Loving “me”

Passion, I lacked. Passion, I have now found.

A new company. Almost ready to cut the threads to the other. The job I have juggled and responsibilities that were often fruitless while hours of work for mine awaited me. My company has gone from 0 mph to 60. And I sit, in awe at all. Names that are in the press everyday. Perhaps, my photos as well.

A move back to New York. A sudden departure without a goodbye to Puerto Rico. Passion, cold and coats in exchange for the balance and the sand that my toes miss. The orbits around me now have threads from years past. Strangers and past admirers. And courtship. Interesting men. But, my mind is focused on the new company. What a healthy place to be, as I have this power and comfort to not be burdened by anything that is not effortless. I still find myself dancing with the men who paint such an amazing picture, the men I tend to not fall for . . .

From Copenhagen: “You wake up at a slightly silly hour and a flood of ‘oh I should have done that yesterday’ thoughts pepper your mind and wake you up further.. You get up from bed and walk to where I have set up your laptop, on the work desk next to everything one needs to work (muji pencils, papers, post-its et al) . Of course, like you its already on and you can walk to it in the dark as the swirl of its screen saver gives your eyes a beacon. I may have been dimly aware that you got up..when I do wake up an hour later, I don’t question your absence but raise my head to hear your fingers on the keyboard and I relax my face back on the pillow. When I DO get up, I respect your focus with silence. I put on my gown and put on the kettle.. I make your tea the way you like it (or is coffee that you like on a weekend? tell me) and bring it to you. You don’t look up but you know what is coming from the times before: I place the mug next to your hand as my other hand strokes and raises your hair from you and I kiss the back of your neck just where it slopes down to your shoulders, before gently laying your hair back again… You dont even have to thank me as I know that at some point, when you are done, I’ll see your smile walking towards me on the sofa, good morning hug at the ready”

Awwww, if only. I could fall. The man who penned those words truly gets me.

 

 

 

 

Everything Matters

Everything Matters . . and everything comes at once.

“It’s the image of a kid . . . a boy let’s say, sitting on the curb, looking around, slightly confused, not sure where he is or even quite who he is. And then an image of a girl, who notices him and stops. She reaches out her hand to him and he takes it. She says nothing, except with that one simple gesture she says the thing that matters most. And that’s – ‘it will be ok.’

And since then, somehow, somehow in many different ways, I have felt inexorably tied to you. Can’t deny that really – I love you even though at the same time you manage to both baffle and frustrate me.

And since then we’ve danced around each other – lovers, friends, other . .

The email continues. My heart skips beat. I laugh out loud. I smile and I also pause. He goes on to speak about a hidden me.

“Since the very beginning I started observing things about you, seeing things, and I suppose the conservationist never let go. I’m sorry – I guess it’s why I could never fully let go even when I pretended I could. I just never knew who I was falling for, so deep down without noticing I setup a natural barrier. And I waited…

I’m not sure exactly what I’ve been waiting for – I suppose a hunch that there was always something left out.”

And how he has danced around its discovery. Waiting to perhaps see and/or to not see something. I can only wonder if he was waiting to be dissuaded. Find out why I possibly wasn’t the one to love . . yet, the feelings, the dreams, and me have never left him—I, a low humming frequency in the life he leads.

I always equated his diatribes, his dissertation-like emails regarding his feelings for me to I being a placard–the justification, the excuse, that he is alone—why he breaks hearts, left and right. I always doubted this love he speaks of. We are so different. But, should it be real, I worry that I will hurt him for this apathetic New York bachelor is a façade for the man I met on that corner so many years ago. A man that still breathes somewhere underneath his hardened exterior. His words today are the first I trust. And perhaps this love he has for me is because I am the only one that knows these breaths?

I don’t know how to respond. I return to New York. To A, to new beginnings of which KidRobot does not yet know. In Puerto Rico, Caballito and I remain close, an entirely different story, one that was cemented by a tragedy . . .

And my life baffles me.

Love and lust. An exploration continues.

I hesitate to write for I wish I could pen a fairytale. This does have the makings, but I pulse the brakes. Create a million stops, hoping I will catch up–but so many miles lie between your emotions and mine.

. . . I am not sure what it is I have learned, but I am learning. Every night he asks me the same thing, and my response remains. “It’s a possibility.”

It is too soon. And that he knows. What if I said yes– that I would marry him. What then? I would wear a ring and he would gain some sense of being able to maintain the happiness that has permeated his life?

Falling in love is a cathexis and if ever, this is one to note.  His words echo mine of S. And I realize that the act of falling in love, the lust, is much about feeling one with the other. Feeling complete, a superior you. He has changed at work and has closed a deal a day since we met. He stands taller. He wakes up earlier. Healthier. He feels like a better person. Effortless. High.. Genuine. This cathexis. This falling in love. I am the most important thing to hm. The feelings so deeply felt they need not be questioned, he wants to marry me, and would tomorrow.
My life is full of my passions and many of which are his, albeit dormant. And I suspect that when you meet someone who brings you closer to your own values, your own desired self, the feeling of love pervades.

I am the most important thing in his life right now and I feel it every moment, so much so. It is painful. This week was spent sharing time with friends, mine and his. We shared an evening with my colleague, T, the one person who is akin to family, the person who I believe my path thus far was intended to meet.

He had just arrived from a long five day love affair, although the lover is in New York, a relationship unfeasible, but it was a weekend of intimacy and passion at its best. We spoke about how difficult it was and the Impulsive Gentleman interjected, “That’s how I feel but there is no water in between. Every night I go to bed and I long for her (me) and she is within a drive’s reach, but I can’t see her.” The pain of which this was said was incredible..

I am continuing the process of getting to know him. I love the time we spend together, but it is not lust, not close. I laugh and find myself at ease. a slowly growing love. With his heels over his head, everyday is me pressing the brakes. Everyday is a mix of suffocating and enjoying. I find it curious. This gradual accumulation of feelings, my antiquated belief was in instantaneous.

His only goal is to make me the happiest woman for the rest of his life. He is patient and lacks frustration. This I admire, but I am mixed with doubt and concern that I don’t crave him enough ….

We will see. For now I unpack the dozen roses I just received,

This is not fiction. “Engaged” or in spanish, “Comprometido”

It was Friday. I agreed to lunch with the Impulsive Gentlemen. He showed up at my office, dapper as always. We go to the Parisian Bistro (yes, in Puerto Rico). He orders a bottle of wine to which I agreed to one glass. We joke, laugh and enjoy our meal. Before I rush back to the office, he questions, “Will you marry me?”

My lips form a smile and my eyes pierce his. “It’s a possibility.”

The spontaneous trip was only a week ago, the first time I had seen him outside of social settings or meetings. And honestly, I still am deciding whether I am ready to date him. This lunch is our first reunion since our trip to BVI.

And this marriage talk, is surely just a joke.

“We must have forgotten our wedding rings at home”

I joke back,”I will start putting a ring of sunsceen around my finger so atleast I have a tan line.”

Our kids will be named Stephan Andre (insert fancy royal sounding last name here) and Andrea Stephania. I simply smile.

———————————-

“What dress will you wear tonight?” (We are going to the Phanton of the Opera.)

He is to pick me up at 7pm. At 6:40, I text him

“Navy blue.”

“What is it like?”

“Backless, halter, long.”

7:00 He is in the courtyard leaning against the bricks. Waiting as I descend. He opens my car door and I get into the Black SUV. He enters the drivers side and hands me a beautiful green box. I open it to find an amazing silver bullet clad with little diamonds and long silver earrings. He reaches over and carefully puts each long silver earring in my ear and secures the stunning silver diamond bullet around my neck. I catch my reflexion and I am in awe at myself. I notice the audience from outside. He turns the ignition on, turns to me and says, “One more thing . . ”

He hands me a ring- a canary diamond with diamonds on the side. White gold. It fits like a glove.

I thought it was a joke. A mother’s ring, or fake, or something from somewhere. But then, he later mentioned he bought another one. “I would marry you tomorrow.” White diamond and gold. So I can match it with what I am wearing . . .

“Compromised,” he says. Words being lost in translation. I think, how appropriate. Yes, I am most definitely compromised.

Just bring your passport. -the stranger.

I wonder what it is. I note a difference-one that transcends the now that is relevant.

A perfect weekend. My thoughts drifted to S but not without relief. A heart wasn’t pained, just pensive. This weekend isnt what I expected. A man who I have never before dated spontaneously invited me to the British Virgin Islands. Hours later we were in flight. I welcomed the adventure and the departure from thinking about S.

Now truly “what next?” is something I wonder- I am not sure. I am apprehensive. Commitphobic. I can continue and will, but without pressure, without being bound. As long as I can see where this goes before it involves rules. I now wear S’s shoes. I am the one that doesn’t want the tethers of a relationship with this new man.

 

I sit writing watching pelicans nosedive into brilliantly clear water. My toes crinkle the fine sand that engulfs them. It is Monday morning. He is in the room sleeping. We are in a famed romantic hotel on the the most amazing unspoiled island. This place secluded and exclusive. A truly special hotel. The spa perced on the mountain offered a blissful Sunday.

I feel extremely comfortable with this man, and more importantly, I am happy. But I question what home will bring. Could this be a relationship? I am not yet ready. With S, I never questioned. However, it was not effortless. The process was vulnerable. I believe we didn’t trust eachother, trust a future us.

The new relationship is intimate without pretense, comfort. But, how could it not be? A business lunch with a casual last minute invitation to an island I knew nothing of. Hours later I filled out one custom form per his deciding we were “married.” The holding hands and “dear” to play the part, soon became the norm. He kissed me later and every hour since has been as if this is the way it has always been. Him and I.

But I think of S. I think of my desire to not publicize this and be bound. And I think of the strangers’ comments on Friday just hours before I came to BVI. I spoke briefly of S and she noted how much he meant to me. How I changed when I said his name. How he clearly struck a chord with me and is in my heart. How right she was and is. I recall his words and take them for face value. “Take care Smith.” We have spoken regularly since. I question if it is out of courtesy. I desire to see him and say something. I am not ready to let my almost go and his actions tell me perhaps nor is he.

But a man would reverse an end not meant. I need to see him and close the door, to know if it is open for I return now, “married” in an effortless romance to whom I deem, the Impulsive Gentleman.

The mare and the stars *

Trust. I could see nothing. Under a blanket of stars and a half cracker moon resting on the tops of the mountain, I failed to see the many trees and sleeping vacas that surrounded me. I could hear the coquis and the sounds of the twenty horses in front of me. Flickering lights from a few of the riders were the only guide.

I wanted to wait.The lone white horse, the powerful Arabian and the man on top were somewhere behind. I pulled my reigns and my horse danced circles in the darkness.

Then, stillness. The hooves in front of me were long gone. The return path unmarked. Nature. Sounds. Thousands of acres of mountains. I strained to see movement in the hill from which I descended. Nothing. I took in the land around me, a land I didn’t know. I hope he didn’t go a different way. It must have been 10pm. No phone. No sense of direction. I exhaled into the unknown.

And then I saw him. The moon highlighted his white coat and his powerful muscles. Another horse rode alongside him. The darkness hid me until they were but a few feet a way. “Ella espero.” A smile in the friend’s words as he rode on.

The Arabian neared and He asked me to wait a minute. He dismounted and approached, the Arabian followed. Trained like a model dog. Sensitive to all. His steps were of a teachers, coming to adjust something. Perhaps, my girth? But then he grabbed my hair as if it was a mane, and pulled my face towards his. His lips enveloped mine. Soft and wet. His tongue powerful. I relaxed into him. Threw away any inner dialogue. His arms wrapped around my body and pulled me off my mare, his mouth opened mine. We stood. Pressed between the two horses my body acquainted with his. I could feel him.

His hands traveled my body and I was pleased at his mass. His arms. His strength.

My mare, one to not like other horses, nuzzled his. We stood in the v of their bodies. It was a moment beyond any I have ever imagined.

The return through the darkness. How? I wondered. “The horses can see better than us,” he assured.

The Arabian and the Mare.

WIth our reigns dropped, we held hands as we traveled back.

What do you have?

Can the world execute a well-crafted plan? A series of events. Is there a camera rolling? This isn’t happening. I am not this girl. . . I see the mirrors. I am secure in my self, but my ego is in check and this insanity, is not . . . 

I am already missing U. What do U have? I do not know but I love it. The text reads. From the guy whose table I sat at Wednesday night as they exchanged Secret Valentine names a la Secret Santa. As he gave each of his friends CDs with a quote inscribed on the packages inspired by the recipient. I was in awe at the group. The friendships. The amazing guy, who I thought gay. Perhaps, this is what I need. Perhaps, this group could be mine.

That evening, a lift of my depression. I felt full as I ascended my stairs. Friends. Being social. A sabbatical from which was too long. I laid down, calm. A departure from my usual “read, write, do” or numb with addiction until I pass out.

However, last night was different. That text. The fashion show. Even Rediscoveringme was there. The tug of war. The trying to be gracious, hating the required hover when one buys you a glass of champagne. I was leaving to meet Caballito. And then his phone went unanswered for half an hour. I sat in my apartment as I received that text from the man I thought gay. I am already missing U. What do U have? I do not know but I love it. And I was angry. Why? What do I have?

Caballito called twenty minutes after. I went and met them at Latin Star at 2am. I watched him and Enrique eat. The lie from weeks ago, a faint memory.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————–

Today. Friday. Thank God. I am glowing. I don’t know if it’s the weekend’s nearing, my prospective career, or the fact that I am no longer emotionally attached and vulnerable to Caballito. Last night, I listened to him as he stumbled on words such as “I haven’t been good to you,” and “make love.” You mean fuck, right. I said to myself. Happily.

This morning I must have woken up on the right side of the his bed. I worked out and as I showered and dressed up for work, actually blow drying my hair. I walked around my apartment in black lace shorts, sipping my coffee, dancing and feeling irresistibly like me. I told the parking attendant, “Creo que tienes el pelo mas bonita.” The window washer, barista, bikers and joggers all waved, “Hi, Attainingme.”

I love it here in PR. I really do. I will ride a rodeo horse tomorrow- it will be a first. I will go to the beach. Work out. And happily spend time working and avoiding the Artist, the Man I thought Gay, and a few others– the men who have presented their emotions. Unzipped, raw and tender.
I walk into my office and Jose, attempts to speak English. “Flo- ers.” What? He chuckles. Laughter- his default response to all things said in English. I walk to the back thinking there is something wrong. More guns? No, he points. To my office. I walk. Flowers.

WHAAAAAAAAT? 
I assume they are from MattDamon or my sweet 80 year-old friend Tito or the Artist. . . but, then I read the card:
Ha sido un placer conocerte. Espero que tengas un lindo y bello dia. –The Engineer.

 

Disclaimer: I post this, because these are stories and moments that no friends want to hear, tellings that elicit nothing positive to the listener. But, this is my place. And I write this, because it hurts.

Crescendo

The artist picked me up from the airport last night. I entered his car on a business call. It was 10pm. I said aloud to my client that I would email it shortly as I was almost home. I believe the artist had other ideas, dinner or drinks. He drove away his eyes avoiding mine. Today he writes on Facebook, “The magic is gone.”

I was up until 2am preparing an LOI for the aforementioned call. Having not had dinner, I needed sustenance. At 1am, I ventured downstairs for a Subway wrap and a coffee– ever grateful that they never close. As I descended my stairs, I found myself approaching a nature’s symphony. The water danced madly, howling and screaming on the dead Avenue. It was as if time had stopped. The Avenue without passing lights. The gutters overflowed and buckets of water clamored on the tiles before me. I stood still- trapped behind my porton. A homeless man slept huddled in the corner, and ever so politely remained outside my enclosed foyer, even though it was open and always is, even though it would have offered protection. A makeshift sleeping bag, a makeshift roof– cardboard. I am still in awe at how even in such desperation, he refused to encroach. I stood and waited. Watched the orchestration. Amazed at its vigor. 

I haven’t seen such rains in forever. This morning confronted me with 2 inches of water collected in my sala. I arrived to work sometime shortly before 11am. Much later than normal. And my day is overwhelming, much like last night’s weather. “The magic is gone.” Simultaneously, I receive this from an ex who moved to Costa Rica after I moved to PR:

I am sorry I haven’t written you back – honestly,  i try to get you out of my head more than in. You, us and all that was is strangely persistent in my thoughts.

I am in a relationship now – which is well…fucking odd, considering that Ellie is living with me and so many things are tied to this new life. Even more odd is its the first relationship I have had since we were together – we did quite a number on me.

That said – this is not the reason I haven’t written – not girl jealousy or anything like that and I have been fully honest with her about who you are to me and what we were (at least my perspective). The thing is my mind wanders to “Attainingme” much too often for my own sanity and as always I still hear songs that i’d rather remember in your humm.  

So you see i haven’t changed. As much as I wish I had. I am the same as the last time I saw you. And that is the problem.

And I just discovered the facts of this weekend’s plane crash- 6 died. I know. I feel hollow. The link to Venezuela. I don’t want to work.

Knots

It is possible to like a few. But, is it pointless? Am I just toying with hearts? I don’t let go, because “maybe’s” exist.

The coins laid out before me. I pick them up. I close my fingers around them. Unclench, and pass them through my fingers.

I think. I stare at my last name. A simple word. It is affixed in the painting that just was anonymously delivered to my office. Wrapped in brown paper. His name and my last. My heart skipped a beat. Fuck. I unwrap it. The Artist. Yellow. Warm. Bright. Abstract. Is this how he sees me? I would have guessed a painting to be inspired by me, conceived by him, to be rich in frustration, as his frustration is akin to mine with Caballito.

Tomorrow I leave for New York. Cold awaits. An extreme from my past weekend of tangerine and turqoise, Venezuela. There was Veuve Cliqout and waters so clear I could see the fish swim around my bronzed skin, the same fish that later lay splayed amongst lobster, kissed with juices from oranges and lime. I danced in the moonlight. I confronted my unquiet mind. I came back with bruises. Too many knots. Unfortunately, not from those tied around my wrists. 33 knots–the yacht’s speed.

I fly tomorrow. To pack, ship and donate my belongings from New York. I will stay with KidRobot. See MattDamon for dinner. I will think of the Artist and the painting that I stare at now. I will straddle lives and affect hearts. This shouldn’t be painful, but it is. And all the while, I will think of Caballito.

Mr. Marry

I suppose I didn’t respond with what you wanted to say. Your current words. Light, funny. You write the word “Phew.” and “I guess I was just trying to figure out stuff that was happening, so what the hell I thought I’d ask.” You also tell me you are going to DR, then Thailand, and perhaps, moving to Spain with the guys in July. WHAT?

—

Ok, so a note to all. I know what KidRobot is doing. His reactions would be fine had I wrote him I wasn’t interested, that I didn’t think about us as well. But, that’s not the truth. Clearly, my words were not what he wanted to hear. But, now his emotions are so indifferent he has sealed their fate. I want to say “Fuck you.” I know his indifference is a safety blanket, a retraction of the emotions, an attempted way to save the potential hurt. But, again, fuck you. If you are a man, stand by what you say until we discuss it and figure our own truths, together. You are proposing being partners and you cannot even do this?

So, it’s not that I am angry, but I write this as a note on the decisions we make and the games we play when dealing with the heart. He chose a route I do not recommend. I suppose perhaps, all routes arrive at the same destination, but I think less of him for his withdrawal. For his inability to stand by his words. His emotions. There is a reason I hate the words I love you and why I prefer my bouts with “unavailables”.

So, I thank you for leaving me empty, leaving me distrusting.