Woman of his Dreams

Scott held the picture and looked around Peten, Guatemala.

This looked right. 

It looked familiar.

He had studied the picture for hours. Actually that wasn’t right. He had studied it until it was permanently burned into his brain.  

How in the world did he get here?  

Not quite the place that he usually ventured. This whole mess was so unlike him. Why would he just pick up and go halfway around the world just because of a picture?

To the world this solo trip was the spur of the moment. He had quit his job, moved out of his apartment and put everything into storage. He had no clue on how long it would take to find this place or what to expect when he got here.

Friends looked at him like he had lost his mind.

Family told him he was being irrational and that maybe he should seek some counseling. 

He didn’t know what they would think if he had told them the whole story. The picture was one that just appeared one morning. It had replaced his bookmark in a JA Jance novel that he had been reading. He hadn’t read a page since that moment. In fact he hadn’t done much else except search for this place.

Thank God for the internet. He had searched multiple pages for the partial phrase on that white building. Fate or luck held that those letters occurred in only a few words. Guayacan was one of them. Searching for that term lead him to a certain hotel. It had a white exterior as did the one in the picture.

The architecture looked familiar and he had been more and more certain that what the picture was showing was the Hotel Guayacan in Peten, Guatemala. So certain that he was risking all to find out.

Scott looked across the water and viewed the hotel. This was the spot. The picture had been taken here. Although the boats and buses didn’t line up, all the buildings lay at exactly the right angle.

Now what?

He felt relief. He had spent so much energy to get this far. But getting here wasn’t the reason. He didn’t come here because of the picture; he came here because there was the picture. 

What he hadn’t told anyone, not even his best friend Donny was about the dream. It called to him. When he slept he melted into it. There were times that he woke up sweating thinking that it was all so real. He could see details in his dream. The vivid colors of some of the buildings. He could smell the grease of the buses. He had slipped his hands into the muddy brown water and let the cool water wash off his face as he felt the vicious sun beat down on his tender skin. It was all so real.

How it formed on a picture and made its way to his book he could not fathom. The picture was real. He had shown it to others just to test his mind. He didn’t understand it and had thought at first that he was slipping under the deep end. It was real, so maybe the rest was as well.

Scott knew he usually dreamed in color. Except for a few exceptions, this dream wasn’t much different than most. Most of his dreams felt real. Most had vivid colors. This was a series of dreams. All centered around this one spot in the world. This wasn’t a reoccurring dream any more than each day is a reoccurring day. Similar things, similar surroundings but still different. The one exception. The one thing that happened exactly the same in each and every one of these dreams was…

Scott’s moistened his lips and relived the sensation. The softness. The sweetness. It was the most incredible kiss that he had ever had. He felt his eyes closing as the sensation intensified. Her perfume filled his nostrils and swirled in an erotic dance. His knees shook and as in his dreams he opened his eyes and saw her face and sparkling eyes.

Reality struck him sharply as the sun shined brightly into his eyes. He squinted and looked at a young lady walking towards him. She looked somehow familiar. He tried to look closer at her features hidden in the shade beneath her cowboy hat. In her hands she carried a camera. It was strung around her neck but she still cradled it delicately with both hands. 

She stepped closer and as she looked up and smiled at him she pointed her camera lens at him and asked, “how about letting me take your picture?”

Scott looked up and could clearly see the woman of his dreams.

I admire people

I admire people who have a sense of identity.  I bet you are one of them.

Confident in who you are.

Passionate about things that matter to you.

Able to focus on the important things in your life.

I admire that your opinion about yourself is the one that counts the most.

Somehow I have never discovered who I am.

Maybe I have never decided who to be.

Possibly I don't see well enough to recognize the real me.

Maybe its not accepting who I am.

I thought the other day that living is like flying an airplane without being given any lessons or instructions.  We struggle with some of the basics just to get off the ground.  Some people learn quickly and are soaring above the clouds.  Some crash and burn too quickly.  I find that I reached the cloud level pretty easily but never knew that you needed to climb above so that you can see where you are going.  I have traveled in the cloud layer never seeing the horizon;  Never knowing what direction that I should take...

Little Actions

 Little actions can clearly explain some aspects of your life.

The other day I was immersed in work and my peripheral attention was gently shifted to a buzzing and thumping sound.  As a background noise, I dismissed it as noise from one of the various computers running in my office.  Slowly my mind triangulated the direction and then insisted that I must be chasing the sound of an echo instead of the actual noise.  The simple conflict was enough to turn that background noise into something that demanded more of my attention.

I stopped my work and listened.

The noise was coming from the direction of one of my windows and it could not be an echo because there was no paired duplicate of the sounds coming from any other direction.  I turned my head and I looked toward where I thought the sound was coming from and paused my breathing so that I could feel that noise a bit deeper.

The noise became clearer and more apparent that it was not a computer noise.

I watched and listened and then saw the trapped bee desperately trying to escape through the glass into the safety of the outdoors.

For a bee it was large.  It was menacing. It was terrified...

I could see and hear its energy. I witnessed its power. It was determined to break free.  It knew his goal was in view and it boasted power and confidence.  It settled on patience and searched for the spot that would bring it to its freedom.  I watched as it became incensed and it tried to bully its way through the glass. The raw power was immense and the bee ground his nose into the glass determined to power through the resistance.

I understood how the bee felt.  

The obstacle was invisible.  

The barrier was unknown.  

He questioned his existence and his ability.  The frustration mounted and his determination road through him like a roller coaster.  Sputtering between hopelessness and rigid determination…

 

My life and existence sputters too. 

I face invisible barriers too.

Maybe even in my small state I was menacing…

 

I gently opened the window and coaxed the bee to the opening. 

He exploded to his freedom never looking back or realizing that I had given aid.

I wonder how many times that invisible hand has helped me through my invisible barrier?

I don''t know you

If we passed each other as we walked down the street, you wouldn't recognize me.  

If I called your name, you may or may not answer.  If you did, you would look at me and wonder how I knew you.  I'm not a distinctive person, so you might wonder if you worked with me or if we went to school toegether.

Reality is subjective. We live in our minds and our reality is subjected to how accurate our perceptions are. Or maybe, how creative.  Is it all a mind game?  Is there an actual reality? Do we exist as a singularity that burst forth like our imagined birth of the universe? We are the universe and our perceptions are the reflections of our spontaneous existence...

I digress and confound the discussion.

When I look inside my soul, I wonder if I am nothing more that a mirror.  I exist only because of the lights of others.  When in darkness, I dim and become nothing. My thoughts slow and I struggle to hold on to the last remnants of light that has passed over my lens.  There is no source, only reflection.

So forgive me if I cling a little too hard.  Forgive me if I lurk a little too close. Forgive me if I step into your personal space.  Without those around me I would be no more.

I pray that I shine your light back on you.  Show you how wonderful you are. Compose the song that whistles through my heart and soul singing out the splendor of you. You are so amazing.

Thrown-Away People; James

 

NOTE.  This is a piece from many years ago.  My selfishness is still a work in progress.  This re-write is mainly for my benefit.

For most of my younger life I lived selfishly taking whatever I wanted from whomever I wanted it from. Along the way I dismissed and discarded many people. Guilt and awareness have compelled me to write a series of works entitled Thrown-Away People. Although all the people involved are fictional, this is a dedication and an apology to all those people that I have thrown away. I hope I never turn my back again.


James felt the cold rain cut through to his skin. It was only October but some mornings in the northeast were cold. Adding that slow drizzle made him chilled all the way to his soul. How he wished he could climb into a soft warm bed. Everything was wonderful when his dad was still alive. Saturday mornings he would climb into bed with his parents and he would watch cartoons while they read the morning paper. He loved rainy days. They would stay cuddling in bed longer, just absorbing the warmth from each other. That was ages ago. That was a lifetime ago. Man, that was a different lifetime ago. Can't think about that now. He needed to get moving. It was Thursday and this was the morning that the Food Shop grocery store threw away all their outdated packaged goods. James knew that he needed to get there before the garbage truck did. He hadn't eaten since Tuesday and he was feeling that dull ache pounding in his stomach.

You had to be careful though. If they caught you digging in their dumpster they would chase you swinging sticks, bats or broom handles. A couple weeks ago one of the Food Shop employees had connected with a broom handle. Smacked him right upside his head. Man did that hurt. The blood streaked down his face and mixed with the dirt caked against the side of his face. You got dirty dumpster diving.

They helped him at the Capital City Mission. Cleaned and dressed it with antibiotics and some gauze. They wanted him to stay overnight but he knew better than that. Unless you had a buddy, you ended up waking up with all your stuff gone. He learned that last winter when the temperature got so cold that he had to find someplace warm. By morning not only was his jacket gone, so were his shoes. The shelter had given him some replacements but they were 3 sizes too big and very ragged.

It was hard finding places with heat. Public places were now heavily patrolled by the police. The last time he tried to get warm in the bus station he got to take a little ride with the city’s finest. They carried him to the city line and as they started their u-turn, one officer opened the back door and pushed him out. Although the car wasn’t going too fast, he hit the ground pretty hard, scraped his face and tore a few holes in his pants. He could handle the pain but he had just gotten those pants at the Salvation Army. Two days earlier he had been at the exit ramp from the highway holding up his sign that said that he would work for food or money. A nice lady had stopped and asked him if he really was willing to do some work. James remembered mumbling, "Yes ma'am". She unlocked the front door and asked him to get in. Instead of taking him to a work site, she took him to the Salvation Army store and bought him two pairs of pants, two shirts, some underwear, socks and a pair of shoes! Everything was his size. This was better than any Christmas he remembered as a kid.

She even drove through a burger joint and bought him dinner. He kept wondering how much work he would need to do to earn all that she had given him. The next thing he knew she had driven back to the exit ramp and was handing him a $20 bill. James was confused and tried to ask her about the work she wanted him to do. She smiled and waved him off, saying goodbye, pulling the door shut and then driving away.

He felt brand new in his clothes and started back to his hideaway down by the lumber warehouse. He could still see her smile. It was the same smile his mom gave him when he was younger. He thought of the time he brought home his pottery project. He had worked on it all week in art class. It was a blue flower pot. He painted it blue because that was the color of his mom's eyes. He had wrapped it in some pretty paper and couldn't wait to give it to her for Mother's Day. He had even made a card. When she opened it she smiled at him just like that lady had. He smiled back feeling proud until he heard her mom and dad arguing later that evening. He crept down the hall and peaked into their room. He watched in horror as his mom shoved the pottery in his dad's face and said, "Look at this crap! Your son is as incompetent as you are!" He watched as she smashed it against the wall. As he watched the pot shatter and the small blue pieces scatter across the carpet, he felt his heart shatter too.

He cried himself to sleep. Tears soaked his pillow. His sobs muffled by its softness and by the darkness that surrounded him. That was the last time he ever cried. He didn't even cry when they found his dad's body two days later in the driver's seat of his car. The key was on but the car had run out of gas hours earlier. They didn't want him to see what happened but he peered into the garage from the side door. He could see that all the windows of the car were still open and that somebody had stuffed towels under the door frames.

He didn't cry whenever his mom slapped him over the next few years. She drank a bit too much and would scream at him telling him that his dad killed himself because he was such a fuck-up. He could feel the pain as her hand smacked his cheek. He could see his dad still sitting in the driver's seat. He had turned gray. There was no color to his skin and even his hair, which had been jet black, had lost its luster. He could have been watching an old black and white movie.

He pulled the black garbage bag tighter against his body. It helped keep the cold drizzle from soaking any deeper into his soul. The grocery store was across the shopping center parking lot. Numb from the cold and numb from all those empty stares, he hardly noticed the way that people looked at him anymore. Some people simply stared at him as he crossed the lot. Some he knew would spit on him if he got close enough. Most simply turned their backs and pretended that he wasn't even there.

The grocery store dumpster was along the back of the building. James dove into the shadows along the side of the store and kept as quiet as he could. At least the rain would keep most people in a hurry and he could probably get some food before being chased away. He walked by trash scattered by the wind. He had even tried to get a job with this store. He suggested that he could keep all this trash cleaned up as well as all their carts handy for their customers. James didn't understand it. The manager looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language.

Oh, well. I wouldn't hire me either, he thought as he stopped and picked up a handful of the debris. Luckily nobody was around when he got to the dumpster. James lifted up the lid, tossed his armful of garbage in and quickly followed it. He was in luck. There were about a dozen crushed boxes of donuts, crackers and dried spaghetti. He would at least eat today.

I fade in and out of existence

 I fade in and out of existence
Like a whisper of a wisp
No form to claim home
To this buzzing world

Is it the chemistry of particles

Or the believe from within

That provides some substance

To my pulsating glow

I search my brain for memories

Wondering if they are real

Did I create the story

Of the man that I so claim

I think about my image

I watch it change and brighten

Sometimes dim and faded

A reflection of some bright souls

Without you there is no me

I am simply a passing cloud

Like a whisper of a wisp

I fade in and out of existence

Holding on

 As I get older I find that I know more but understand less. 

I see some of the patterns in my life.  When I struggle with self,  I find that I get extremely busy.  All of a sudden I am fighting fires in all areas of living.  Works demands increase.  Cars break.  Home needs more of everything.  Relationships need more care.  Physically I struggle and need to deal with health... 

I know the Why, the What and the When, but I don't understand the Who.

I think about life and see the forces that sway our direction.  It makes me wonder if life is a self creation or a self discovery.  I can only ponder at the purpose of life and don't understand whether we truly have free will or we simply make choices to define who we are.  Maybe our paths are simply a forge that transforms us into a specific individual.  Maybe we are gently guided and face a harder hand when we stray too far from our pre-determined path.  

So Who shakes up my life when I struggle with myself?  Is that me?  Is that God?  

Even without understanding I know that I need to hold on and keep going.  I hold onto the hope that either way I am choosing to move in the right direction.

If you are on this journey with me,  it would be nice if you said hello.  If you are shy like me, I understand. Hello from me in any case.