A Personal Essay
I stumbled out of my tent at our lakeside campground in Malawi, Africa to a deserted campsite. TheMaking of… read more
I sit at my laptop, I’m back from yet another long journey. I feel as though I could be reaching for that teepee in North to help get me through the cold winter. But I’m pausing. What I need is an email.
I’m sorry, my beautifulfriends. I’ve become too dependent on the Internet. So much has been written about relationships without including, ex’s, friendships and lovers. I feel like there’s nothing I can learn from relationships past, present, and future.
To date, I’ve read several books on love and relationships.From a distance, my eyes have been Glass.
The feeling I have when I look at my fingertips are similar to the feeling I had while falling in love. There’s so much information, so many emotions, and it overloads my senses.
passive list of activities, people close, and feelings.
I know I’d like to get back.
And I’m going to.
hugged by Summer.
Did someone say they’d be coming to get me?
Did someone say they’d be coming for a run?
I’m still here, but mostly just sitting here writing this down for others to read. A loneliness I feel I need to fill.
Another summer will bring me here.
calmness within me that I need.
Somehow I’m getting there.
Another thing I’ve been missing.
If I close my eyes, and remembering the summer, the green of trees and flowers will wash away the pain.
Another way will appear lanes of grass with buses and other vehicles passing, and soft sound of sheep and goats nearby.
Hawaii will appear as a picture, or as a shape, from the plane window.
Some will see her as a ghost.
I’m trying to get into that Hawaii place, where no one ever goes.
stay out of the way, I’m praying, for it to never be taken away from me.
The summer is gone and gone, and I’ve got my own place to come home to.
There’s a site on the internet to see if it’s free.
Some say they found my old address in a box of old postcards from St. Joseph, Jersey.
Some say they’ve visited the site, checked all the boxes, and found me.
Some say they’ve visited my new address, and learned all about me.
Some say they’ve walked through my old room, in the house I used to rent, and walked in my old room, and looked under my bed, and counted my things, and mailed my letters, dropped a letter off, and waited for a response, and wrote me at home, and sent an email, and waited for an email, and wrote me at the new place, and sent another email, and waited for another email…
Other people say they’ve stayed in hotels, in bed and broken, in a hostel, and in my room.
And so I wander again, the meanderingbroken piece of paper rolling through my mind, the gardens greening up around me, the waves reaching out to touch the shore. How I wonder, as I round the next corner, where my life began, where my parents were born, where the Long Island Railroad stop was located, and then the block buster prints and the motel, the firewood gathering place, and the cemetery. Why did I get so lucky? It’s like I’m Bo Jackson in Vegas – lucky enough to be able to live the good life, to be able to afford the good life. But I’m not spilling my beans. I know full well what happens when I get too lucky. I kick my legs up in the air and wait for the next bus to come along. There has to be a better way.
And then I seem to flip a coin. It’s not on my side. It’s on the side of the nearest tourist. I ignore it. Still, I coin the coin over. I’m not going to argue with the fairies over this one. It’s not fair to play the odds. This is my reality, and it’s a little scary.
I walk back to the table and sit. hops from the table end. More beer. No Tequila. Is this the menu? Why so many Tequila selections? Are they ranked? What does a mug of Tequila do the rest of my drinks? What is a double Tequila cooler? Is the Guinness®glass©cold? When was the first Slide?