Love that will not betray you, dismay or enslave you...

I can see right through you

Even though the two new Starbucks' I'm working at are both nearly a half hour away from my previous one I have run into several old customers.  This one lady, someone I didn't quite recognize, didn't say anything until right as she was leaving and then she casually remarked, We miss you over at Bethany.  It caught me a little off guard because I hadn't placed her but it put smiles in my stomach knowing I was missed, knowing I had been seen.

That seems to be my theme of the week.

Today this guy is standing in front of my register and I swear I've never seen him before in my life and then he says, So what are you doing at this store we usually see you at the Bethany Village Starbucks.  My jaw dropped open I was so stunned.  I had no idea who this guy was and here he knew exactly who I was. 
You just never know who sees you.
I mean, people see you and you are unawares. 
You have no clue.

It's so funny the way people resist change.  They detest it.  My own brother used to say he didn't want to try something if he'd never had it before.  There's great meaning behind that, I'm sure.  Starbucks got these new programs for cashiering and are even changing the way they make drinks and the flow of things and people that work there are FREAKING out!  It's kind of hillarious.  See, I've worked at Starbucks on and off for 500 years and I'm used to all the change.  I also just don't really care.  My identity is not being a Barista.  So I really don't take personal offense when I can't do things the way I always programmed myself to.  I would think people would be glad they no longer are going to be robots at work going through the monotony without ever actually engaging the recesses of their brain.  But instead their panties are in a twist.  I totally imagined this one very wound tight girl at my old store who must just be dying over losing her beloved control in having things set in her ways.  It kind of makes me giddy with glee when I think about it.

What's really stellar is that I was supposed to work at two stores just through the holidays but the manager at my borrowed store loves me so much she wants to keep things this way.  And my home store manager is such a laid back guy he just wants me to be happy.  So I'm to permanently be a fixture at two different Starbucks, which means two different sets of coworkers, two clienteles, two very different kinds of stores. That is SO rad!  It is gonna be a lot harder to get bored with such variety.  And truthfully I am so thankful to even have a job I've been reveling in every moment, even the ones where I feel like Cinderella as I have to clean the toilet and mop the floors.  It's amazing what a little perspective can do for you.

I walked around the mall the other day and saw this young guy on a bench feeding a baby a bottle and trying to talk on his cell at the same time.  This pang of overwhelming emotion socked me in my gut.

I'm so freaking not ready to be a mom.

One of my coworkers is my age and has a toddler.  I came home from this draining day and thought of her.  And I thought, If I had kids I couldn't be laying on the couch right now, I'd be running around taking care of them.  Stepping out of my reverie I asked, Grandma, how do people have kids?  I seriously don't understand how it's even possible.  Grandma looked me square in the eyes and said, It's hard.
Funny, that's the same thing an old coworker told me about marriage, I'm not gonna lie, Resa, it's hard.

They really don't put that on Hallmark cards, though.  Can you imagine?

Congratulations on your wedding!  Now you will know the delightful hell that is marriage.  Don't be fooled by the initial great sex and shiny presents, you're in for the most exhausting rollercoaster of your life.  And sad to say, you're really kinda stuck on this ride.  And this ride only.  No Teacups or Round up or Octopus for you.  One rollercoaster.  Over and over again.  For freakin' ever.  But congrats!!

Oh, come on, that would totally be a big seller with the blue haired ladies that frequent Hallmark.

Hmm.

I like change.
I like the unexpected.
I like surprises.
I like it when people make my jaw drop in disbelief.
I like it when the butterflies dance inside of me.
I like that he still delights in me.  Especially after seeing what a loving bitch I truly am.
Few get to catch that in all its glory, 'tis a privilege indeed.

Mine, All Mine

"Someone came in and left a note for you, some guy."
What? Wait... what did he look like...
"He had glasses on and a hat and tattoos..."
Oh......my.......GOD!

No freaking way.

Once again a beautiful man has left me with that expression on my lips.
And not only was there a note left for me but it was written in this sort of secret code that only I would understand.
And I seriously loved that.
I guess there are a few people out there who do still surprise me.
He always did know how much I love surprises.

I was a little disheartened that I had worked at my other store and missed seeing him, though.  It has been nearly a month since I've seen him and while in actual time that's not very long at all in Fairy Tale time it's like half a year.
Fairy Tale time is like dog years only sparklier.

But part of me also thought there was some poetry in not seeing him.  I'm in a good place once again.  And Princes have a way of imbalancing my equilibrium.  I wasn't sure I trusted his heart entirely either.  And if those chocolate eyes looked into my grey ones who knows where we might fall.  Then again, maybe we'd just give each other a hug and be thankful to have seen each other and that would be enough.
But I sort of liked not knowing.  I also liked the possibility that if the time was right, perhaps he would show up again sometime.
I did have a birthday coming up next month, after all.

I just couldn't believe he left me a letter.
Even Mother when I told her held a stunned silence on the phone.
I can't believe he did that.
And later she even wrote, Your life is unbelievable.
It really kind of is, isn't it?
In my simple little way, still--
Miracles a go-go.

I remember when I was picking up my bed from Mr. Indecisive's after he had already left because I foolishly volunteered myself to take care of it so he wouldn't have to.  Grandma so aptly put it, If he were a real man he would have taken care of that before he left and not made you have to deal with it.
Yes, Grandma, if he were a real man a great number of things would have been different.
But in my romantic hopefulness I thought, Maybe he will have left behind a letter for me, some last overture in honor of our love, of all that had been. Or at least a thank you, a cartoon, a smiley face, anything.
No.
Nada.
He was not Prince Charming.  He was just a boy.  A very sweet, very confused, lost boy.

See, the good thing about dating so much is I don't take things for granted.  I mean, maybe I haven't seen it all but I've certainly seen a lot and one thing I do know without a doubt is that men don't do things they don't want to do.  If they want to disappear and fall off the face of the planet they will.  If they dain to actually send a text, oh my, I'm significant enough for them to exert the slightest amount of effort. 
But if they actually set out to do a grand romantic gesture, if they care enough to drive 30 minutes just to bring me a note because their parting words were less than loving, well look out, because that's a keeper right there.  It's just sometimes the keepers are already kept.
And that, well, that just plain sucks.

Asterisk-Asterisk-Exclamation point-dollar sign-asterisk-blanketyblank-dagnaggit.

Le Sigh.

But even being without, I did get one gift so many never receive.
And that is the loving truth.
It always sets free.
And I soar with love beneath these wings.

And no one can touch that.
That is simply mine, all mine.

Around the Block, One More Time

Being in a similarly changed place to where I was months ago is a bizarre coincidence.
New events have transpired.  I am, in effect, many moons from where I once was, yet after all the unveiled surprises I have returned to my starting point, come full circle and yet, still, returned.

There's comedy in that.

I'm so glad to no longer be in the specific stickiness of all that consumed me.  Why is it that every time I'm in a predicament time halts and all I know is what is happening in my now?

All I can say is I'm so thankful I'm so frequently WRONG.

If I had a dollar for every instance of my incorrectness I could buy myself a pretty stellar piece of jewelry. Instead of cutting off my hand when it offends I think I'll buy it something sparkly.  Then maybe it will be so distracted by its own beauty it will stop getting into so much trouble.

I went for a walk after work.  No more sugar comas once again, afternoon walks once again, quiet time, reading, writing, music, just as before.  It occurred to me that the book I was reading while he distracted me the night he made love to my phone was A Grief Observed. 
THAT is comedy.
And this grief has been observed and noted and placed on the shelf with all the other fairy tales.  It will always remain a book in and of itself, however unfinished.
Love can only be romantic if it is unfulfilled.

It felt strange to think on the number of days that had already passed, the number of months, too, from the story prior.  How quickly time hastens when we are distracted!  Fifty nine brief days before a new year revealed itself.  THAT was surprisingly incredible.  One thing to be said of years, they never possess biases over years past.  They are their own complete delights, predictable to no one, hindered by no man but Self.
And for possibly the first time in any of my time, I am getting out of my own way.
And oh, it feels delightful.

Mr. Dreamy didn't delight me with his presence today but 'tis no matter. 
Simply knowing of his possibility is enough for now.
And besides, there is always tomorrow.
And what a surprise that always seems to be.

Diary of a Possessed Woman

Journaling is vital.

I have kept a journal on and off since grade school.
My father read it twice.
Narcissus read it too.
It's interesting how men that love can become so invasive, possessed even, to try and understand all they believe you aren't telling them.
And this of a girl who will never embody the adage Silence is Golden.

Mostly in my twenties I've journaled about men.  Let's be honest, that's how I've spent a good portion of my time.  It's what I spent a lot of time analyzing, pining over, scheming, plotting, agonizing, delighting in.  Men.  This year, was and was not the exception.  The difference was that the most recent prince I embraced, I didn't journal about at all.  Quite possibly, if memory serves me, this made Prince Charming the first guy in this decade I had dated and not wrote about in a diary.  Of course, I also never blogged before so you could argue that there's that.  But it didn't include the details I'd usully capture. 

He leaned over with his head on his hands, gazing at me longingly and told me he hadn't been able to eat, that I made his gut quiver.  "We're insane," he laughed.  And then he leaned over bringing my face to his and kissed me.

Sentimental crap like that.  I'd capture every narcissistic nuance and mushy moment and every harsh frightening one too.  I wanted to remember.  It was like I secretly always knew the relationship was fleeting and was desperately trying to capture it, like I needed a tactile way to hold onto a memory I knew I'd eventually forget.  Yet with PC somehow the moments were still so vibrant and alive in my mind in spite of the drifting feeling that it was all already so long ago.

Maybe that's why he was the only one I hadn't kept a journal about.  I didn't have that sinking sense it was fleeting.  I sensed it was different.  I sensed it could have a different ending.  I sensed I didn't need to write all that was because I was living it.

But there's also another reason journaling is vital.

It documents all the things you will yourself to forget. 
When I write, I write honestly, every vulnerable, ugly, desperate, selfish thought.  And understandably, many of those thoughts are ones I have trouble rereading. 

I opened up an envelope tonight of letters I'd kept for Mr. Indecisive, convinced that one day, someday, I would give them to him.
June 25, 2010: "I don't want to just stop eating to get skinny and attract the wrong kind of men and be tempted for revenge (I don't care if you say it's over in your mind; I know it will hurt you if you found out I was with other guys). That's why I have to make sure each decision I make is from the Spirit, not my selfish flesh."

Sometimes writing can foreshadow, sometimes it can enlighten, sometimes in its distortion, it can mask.

As I stumbled upon more writings, dots were connected between actions that still seemed unreal.  I revealed that our two tattered souls had twisted simultaneously, likely the same eve, from different pains but craving the same cure: change.  He had recounted to me that within those days leading up to our big night he'd said, I feel like you don't even like me very much.  And she, not hearing the question, reacted in anger.  I, unable to hope in an illusion, wrote this, a letter that somehow shed light on all that would begin within four days of it's writing.  Neither of us knew, yet somehow we were each secretly aware that we were actively hunting for something. 
We merely remained unawares we'd each be waiting for one another, allowing the hunt, even willing all that would ensue.

I feel numb.  I have so much rage I don't know what to do with it.  I can't believe how much I like running now.  Hate gives me a drive I haven't had in a long time.
I hope I never see you again.  I hope you always have confusion over why I disappeared from your life.  I hope your heart hurts as much as mine does.  I hope you can feel in your soul how I've given up on you entirely.  All that time, all those loving words I poured out to you, the prayers I uttered, the tears I shed.  You never loved me.  You never cared about me.  You used me.  You took what you wanted and left.  And you said mean things about me.  So now everyone connected to you thinks I'm some monster.  And you are such a coward.
What a fool I was.  I never want to get married.  I never want to see you again.  I hope someday you want me back so I can say NO.  I wish I would have forwarded her email to you so you could read her venom and know she was reading your emails.  But you don't care.  You'd just laugh about me behind my back, 'How pathetic,' you'd say, 'She thinks I care about her.'
I went for a walk and fought back tears.  I saw four airplanes today.  I don't believe anymore.  I sat on the curb and saw the first star in the sky and I wanted to make a wish.  And I didn't know what to wish for.  I realized I don't have any wishes.  I started to cry.  I got up and started back to my house and when I turned the corner there was a plane.  And I cried harder and then another plane crossing the other direction.  Six planes today.  And I wasn't looking for them.  I don't want to see them anymore.  You don't see me.  You never saw me.  I want God to change my heart.  I want to feel nothing toward you just as you feel nothing toward me.  You're just another boy, I was wrong.  I'm always wrong.  I'm done being wrong.  I'm tired.

November 2, 2010: Sometimes getting what you want is the most frightful thing of all.

The Princess and The Outlaw

"Who knows how to make love stay?
Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to kill yourself.
Answer me that and I will ease your mind about the beginning and end of time.
Answer me that and I will reveal to you the purpose of the moon."--Still Life with Woodpecker


I like Mr. Robbins' writing.  He's a bit of a smart ass and I mean that in the best way.  He's clever.  Any writing that actually makes me laugh out loud as I read silently to myself gets major kudos in my book.  I remember reading Larry Shue's play The Foreigner and relishing in disbelief over the fact that a play was making me laugh so hard I bruised my tooshie falling off the couch.

"Commas of excitement wobbled in her tummy and question marks squirmed in there as well.  Every once in awhile she felt as though she were sitting on an exclamation point."
Why the hell hadn't I thought of that?  Classic.

I also find it inspiring when a book captivates me so much that I have to complete it in a matter of days.  I'll always remember sitting in geometry class desperately trying to finish the remaining pages of my tattered copy of 1984 and vainly trying to get the kid talking at me in the desk opposite mine to shut their pie hole.  They simply couldn't understand why I needed to read so badly.
But there are many that don't understand much at all.

"Essential insanities are those impulses one instinctively senses are virtuous and correct, even though peers may regard them as coo coo.  Essential insanities get one in trouble with others.  It is always preferable to be in trouble with others.  In fact it may be essential."

I couldn't help but laugh over the fact that the princess was a vegetarian, a sexpot who'd recently sworn off men.  I loved that she named her pet frog Prince Charming "after that son of a bitch who never comes through."
Once again, why the hell hadn't I thought of that.
I didn't desire a pet frog, though.

I love reading.  I especially love reading well written books.  And further still, I love reading books that are someone else's favorites.  It always feels like a stolen glance into the window of their heart.  I remember one prideful mongrel of a guy telling me his favorite book was The Alchemist.  After I finished the book I couldn't believe what a romantic that kid secretly was.  It was like reading that book helped me understand him better, which may have been why he wanted me to read it in the first place.
Sometimes the nuances of motives aren't as elusive as we like to believe they are.

The Psuedo had given me The Count of Monte Cristo, which would remain indefinitely one of my favorites for numerous reasons, not the least of which is it's an amazing novel.
Narcissus had given me Notes from the Underground and Dostoevsky, too, has remained one of my favorite, complex authors.
My first love opened my eyes to poetry, two loves gave me books I sadly had no taste for and of course there were those who never shared books at all.
They simply didn't care for reading.

Truth be told, Prince Charming didn't much care for reading either.  Part of the significance of the book he shared was that it was the first one he had ever completed cover to cover. 

And what an interesting book to choose.

What makes love stay?

Books have a way of communicating things we sometimes can't.
And that was fantastic.
I guess that's partly why I love writing so much.
Sometimes there's so much to say it seems even words fail.
But they certainly shed light on quite a lot.
And make guts quiver in those we least expect.

So I closed the book with a smile reveling over how enjoyable it was to finish one chapter so as to begin another.  I knew I would take with me all that had transpired and all that hadn't.  And I would leave behind memories that would linger, like my perfume after I'd already left the room.
Burberry London, Stranger.
But it would never smell on her the way it always had on me.
Which is why it was so irrisistible to you in the first place.

"May we be eaten by starving baby ostriches if we can't concoct a secret way to meet."

Adieu, mon ami

"What makes love stay?"

Selflessness.

I don't know what's more sad: knowing he still reads what I write or the possibility that he stopped reading long ago.  How are we to move forward from a lost love if part of us is still holding on to part of them?
Is that why we try and make love ferment after it ends so it is easier to leave behind?
But where then does the love go?
Do we just redirect their love towards another?
Or is their love theirs alone?
How do we fool our hearts into being satisfied with all that isn't?

There is something to be said for out of sight out of mind.

Mother always says that we want what we think about, that we care about what we make time for.
And I realized for my own sake not having contact with a lost love is what is best for me.

I never knew how to do that until this year.
I come from a selfless breed of woman who knows the loving sacrifice of putting your loved ones needs before your own.
 No matter
      what
           the
               cost.

That is dangerous.

Because that kind of selfless love needs to have self preserving boundaries.
It needs to not be wasted on the Abusers.
We need to not cast our pearls before swine.
We need to guard our hearts for out of it flow life.
We need not put anothers needs first when their will is not aligned with God's.

Ah.

That changes a few things doesn't it?

I have learned a lot this year. 

One thing I've seen is that love is fleeting.  It overwhelms.  It chooses its victims and we don't have any damn control over it.  Love is not determined by how the one being loved responds to love.

I love for loves sake.  I love in spite of the cowards and the undesirables.

Love cannot strangle, when it does the victim finds a way to escape.
And finds a gullible princess to escape with.
Love is inconsistent.  It wanes.  It fades.  It's fickle.
But for love to stay it must be selfless.
With selfishness love will always find another, more beautiful, more talented, more doting, more amorous, more fulfilling counterpart.

When love wanders you have to stop and look in the mirror and ask why.
Some may sweep it under the bed, never to be examined again, for fear of discovering what lies within.
But love does not delude.
It reveals.  It enlightens.
It does not deceive, it does not creep and sneak, it is not half way.

It does not lay next to one heart and long for another.

Love releases.

And that is why I deleted all the texts and the photos and the voicemails.  Those were the hardest to part with.  For me, the voice of a loved one has always played a close second of delight to seeing their face.  But I knew I'd remember all that was spoken even though I may never hear their voice again.
And I needed to put it all aside and remember not the former things so that this new thing that is being fashioned can actually happen.
I have to get out of my own way.
I have to stop feeding a love that doesn't belong to me. 
The only way to kill the flesh is to starve it. 
And damn does that sting.
I hate starving.
I want the warm comfort of familiarity. 
I want to see the love dripping from those dark eyes, looking at me like I'm the goddess of their dreams.
But this is a season of dying love.

Because what's good for the goddess ain't good for the gent.
It may not even be good for her either.
She's pretty dumb when it comes to her heart.

Thankfully, she had yet to keep all she thought she had wanted.