For When Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

As I sat on a tattered leather couch pondering a certain line from First of the Gang to Die.

“…You have never been in love until you’ve seen the dawn rise behind the home for the blind…”

Morrissey’s words struck a chord in my head and resonated down to my heart.  What did this line mean to me?  Why would you sit around near a home that caters to the blind?  More so, why would you be there for the sole purpose of watching the dawn rise?  There are many more scenic locales to choose from;  The alps, the Eiffel Tower, the canals of venice, but a home for the blind?  Why?

Love is such a grey area.  Is it the act or the moment of clarity you experience with a person.  A lightening bolt that just hits you screeching “Hey I think it’s you.”  Out of the billions of people that walk the Earth, society created a word to describe a unique feeling that you feel towards a single individual.

I began to think, churn whatever gears in my head to create a single logical thought of what love was.  If it wasn’t a moment of lucidness what was it?  No reason to make sense out of such a word. 

A leap of faith, smoke in your eyes, and a fire in your heart.  I guess that’s all that really matters right?

 

 

Misty

Was I as lucky as a four leaf clover?  No.  In fact, I’m probably struck with as much misfortune as a cat in a tree.  The funny thing is that it’s the cat’s fault.  Running up a tree isn’t something that’s usually done on a whim.  A certain degree of planning and circumstance lead you up a tree.

I happen to be that cat clawing his way up a tree escaping from an invisible fire.  Maybe that’s what cats see below them when they climb up a tree, a fire.  Perhaps they see fire on the ground and select special trees to escape from them.  A certain metaphysical tree that transcends logic and doesn’t burn down in a fire.  Why this thought popped up in my head I didn’t know.  The only thing that I was doing was waiting for a package to be delivered.  A simple package.  The contents, probably the camera I ordered over the weekend.  Regardless of what was being delivered it didn’t change what I was doing that day; I was sitting, waiting, and thinking about cats.

The sun kissed my cheeks as I sat on the patio of my backyard. With my book in hand and laptop at my side life didn’t seem too bad. As I sat there I had a sudden urge to listen to music. I opened my laptop to browse my music library. Somehow I gravitated towards Ella Fitzgerald’s song Misty. Why I picked that song I don’t know but by chance it worked itself into my random pondering about cats.

“Look at me, I’m as helpless as a kitten up a tree and I feel like I’m clinging to a cloud”

The soft notes of the piano and Ella’s warm voice cradled me into a state of calm. Before I knew it I was drifting hopelessly into sleep.

I dreamt of a dark meandering hallway. The way that it was laid out, the person who drafted the blueprints put no reason into this hallway. As I walked through I began to think about cats again. Why a tree? I thought, “Wouldn’t going back home be an easier option”. Well I guess if I were a cat I would climb up a tree. With the way life is going I empathized with the cat and would climb up a tree too. The more I walked through this dark hallway the more it illuminated and came to life. Before I knew it, I began to see snap shots of moments in time. Moments I didn’t want to think about, a self I didn’t want to see. Moments of failed relationships and the struggles of life began to litter the hallway and block my way. As I traversed this mental corridor I saw a tree.   I briskly made my way through and instinctively climbed it without thought. At the base laid a fire one cause by me. I had no urge to neither climb down nor stay. Stuck in a state of awkward confusion I just looked at the flames radiate below.

I did not feel any heat neither did the tree. Just as the cats searched for a metaphysical tree I found mine. Neither burning down nor feeling the heat of a metaphysical fire, I sat there in a state beyond existence and logic. With all this chaos going on, I can’t complain, the view is nicer from up here. Just a kitten in a tree clinging on a cloud.

 

 

Star Crossed Coffee Shop Sway

I saw her at a coffee shop in a city that I cannot recall.  It could have been San Francisco, perhaps Portland, or it might have been Seattle.  But the fact of the matter is that I was in a small quaint coffee shop surrounded by large buildings looming over my shoulder.

I intended just to glance in her direction but I was sucked into her gravity and put into her orbit.  She wasn’t exactly the classical definition of beauty.  In fact she was quite disheveled.  Bed head, over sized flannel button up and loose fitting boyfriend jeans.  However, to this disorder was a sense of cohesiveness.  She did not try to mend and meticulously fix every detail about herself. She embraced the blemishes and imperfections as her own which added to her beauty.

There was a vacuum of cold empty space between her and I.  And here I was drifting away aimlessly in a coffee shop.  What could I say to her?

“Hello, I’m C.  What’s your name?”

“Or should I tell her a story?”

One day a young man met a young woman in a coffee shop, just like the very one we’re sitting in.  They exchanged pleasantries and talk about the day’s happenings then went their separate ways.  However, chance encounters led them to the same coffee shop every morning at the same time.  She would talk and he would listen and they would part ways at noon.  Every little conversation they built and fostered an honest connection that people encounter once in a lifetime.  Their relationship was natural and unforced, a rarity.  From their first conversation it was like rekindling or reconnecting with an old friend.  They were nothing short of soul-mates.  Two beings intertwined by an intangible force that just can’t be explained.  He was meant for her and she was meant for him.

With every encounter an image of a plug would emerge.  A small cork plug at the base of his neck, one that you would find on a bottle of wine.  Why an image of a cork emerged he did not know.  But he did know he had the urge to pull this cork for it blocked the base of his neck.

Months go by with this routine.  He would talk to her and she would talk to him,  lost in space together.  The cork ever so slightly getting looser.  Slowly he realized the only thing that would release it would be to tell her how he feels.

During their daily encounter he said, “I like you a lot, so much that 1 + 1 is 3.  to that she responded “I’m sorry, I’m spoken for already.”  Just as 1+1=3 doesn’t make sense, her response to him did not register as well.  To him, they were perfect. He couldn’t imagine this sense of comfort with anyone else.  To her he asked, “Why?”.  Curtly she responded, “you took too long”.

In his head, the cork falls off.  Her answer a catalyst for release of this blockage.  With each encounter they were floating in space together but not once did he try to follow through and anchor her down.

“From the first time I met you, I thought we were perfect for each other” she said.  She continued, “You knew me better than friends I’ve known for years.  It’s weird to have a connection with someone you just met and have it that strong.  What stopped you from asking sooner?”

He told her, “A cork at the base of my neck stopped me.  A simple cork stopped me from fully connecting me to you.”  A weird thing to say but it was true.

Thats what I would have told her.  I proceeded to get up and go back to work.  With a cork lodged deeply into my neck.

With that they parted ways, a missed connection and life drifted on.