Saturday, March 27, 2010

Truth is more fascinating than fiction...

"That little smirk…" as he spoke his discomfort was palpable.

"Annoying, huh" she replied…the smirk deepening with the merriment she was experiencing from the distraught appearance of his beautiful face. Softly, so softly, the words she least expected were spoken, delicately, as if the sound of them could cause the façade of nonchalance to which he clung to fracture. "I love it."

Admitting is the first step.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Love: Fairy Dust and Land Mines

Love is battlefield. Full of hidden land mines. Shark infested waters when you can't swim and all you have are floaties. Love is a many splendored thing. Pink fairy dust, and poetry. An entire pint of Godiva Dark Chocolate Raspberry Truffle ice cream. Love is dishes washed, dinner cooked, stories listened to that would be incredibly boring if it weren't for the enticing eyes of the storyteller. Love is forgiving of flaws, embracing of reality, and a demolition expert when it comes to destroying jealousy that claws its way up from the pit of your stomach. Love gives time without expectation of acknowledgement or a thank you card. It doesn't come with a manual or podcast and even if there are instructions on they probably aren't accurate. Love is multi-dimensional yet simple. It's never having to self-edit, yet speaking truth with self-control. Love is scarier than any of the "Saw" movies, Cher's face, or the thought of being married to Kevin Federline. More joyous than a perfect ancient tree so massive arms don't fit around it. Full of peace deeper than the first step taken into the ocean as face is tilted to steal sunlight. Love is a place. I'm there.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Add Friend...

There is something mysterious and fascinating about getting letters from someone you don't really know...something almost intimate about a stranger stealing time out of their day to think of you and spend expensive bits of time and energy to share thoughts, dreams, ideas -asking questions...and then the feeling when you discover you're actually anticipating the next letter and you open your inbox to find it waiting for you...a whole new world to read. Thrilling. Surprising. Unexpected, yet comfortable

Friday, March 19, 2010


There are moments when it creeps up under your skin…you know that damp grayness that hangs around after the universe has decided that three days of sunshine in Wisconsin is far too many for this time of year. It tries to steal into your soul and dissolve the joyous emotions of Spring and potential and love and….hope. The horrific abomination which is the scent flowing from Frito Lay Corp envelopes you as well and causes the inevitable vow to yourself to never again eat a potato chip for as long as you shall live. Uneasy restlessness digs its talons into your center and your stomach knots deeply. You breathe in and then out, trying to cleanse the dirty sock feeling that lingers inside. Looking up at the clouds you think, "clouds are momentary. The stuff they are made of dissolves in sunlight." And the unbearable load that weighed on your heart begins to lighten...

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Night in Paris via text...

9:13 - Me: Night in Paris, the Eiffel Tower lit up, café on a small street, where an old man with a saxophone sits on a curb. Me and you.

9:16/9:18 - Him: Under the striped overhang, café double glass doors still open, reflecting shimmery lines from the small shop across the street, while strong rich smells ease / out of the café with the passing of the waitress, the fresh batch of dough for morning cooking at the next shop over, hinting raw vapors of fine flours and grains.

9:21 - Me: Crusty French baguettes wrapped in a crisp white linen with rich thick soft butter on a small china plate are placed on the table by a gaston, named Louis.

9:31 - Me: He winks at us as he passes with a knowing look. The cool night air laces fingers with the scents flowing from the heated perfectly lit kitchen of the café.

10:08: - Him: The barista looks at a coworker as she says with a mischievous smile to suggest to him, “those two, you can see it all over them,” and continues her duties.

10:10 - Him: The walk down from the art district over the cobblestones that still line the back alleys, hiding the best shops, well worth the difficulty of you in heels.

10:15 - Me: And the tiny little bookshop tucked away in a corner showcases a multitude of delights that enrapture me, you wait patiently as I dig through literary treasures.

10:21 - Him: The pages turn, scents pass with every page as though not relating just the story, but also its long twisting history of the hands, houses, and cities its passed.

10:23 - Me: Minutes turn into an hour, than two and at the clearing of the owner’s throat, we two treasure seekers are brought back to reality that its closing time.

10:27 - Him: Sorry, have to pause, out to eat, ttys.

10:27 - Me: Paris and I can wait for you.

11:35/11:37/11:42 - Him: Closing time, a special treat to witness in itself, giving us an excuse to walk the streets, holding each other close as the cold nips at the heels, making our / way back to the streets still alive with action, though late now, the world is still open for anything, yet the call of the quieter park bench calls out more /than anything else, a bench at the end of the stair fountains, or close to the Triumph Arch, next to something that offers beauty with ambient street lights.

11:38 - Me: Let’s go.

11:54 - Me: Now, she says, hoping that the word picture being drawn will be an eventual reality.


I have fallen head over heels, totally completely, sparkly eyed in love with this city. When I moved here in January it was just a tiny infatuation, like the one with the man with dancing eyes that you see behind the counter at B and P's. Recognition, a smile that reaches through the eyes, and causes you to pause and catch your breath for just a moment at the possibilities. You look forward to the daily intersection of your worlds, but accept the briefness of its passing with grace. What I feel now that spring is here is indefinitely more complex, deeper, messier, complicated, and oh so refreshing.

Beauty resides here, tucked amongst the tall Victorians, sturdy Italian villas, and run-down mansions, reminiscent of houses painted by your imagination from the pages of a Nancy Drew novel, the old hardback green editions with the illustrations on the front that cause a longing for strawberry-blonde hair and a predilection for fighting crime. It isn't a hidden beauty but rather an overlooked one. Hopelessness has clouded over it for many years and tried to blot out the bits of light pinpricking the darkness.

Hope has returned. It is here to stay. It's the twisted loveliness of the leafless branches reaching towards God right next to the clean creaminess of the First Congregational Church, which isn't actually the FIRST since the original burnt down. The sculpture of the iron birds taking flight off the pedestal tucked away next to a non-descript house on Harrison beckon, "There is truth here. Life."

The pale spring sunset fading over the eaves of an rather ungracefully aging grey shingled house, the window propped open brings surprise delight to passer-by (namely me) as the thick juicy sounds of jazz, a well-played saxophone pours out. I want to stand on that corner and listen for hours. To sit down, cross-legged in the middle of the cracked sidewalk that leads directly to Beloit College and drink it in. It feeds my soul as I press pause on the iPod and bounce. Left foot , right foot. Waiting for the cars to pass, so I can cross the street. I want to press pause on this moment. I want the rest of the world, the people in their cars, the ones with the sad-eyes, the broken, the restless, the bored, the just plain tired to experience this moment. To feel what I feel.

Welcome to Beloit. God lives here. So do I.