And This? This Is More

It is amazing to me.
It is amazing when I think about the possibilities of who we are or how we identify.
It amazes me how limited we can be or how stuck we are when confronted with our own truths.
And truly, I have to say the freest I have ever felt was the freedom i found the day i chose to be brave enough to step away from the tables which no longer deserved my attention.
The best freedom is when you don’t have to say “goodbye,” or offer a speech because in the moment of awareness, we realize that arguing or responding degrades us. And like it’s been said, who is the fool?
Is it the fool themselves, or the fools who argue with them.

It amazes me how people limit themselves . . .

I have said this before. But I am reminded of a shirt I saw when I was young.

The shirt said, “It’s not who you are. It’s what you wear.”
And beneath this was a man, leaning with his back against the wall, a cigarette dangled in his mouth, and curls of smoke twirled upwards like a rebellious pilar from the tip of his lit cigarette.
The picture was to show a man leaning back, as if to express his disdain for the world, rebelling against the common, or the basic, everyday living, and the social beings around us—and beneath this picture were the words, “because nobody cares who you are anyway.”

I must have been around 17 years-old when I saw this.
And somehow, I still remember

I have grown to have different thoughts and opinions of this shirt. Perhaps this is due to my growth and maturity throughout the years. Yet I have never forgotten the shirt or the time when I saw it.
I was living in an Upstate farmhouse and shoveling pig shit, sheep shit and cow shit.
I was scrubbing pots and pans in the kitchen.
I was cleaning and waxing floors on my hands and knees.
I was made to pray.
I was made to attend Vespers and chant in Latina and sing Salve Regina every night from my intake which was in late October, 1989 to my last and final night in mid September, 1990.
I was a changed man. Yet, my insecurities and my worries were significant.
I never knew hot to dress myself.
I had no sense of style.
My style and my fashion was lacking to say the least.
But I tried.
Lord knows . . .
I tried.

i see the world and the people who inhabit this place as means of actors and players, all of us similar in the sense that we are trying to find our look and trying to perfect our personality.
I certainly cannot, will not and do not believe that I am the only person with social hang-ups or the anxious discomforts of how to look or how to be or which fork or spoon to use at a traditional occasion.

Late 1990’s

I had tried to find myself and changed crowds. I have changed friends. I circled back on some occasions and my falling-outs with people were often server and irreversible.
My social life was no different from the ebbs and flows of the tides in the ocean. Sometimes, the tides were high and the waves were beautiful. Often, the tide went out and I was left on dry land, stuck in the murkiness of muddied sand that lost the wealth of an incoming wave
Such was my life

I was walking towards the Westside from Stuyvesant Town, 23^rd Street and First Avenue.
It was Sunday, and somewhere after midday.
I chose to walk to Penn Station and take my train home.
I had nothing pressing and nothing important to do.
At the same time, I had a head filled with thoughts and leftover discomforts from the previous night.
A walk does justice at times like this.

I was still in my clothes from the night before. I could smell the stench from the bar and the mixture of cigarette smoke and cologne on my collar.
This was late summertime. And me?
I was in the middle of too many changes. I had switched from my roles in the white-collar world and entered the blue-collar life.

I had lost the girl I was dating, which was due to my own simple to major dysfunctions. I was far from good and further from stable. I knew this.
I knew that my work life, my home life and my love life were all lacking.
I knew that I was losing myself to an unfortunate thought pattern called depression.
I tried a new therapist but the therapist insulted me.
So, in turn, I ripped him off and refused to pay him.

In the simplest terms, I was hurting to say the least and yet, I had a desire that was otherwise left empty.
I had a girl who was beautiful. But she was gone.
She was sweet and soft.
she was curvy in the best ways imaginable.
Plus, there was an expressive innocence about her, which was exciting to me. I call this exciting because this triggered a dangerous or aggressive side to me, —whereas, she was innocent, my sexual preference was opposite.
I wanted to change that innocence to something mischievous and wild.
I wanted her to do the crazy and kinky things, which I had often fantasized but never spoke about.

I wanted her.
And yet, I knew I had lost her.
I knew why too and more, I equally knew that I did not deserve this girl.

Yes. She was an angel. Caring as ever.
Beautiful and sweet.
She was . . .

everything about her was soft and luxurious, and stunning too, of course.
She had the most alluring eyes with a classic beauty that I had never seen before.
I saw this. Yet, I never told her.

I never told her that she was elegant to the truest sense of the word.
I never told her how I admired the way she dressed or the way she put herself together.
At the same time, I would never allow myself to disclose these things because disclosure like this would show someone their\ importance. And then what?
Therefore, it was no surprise that she evolved and grew the courage it took to leave or walk away.

She and I were both special and chaotic. We were both lovingly dysfunctional and yet, too, I hold her in a special regard.
She was one of the great ones to which I can say that truly and heartily, this girl showed me the care and the comfort, the love and the kindness that is rare to the world.
Yet, still, and deservedly, I lost her

I thought about this as I was walking home from a night out with the so-called friends and their crazy little bullshit.
I never felt comfortable. Yet, I never dared to leave or walk away from my so-called crew of friends.

I never felt like I fit and to me, there was always something missing about me or the places I’d go. Hence, I dressed the way I dressed, or I posed as I posed, and whenever possible, I looked to perfect my stance, no differently from the shirt that I saw when I was young.
It’s not who you are, right?
it’s what you wear.
it’s where you hang out.
it’s not what you know, it’s who you know
right?
It’s not who you are, it’s how you stood or how you held a drink at the bar or portrayed a look, as if to be better or above.
But to be honest, it’s hard to be above the world when you all you’ve ever believed about yourself is lowly or that your spot is beneath the others around you.

I walked from the Eastside to the Westside and noticed the changes in the neighborhood. But more, I noticed people gathering their things, their chairs, and I noticed them setting up tables in front of their apartment buildings. I noticed people sitting with friends.
I admired this.
I loved it . . .
I loved the sense of family

I never had that.
No.
Not even close.
I had always wanted to find the place where I would fit.
I wanted a home. I wanted a family.
I wanted all of this and more because I wanted love.
I wanted that feeling that comes when you lay net to someone and you feel their body beneath the sheets—and suddenly, no pain killer, no antidepressant, no drug on the market or food in the belly could heal or satisfy the soul like the touch of someone special.

I never knew why I assumed that someone’s love and kindness was a form of rejection. I never knew or understood why I assumed the worst would always come first. Or if at all, I assumed the benefits of something good would only be fast or quick and short-lived.

I walked my special troll and lit my cigarette.
I was trying t play it cool but no one noticed me.
No one seemed to care.
I was trying too hard, which is a frequent mistake.
I never knew ow to lay back and “just be myself”
at least, not until you . . .

I watched the people and how they gathered their things in the humblest ways.
None of what I saw was about money or style or status.
There was no pretense or comparisons or “dick-measuring,” contests.
No one talked about fights or being tough.
All I saw were people in New York City, living for the moment, enjoying themselves and fine to be happy.

There was no posturing or bullshit judgments.
There were just people being people, eager to laugh or sit together, and enjoy a nice Sunday afternoon with the warmth of fading summer and the spirit of good friendship.

I often wonder about the later years in my life which are approaching.
I wonder about my retirement or my exit strategy.
I think about the way I was received when talking to some of the town folks in a small place near Chimayo in New Mexico.

I wonder what it is like to sit with friends in a quaint little town, somewhere away from all the bullshit or the manmade distractions and the interruptions of commercialized life.
I wonder what it must be like to sit beside someone beautiful and elegant, like you, and watch the fireflies take off during the sunset hours of a summertime evening

I was done with my so-called surroundings and yet, I knew I needed to walk away.
I knew I needed to find the courage to stand on my own.

I often thought about the girl who chose to walk away from me.
I thought about the dignity she showed by realizing that her value was far greater than the treatment she received—and yes, admittedly and regretfully, I confess to my insecure movements to “keep her” so-to-speak.

I admit to the emotional warfare because in all fairness; had she known how weak I was or truly worthless, she might have left me far sooner rather than later.
And then what?

I assess these things to reconfigure my new existence.
I call this growth.
Some might call this a version of maturity.
Some might call this reflection.
But I call all of this necessary.

I expose even the disheartening truths because if it is by dying that one awakens, then let me allow these things to die.
Let me let this die so that I can have my own postmortem experience – and be healed from the plagues of my past.

I choose to do this and to come to a constructive conclusion so that I can come to grips with a past emotional pattern that either does me a disservice or keeps me stuck.
And I don’t want to be stuck anymore.
Or alone . . .

I refuse to remain as I was or be stuck in thoughts that prevent me from reaching the dreams of my promised land.

I want more.
And this?
This is more.

As for the girl who chose otherwise –
I know that she is alive and well and married and to the best of my knowledge, she is doing well.
Good for her.

As for you, or as for how this pertains to me or us and my life going forward; and as for how this is pertinent to my journal about wanting more, —if given the chance, I will worship every inch of you.
I will celebrate every piece of you—and hopefully, one day, I get to enjoy a sunset when the fireflies are out and the lemonade is sweet and perfect enough that the ice makes the glass sweat.
One day, I will sit with my love and watch a sunset that is consecutively better than anything I have ever seen before.

I swear it . . .