connections; though, I'm not sure if I would call it chemical. I can barely remember him making a single move. He'd make motion, drawing me in with his intense intellectual gaze and with his deep darting eyes.  The way he spoke, his activist's diction made me long for his plush lips to press mine with the controlled urgency that he used to emphasize his talking points. One. Moist. Pillowy. Touch. Alas, nary a stray hand [or lip] landed above or below my belt. As a disclaimer, I was no fast girl. My high school friends can attest to this. I was looking for a special "first" and did a fine job keeping the panties on lock. This, of course, was not so obvious to my suitors; there was no reason for D-Nice not to make some kind of move. I took it as no game and gradually stopped calling...making plans...flirting. It didn't occur to me that his absent father had anything to do with us at the time. Neither of us could connect anything about our missing male parent to our what happened story until that moment in the car. I took the first step.

I remember the words clearly: "I think I believe that men are disposable." If I was not getting what I wanted from a man, I'd just trade him for the next. Always a somewhat even exchange--which is part of the attraction and defect of these deals--but new nonetheless.  The next, "September."

This is what I now describe as September's linger.

The ninth child born on the ninth day of the ninth month, that is P.O. Peter Pan was born under the same sun; so too are a string of lovers and flirtations in succession over the course of several years in my adult life. When I noticed the trend, I could not help but to ask myself why. Their names are different, their places near and far, but all of them may as well be named P.O. based on the outcome of the relationship. This particular September story, he loves me knot No. 22, aka the Whisperer, helped me get closer to why than I had gotten since the midnight run to Taco Bell.

I met him in July and thought he was handsome.

He called me in August. We met again in September.

The Whisperer was easy to talk to and we connected fairly fluidly; there was another "September" in the wings for me so slow and steady was not a problem. One winter afternoon, I got a call that placed him and me squarely in the "friends" zone. The Whisperer was going to be a father. My first response was, of course, "I didn't know you were in a relationship." And I had asked from the beginning. He loves me knot No. 1 taught me that lesson. Turns out the spring break-up came with options and the ex had a put plan that he played well into helping her to exercise. The short of the long is that they broke up because she wanted love and marriage and most urgently, a baby carriage. He didn't. At least not with her at the time. Somehow he found his way back in her bed. Et voilà. A son is born. He shared that this was difficult for him; he needed a friend. Since that is where we were anyway, that is what we remained-- until the following spring.

Somewhere along the line, the Whisperer must have decided that he wanted more with me. So he called much more often. Made plans more regularly than ever. And we became "flirting friends," the type of friendship that whispered possibility. It was perfect. I got some needed attention. He got to pick up where he left us before the call. It was fine for a while. Before brunch with the girls and via news from the grapevine, another "flirting friend" was revealed; and, the Whisperer was much more settled with is "double life" than was intimated in our interactions.  I allowed him to share at will his co-parenting challenges, thinking that I had the full story. He had a complicated real estate situation that placed him in his son's mother's apartment during the week and in another state in his own home weekends [I could even verify this having visited him in his "own" place]. I probably should have guessed that there were new developments in their relationship when he started spending more weekends locally. When in our conversations, he began offering less and less about her, his son, their lives together. The grapevine revealed that he and his ex where once again in the same bed. It was easy for me to let go of possibility with him by then. His situation was far from ideal. However, the new intel didn't bother me so much as a statement he once made. I was telling him a random story and asked a question to which he answered, "Haven't you noticed that I don't ask many questions?"

This was true. He asked enough to get information and stay engaged. And ladies, there-in is the secret language of "box builders." They trade stories, not necessarily to exchange details but to own their own reality. They hear you; rarely are they listening. They round boundaries giving an illusion of shared connections. But, their technique is never completely foolproof; and trust, there are no possibilities with box builders. As we take these September journeys, I will eventually reveal how and why.

For now, the question on my mind was -- "What took me so long to figure it out?"

Show a girl you don't care and she'll chase you; show a woman you don't care and she'll replace you...

In retrospect, I was much more woman about these things way back when than I've been on occasion as a "grown-up;" I equated men not giving me what I thought I wanted with them not wanting me--not caring, like P.O. Hence, dismissed.

Conversely, the girls had a tendency to put in more work "chasing" what or whom they thought they wanted. I guess that practice made them much better off as women; many of my friends figured out long ago what they wanted and how to get it. The knowing, is what I've found is the most complicated part of my struggle. Maybe I never asked more about his intentions because I was afraid to face my flaws? Afraid to admit to myself that as clever a girl I am, the mystery of men bewildered me. With P.O. I was conditioned not to ask questions. He never managed to answer the one's that I did ask so I managed to "figure out" what I thought was the deep stuff. For some cosmic reason, it usually worked in my favor--maybe something about all those nines. But, increasingly I was failing. September's linger was the indication, and the reason finally came to me in a whisper.  

As is usually the case in the movies, Harvey's happy ending is life changing. He realizes and accepts the role that his choices played in his reality and moves to remake his life anew. P.O. and our relationship are making a transition, but I am certain that his happy ending will be checked by our collective linger until he is willing to bring himself to answer all those questions that passed us by.

As for me, I accept that come friend or foe [and in my case more than likely both], I will always make space in my heart for September's stars, moons and mystery.

Until next September...

September 2009

words and colors

being a wise woman is a tricky place to be when it comes to wiling un- and assuming men...

My lover posted a photo of himself and one of his best buds in his bbm profile and I immediately beamed with love for both men.  I was transported to a party of parties in the city back in our roaring twenties.  Booze, buds and beats abound.  They where both there.  I bonded instantly with best bud. And I remember the assuring wrap of close friends, some from ago, others from my evolving New York City life -- the admirers that kept my flirting energies robust; the go-to crew that kept it all interesting...  

I also remember faces in a flash, like my lover, aka Mr. Friday Night.  There must have been an energy connecting us in ways that we were not to know until now. 

So, where exactly is this here and "now?"  This steaming segmented love affair that takes place in wavelengths that are often too mysterious for me to bear.  The reality is that we live on two different continents.  There are personal complications.  I abandoned boxes long ago; he is still unpacking.  Yet, I don't think either of us thought that this could be as binding as I intend it be (he's already there, he just doesn't "know" it).  I knew from the first real conversation that we shared that in him I had found the truest reflection of me that I have ever met.  Without question I had met my match.  But it took months for me to appreciate that this reflection has been the missing element in my loves lost.  This is the beauty of this love and why our "match" is so important to me.  I have, of course, accepted that you can't always get what you want.  [Those stories are the stuff that Datin' Ms. Behavin' is all about after all.]  But I am finally learning how to engage with men in ways that hold their attention beyond the verbal or physical communication that we are all so used to.  What I know now is that our time is indeed now.  I needed the Alains, and the Jenses and the Peter Pans to realize that rather than reflecting back the energy that I was receiving,  I needed to be more transparent, to project what I wanted reflected back on me.  And this transparency grants me the ability to absorb his light -- the light that colors my reflection in all eyes.  This is our now.

Whenever I think about how me and Mr. Friday Night got here, I wonder what would have or could have been had the spaces that separated us been differently placed.  I understand more about me these days and know that it is part of my nature to move in many circles and to accept that there will be the long lasting and there will be those relationships that endure for only a season.  Almost hauntingly pressing in my psyche is his face in the crowd.  The one that was always familiar, always acknowledging, but never approaching.  Few words were ever shared, if any, beyond "hello."  Yet today, we know exactly how to say hello.  We breath each other's air.  We see each other's eyes.  We touch each other's lips.  We taste each other in sips.  We feel each other's full embrace.  Struck by the surprise newness of each hello... 

'Cause when we kiss 

Oooh

FIRE.  

In this week of monumental moons [you'll come to know much more about me and my stars - this time it is the full moon in capricorn] we have exchanged more words and thoughts than the usual on varied new subjects and revisited some old, bringing me closer to understanding the rhythms that govern our shared consciousnesses and affirming the wisdom with which I embrace the "getting to know" process.  And it is the finesse, even restraint, that I sometimes have to master in loving without ego that allows me not to be too clever to be sexy.  Too honest to be thoughtful.  Too distracting to be interesting. Too imposing to be accessible.  

So, among the words shared this week, one was "Synesthesia" -- later "I have synesthesia;" the phenomenon where one sense is jointly activated by another.  I experience this everyday running, in yoga, stretching etc.  My muscles and my mind seamlessly and vividly remember the many places that they have been and anticipate the journeys yet to be taken.  He sees colors in certain words.  I know that he feels more.  But it is this simple revelation--that he has the capacity to see those colors--that tells me there are feelings that he has yet to believe exist.  Thoughts, words that he has forgotten to remember.

Those days back then, when we could not or would not connect, conjured the kinetic presence that is the us of today.  He was the one that observed; maybe waiting for me to make a move.  I was the one that danced offering an occasional glance.  Today, I reflect colors.  He shines words.  And patience is the meter of our energies.

07/06/12

on the low

After a short getaway to Sag Harbor, Lana and I (Lana is short for Svetlana and she is my long road racing 325is) tuned in to one of my regular programs, the Diane Rehm Show. Of all the topics her guest host could have been discussing, the conversation focused on a new book about loneliness. I say "of all the topics" because for the past 9 months, and as recently as hours before hitting the road, I have become keenly aware of this lonely creep on my tail.

In winters past, I brushed it off as seasonal affective disorder; and, it was okay because we’re all allowed to be a little SAD sometimes. I grew up where the sun shines 300+ days a year and the longer I am away the more I long for those sunrays. But, this year something was different. My cozy Brooklyn pad was the backdrop for a still life. My enthusiasm for my latest fashion finds was fleeting; plush winter coats and sleek hats and bad-ass boots held it together out the door, but back inside....

Back inside, it was the single girl blues. I don't want to give the impression that my love life is the definitive me, but for the sake of this story, let's say it is.

So, the question I ask myself is "how did I get here?" The simple and complicated answer will unfold in these Datin' Ms. Behavin' pages. For today, it is he loves me knot No. 50 as in five-0, aka Peter Pan.

Peter Pan and I have been datin' for about a year. We met first with our eyes in a random street encounter. I smiled; he smiled. We passed each other. We both looked back. The conversation was light, playful, flirty. He got my number and called me as we parted. And that's how we started.

No. 50 keeps in regular contact even when I don't want to bother, but Peter Pan refuses to show up. No. 50 is HOT and that is hard to resist; ditto for Peter Pan. No. 50 has a plan; Peter Pan has too much going on. I had and sometimes still have high hopes for No. 50, but Peter Pan has no hopes for me and he knows in his heart of hearts that he'll never give up his reign on the Lost Boys where there is no room for a clever girl. A clever, lonely girl...

It's probably obvious by now that Peter Pan got the invite to come out to Sag Harbor; and, of course, he didn't show up. The accumulation of lazy afternoons, sunny mornings, and movie nights that have been mine alone continues to take its toll.

I think about getting to the end game with No. 50/Peter Pan and how it might play out. I keep coming back to the basics; peanut butter is a cupboard staple and it can't hurt to have five-o in your pocket....

A caller is on the program with a question about the long-term effects of loneliness. My eyes begin to burn. Sometimes it's sad songs or a cup of tea; today I let the tears fall and I don't feel so alone.