it was over 365 days ago when i choose to keep my heart in one piece

It was over 365 something days I decided. I decided. To keep my heart in one piece. And I succeeded. I did it. My heart stayed inside this very chest. It did not fly on to the floor in a million something pieces. I did not need a bungee cord or super glue to put it back together. I did not lay on the ground kicked in the stomach saying why me again?  I did not need a therapist to hold my hand to walk outside. Alone. I did not lay in a puddle of my own despair. Not anymore.  What happened? It is not a disney story. For those only exist in the confines of tvs and screens and movie theaters not the reality of every day. Storybooks of childhood of happy endings made easy.  What happened? It was not sexy. It was boring. It grew tired. I grew tired from the lack of excitement without the crash and burn and the quick fire repetitions of love affairs. I grew lonely. Boredom. Now. It was not pretty this keeping together of this heart. Loneliness foreign.

What happened next was. Was I learned how to play hide and seek with boredom, I let loneliness become my friend and no longer an enemy sown together-it lost its power. I let the desire for the excitement bubble outside of me in other ways. I said out loud what I wanted while my heart was held together in all its entirety. I stopped looking. And somewhere along the line, I surrendered. My own rendition of a child's pose.  In this game of love. And turned a new page, created a new story.

A new story of my attempt at love. For the first time in the history of Kate. I kept my heart in one piece and allowed life to happen in a way I did not take every opportunity and make it happen now. Right now. Because what if it was our only chance?  But I let go. Because I could not stomach another heart wrenching demise. And I woke up into. A new story. Of a relationship. Possibility. Just because you get a new story, does not mean you get a new ending. It does not just work that way.

But could be breaking the curse of loser guys and dismantling not getting what I need and the storyline of falling for ideas of people-outlines of real men- being over. Be enough. Could my heart being in one piece. And me being okay. Even if this might be over. That in this ending. My heart staying in one piece. Might mean. It all is different. In a way I wanted. In a way I have always wanted. In a way I had never dreamt. That goodbye might not be the shatter of the pulse and core of me. But instead. Letting go. To see what might be next. For us. Or just me. But no matter what this pitter patter that stays with me enclosed in its home of protection. Hasn't left.

I said over 365 days ago I could not survive another heart break. And as I stand here. Thinking of what will be next. My heart is in one piece. And knowing there is more. More of this to come. Might be the greatest gift. Of all. By myself or with him. Or someone else. I know I am not broken. Anymore. So many times it took. For me to stand here. Really stand here. And my promise to myself unbroken. And this story engrained on my heart has changed and so have I.  

simmering in the kitchen of my heart

Simmer. I watch as it simmers. To a slow pace of a less frequent bubble-warmth still there -but less so and the wonder will I actually get this hot enough to eat. How long can you let something simmer without a return to normal heat or to a boil? I said I wanted something different. And different is what I got. A love affair unlike the disney creation. A love affair unlike the floor falling underneath me. Happenstance of life of meeting might be of fairy tales but the courting. So very different. Not the crash and burn of my before existence. But a slow pace based on life and accidents and schedules and life random events. And the talking and texting until the meetings of the minds and the warming up quickly to a boil for a bit. To medium and back to boil. The spontaneity and flexibility of making time. And then back again to a simmer. A trip. Warmth again. A death. Simmer. And now as I look at this range I wonder if I should give up on this stew. Have I tried to long to stir into something. Had the heat been lost in the simmer. I never threw it away. I kept trying. Because. Because I wanted something different. And this was.

And the times his eyes cross into my path. And the times his laughter becomes mine. And the times when we break bread or burritos. And the times I hear his voice, his words. And feel the warmth of him slowly on my mouth. On me. Not just on my body. But on my mind. The banter of lightness and heavy and light again that I had lived for. Was here. With me. Right now. I didn't have to hide my degrees or love for books and reading research. Or that I spill on myself and I trip regularly on my own two feet both right and left. He thought me being me was enduring. I thought it was embarrassing. The nervousness I feel to shield myself never felt. The pot didn't boil over and no falling apart of him or me. No me trying ever ingredient to save this failed stew. Not a soliloquy of how can I save you with my glittery S underneath. But a pace slowly that I am getting used to.

As I watch the pot as it simmers. I wonder how long this can simmer. How long I can wait. To see him again. For life circumstances keep us from each other. I said I wanted something different. I said I would wait. And wait I do walking in and out of this kitchen of my heart. And wonder what will be next. But I have a feeling in between sleep and awake that there will be more cooking of this stew of us. Its taking time. To make something. Something that matters.

And maybe fear of it all. Scares me more that the shitty soups I used to make. Full of spices and lots of boiling and the desire to make something out of nothing. No stone soup in reality. It is not happening. Not this time. But on simmer. I watch. It all. And wonder when I can turn this up again. I wanted to turn it up yesterday. But as it simmers. Still. I let the worries wash over me. Because I know. I know I tread on the newness of a different story. And no matters what's next I'm playing a new game. A new kind of cooking. An affair of my heart. A new way of me. Being here. And although it stays on simmer. I warm at the thought of seeing him again. Soon.

untying the knot to the ship of disappointment

As I sit in this bed. The bed I had made myself. With new choices. And different outcomes. The excitement of beginnings coming now at a bearable repetition as I walk my feet down the warming pavement home. But as I lay on this bed. My own bed. I made myself. I am paralyzed. In fear. Fear I haven't felt in so very long. I had crafted and pottered walls and stairs and tree houses inside myself and all of a sudden I decided to collapse a wall or two. And let someone else climb the stairs with me or climb that tree and stare out of the window I created to remind me of what is around.

Me. See I had forgotten the fear of vulnerability. Because I stopped being vulnerable. Me and vulnerability have had a tumultuous love affair. I used to give it away unearned. I used to play and dance and sing carpe deim at the top of my lungs. Because the acceleration was always worth it. The addiction to the beginning of things as I float above myself but not for long. Until it stopped. Being worth it. And I stopped playing. With others. Instead. I became good at playing solitaire. And standing as a party of one on my mat of yoga. And building my life in ways I could grow with new walls and foundations and the final piece of my tree house with its swing. I didn’t need anyone to come play with me. Or I did. But I was waiting for someone who would stay a little bit longer. Someone I might walk with before running in a race to no where.

And as I lay in this bed. I had forgotten how scared I am. I am of the real thing. Because being alone. Became easier. No one got hurt in my own world created by myself. But now. As I lay and watch the ocean descend out to beyond I can ever see. I know the fear. Is tied to the ship of all what has happened before. I am still tied to the past of all the disappointments-all the falling on my face-all the wishing things can be different- all the I slept with someone else or im getting back with my x-girlfriend or I don't love you anymore or it will be cool to break up you with double parked or on myspace or entirely flake out. The rope is tied around me pulling me to sea to that boat. I am its anchor. The past failures and the past of me trying hard sometimes with the wrong people-sometimes- with the right magnets me out of this bed into the sand of the shore. I am tied to this past. In ways I had forgotten.

And all the therapy in the world and the success I have been lucky to have can ever erase that boats existence. Its not just the failed love. Its the failed relationship of a mother. Her leaving and never coming back. Her not ever getting the help she needed so that I could know her. Again. That is the heaviest. In the ship they all reside. The rope pulling me closer to the water. I drag my feet begging for the past not to matter. Pleading that I can create my own destiny. That I do not need to be tied with what was. I am not that person anymore.

I stop. And the knot around my waist was done by me and it could be undone. And as I begin to unknot it. Slowly. There is a pause. Can I let this rope go and still be me? I am still me. And as I stand on these rocks multiplied into a beach and stare at the water that goes beyond where I can see and where I can dream. I drop the rope. And watch the boat- it doesn't move quickly or abruptly. Its still there. But I don't have to be tied to the past as I once was.

I had forgotten about that ship. I had forgotten until I remembered that I had tied myself to it. Because of the fear of it. Of getting hurt so great. Of it working out so great. That I had to remember. Remember that I can watch it from the horizon but I am no longer controlled by it. The ship bobs up and down. I stand there for a moment. Until I feel my feet firmly in the moistness foundation of strong sand below- the waves coming in to welcome me home again. And I begin to move. Again.

rolling down the hill with eyes wide open

Rolling down the hill. The nostalgia for childhood wrapped in the reality of adultness. The feel of the pace slowly at first but reaching a speed beyond my own imagination. Me painted in oshkosh pink or green corduroys overalls and probably a striped shirt. Sometimes head first. No worries of protecting my brain or body. Other times engaging in child research of what happens when I roll on my side. For the exhilaration is the goal. And no connections of wires to worry or experience to say what happens if. The rolling down the hill of my childhood has crossed over through the jungle of adolescence and the earth turns into and through adulthood.

The roller coaster of life is now my own rolling down the hill. Into a relationship. Into a possibility of one. It has been that way since the beginning. The fast pace and not knowing what will happen next the excitement of what is to come and what is beautifully played out in my smiling expression upon my face. Just letting go and descending down the hill not knowing what will happen but it will be fun. And I might get hurt. But still chasing what was. And what will come. The exhilaration in the pit of my stomach of jumping into the water without easing in. But it hasn't always been pretty. My trips down hills of lust and love and everything in between. I have skinned my knees and stopped mid hill wondering what happened to my speed and sat at the bottom of hill in many pieces- with no one to put me together but me. No nursery rhyme to save me. Because I am no longer a child and now know the risks of rolling down the hill, especially a san francisco one, that I decided I had to stop rolling down the hill at a pace too much. It was fine. Fine until now.

As I stand before a hill. With both anticipation and hope and knowledge of what could happen as I begin this descend down this hill. Can I change how I make my way down and still enjoy the ride down? Can it happen without a trip to the er? Can I begin again without the surround sound of the past playing on repeat? Can I do it? Roll down this hill. And not let the excitement to take me over into a place where a child can only live. You got to travel down this hill. The hill onto what will be next.

But this time I stand staring over the horizon of this beautiful city, water colored into a way paint by number could ever dream of, I take it in. And think. Before I feel my head hang down and my hands touch the grass swimming in water and the excitement moves down from the depths of my stomach champanged to the top of a growing smile. And in thinking. And in seeing. In rolling down this hill. Might be at a pace. That I can live with.

this time when i wore the black dress of second chances

This time when I wore the black dress. The black dress breezy and light and full of potential. It had risen from the bottom of my closet to the surface of the water to find a hanger. I see it there. Bobbing up and down on top of the water. No longer sinking. But now floating. And I pick it up. And push my head through the opening. Buttoning the buttons up that live along the ruffles. Me newly showered fresh after the yoga of sweating and pulling and pushing and breathing. My cheeks still flush- irish glow. With relaxation. And release. And busting my ass. I can't find the right shoes. Oh well. Out the door. The skirt waves in the wind and choreographed to the sway of potential again.

To school. I drive. Through the maze of the lines of the urban river. Quickly. For I have a small window to get to financial aid office. For they screwed up my loans. Again. In driving. I decide. To leave it up. To the world of friday traffic if I get there. My hand gently loosens the grip on the wheel. I park. 5 minutes and counting. And run in the dress up the flight of stairs. Please. To get there with a minute to spare. Buttons coming undone in the running. I beg. To the man closing the door. Please. And he lets me in.

Scene change of the black and white break to drinks later. For I had worn the dress again. I had to give it another try. Believing. Because I hadn't in a long time. And I wanted to replace the scene that happened last time with something else in the film reel of memories that plays in my head. I fast forward and rewind and pause. I wanted the dress of heaviness to be light again. I wanted to feel the buoyancy of potential. Of given it another chance.

And as I sit. Sit with friends. At the bar. I feel someone moving me. In my bar stool. Twirling me around. My dress waves in a circle. And there stands someone I don't know. Somehow in this bar. Of helping someone get drinks. Things stopped for a moment. To talk about life. And what we do. But not in the typical CV way. Not in a booty call fashion. But in a way that you desire to talk more. About the realness of it. All. I am intrigued. Can I buy you a drink? I wish but my parents are coming early. How about a raincheck? And then the formalities of information exchange follow.

The best part it was so easy. No trying. Just happening. The dress wraps me as I float on top of the water and look up. At the sky above. I am floating. The best part was the dress of potential of second chances was light again. And so was I.

the black dress of second chances

The black dress. The last time I wore this black dress it was a thanksgiving celebration years past. This black dress found in the abyss of the growing smell of oldness in a second hand store in Santa Cruz. Not the type that overcharges you because its vintage no the type that gives you a great deal. The ruffles fall down the my neck down to the core of my stomach. Buttons who refuse to obey that I must keep rebuttoning. And the sheen of it all needs the right undergarments. Either nude or black make. The skirt is big and moves around further as if dancing with the stars could be mine. I gave it another chance to go outside the store and live a life beyond the confines of other forgotten clothes.

The last time I wore this dress. I went to an early Thanksgiving. The last time I wore this dress I realized I might be on a sinking ship of a relationship. The last time I wore this black sheen dress- I saw red. The waves of the red flag movement and sound telling me pay attention. To this. What is happening. Right now. The lightness of this dress propelled me to the bar to see the guy I had been dating. Him playing pool. Surrounded by a fan base of ladies. Me in the dress coming in stuffed with turkey but with buoyant possibility. He had beckoned me. Of course. I am not of the stalker make. And there we play and drink and be. Together. Until. It was closing. And there came part of his cheering section coming over. The woman looks at me. Unable to pick up on the social cues of dating. Are you guys together? She fires at me. Yes. I respond. That was not clear enough for her. I guess I was speaking in tongues again. Stupid. Me. Again. This time she throws the ball in my face. Like are you dating? No we are brothers and sisters. Who make out. Bitch. I repeat the words again -Yes-in the slowest, most threatening, the most step off bitch kind of way that three letters could ensue. She got the picture and bounced away looking for her next victim. It pissed me off to have such audacity.

Away we went home. My dress swayed in the laughter of what just happened. But there was a change in the pace. Of him. What should I have said? We were brother and sisters. Wishing maybe that I would have thought of something funny. But somehow we are still laughing. Til home. And upstairs. And then the redness of warning flew. As I turned on the light. The fan began to circle around the room spreading a collection of dust down on his bed. An accident. Of course. Kate I can't believe you did that. I am going to be sneezing for weeks. Don't touch the light switch. Again. Let me do it. It wasn't his words but his tone. That frighten me. That and being reprimanded for turning on a light. As an adult. From a lover. The flag arose and waved and colored the room of potential a deeper red than I was ready.

I stand in my dress of dance and lightness and sink. It was an accident I said. You can't be mad at me for an accident. But it keeps going. Let me show you how to do it. More. And then help me help you. I am getting a tutorial on light switch protocol in a scathing tone that makes me freeze. I clam up. Something inside of me tells me this is the tip of the iceberg of him. And my fear of him. Grows. I shut down. I never do. I never have. Being scared of someone you date. Might not the best of all scenarios. Might not be the dreams I have ever dreamt for myself. My hope for him feels to be diminishing. As he goes through the spiel in a tone left for no one but for me.

I stand in my black dress of potential. The dress of second chances. I gave it another. To breathe outside the confines of the box of the store. And wonder what the fuck am I going to do. Tonight. And the next day. The last time I wore the black dress of second chances. The light breezy material became heavy. The last time I wore this black dress. I didn't know what to do. But take it off. Lay in bed. Next to him. And decide tomorrow what to do.

i surrender. in this game of love. maybe.

hello folks- sorry for the unplanned break. i have been writing but not always sure on the sharing. this piece is about a library date gone wrong (we needed a date story). and don't worry i haven't given up on love just playing in the game. or maybe how i decide to play in it. all my thanks as always.

In the quiet. Of this library. Nothing exists. But the sounds. Of page turning. Keys punching. The whisper growing into. The wrapper moving. The forgotten cell phone ringer not silenced. In the quiet of this library. We found the conversation. Among others. Overheard by us. Too funny not to interject. Our laughter. Then the shaking of the hands. Exchanging of words. The distance of wanting a study break. And each time I would see him in this library. He would break the silence. First with words. Then with an ask out to drinks. Me wrapped in a yellow dress warm outside but trapped in this library. Him motorcycle helmet on top of his computer he never seemed to use. To be hit on by an undergrad made the yellow of the dress shine into my face. And then the blow of the kiss from his hand to his lips and out towards me. Flattered I was.

In the quiet of this library. In the quiet of living in this library. Of the quiet of the social life I had created. I depisied and relished in. In the quiet of the stairs I found he wasn't my junior but my peer through the maze of the circular stair wells down- the city scape bubbled around us the hills slide and the houses danced under the spotlights of the sun making a surprise appearance within the shyness of the fog.

In the quiet of this bar I look at him. Taking my glasses off in defeat. The short river of a line moves in between the sea of my greenish eyes. My anchors of hands fall onto the sides of my face painted beautifully for this first date. In the quiet. I didn't know what to do. I had talked. He had asked for a story after he told me he almost left. Before I got there. Because people don't always show up for these things. Way to complement me upon entering. The stories I tell-my true and tried funny stories -that the target audience of six to 70 years old seem to fancy but not him. Not a smirk, not a laugh, not a smile, inside or out. I am sinking in this silence.

I ask about him. He performed the soliloquy of boredom. I am boring. I am bored. I only do boring stuff. In every form, in every tense. Boring and more boring and wait boring again. In the quiet. I am lost. Lost in the library in the work and in finding him. And upon exiting the walls of books peppered with computers and in this bar company dark and drinks and anticipation in the quiet I learn. I learn the quiet. The quiet of him on this date is defeating me. I prompt about him coming to America. Shot down again. I am at a loss and the art of talking and listening and getting strangers and teenagers and new friends are lost in the quiet. As my white flag raises slowly while the rivers around my eyes opens up and the anchors I feel underneath release down.

In the quiet. I find. That first dates aren't great all the time. That the quiet interlude of a study break might only live in the walls of research. In the quiet of this bar as I sit next to this man I feel as if we are in our first fight. I finish my beer. I go to the bathroom. Pleading for help from God or friends or the universe. In the mirror I stare. In the quiet. It doesn't have to be this hard. In the quiet. I come back. But stay in. He decides to move his piece towards me. In quiet. I listen. In quiet. I know. That this first date will be our last. That some can only live in the the place you meet them and can't cross over into another place on the board of the game of life. He finishes his last drink. His 4^th in 2 hrs.

In quiet we end the date. In quiet I know that is the strangest date I've ever been on. In the quiet. Of my heart and my head. I hear the movement of what could be outside. There is a drizzle reminding of what was. I surrender not on this date. But in this game. In the quiet. I let go. For this moment. For a few. Until. The pace picks up again. Quietly.

changing how it turns out- but i still want another line as i walk upon it

Changing how it turned out. I didn't know how it would turn out yet. But I had pieced together snapshots of scenes in my mini series of my mind. A melodrama of my heart and hope for the future. The qualities I liked in him played perfectly in this short by me. See I have a girlhood crush syndrome that my early 30s hasn't seemed to break. I get crushes on strangers. On the barista. On the neighbor. On the friend. On the dude I made out with once. Excitement from the first time, the first time feeling the taste of infatuation dances around me as I skip on the way home. I can't shake the excitement I feel for someone in the beginning. The beginning of anything. It might be my favorite part of it all.

I guess part of my giddiness is for the lightness I feel for the real thing. The real thing that does warm me beyond the beginning to the depths of companionship. I used to fall hard and fast but took a vacation from the every moving fast bullet train to the very slow one making every stop. And it first it was fine. It was okay. But boredom started to seep in through my pores. I still wanted adventure. I still wanted intrigue. I still wanted to feel my heart pump with excitement. The slow train was slow. And I wanted more. But how to walk of the line of want I want long term and what I desire short term? Can I have both the excitement and stability as I walk on this tightrope of love with my heart jumping in and out of my chest to my sleeve and back again?

I don't know. But I do know. I need vacations. Vacations from the slow train. I pull the stop and jump out and try something new. Unplanned and spontaneous. And so easy just to be. And then I feel the warmth of another around me soothing the need for now. But later as the scenes of the future play out. Sometimes I want more scenes. I want more snapshots. And I can't help but wonder how it will turn out. In thinking about it, can I change how it will? Or the faith I feel in things coming together allows me not to change anything at all. See sometimes you meet someone while on vacation from the things you are supposed to be doing that makes the excitement and wonder grow inside as you think what will be next. For you. For him. And the excitement tastes good and I force myself not to wonder how it will turn out. Or to change the ending. I just want another line. Another paragraph. Another chapter. Of this book.

in the middle of it: my own reality tv show of two lovers reunited

i am back! i finished a year of grad school and my relationship with the library made it impossible to post and write. but i broke up with the library but sadly we might get back together sooner than i would like. here is piece about me being able to see lovers reunite and i just couldn't move and had to listen and write. enjoy! all my thanks, always!

In the middle of it. I am the middle of a conversation of reunited lovers after twenty years. I find myself by the happenstance, the providence, the fate of life. I am not either said lover. Just a bystander who can't move from this seat. Stuck here. Because what will happen next seems like it might be too good to actually move. Scene begins as: man walks in start of beard sprouting, motorcycle helmet in hand, he glances at me and gives me a half soft smile. He finds a seat behind me. A moment or two pass. And then she walks in. In the business causal attire of work. Full of movement and talking. He raises up to meet her. Embracing her around her shoulders. I just never thought I'd see you again. In person. He confesses. In quickness she responds guess you have been giving that a lot of thought. And I'm in. In the middle of this. Because what will happen next is what movies are made of. Not the kind you can rent old school at the video store or netflix or hulu. No the real life of reuniting. I must watch. And see.

And so it begins. The man waits as she orders. She refuses his offer to buy her coffee. She talks at a rapid pace to all those around her, a co-worker, the barista, and even me when I get up for a moment. He sits waiting patiently. To sit across from her again. And then she returns to the seat. They are behind me so all I can hear is their words now. No facial expression or movements. The NPR radio show of love affairs lost. And found.

She begins. And talks and gives the synopsis of her life the last years. Fast and furious and the gentlemen rarely speaks. He tries to give her a morsel of him. But she refuses. The bio of places she has lived. The CV of jobs she has acquired. The snapshot of starting her witty yoga site and her current job. He takes the pause as an opening, when I was shooting those kids. My own eyes crinkle. Oh he is a photographer. And then it gets interesting when the job interview pauses and real life begins.

It begins in a story where she realizes her sister set him up with someone after they broke up. I can't believe she did that. I am still going to talk to her about it. Years past not mattering. Are you single? The nod happens but I can't see behind me just in the pause in the back and forth. Next to the discussion of marriage and kids. Have you done it? Will you do it? Conversations of years had before. And had again. She never married and never wanting kids. Until now maybe. I would shit my pants every time I thought a serious boyfriend would want to get married. I would freak out around the holidays. I am not a commitphobe, but scared. Him marrying a woman due to the realities of immigration. I did get married. But it wasn't a real marriage. We treated it as dating plus legality. And more words in between until he said we treated it as a real marriage. Everything was great expect the one part that always worked with everyone else. The sex. I thought she would come around. I thought she would open up.

And as I listen and write down on my napkin my only piece of paper a great on the fly notebook. I can't help but think what happens next. Next for them. In this talking. In this reuniting. In this thing called love. But although I am in the middle of it, I got to get up and go. To do what I have to do. In the middle of their thing, I needed to move on to mine. And in watching them. I find faith and remember my own lost loves. Reuniting doesn't mean happily ever after but it fixes the space broken in disconnection. I walk away and feel lucky to have seen. Someone else's reality. In remembering my own.

trying on online dating for size

hello all,

thanks so much for your support and your kind words along this journey of writing. i am truly inspired and humbled by the ways you can connect with words. all my thanks, always. this is about me trying online dating on for size. i still haven't left the dressing room.

Trying it on for size. I decided to try it on for size. Not in the I want to buy it and wear it everyday kind of trying on. More like the tentative look at the item. This isn't really my style. I say inside my head. But it looks interesting. Maybe I should just try it on for size.

I decided to try it on for size. Online dating. It's been a week. It's not really my style. I am a more organic-not hippy variety-let things happen kind of lady. But after some deliberating and listening to others who have done it and the fact that the applicants I have seen too lately haven't been very promising. I decided to try it on for size. But before I stepped into the dressing room, before I got into the line to hand my clothes to the attendant, I decided it had to be for fun. It had to be for material. Writing. And if something came out of it great. And if nothing did. It had to be okay too. I am an anticipator kind of woman- I get expectations in my mind so before I tried on this new way of dating and interacting and the creating of the perception of what others would want to see of me. I paused. And when I walked inside the room to try it on. It was just me and the mirror.

I looked at the reflection as I wrote down words, not too many, some funny, others not, just enough not too many to go upon the screen of me. It is hard to know what to tell on this medium. It is so much easy to talk in person. And see another's face as you speak words. To know if they shake their head in unison with you or not. Then the pictures. Which pictures to choose? Fun ones of course. Unique. And of course I had to look good in them. Not the boring typical head shots. No cutting off a significant others arm. 3 I choose. One-when I am dancing and you can't see the details of my face (risky- maybe), one in a wonder woman outfit- top half only- in glasses and one in a tight dress that I found at forever 21 even though I am way past that.

And then the moment of truth when I stood in front of that mirror and pulled down the clothing past my head to see and send. And wait. Trying it on for size is letting me see what is next. And what will happen. Its putting something on that is new to take a risk and say what if I wore this. Out of this room. And surprisingly it was easy. There was attention, and ims, and ask out for dates and messages and it was fun on the rainy afternoon. I found myself laughing at comments or saying oh no out loud at looking at profiles. It was easier then I thought to stand in that mirror and try it on. But now what would be next.

Next. For all that attention. I haven’t made the next step of finalizing anything. Of seeing anyone beyond this room. For after I signed up on that day, I haven't had time, I haven't made time. There might be something about walking out of this room inside to the outside world in this new look to see what happens next which really scares me. Scares me in a way that I keep just looking in the mirror, turning different directions to find the perfect view.

ghost of boyfriend past

hello all-

thanks for stopping by as always and hope you are and have been enjoying this sun that we have had shining on us regularly. written from the prompt stillness after a ghost of boyfriend past sighting at yoga. enjoy.

Stillness. I found myself in stillness as I found my place on the last steps to this new yoga studio. For the man who had visited me in my dream last night someone who I hadn't seen in months and haven't heard from either- stood to the right of me. As I look right, I see the shape of a head looking down that could only be his. Tightly shaved and looking down upon a device. And then his stance opened up ever so slightly with the flip flops I would recognize anywhere. Stillness found me as I spoke to register for the class and my last name fashioned more audibly than needed out loud so he could turn around to see me. But Bueler rolled off my lips and no turning of his head. He does yoga now? The inner dialogue begins to quicken. But stillness of should I move to him. Stillness of what to do next. Stillness I want to feel in yoga class is now my heart pounding in and out and in stillness of uncertainty.

I walk slowly. Purposefully. And walk gently past the man. To see his profile, to see him and ready for what might be next. And as I walk he turns his head to mine and my strong eyes he felt and the familiarity of his head and his shape and his dress are just that-they are not him and the things I thought were his but belong to a different man. As soon as he turns to me-both relief and a twinge of disappointment fall out of me. For as much as I don't like the uncomfortable especially in my yoga time there is a piece of me that would like to see him. Again. In a yoga class at that. And just see him. For a few minutes and feel his warm and kind eyes upon me and this time hope that all is more calm for him. And that the rapid pace of our love affair and his life that reflected that would feel different.

As relief pours out of me more than the disappointment. Stillness becomes me again as I sit down on my mat and remain still. Breathing in and out even though the edge of anticipation is still moving through the rivers of my body to my heart. This heart where it all has lived. Always. I become more still in being here. In this class. And as I move through the breathing and legs up and down, I can't help but notice this man, the man who I thought was someone else, a person away from me on his mat. As I lean into my poses on my right side of my warrior, I study the back side of this man. While breathing of course. In and out. His build- wide and coming down- his muscles toned but not daunting are the same. The dusting of leg hair and arm hair and the hands-the hands-I used to hold , held onto too long are the same too.

I used to study the man, the man I had a relationship with until I knew him in ways we didn't anticipate. And here in yoga stands a man from behind that looks exactly like him. A reminder of what was is breathing and in stillness lives with me. Right now besides me on a yoga mat. Before in a bed where we laid together. But he no longer resides once where he did in this heart. In and out breathing until I am looking down. To the next pose. The reminder of what was lives inside of us and sometimes in stillness we see someone who used to mean so much and now we can see from afar and in the reminder and in the stillness, we breath and move and know that it is time and has been to look forward. In stillness, I do as I push down my hands to the earth.

the final notice of a grand gesture

Final notice. I provided my final notice. Handed it over in a bold print with big letters at the top. FINAL NOTICE it read. I sent it via email. I faxed it. I texted it. How many times can you give a final notice to someone before they get it? See we live in this world where people eat romantic gestures in their cornflakes, they scoop in the possibility for a grand gesture in their spoons, they chew on the images of what a relationship will be like that by the time its done really done they are in the in a dazed belief in what love and relationships mean. Its the monet of love. It looks great from afar but close up you realize not what you expected. It takes many pieces to make the whole. In worshipping the wrong things. Paying homage to the salaries, kneeling before the engaged, praising the ring has indeed complicated it all.

Final notice to some means. Try harder. Chase me. It means. Pay the final respect of this last image in this movie and come after me. Run after me. But they never do show the next scene. What really happens. Final notice. To me. Means donzo. Finished. Moldy. Garbage. Because to get to a final notice with me means you had to have a lot of notices in between. I don't jump to the final notice without proof. Without some warning. Its hard enough for me to type the letters and commit to them. I know I might not mean them in the way I should. So I don't write them until I have to. Until I really mean it.

Final notice. It reads at the top of the paper. But ignored in text messages, come meet me, I want a drink and nothing else. And I am without my wife. From an old boyfriend. Who when you dated wasn't attached. Or showing up where I will be just to see me. And then leaving early. Or that last email. Or that call will come. Again. Around the holidays. More calls will come. A rash of texts. The writing of the final notice. Deciding it is done. Its more than breaking up. Its more than ending. Its admitting the moving on. And how to move. On. Really. And how to keep going. When those you paid a final notice try to renegotiate the terms. Of friendship. Of love. Of the connection to you.

the winds of change blowing me still

The wind of change. The wind of change blew hard and fast shaking the aluminum of cans and cars. The trees sway as if they have lost their bones. As you stand on this street. This one way street home. You just watch it all. And wait. Wait for how you should feel. What you should do. The taking in and holding. Instead of the movement going-just to move. And then. There might be a reprieve.

The wind of change comes rapidly sometimes shocking you. Or sometimes it is a whistle reminding you. A melody that is easier to heard inside of your head. Because when you change-if you start to. People don't want it. They want the bullet points and cliff notes on you to stay the same. Every time. But people change they can. It takes work. The wind makes it so you need protection.

As I sat in the chair and held myself from running after him. Again. I had made it through the tough part or so I thought. Because we play roles in our lives sometimes over and over until. One day the wind blows down the street lighter and we say maybe lets play this a little different. As the weights of my soul held me glued to the seat. I was relieved that although maybe he still ran away. Early. And never saw to see what would be next. That this time I could do something different. And I did- I was. And I thought the wind of change would comfort me. And it did. I was tempted to contact him and reel him back in. But thought no. The wind had taken hold of me and made me lighter.

It wasn't until yoga. The next week as I lay on my back in the last pose of this class. That he came back to me. And remorse I had for it being over. Done. The wind wasn't with me. I didn't feel light. I felt sadness for a goodbye never said. And the heavy of words only heavy because they were never said. And no longer did I want to be different. I wanted to be the same. I wanted to move towards him. And say words that have been trapped in my throat for years. Not to hear answers but to say the words aloud to the face that brought them to be. Wind of change blowing again. For I had given up on a future. But maybe I hadn't given up on letting the words free from my mouth to travel slowly and quickly to his ears in the hopes they would blow into his head and down the long way down into his heart. Just for a moment.

The wind of change was-I still did nothing. I left my mat. And let these thoughts just be. Instead of acting. Not moving for me. Not moving hard and fast. And making sure to never let things simmer. Is one of my greatest challenges. I blow back and forth about what I want and how I would like this all to end. A long traveled journey down halls and roads and aisles and lines we have seemed to find each other more than once. But when I saw him again after years and after the hospital which I had called this match over. I couldn't help but think I can say what I want. Out loud. To him. But he already knows. Just like his words. His words he had told me over and over as he walked or ran away down the street as the wind picks up behind me. It used to propel me to follow. But this time. It willed me. To stand still. And see what happens. Next. The wind stopped. On its own. At least for now.

learning the limits of the warmth of a hand

thanks for stopping by- and we are fast approaching a year that i have been doing this writing and sharing craziness. stay tuned for some best of to celebrate. . . all my thanks always.

Limitless. He longs for a limitless existence. Where he can go where he wishes and do what he wants. He brings in those close and then pushes them away. In silence. In deciding when this conversation is over. He keeps the smile and laughter as he pours drinks for you and the others. One of his choice of numbness.

He will not tell you his story. For people usually do. He started to talk of the past- even though it was one of the first things he began to tell you. But then he tied it neatly up in the box of him. And pushed it down the stairs to ship again to the coldness that was left behind.

He plays in the rules that keep him safe but pushes the lines that make scare you. Rules about eating and cleaning and being. But finding every way to not feel. Feel. Socially acceptable or not.

He looks at you and says he is a hard nut to crack but he will warm up. The chillness of him doesn't seem like one a coat can protect. Coldness to me is like walking away. Although comfortable. Although reminding me of what was. Was before. I want something different now. I do.

But how can I see this man. Next to me. And this bar. In this bed. In this moment. Words of warmth spoken fueled in twilight and alcohol beverages and mutual attraction and the longing of companionship. He reminds me of someone. But. As I blend these two men into one. Into one story. Into me. For he just told me where he was going and when he'd be back. I can't help but think. That my mistake last time was beyond the temporary. Was not surveying the scene and taking it in. Ignoring and the queen of seeing what I wanted to resulted in my heart on the ground and me begging for someone to put it back where it belonged.

But this time. As I sit next to this man on my respective bar stool. I know. Now. What I see. And in seeing. It is different. And the barrier I build around my heart needed. For not everyone you spend time is a soulmate. His hand touches my leg. Squeezing it in familiarity too early. I reach my hand into his and squeeze back. We don't let go. I feel the hotness of his skin under mine. For this moment. Side by side.

what if i let this what if die?

Death. I have written about a death of a name. How can a name die for you? Good question. Just get involved with a few guys with the same name and they seem to let you down in a heart and gut wrenching way. So much you begin to wonder there might be a tragic flaw in a name. I vowed to never date a man with the name C. I shake a hand with someone attached to this the name. And I cringe. Inside. I hear someone say the name from afar and I stay there. I stay away from them. From those C’s.

After I fell for three men with the same name- I let the name die for me. I ended up being left with a doubled park dumping and an almost broken nose (my doing from a drunken night of debauchery-aftermath due to the break up-see previous blog entry). I was left with a bad highlight job of blonde- I needed a change and some lady I didn't know made me blonde to forget. I was left with him showing up on my doorstep with a b-day present months after he dumped me. And me not wanting him upon my door. He left me with one final email. I never responded. Later I heard he had gone off the deep end. At least I wasn’t left with that.

Another. He left me with one less book on my shelf- my favorite book Unbearable Lightness of Being and wondering what would have ever happened if he had really took a chance. He later found me. And came to give it round. Kissing me upon my doorstep. Anticipation of years made me feel faint. For the first time. But he ran away again. Left me wondering.

For years, I did. Wonder. What ifs from the beginning stages of life sometimes we hold onto to them too long. Until he almost died. And I had to tell him. And wonder until. I couldn’t anymore. The last time I saw him was in hospital room. He might be healthy now. His body. But a fatal flaw of a man who would rather be full of potential than fail is not a tragic hero but a sad estate of affairs. If death doesn’t breath life into your bones into your body nothing will. Needless to say. He let me pass through his life again.

What ifs. Were better for him. He stopped being a what if. After one last summer of living out our past college days of infatuation. I walked down that hall of the cold clinical hallway and pushed the button to the elevator. Wanting to run down the hall and say goodbye. Or just say no. Don’t die. Not now. Because as I walked slowly and purposefully. I never wanted this what if to die. I wanted it to grow and flourish into something. But it had. As it lay lifeless inside of me. In that hospital. The elevators door open. Two faces appear before me. I hesitate. Not sure. If I can. Walk away. For good. I find my place in the elevator as the doors close in slow motion. Closing my view. Smaller each minute. Until it disappears. Dying. The death. Of me wanting it to work. He didn’t die. But we did.

a block and a half walk down memory lane reminding me i already threw that sandwich away

Try cleaning house. Cleaning house not in the 1950’s housewife manner now planned in between events and meetings and extracurricular but in a real way. Cleaning house of yourself is easy to avoid. You become a prisoner to others wants and desires and live in other things and somehow you have been forgotten. You might wake up one day singing a bad country song out that window and realize I got to clean this house. Not in my bestowed womanly duties but in the reality of the clutter of life, of family, of loves-lost, shared, or desired-are starting to make you look like a serious pack rat. Cleaning house as an adult is hard to do because you have programmed your patterns so perfectly that you think they are yours for life. But what if you did it different? What if developmental gains were not only lost to the younger counterparts? What if you asked what if I was different?

Cleaning house not many people do it. It is easier to keep going on the hamster wheel fast line with or without passengers on the freeway than stop and ask what am I doing. What are you doing? In the cleaning you find the forgotten sandwich, in the brown bag, in the cotton bag, in the plastic bag, in the growing mold of lack of light into the stench of there is not forgetting this sandwich. You held onto to it. Because a lover made it. Because he made it for you. You held on hard and then tossed it to the side. You will throw it away later. You say to yourself. Not now. Now I am not ready. But then you find it months later. Years later. And think I should have cleaned this, cleansed this of myself earlier.

The other day straight out of yoga, I was soppy with sweat and release and contentment and I ran into someone that once upon meant something to me. He sat on one side of the crosswalk and me the other. I said his name and waved. He walked towards me in between the white lines faded and nothing happened. No butterflies grew into a colony in my stomach. My heart didn’t pick up the pace to match my mind. I reached out to hug him. Warning him of the moisture upon my cotton clad body. And he was like you are sweaty. Most men don’t mind touching me sweaty or not. Laughter and then the walk by side. I had forgotten he was so tall. I had forgotten he walked so propelling himself forward. I had forgotten he was selfish. So selfish not to ask how I was. One and half years or so had passed since I had seen his face near mine. Not a how are you or how have you been. Nothing.

As we walked that one and half blocks- I listened and nodded and realized the gift of a short walk with someone who you thought you knew, someone who you thought you could have loved. I realized I was thankful for the eco-cleaning supplies of therapy and the prick of the needles of acupuncture and realizing what I could agree to before could not now. I turned that corner. Thankful for cleaning my house. I didn’t care about cleaning his. My house was the only thing that mattered. I had changed. In a way I could see. What I wanted. Wanted in a way I hadn’t before. Before. A walk so brief. A love affair so brief. A cleaning of the house. Sometimes you find more than a forgotten sandwich. This time I did.

watching out for douchebags really isn't that hard

hello friends- this week by accident is dedicated to my anti- technology and anti douchebag sentiments. i hope you enjoy and thanks for stopping by as always. feel free to check out comments on this piece at creative caffeine. have an amazing great weekend and do me a favor and join me in going against the current and do something radical and pick up the phone instead of texting or better yet write someone a love letter!

Watching out. Watching out for douche bags really isn’t that hard. Not when they text you things like- and I quote- “hey if you’re still interested give me a shout, you cool.” It was as if one of my high schoolers was crank texting me-no this is real folks this is an attempt at trying to hang out with me. Me: a grown ass woman. Me: someone who could be considered attractive and funny and at this point I got better attempts at hanging out with me when I was in the 6th grade. This shit is pathetic. And this attempt at courting or dating or bumping beautifuls is just so shameless ridiculous I can’t help but feel this might be the dating low of a lifetime. Oh, but it’s not because there has been others.


So I have decided that my ass, my pretty nice ass, is not going to take a date with a man or attempt one unless he takes off his underwear with action heroes and see if his balls have actually dropped and then picks up the phone. And calls me. Call me old fashioned. But if that type of game, that type of grammar works on someone- please show me because I think it is almost beyond words. I would rather do about a million things like clean my room, talk to myself in the mirror, job interviews. It’s nice to date; date adults but boys in adult’s clothes shoes too big and their dad’s jacket just can’t cut it anymore. I don’t have time for this shit. But really my patience has just worn thin.


Years ago maybe I might had fallen into some ball of mush when I got a text but not anymore. I guess the attempts at effort fall short when they fall short line by line. You cool. You ain’t that cool. I don’t know where I am going in this thing called dating. But it is sad to think that my younger self got some better ask outs then now. I shake my head and roll my eyes and say seriously. Because this is not as good as it gets folks. Nope. There is more. More than this I am sure. Because I have had those before. Words that meant more than dropping the lure to see which one of the girls you might have meet at a giants game will respond. Respond I didn’t. I just laughed. And told my friends. And thought what a douche. A douche I didn’t have to date to realize he was a loser. He did me the luxury of typing it out in a memo. A memo sent to me and some other chicks. You cool. I am. Thanks for the heads up-you aren’t.

Thanks for not allowing the intrigue of you to grow into other than this. Because I have been fooled before but how can you be fooled when it is so blatantly typed before your eyes. I read it more than once just in case I was confused. Nope. Not confused. Just watching out for douche bags. I am done dating the selfish and the problems and the lackadaisical lifestyle of trying pursuing me. I don’t need rose pedal lined doorways or 5 star anything but what I do need is the buzz of my phone in my back pocket. And a growing smile against my face as I put the words the words of you in my ear. Hearing you out loud. Asking me. Me to see you again.

technology killed the love letter- in my mind and in my car, i hope we can rewind and we haven’t gone too far

This is what changed when I realized there had been a death. A death of love letters. A mourning of flowers. A forgotten paid dinner. All of sudden one day I realized there was once a time when I got love letters regularly and cute notes. Letters of childhood passed turned into boyfriends official or those who longed to be pinned by me. I found more than one in my attic. And it hit me I hadn’t gotten a good love letter in years.

When I was younger I got them regularly. Typed on a typewriter, hand written, hand delivered, dropped off with a mix tape. The love letters have died. The art of them might have. If I only I would have known-I might had basked in those words longer, I might have read the words more carefully. But there will be more or so I thought. But the written word. The written word from someone’s heart to mine it doesn’t happen as it once did. Love letters are now read on screens and the more smiley faces from a guy on a text the more your friends will roll their eyes. The flirtation on the screen is still a letter but not the same as before on the binder paper lined with an arrow at the end. Turn me over.

I have been texted lovely things. I have been emailed words that made me stop and close my eyes. Words like I do adore you with or without your clothes off- although I am a mess right now- I am dedicated to us. Or the question answered in I too wonder what would have happened to us if our lives hadn’t changed. See the words still matter they do. But the delivery of a love letter just feels different and reminds me of what was. What was. What was before. Maybe what has changed is me. Maybe I have changed.

Because I miss the simplicity of what was on those papers, those lines, those words. Maybe the love, the possibility of it confined in a letter or an email is just getting harder, harder for me to do in a way I once did. Maybe I long for the simplicity of the written word being enough. Being enough for me. But stupid-me my younger self-didn’t realize that the love letters and the mix tapes and the flowers would stop. Stop.

A text asking me out is not like a phone call. A phone call of hours is how most of my love affairs have started. Conversations where you realize shit its been hours. Maybe there is no replacement for what was before. The words, the words that take effort, the words that stop this busy world and make me pause to say yes, yes I would like to do this. I should be honored, I should feel lucky for my many chances. Queen of potentials-I might be. But maybe I want to remember the love that was before. How it felt. The simplicity of someone truly adoring you enough to sit down and think about their words. Words to you and press send in the licking of the envelope.

you aren't anyone until someone writes a missed connection about you

Out of order. We live in an out of order world. A world that moves backwards while roller skating forward. Moving out of order through the ending into the beginning of things. And then we wonder why it all doesn’t work out, as it shall. Out of order. There are many a symptoms to show we live in an out of order world. One is missed connections. The concept might have had its place, maybe. Craigslist where you can buy a bed, find an apartment, a date, a lay, and a job. Crazy. She -my friend and me began to read the missed connections as a hobby. As a pastime. And laugh. And secretly hope we would be on it one day. Why? I am not sure. Maybe it is the part to be seen from a far. For someone to long for you. And care so much not to say hello- hello to your face but play some fate roulette spinning around until.


I had a joke that you aren’t anyone until someone writes a missed connection about you. About you. But that was after someone had written one about me. You can’t really say that unless you have. So the time it happened to me.


I was in a café. I spoke to a man. And I realized while I was speaking about sharing the plug-I glanced backwards to realize he was actually attractive and been sitting there all along. Out of order. We had a momentary conversation that stretched longer than it should. It sat in the room bubbling above us as he walked away. As he walked away he glanced back. And in his hat and his semi smile I knew that he would write a missed connection about me. I just knew. Knew until. I forgot.

The next day as I sat in that same café. I remembered. And on the internet I jumped. Onto the craigs. And searched the café’s name. Que tal. Ready for nothing. And there it was. Brunette woman speaking of acupuncture blah blah blah. It was me. I felt naked. I looked around the room to see if he was there again. I didn’t know what to do. I felt flattered and strangely watched in unison. The out of order of attraction. The out of order of hello. What is your name-what is your number- left to the silenced words on the screen.


So I replied. Very short. Just to make sure it was me. I asked what we had talked about. And I watched the cursor flick on and off. Until I press send. Let fate run its course backwards, with your eyes closed, in a bad romantic comedy where gestures are not grand. I press send. And checked and checked but nothing.


Out of order. The out of order connection. It is out of order way to get to know someone. Someone. I guess if you aren’t willing to put on your big boy pants and say something more before you go on your way in this thing called life, but take the time to write it all down and put it on the internet that might just be your gig. Your game. Your mo. You might just idealize and love from afar.


I recant you aren’t anyone until someone missed connects you, you are someone when you know its better for someone just to sit a little longer-longer than out of order connecting through a device. The out of order of courting. I want to flip around and go the right away on the track. Still my way. But not backwards. Not with my eyes closed. Not texting my way into romance. Just starting with the hello. Out loud. To each others faces.

the arrival of a brief love affair with my new eye doctor. . . during our appointment

An arrival of a new but brief love affair occurring between the hours of 2:45 and 4 pm on Saturday afternoon. Warm but not too warm. I wore my jeanskirt and v neck American apparel tee. I walked to get exercise. This love affair was short lived. It was over before my departure out the door into the real world. With eyes wide open. Dilated they were. No sunglasses to block out the sun.

The love affair was brief with my new eye doctor. I was pleasantly surprised when he would be the one to look into my eyes and say one or two. One or two- clicking the lenses between good and better. I am going to push you. Can you read this line? Our faces next to one another looking into one another eyes but separated by his contraption to get the look underneath the green coral shell eyes to the surface. Of things. I did the standard look subtle for a ring. Nope. I was okay. I was laughing. He was laughing. This was the best first date I had in awhile.

He talked me into things like dilating my eyes. And was so sweet when he broke the news- my eyes were finally different and there was a beginning of the astigmatism in one. He gave me tissues as I teared up. Back and froth. There was banter of more than a doctor or patient. An arrival of possibility. Growing inside of my chest and my stomach. My eyes opened and closed and glistened. As he looked into my eyes or didn’t. Oh you are a April baby too. Making small talk beyond the typical or so I thought. I kind of have a soft spot for smart man who is bilingual and donates his services. It’s kind of like a gold digger finding out she is panning in an unlimited place on the river.

Dr. Gonzalez * wants to see me again and soon. I repeat the words to receptionist. He leans out perfectly framed by the door and says. Call me Jose*. I smile. I wave. I skip. Yes it has to be soon. He says the man of fixer of eyes. Before Saturday. Saturday I am getting married.

The arrival of the possibility died in the time span of doctor’s appointment. It might be a world record of potential and ending so quick. Of course. Typical. So very typical. How else could a smart, attractive man, who does charity work not be taken? I am an idiot. Arrival of disappointment. Because all I have in my grasps are potentials. Even if it is a school girl crush where the police might sing don’t stand too close. I try not to skip a beat. Congrats. And just to add to it. He is marrying a woman with my name. My name. Come on. I don’t know what to say except. One day if I do it- I am going to get a taco truck at mine. Funny thing- we are doing that and it was my idea. Keep going the arrival of my idiocy now frosted on my own cake. I let him talk me into things like different eye solution and contacts and the dilation of my eyes.

I walked out. With a smile on my face. Face full smeared laughter of disappointment and potential. The light hit my eyes and I couldn’t see. It is what happens normally when I crush on them. I can’t see. See more than I want to. More than the potential of them. More than I should. I couldn’t see.


* name has been changed to protect the identity of this eye doctor as well as my own embarrassment.