Beautiful Boys (another repost)

Remembering can be a slippery slope at times....

*****************

There are dangerous places for me to go. One of them is Half-Price books. If you do not have one of these fine establishments in your town, I am sure you have discount bookstores. I have books (so many books) and since I had to move out of my previous home, many of them are still boxed up. I tried unpacking the books I thought I would need – my Yoga books, my ‘collections’ etc. Alarms should go off when I walk into a book or record store. Klaxons sounding out “SHE HAS TOO MANY BOOKS ALREADY!!!” 
At any rate, I was in this particular bookstore and I was perusing the isle with the books on religion and philosophy. I noticed there was a person sitting on the floor in easy pose (Yoga – simple cross-legged pose) – holding two books in his hands. One of them happened to be a book on Meditation, which I already owned and which I felt was a great book on the subject (it was actually required reading for the Yoga teachers program I was in). I don’t usually talk to people in bookstores but lately I find myself just talking to people (a lot of times afterwards I think perhaps they view me as being crazy or rude – but what the hell). I said, “That one on meditation is great, it’s very helpful”. He looked up at me and suddenly I was looking into the face of an angel. He was a young man, probably in his mid-20s and his face was seriously beautiful. This is a real problem for me and I don’t know why. My ex looked like a beautiful angel too and so now I want to run screaming when I see men who look this way; almost effeminate, usually blonde hair, and piercing eyes.

He mentioned to me that he had read the book a long time ago. I think to myself perhaps he is not as young as he seems – then he informs me he read it when he was 14-years old. I was really impressed by this. (You’d have to know the book) – I kind of stammered (me being a stupid girl and all) “You read THAT book when you were 14?” (pause) “You must have been some 14-year old young man” – smiles are exchanged. He then asked me when I had read the book. I explained that I had to read it for a course of study as a Yoga teacher. This young man lit up like a Christmas tree. “Really” he said, he began to ask me about studying Yoga and I gave him what I thought was accurate information about various places in the area where he could go take classes. He also mentioned T’ai Chi so I gave him information about that too. There aren’t many places in our area to ‘study’ T’ai Chi that I am aware of…he was familiar with the place I mentioned. He had by now stood up because he was writing down the name of the place where I studied Yoga and I also gave him the website address. After doing this, he extended his hand to me and introduced himself “I am Matthew” he said – I took his hand (really bad idea here kids) – his grip was so strong, so certain, so intense (you know I used to think that stuff about handshakes was a load of crap – no it isn’t; gee can you tell what kind of a LOVER someone is going to be by their handshake? Hmmmmm *insert evil thoughts here*). I gave him my first name and we talked for a couple of brief seconds and then parted. I stayed in the bookstore for a while looking for things (it was depressing because I am so broke right now and there were several things that caught my eye).

This young man has not left my mind. I have silly ideas that somehow he will figure out a way to contact me (actually if you go to the website of the place where I studied Yoga you CAN get in touch with me)…but that’s just a simple fantasy and is more than likely not going to happen. Pipe dreams. I guess I just feel a bit strange. Strange because I felt an immediate connection – but I am sure it was only because in my soul, I hunger for a kindred spirit. I am even more certain that this young man (Adonis “Matthew”), is this way with every person he meets, which is really wonderful. I hope his life is full of the lovingkindness he seems to exude.

But it’s nice to think…to day-dream a little n’est ce pas?

Screams in Space (a repost)

Another post...another 'ghostly visitation' of a life gone by...

***********************

The sunset the other night was just spectacular. A celestial event, the sky soaking up all the colours, orange, red, pink, royal purple all fading away into the pale blueness….eventually blurring and becoming the velvet-winter-night sky

I’ve been feeling so bleh lately, so empty and void. Part of me though feels like I am on the verge of something…big…some self-discovery, waiting just around the corner. I don’t know if it’s good or bad, I just know I am heading that way. Part of me is still ‘back there’ as well, trying to sort things out, make sense of what’s happened and is still happening to me. I think in a way that for the rest of my life I will wonder about these things – I will keep trying to figure it all out. I don’t want to be a prisoner to that.

Over my years of blogging, it has been suggested to just let go, by various people whom I respect. I have to laugh. Especially since I ‘dabble’ in Yogic Arts and I am interested in the Zen/Buddhist path…

LET GO!

Um yeah, ok. I don’t mean to sound this way but it is so hard and I just don’t know why. I have had so much happen to me in my life (and no I am not complaining, or trying to say that ‘my stuff’ is worse than anyone else’s stuff). I mean I have had friends actually comment on my lot in life – like the old song ‘if it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all’. *laughs* I have even had one friend at one point in time suggest that we go down into Little Italy to find an old Italian witch who could possibly remove this ‘curse’. Years ago, when I was reading Isaac Bonewit’s book: “Real Magic: An Introductory Treatise on the Basic Principles of Yellow Magic”, one of the things I seem to remember him saying about curses is that they really only work if the person cursed *BELIEVES* they’ve been cursed. I don’t believe I’ve been cursed. I do believe in Karma – and I believe I have a lot to ‘burn off’ apparently.

There are ‘good’ things happening too and together it all forms the patchwork of my life. I guess I just want for the good to outweigh the bad (who doesn’t) – I want the clouds to clear and me to be able to ‘see’ again – but I think in order for that to happen, I have to distance myself, move away from the trees in order to see the forest.

Part of me still wants to ‘run away’; just leave it all behind; become an anonymous person and possibly a hermit. Part of me feels the need to do a lot of work. Unfortunately, all my energy seems to still be going into the ‘figuring out’, the unanswered whys? I am still a slave to HIS sickness, to HIS betrayal, to HIS actions. Only though, because I allow this to have power over me. He does not deserve this power – he never did – no one deserves this power over anyone’s life. But we all do this. For one reason or another, we all fall in love – usually one party falls harder than the other and then, when the other party does not return the love the ‘right’ way, we seem to fall apart. Or perhaps we get stuck in the ‘caring’ or the ‘fixing’ of others – I am prey to all of this and more…and I so desperately need to free myself. However, I don’t have the money or the time to get into intense therapy and frankly I am not sure anything other than time and thinking (because ‘the unexamined life is simply not worth living’) – is ever going to end all of this. Or perhaps I have not learned my lesson yet? *laughs* My Yoga teacher would tell me that I am simply not getting the cosmic joke. I don’t know anymore. But I don’t want to ‘ease into this’ like it’s some old coat I have to put on or a suit of armor and then I become stuck with it for the rest of my life – or eternity – which is how my life feels at times.

Just rambling…putting thoughts out into the universe for obviously no particular reason, to no particular audience – reminds me of the bit about a tree falling in the forest and no one around to hear it fall – does it still make a noise? Can anyone hear *MY* screams in space?

The Ghost out of the corner of my eye...

This past weekend, I had the good fortune to see my daughter. She arrived at her dad’s house late Friday and she stayed until Sunday.

For our visit, we (her, her brother, her brother’s childhood friend, and her sister-in-law) all went down to the Coventry area for lunch and to peruse the shops.

There was a certain feel about returning to a place where I lived for so many years…bittersweet and unsettling in equal measure.

They say you can’t go home again – and it’s true. So much about this area has changed over time and it’s no longer the same. Yet, going there with my daughter felt good and the ambiance was more about memory than actual feel. We had fun and it made me miss my daughter even more than I already do.

There was a part of me that wanted to plop down in the courtyard and start writing a long letter to Erin, or grab a coffee and read the NY Times – or some wonderful book...there is a part of me that misses the area, the people, and the atmosphere…but again I think I am reliving memories vs. actually getting a true compass reading.

Why Folks Didn't Evacuate Before Hurricane Ike by Bret Anthony Johnston

(For me, this story brought back a lot of memories {I lived in Houston for over 8 years and Galveston was my playground on the Gulf} - it brought tears of nostalgia and sorrow as well - give a listen)

Why Folks Didn't Evacuate Before Hurricane Ike

by Bret Anthony Johnston

Like everyone else, I've been transfixed by images of Hurricane Ike: the flooding, the sideways rain, the wind that peels roofs from buildings like tabs from soda cans. And I've heard the stories of folks who ignored the mandatory evacuations and rode out the storm in their houses. It's dangerous, maybe downright certifiable behavior, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me homesick.

When I was growing up in South Texas, my parents threw hurricane parties whenever a storm came ashore. Everyone in the neighborhood would descend on our house, bringing beer and potato salad, fried chicken and flashlights. Someone usually baked a cake, the hurricane's name spelled out in icing. I'd play in the rain with the other kids.

My mother and her friends would deal cards at the kitchen table, do each other's hair and nails. My father always raised our garage door, so he and his buddies could sit in lawn chairs and watch the storm as if it were a disaster movie. Once, a huge fiberglass Dairy Queen sign cartwheeled through our front yard and all of the men clapped; another time, during Hurricane Allen, I think, a box turtle moseyed up our driveway and parked itself beside my father's boots.

The parties usually ended with me and the other kids watching our parents dance on the wet garage floor. By then, they were a little north of tipsy. They were drunk on beer, of course, but also on having tempted fate and having won. Even when the power went out, which it always did, my father kept a battery-operated radio on his workbench, and the dance continued with the couples holding flashlights. There are certain Willie Nelson songs that still conjure the scent of heavy rain for me, the sting and power and scouring beauty of 70-mile-an-hour winds.

Listen, I'm not discounting the misfortune and trauma that often rolls in with storms like Gustav and Ike — and the unimaginable, unforgivable tragedy that followed Hurricane Katrina is nothing less than an affront against our very humanity.

But you have to understand — it's not stupidity or insanity or even pride that keeps most people in their homes during a storm: It's hope.

You hope the life you've built can sustain what's bearing down on it; hope that if a window cracks or a leak opens up, you'll be there in time to fix it; hope that if someone calls for help, you'll be close enough to offer what they need. Mostly, though, you hope you'll get lucky, hope that when those who fled ask about the storm, you can think about raising a cold one with your friends and dancing with your wife and watching your son play in the rain. You hope you can smile and say, "Oh it wasn't that bad. It wasn't that bad at all. Nothing more than a little wind."

Autumn Memories

(This is actually (I feel) on of my better/more literary posts - I am re-sunning this today because you can truly sense fall approaching - also because I am feeling kind of home-sick for the hills of Pennsylvania....)

Autumn memories

I grew up in the foot-hills of the Allegheny mountain range, just near Pittsburgh PA, in a small town called Verona. I laugh now when I think of it because a long time ago on the Internet via an IRC chat room I earned the name of Juliette because some guy from Switzerland found out I was born in Verona and was ½ Italian *shakes head* those were the days….I should try and find him sometime....

My family was very poor and the town was very small so there were few rich people. I attended a Catholic school run by a group of nuns that seemed hell-bent on beating any imagination, curiosity or rebellion out of us. I don’t think they succeeded with me – I was after all, the rebel in my family and NO ONE was going to beat that out of me. For the most part, I spent my time with the other kids in the neighborhood who were also poor. Most did not even qualify for what would now be considered, middle class. We had lots to do all the time, it seemed – we were always playing, always riding our bikes, always running through the woods, hanging out at each others houses where our mothers would put up with all the noise and sometimes offer cookies and kool-aid. It was a good childhood.

The richest lady in town lived across the street from our small house in what to my mind, as a young girl, seemed a very grand house indeed – she had a vestibule, a long hall-way, that lead to a winding staircase that went to the second floor and, I am sure, many bedrooms, a parlour, a living room, a dining room and a kitchen! There was also a porch in the back that looked over her small garden. Her name was Mrs. Nicholas and she was a widow. She sticks out in my mind because my mother used to have me run errands for her since she was our neighbor. I thought Mrs. Nicholas was kindly but I did not like her much – there just seemed to be something about her that I found scary and cold, but, I did the errands because it gave me a chance to see the inside of her house and all of her wonderful old furniture. Sometimes, I would even earn a little candy money for my efforts.

I remember one evening in particular when I was sitting on the porch steps outside of our small house. For some reason I remember it being very quiet and I was not with anyone, no one else seemed to be outside. Dusk was approaching and it was late summer – you could feel a slight chill on the air and you knew your days of being out until 9:00 PM, playing and not having to get up and go to school in the morning were coming to a close. It was one of those late-summer evenings where you just wanted it to go on forever.

I happened to glance across the street to the old-lady’s house. I saw Mrs. Nicholas sitting on her porch and she was gently swinging on her porch swing. Slowly she put her hands up to her head and I guess in my absent-minded youth I had never noticed how she wore her hair before. I just knew she had white hair. She began un-pinning her hair and slowly the hair fell in long braids all around her shoulders and down her back – almost to her waist. She slowly began unbraiding her hair (I was absolutely fascinated by this for some odd reason) and when she was done – she has the most beautiful cascade of white, wavy hair creating a shawl around her – making her look like an aging faerie queen. She looked beautiful. And at that moment, something inside my 11-year-old brain signaled to me that I had witnessed something which was probably very private, something that no other person besides her husband had probably witnessed in many years. It was almost sacred.

After that moment, I never looked at Mrs. Nicholas the same way, I would go to her house without being asked to offer to help her and, I even refused her money. Somehow we began a small friendship and I would bring things to her that my mother would bake for her and she would buy items that the Catholic school would force us to sell.

Mrs. Nicholas died the winter before I moved to Cleveland; I was saddened by her passing. Not in the same way I was sad from losing my grandmother, whom I lost that same year, but more like I was losing the last vestiges of my childhood and those long summer evenings that seemed to go on forever.

You CAN go home again...

I am putting up the link from the last time I visited my old home town (Verona), PA.

I am taking a trip with my sister and my niece to visit my Aunt Jada. We will also stop to see part of the Irish side of the family for a bit.

It is still bittersweet going home. All the memories, all the feelings. Like going back in time - the pictures can become fuzzy, tainted with your own particular brand of hind-sight/perceptions....

The people I've lost over the years...my mom's siblings are reduced to just 3 left alive - as are my father's....sad - how I'd love for some of them to have lived to see me grown up with kids of my own, heck with grandkids (LOL) - and now, blissfully happy and in love.

I am so looking forward to taking Erin with me one day and sharing my memories with him...

Details upon my return.

Have a great weekend kids...