Epiphany of the Unforgiven

I was fresh from a dream. 

There she was... this dark haired, quiet, almost too polite and proper, enigmatic girl.  Woman, I guess.  It always feels odd to say woman.  It's such an adult word.  Girl, well, that word just makes me sound like a dirty old man.  There she was; smiling at me, smiling at everyone, even the trees.  Her smile at me was no different than her smile at them.  So, completely disarmed with ego aside, I didn't overanalyze anything.

I think we're in vegas.  There's just a few of us.  It's me with girls.  Women, I guess.  Just friends.  All familiar faces from yesterday.  There's no sexual tension nor any hopes of fulfilling the vegas slogan of what happens here, stays here.   I think we're all song writers and poker players.  

I can't stop thinking of our host:  this mysterious dark haired woman. 

The dream moves at a fast pace.   We have breakfast in an old diner each morning.  We carry around notebooks.  That dark haired girl, woman, I guess, is always with us.  I can't stop obsessing over the little things.  Like her angelic skin.  Her eyes.  Her smile for everyone.  And my constant need to always know what everyone is thinking but especially her...  About me.

Each night is spent in her home.

The dream slows down.   The wheels in my subconscious mind come to a halt.  I'm forced to record every detail, from head to toe, of her.  And she looks familiar.  I've drempt of her before.  Many times.   I've loved her in every dream, each hypothetical scenario; good and bad.  It's always her.

At some point or a different dream, she became my religion.   It's an unfair cross for any woman to bear.   Each dream, I walk away.   And I tell myself I'm just afraid I'll nail her back up again.   A tiara made of thorns.   The imagery overwhelms me before I wake up.  Each time. 

But this dream was unlike the others.   I just listened and observed.  No agenda.  No demands.  No lavish or calculated words.

We're on our way back home.  I ask a familar face if that mysterious dark haired girl, woman, I guess, said anything about me.  The familiar face replies, "she just wanted you to tuck her in each night.  Talk to her.  And smile back."

"She forgives you.", the familiar face added.

Then I woke up.

And I lay still for a few minutes;  soaking in this fresh dream before all the details disappear as all dreams do by mid-morning.  I futilely attempt a few times to fall back asleep into that same dream.  I need more details.  Meaning.  An explanation. 

And I just stare at my ceiling, eyes wide open, and finish the dream myself.

And this self-defined "profound" epiphany overwhelms me... I tell myself that we do our best dreaming when our eyes are wide open.   Absent of truth, with an ending we choose, with the information controlled by the dreamer, guilt removed, and a false sense of closure.  And this so-called self-described moment of abstract thinking isn't shrewd or deep or profound.  And I begin to think that our dreams are more closer to reality than we care to admit.  That our minds contain the truths we fail to face when awake.

And as each theory floats around my head, before I get out of bed, I think of that dark haired girl.  Woman, I guess.

Forgiveness is always nice.  Even if its just in a dream.

Close Call

I never wanted this to become my diary.   Blogging is so ten years ago.  I just like classifying this as writing.  That's all it is... it's a stage for failed poets, it's the written version of selfies... it's a crayon drawing by a kindergartener...

This, what I do, always after midnight, is me talking.  I can't be interrupted here.  You can't start throwing cliches at me.  You can't stop me mid-sentence and start talking about you.  You can call this emotional manipulation because sometimes it is.   You can call this awkward because sometimes I am.

I'm sitting here biting my nails.  I stand up to pace back and forth.  Then, I decide to just write.  To kill time.  To be vague.  To be heard.   Because no one is around to listen.

I like to solve everyone's problem.  Except my own.   Sometimes, we can't fix things or people.  Right now, it's futile for me to try.  So, I wait.  I chew my nails.  I drink coffee.  I consider learning how to smoke.   I pray.

Every cliche I have ever used to comfort those I love who lost a mom or a father or a child, they sure feel empty now. 

I'm hesitant to call anything a close call.  An almost.   Glass half empty.  Glass half full.  Chicken or the egg.

It shouldn't take two minutes to tell the 911 operator, mom is having chest pains.   I'm not a crier.  Well, except at those god damned ASPCA commericals, the St. Jude commercials, corny tv shows and girl movies.  It took two minutes to compose myself and calmy state six words.

I had a lot of thoughts going through my head as the paramedics were putting her in the ambulance.  I really wish you were here.  God, I want to call you.   I wish I had more family than just her.   Self-awareness sets in as I realize all my thoughts are about me as she is clutching her chest and breathing heavily.

I forgot about the argument we had two hours prior about her showing up here uninvited today and then spent the day nagging at me.  I forgot about all the times I was angry at just the sound of her voice.   I forgot everything except that's the woman who gave birth to me and did her best raising me alone. 

She'll be fine.  It was a close call says the doctor.  Appointment with the cardiologist on monday.  New meds.  Less stress.  Eat better.   Lose weight. 

I'm still biting my nails.  My stomach still aches. I'm still struggling to complete a sentence.  Every cliche and word of comfort I've prescribed to others still feel empty. 

Mom says Alls well that ends well now that her chest pains have subsided.   And I start getting irritated again.  I don't even know what the fuck that means.  But I laugh and nod in agreement.

It's been a good day. 

For a close call.

Familiar Stories: Ramblings.

For so long, I just didn't get it.  I was young; too young to talk like I was old.   We cling to the past because it's familar. 

At some point, I stopped combing my hair.  It doesn't necessarily mean I stopped caring.  I like the look of chaos.  Well, chaos is all I've ever known.  I'm not comfortable with anyone or anything that presents a semblance of order.   Why do you love me?  she asks.  Because you're almost as big as a mess I am.

One day, my ass is sticking to the passenger seat of his truck.  I'm holding a cassette tape of Motley Crue.  Three hour road trip, here we go.   It doesn't get better than this.   I'm still singing that song because it's familar.  I don't want to hear new Motley Crue music.  God, but I would love to just hear one new sentence from him.

Never forget, that one day we can step out our front door and our whole life changes forever.   I hear that quote in the fatherly voice of Bob Saget preceded by the word Kids.

There are two memorable rainy days in my life.  If it rains tomorrow, I'll be swept back to those two days.  I wish cell phones existed on those days.  I'm shivering in this warm rain.   My heart breaks at the thought of what could have been.  Two rainy days, two lost loves.  I see them both now and they're both beautiful.  They became the beautiful women I knew they would be someday. 

I walked into work as I always do on Mondays; refreshed.   I always thought it was stupid that Garfield would complain that he hated mondays. You're a fucking cat.  You sleep all day.  Everyday.  My life changed on this specific day.  It was an email.   Noone wants to find out their best friend died via an electronic chain mail. 

Sitting in my cubicle, face staring at the wall in front of me as tears streamed down my face.   It wasn't shock, surprisingly.  It was the culimation of experiencing self fulfilled prophecy for the first time.  I never agreed with this notion we should celebrate one's life instead of grieving for its end.  Everything always ends too soon.

I stopped making all phone calls and sending out texts.  It wasn't for the sake of self-preservation.  I didn't just stop loving her.  Maybe, for the first time in my life, I was being unselfish.  I was an anchor.  I was holding her down; holding her back.  It rained the night we last spoke.  So, that is three memorable rainy nights in my life.  All of them involved three different women; all beautiful.

My ass kept sticking to that wooden chair in macro economics 103.   Everything was in slow motion.  A one hour economics class under the influence seems like forever.   I don't brag about any educational accomplishments because being able to memorize shit we are told to memorize does not equate to intelligence.  

Stupid smart people point to diplomas on their wall.   The great moments of life aren't necessarily the things we do.  They are the things that happen to us.   And I think about that piece of wisdom in the fatherly voice of Bob Saget. 

I was told way back then to cherish the moments.  I don't think we ever cherish anything until they're gone.  I saw a different future for me.   I arrived here; arrogance intact.  But that's about it. 

I think about pride.   It's so debilitating.  It paralyzes us.  If we claim that no one really knows the real us, blame pride.   That's your fault.  Our fault.  My fault.

For so long, I didn't get it. 

I do now.

Familiarity is comfortable. 

eraser

Once upon a time, I'd chase her.  Only to come up empty.  Someone hand me an eraser before my pride tries to tempt me. 
Take away these thoughts.  Kill the butterflies.  Erase everything.  The hellos and goodbyes. 
Self-awareness is vanity's evil twin.  The elephant in the room is the sin. 

That lemon sun above mom and dad.  Crayon kissed canvas is all I had.   Grab me an eraser, I've got something new to draw.  Something new to add.  That black rain cloud.  That lemon sun.  That crying child.  A loaded gun. 
Fear is pride's ugly cousin.  Dads like him are a dime a dozen.

Once upon a time, I'd race her.  Only to intentionally lose.  Someone hand me an eraser and someone else's shoes. 
Take away these regrets.  Kill the butterflies.  Erase everything.  The condescension and consolation prize.   Unrequited love is the martyr's albatross.  Cliches are the burden of its cross.

That lemon sun and the illusion of hope.  Crayon dreams drowning under a microscope.   Grab me an eraser and a time machine.   I've got somewhere new to go.   Somewhere unforeseen.  
Hindsight might be twenty twenty.  Eraser, bring a brand new dream.

Once upon a time, I'd face her.  Only to bow my head in shame.  Someone hand me an eraser before she forgets my name.  
Take away the nerves.  Kill the butterflies.   Erase everything.   The kindness wrapped in lies.  Charmed, im sure, by its disguise.

That lemon sun over the white picket fence.   Future colored in suspense.  Grab me an eraser, I promise to stay within the lines.  Innocent eyes know the lemon sun always shines. 

Once upon a time, I'd embrace her.  Only to be pushed away.   Someone hand me an eraser so I dont duplicate her disarray. 
Take away everything I was taught.   Erase all I've memorized.  Give me a clean slate.  Kill the butterflies.

The Information

Sun and the moon were once in love
now millions of miles apart
I'm controlling the information
You're controlling the information
Miles and miles apart
Night and Day but we're the same
We could survive anything
but your indepedence
my neediness
As well as I know you
I don't know you well
The sun and the moon can't exist without the other
I'm controlling the information
The reality
Don't want you to stop loving me
Like the sun and the moon

Building rise buildings fall
who knew
the information was on the bottom floor
And I fell deep into my own footsteps
as the ashes of what almost was rose above our heads
Smoke and fire
I control the information
to limit the damage

And I do love you
always will
when the sun sets
the moon shows his face
each hiding the information from the other

Day and night happening at once
And I just don't want to care anymore

people like you

For every made up memory to fill in the blanks of our history
For all the exaggerated energy wasted on trying to solve this mystery
In between your photographs of trickery
Behind that veil of secrecy
For everything, we did and did not go through
People like me don't let go of people like you

From promises of forever
to highly unlikely
Eventually to never
People like you usually never love people like me

It comes and it goes
I'm okay and no, I'm not
It's for the best, I suppose
Before I left, I was an afterthought
But I'm okay and I'm really not
depending on the variable

For every word, you clung to
Every laugh I forced out of you
Each tear I never knew about
In between, my lack of empathy
My demands of martyrdom cloaked in cruelty
For everything, I did and did not put you through
People like me don't deserve people like you

From wedding bells and babies
to possibilities and maybes
People like me shouldn't be loved by people like you

For everything, I will never again get to verbalize
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Happy Birthday
Congratulations, I am proud of you
She has your smile and your eyes

In between, the bitterness of butterflies
Despite, the lack of compromise
And all the promises we failed to finalize
All the times, you were unfairly scrutinized
From my lips to God's ears above

People like you are easy to love.

Everyone loves Betty

My current guilty pleasure is vintage game shows.   Prior to this obsession, it was Johnny Carson reruns.  It's fairly typical of me to get fixated on one thing for a period of time and then move on to something else.

I suppose when we begin to feel a little less immortal, it's not obscenely abnormal to start looking in the rear view mirror.

One day, I am reminiscing with an old friend about high school graduation and this little irritating thing called math enters my mind.   When I graduated in 89, my mom was the same age I am now, I told her.  Makes sense.  My kids just graduated and I am your age, this friend replied.

Thanks to the internet, we are given the opportunity to read about ghosts.   It's just a collective word to describe all these "celebrities" I watch on these game shows.  One by one as they appear on these game shows, I google them.  

Charles Nelson Riley.  Dead.
Gene Rayburn.  Dead.
Richard Dawson.  Dead.
Brett Somers.  Dead.

And so on...

Morbid, I suppose but all these people seemed so likeable back then.  Filled with life.  Funny.  Creative.  Approachable.

Just when this little eye twitch sets in with this new knowledge that no one lives forever, Betty White appears on game show after game show.  Google says shes alive!   Of course, I knew that but I had to make sure.

Last night, my game show curiosity/obsession took a new turn.  I watched two long documentaries.  One was about Michael Larson, the man who outsmarted CBS and Press your Luck.  He figured out the patterns on the No Whammies board and walked away with $110,000.  Back in the early 80s, no one ever won more that $30,000 on a game show.  Larson was a con artist who spent months watching Press your Luck and figuring out where the Whammies would not hit the board and when.

The second documentary was about Charles Ingram.  He was an English army major who cheated on Who wants to be a Millionaire.  Ten years ago, his wife and a friend sat in the audience and would obnoxiously and loudly cough when the right answer was given out of the mulitple choices of each question.   Worst cheater in history.  He ended up winning $1 million and then getting 20 months in jail.  Of course, he never got paid.

Most of the game shows are cliche.  Everyone is super corny and jumps up and down incessantly.   For fear of being censored, sex is called making whoopie or the cringe inducing making love.  Sexual innuendo is avoided.   It's like watching the Brady Bunch on Prozac.

Really, the only unsavory part of these game shows is Richard Dawson's need to make out with women, girls, or anyone with a vagina.  Most over-rated "celebrity" in history.  Unfunny, pretentious and a little creepy.

So, I'm watching a celebrity episode of Family Feud and there's Betty White again.   She was on every game show possible back then.  Mr. Dawson leans in, makes out with her and she discusses some animal charity she will be donating any winnings to if her team wins.

God, she's the sweetest woman alive, I am thinking.  But what's with the hair?  She's had the same haircut since the 50s.  That's unheard of with women.  It's like imagining a woman owning only one pair of shoes her whole adult life.   I become fixated on this for a few minutes.

Maybe, that's why everyone loves Betty.  She's consistent. 

There's something to be said about consistency.  Being approachable, funny, friendly, kind; they're all noble traits.  And rare.  All of these ghosts seem to be genuinely drawn to her.  SHE'S GONNA OUTLIVE ALL OF YOU, I shout silently.

As I am about to become bored with my evening menu of game shows, Match Game comes on.  There's this little old lady contestant named Mildred who appears.  Mildred?  What's with all these terrible names women born prior to 1950 are given?  I become fixated on names and how they seem to always match the person with it.  I think of every crush I've ever had since I was 13 and there are no Mildreds or Barbaras or Loises or Helens.  

Match Game ends with Mildred winning $500.  The little old lady is beside herself.  I suppose that was a lot of money in 1978.  She's attempting to jump up and down while clapping like a seal.  Her joy is infectious.

And then...

Betty White, with the same haircut as Mildred but probably 30 years younger, rises from her celebrity seat, jogs over to Mildred and hugs her. 

It was genuine joy for another person.

Google says she's 94 years old.  Fifty years from now or 12 more presidential elections, I'll be the age she is now.

I'm getting a new haircut.