…it’s only a dream in Rio…

The plane banked over that giant Bay, with curling coastlines and
mountainous mounds, little lumps poking their heads up, between
the blues.  The Bay that held Pao d’Acucar and it’s little Trams …
….sugar loaf in white man speak …. gatekeeper to it’s glory.

The Bay with the battered ferry boats trekking back and forth to that
ancient City on the mainland… that City built, century upon century,
in styles and cultures from nearly everywhere, as they passed
through on their way to their next incarnation.
The Bay, the Port of a million years, the bridges and beaches of what
seemed a dreamland paradise…

My heart pounded and my breath came quick…
He would be there waiting for me, after all this time.

The view that i’d dreamed of  once again filled my sights, and still
I wondered if I was ready, if I could deal, face the real, make this
thing work in person.
Months of long distance rings, missed connections, echoing words…
please pick up…..what? please repeat.. when will you be home?…
…i miss you, can you call back, it’s a bad connection…. I miss you.

His laughter, his voice, the times he was really There despite the
distances… the photos over and over, holding the connection
like a candle, shielding it from the winds of fear and change.

The unloading, customs, paperwork, luggage, head swirling,
watching and waiting til the moment, and then….
far away in the crowd he stood, and something on his face when
he finally caught my eye brought my stomach to a standstill.

The old Raybans I’d bought him were successful in masking his
mood, but body language, no matter how closely held,
like cards to the chest, revealed so many confusing signals to
my senses, and i fought deciphering them at this crucial moment.
I had to hold to myself, be here Now, wait til he was close and
in front of me to understand.

And then face to face.  I threw my arms around him, and breathed
deeply, hearing his heart, once again smelling his closeness.
He was talking with another man, and shared some sort of irritation
when he saw my luggage.
Eyes rolled, something in the face that wasn’t for me, but for this
new guy friend who somehow understood what was up against.
I felt strangely marginalized.  Part of me was crushed, wishing for
that beautiful rush together that I’d envisioned, the
movie moment replayed in my head.
Part of me knew I had to wait.

I’d brought a big plastic tub, filled with art materials, books,
journals, jewelry findings and stones.  I had to have things to do
in that tiny space of his that only held Him.
I had to hold on to something of myself.
He, after all, was a known factor, and it was easy to be caught up
in the all consuming largeness of Him.
It all seemed quite natural to me, but somehow he wasn’t really
present, something was not aright.
And it felt like a wall…. not of bricks, I hoped….but perhaps of straw,
hay bales, something that i could huff and puff and blow down.

But for now, as we awkwardly trekked to his little Gersel Jeepy car,
we made small talk, and his mood was dark and tired.
Was he glad to see me?  Was he hung over?  Had he not slept?
Was it worry or fear, over amped or regret….
He had that ragged look to his eyes, his skin, that I’d seen before.
He was hung over and sleepless…

After we were in the car, after the miriad of turns and trails, when
we were on automatic, and on our way, did he tell of how long it
had taken to find a parking spot, and how little he’d slept, and
how long he’d been drinking.
The Aeroporto was on the same large island in Guanabara Bay, and
we’d only to drive to the other side to be back in his little cave, where
he could relax and begin to grok the reality bubble we were now in.
He poured drinks for us, and we began.

The Day had come, and here we were… each in our own way doing
our best to come to grips with this rush towards and
away from eachother.

_________________________________

…on lovers and other plagues…

What comes to mind today is how fucking boring my life is right now.

What comes secondly is …. If it were much more interesting, I wouldn’t be left with nothing to do that is truly exciting but write.

What comes to mind thirdly, is Hunter S. Thompson.  Because complete Gonzo insanity is the only way to Compensate for the Isolation that writing demands.

She is a hungry Bitch, and only takes you alone, and in the dark.

I wish right now that I had a Gonzo buddy, someone to just go fucking crazy with me once in a while, to escape this mundane existence that is life right now in this culture, and at this moment in this year of our lord and this month of Winterness.

So here I write, the snowstorms raging outside.  OK, not really Raging, but everything is relative, right?  Winter is for the Yin, the internal, the contemplative part of the year….

Or the contemplative Half of the year, if it’s Oregon….

Lovers come in all colors.  If you’ve been privileged, or cursed, to have more than a few, you find yourself grading them, on a multitude of scales.

And you find yourself missing parts and pieces of them all.   There’s the comfort scale, the creative scale, the sensual scale, the wild and in the moment scale, and of course the boring and mundane scale.

We won’t talk about them…. too boring…

So let’s talk about the others.  Me, myself…. I like creative and in the moment.  I also really like men who can be thoroughly Yang, and also Yin.  I’m not talking Bi here, for even though I acknowledge my natural and healthy awareness that I am Both…. I choose not to act on it…

Please…. Half the world is quite enough for me to deal with…

No, I speak of the ability to Dance with someone.   Horizontally…

Most men I’ve known really like to take charge.  Some are able to submit for a little while, but there always comes a time where it’s time for the guy to take the lead, do his thing, and get to the finish line.  Rare is the one who can change places.

Me… in my life, I’ve always liked a lot of flavors.  It’s so in ice cream… and it is so in Love.  What do I Hate?  Formula Sex.  I mean why bother?  Do it yourself already.

And I don’t mean necessarily a lot of different people… I mean someOne who can go to a variety of places… When I’m with someone for more than a little while, what else keeps us interested but the dance of the creative in the moment of who knows how it will go, and there is no script sort of Dance of love.

I had a long time lover who enchanted me with his creative.  He was a musician, and a naturally creative being.  When I was with him, his presence, his complete attention, was part of what was so enticing about him.  When we were together, that was All that existed.

And each time was Different, which I found unusual at that time.  Of course later, I realized that That was true, but also what was true was that when he was away, he was away completely, and wherever Else he was, was All There Was for him …

But… let’s not loose the point.

There are Lovers, and then there are Lovers.  Legendary Lovers are few, and if one is lucky, we have one or two.  I’ve had two, and although right now I am bored out of my mind, still I would never say that I am not grateful for the life I have lived.

So do we rank our lovers?  How can we not?  Yes, as in ice cream, we have our special favorites, we have those wowie moments of discovery where we think we have found something that has never been found before.  But then there are those that hang in there, that last, that shine like major stars in the heavens, that keep on shining  through thick and thin, and we may wonder why….. but then again, they just ARE, and we best accept the fact, enjoy them while we can, and make good ART from them when they are gone.

Fact is, everything goes, everything moves on, and at some point, or points, we are here, with ourselves, wondering and full of wonder,  at this brain which retains these incredible  memories and beautiful movies of miracles that will never come to pass again…..Yet I am sure the same amazing miraculous dances occur everyday, somewhere, and at this very moment.

Miracles of love and connection, and the miracle dance that is Us, we stars in this Universe of endless stars, not so special, yet special beyond the word special, and we dance on eternally,

and That my friends is the True Miracle of All.