N and I had a turbulent start to our relationship, most of that due to my own actions, but the result was the same.  Maybe its the weird mood that’s found me of late that has killed my writing ability, with current exception, but I’m living a lot in my head and not in the usual way of blocking out everyone else… just distracted.

Thinking….when I was first starting to notice N….when I had that first itch to touch her….

(more…)

For some reason, when my friends, family and occassional aquaintances find themselves stumped for ideas, they always come to the conclusion of giving me booze.  Wine is always the classic choice, and although having a wine cellar was the ‘in’ thing in college, now that I have a place (not a cellar, however) for those many bottles, I find it utterly wasteful.

Yes, however, I could pick out something to go with any meal.  Sadly, because of my penchant for remaining in control of myself in any given situation (with notable, often embarrassing, exceptions) I don’t drink all that often.  So those bottles sit unused until I host some party, which is fine because age makes it better, right?

Still it isn’t only wine.  J gave me a bottle of Louis XIII a long time ago, and we shamelessly drank it all gone in one memorable week.  Today, I’m staring at a bottle of something equally pricey… sent to me by someone I’d define as a professional acquaintance.  I should be hesitant.  I should stick it next to the many bottles of wine gathering age, cost and dust in my un-cellar.  However, because I am who I am, and filled with contradiction, annoying habits and otherwise unpredictable behavior, I am going to drink it.

All of it.

but…

Not by myself.  You kidding?  My liver would be pickled.

Here’s to me.

—– —– —– A few hours later, edit.

Do not drink that shit, it will kick your ass.  I’d tell you what it was, but hell, I’m a sadist.  I want you to suffer.  I’m going to go drink lots of water now and disappear for several hours.

Our version of autumn weather has hit Texas with the usual bluster of cold winds that whip around fallen, yellow-red leaves of the oak and cottonwood trees outside.   It is our kind of cold, a great deal milder than what you might expect to find in northern Maine, or even Illinois at this time of year.   Still, as per usual, it is greeted with the usual rush of people rushing to the store to purchase bundles of firewood, chili meat, and to stock up on things like soup and hot chocolate.

I prefer to drink coffee, of course, but that’s available year ’round - it only tastes better now.  Coffee taste is directly impacted by the cold weather outside, I would tell you in all seriousness.  Something about it makes the flavor bloom inside your mouth now, rather than splash against your tongue with gauche, awkward forwardness.

It’s always been my favorite time of year.  I like the cool weather and it often sends me outside, newly filled with coffee and a power bar, to run.  I just purchased two new sets of running shoes in anticipation of the heart-tuning that will be on-going until this weather bleeds into ice.  I don’t particularly like busting my ass on the cement during my 4 am runs.

Still with all my activities, with my career, which refuses to be culled back like any good job would allow in moderation, with all of my friends who give me no rest from excited news and eager events, I like to be inside and quiet as well.  N, who doesn’t favor the cold, or the germs which always seem to find her this time of year, and memorably found me on one not-so-long-ago trip to Europe, prefers to stay inside, her feet wrapped up in 2 or 3 pairs of my socks.

I had plans today, but I can’t remember what they were.  I did the grocery shopping with her, but beyond that, we didn’t leave the house.  She cooked.  I cleaned.  The entire day was spent with the fireplace going for the first time this season, but with the curtains opened out onto the deck and patio, beyond to the many trees and finally to the lake which churned about like a restless teenager looking for trouble.

Everyone else was gone.  My neighbors, which is such a casual term for people who I’d die for, were out and doing whatever makes them happy.  We moved the fire to the bedroom early this evening, and spent it in the cozy confines of the master suite, which caters to my somewhat finicky tastes in terms of casual comfort.

I am a snob when it comes to my personal space.  Clothing isn’t my vice, but the two rooms where I reside most?  Untouchable.

They are now cast in golden and red hues to match, quite incidentally, with the color scheme mother nature has dictated outside my window.  N is curled up with her book, her slick black hair pulled back into a messy knot, her feet ever wrapped in my ‘warmer’ socks, and her body covered head to toe with clothing.

I sit beside her and type this missive, ear buds firmly in place.  It is my whisper into your ear.  It is what came out of me when I sat down in this environment to write.  I believe that is why blogging is so intimate.  I allow you into my head and give you my vision.

It is also why it is so distant, because when my voice ends, so to does the image….

Good night.

I had a dream last night.  It was the kind where you can almost reach out and touch the people in it.  The behavior, the cast, the activity were all so in line it was almost like reliving a memory - except the impossibility of it.  My father is dead, you know that if you’ve read for any time, but in that dream he was alive and more peaceful than I’d seem him during this life.  A different man.

As dreams go, I don’t remember all the details.  The pad of paper I usually keep bedside to record my impulsive thoughts and notes for the following day had been left downstairs, and that, N would tell you is an oddity in and of itself.  It was filled with jealousy, hate, anger, rage and love - all directed around the actions of my father.  I remember, just before I opened my eyes, someone had been screaming at me, and I can’t tell you who it was.  The words I remember - ‘You are not your father’s son!’

When I opened my eyes, it was with the word ‘good’ echoing in my head.

I’ve thought about this, turned it over in my brain and determined… yeah, that was a good dream.  I love my father, but I never wanted to be like him.

Today, I’m peaceful with that.

–related post if you’re interested