I gesture to leave my souring nest but pity is a poison best sipped near the entrance of a new day and I ponder my own willingness to stray the comfort of isolation. No. Not today. I can’t go on like this. Ready. Set. Go.

I escape; I scurry into daylight, my shadow trails behind and I find a seat before the sun, beside a tree nestled eloquently in a bed of mulch and stone. I drop down down down to bloody knee: I can’t go on like this. Stop. Breathe. Listen. Screeching tires, busy doors and voices of people pushing sloppy conversations through forked tongues: over it all the piccolos cry, there it is: there it is: one tree in a field of asphalt has the power to pull angels from the sky. Its 10 am, I slowly release the heartbeat that rocked me from the safety of sleep; I undress my armor of emotional impermeability and learn that I am none of the things I call myself. Ready. Set. Go.

Dear Journey,

Confession:

I think maybe I tried too hard to be a hero around this. I dressed in an armor of emotional impermeability one night in the distant past and I neglected to change suits. Today I sat in the sun; I felt small. I miss feeling small. It felt nice. I surrendered the energies to which I have been so attached, the ones inspired by you, ignited by this spontaneous connection-

I write this as the thought of you reading these words makes me feel vulnerable- it is from this source of uncertainty that I trust you, dear Goddess, to provide nourishment for my spirit; music has been a fine dose of encouragement, colors return to grace the buds in beauty’s arms with pink-pointed kisses.

Or maybe its that I hold weakness in the back of my throat and it is now creeping upwards, shorting neural connections and breeding odd ones instead- I don’t know anything, but that this is not an end is something of which I am sure, though it has presented itself as one for some time now. And so I grant it the respect it deserves and I bury it while reading these words; otherwise I might turn my back to catch something shiny and new while this precious gem reluctantly floats out to sea…

Love,

Rasham Writes

4th Step

I know why you wear your glasses to bed: you’re afraid you wont see what’s coming when you’re asleep, that if you open your eyes and have a moment to react you may react wrongly because you cant see…I know this…I watch you sleeping, I see those eyes moving in the space on your face while you wait at the edge of dreams for a reason to engage your reflexes and then boom! Too late; the nightmare is real and blood is already pouring; if only you had been wearing your glasses…

And what diet have you consumed that has left you so bloated with fear? Who has your heart in a bind and who before has pricked it a million times with nasty needles of demented perfection? You seek approval in all forms, wanting to be wanted by all people in all ways. And when you fail to find that source of acceptance you suffer a gentle stab, you  feel it sink in and slide around, you feel it grow around your heart and change you, you feel it arrest your thoughts and turn them so that they are unfamiliar and throbbing like your pulse that sets the tone for your prize of resentment.

You will cry now, wont you? Remembering the pleasant taste of freedom, a memory vague and teasing, like the flavor of strawberry licked from the fingers of your vacant sweetheart. Why do you source the misery from which you run? Is there a place to phrase the pickled prayers of a self-anointed princess? You are nothing, you think. You have nothing and you come from people who have less still. So go, then, leave this world like you’ve wanted before; the skin of your wrists is already written with scar tissue gossip of a lonely end.

And to whom are you now attached, I wonder? From whom do you leech the vibrant energy of approval? Does he say ‘I love you?’ And what do you reply? You might sit still and soften those eyes behind the forged glass that shields your sinister intentions; so afraid to be alone you keep him with your smile all the while you silently repeat the mantra of mortal insecurity in your mind: ‘please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me….’ You’re so afraid to be alone! The form of the man is no matter so long as he craves you, cradling your virginity or catering to your finite innocence with the force of his fist; to you it is no matter. The kind one thinks of himself the answer to your history of abuse, the ill-tempered one sees you as weak and sees him a savior who violently demands recognition of his heroic cock.

Is it security you seek? Daily sessions of unconditional affirmation? Like congealed animal fat the weight of your uncertainties hangs in pockets of condensed self-pity, you roam the earth a victim of the hurt you have been prescribed by the crooked sources of power in your sick society: you believe them though all they have done is reduced you to another consumer casualty waiting to wear an American flag around the grave;  in death you’ll be as valued as the cost of your tomb. Until then, I hate the way your lips coil around the words of your favorite pop-star icon.

I know you fight it, you’re wrapped in your own skin shaking like a dying dog, a look of anger drips wet with worry and is smeared across the canvas of your nighttime portrayal. It is pain to descend into darkness, to release the demons you have all day concealed with a half-ass smile and neon bright words that defend your make-believe bliss. For you life is a thin dress of sugar which coats a swollen seed of malcontent.

What would you need to release the beast? How long until you give birth to your morbid offspring; a word or a glance or a thought or a sentence that spews like vomit from your soured insides? You deliver unto the world that with which it has you impregnated; coils of hurt, anger, hatred, and grief. Your life is a permanent gestation of a broken fetus with a broken heart; your child wears the crown of thorns long before it’s born, she is doomed to carry the burden of a thousand stubborn mistakes; thank you, mother murderer.

So what now? You’ll sleep eventually, wearing the pink frames or cuddling them close to the scabs on the knuckles of your graying hands, awaking to feed your aging addictions, one by one they surface and you place them in line, one after another, each one fulfilled only brings you closer to the next; you cherish your alcoholic itinerary and so long as you’re awake you function like a machine driven by a programmed response that has you constantly inputting random data and outputting arbitrary waste, the sad cycle of someone convinced they are deprived and only partially a person.

So you learn of things which only jumble spiritual reception and from it you produce no good action except the action to deny that divinity exists outside of dreams. You are alone, you prefer to be alone, so no one can ever get close enough to learn why it is that you wear your glasses to bed… but I know, I watch you as you sleep…

My mood was transformed at the sight of him; his blue eyes were as gentle as the tide in the mist of a morning fog and his composure was reflective of experience and age. I smiled as his mere presence numbed the stinging pain from the wounds I endured on behalf of the unexpected encounter with the beauty. I breathed him in deeply: “what a beautiful offer of company from a beautiful man”, I thought. She faded into the distance and I faded into a romantic fantasy on a random park bench with an absolute stranger.

He was a man from New Orleans who drank red wine for no reason other than he liked the taste, and who played music to the fireflies in the southern darkness between the curls of smoke that seeped from his hand rolled cigarettes. He was easy and wise; none of what he said was shadowed by any attempt to conceal his true colors. Near him I couldn’t hide, nor lie, nor could I even mask the shyness in my own voice.

He asked me about my life, but there wasn’t much to tell: I had lived like the rest of the world up to this very day we shared alone on a park bench in a town without a name. I couldn’t speak, I felt as though I was of lesser importance comparatively because I was poor in terms of places traveled and tales told; I was like a peasant in rags before the prince of a kingdom who was now impressing me with knowledge and wisdom I had only read about in books. And he was charming, a beam of effervescence floated upon the feathers of his wings as he soared throughout the pinkish atmosphere within the outline of our sprouting affections: I accepted his invitation to begin and followed him home.

The night was smudged with uneven patches of charcoal and all around the edges seemed defined by a clear frame; it was as though we were seated on a set of some fabulous production, painted against the canvas of a dark sky. I was slightly nervous and so I denied his offer of a beverage, which in his clear plastic cup moved like the fabric of a maroon satin dress belonging to a girl who was twirling in a field at dusk on the eve of her birthday. He talked and I listened, the two of us staring into each other, neither one of us wanting to be the first to look away. I became flushed when he made mention of the freckles on my face and my eyes darted to watch something familiar, the scattered lines on the palms of my hands folded haphazardly in my lap. I felt his touch upon the fine hairs of my chin; he reacted to my meek gesture of insecurity and was now cradling my face in the warmth of his hand. I was embarrassed, but he didn’t allow me to retreat into thoughtful obscurity. “Let me see you”, he said, and I allowed our eyes to trace an imaginary line across a plane which united us in the spring of our blossoming romance. We stayed for hours until the sky began to boil from the heat of the sun on the morning after. I had fallen asleep atop the breast of his brown corduroy jacket, his arms were wrapped around me and the laces of our shoes were tangled as we lay. I knew that he was the sort of person I would begin to miss before I had even begun to say goodbye.

I rose up from our nest and watched him as he slept on the splinters of the redwood deck; his long blond hair was all about his handsome face. I felt an assortment of unfamiliar emotions which lifted my spirits like the air beneath the arms of a kite, and so many reasons and expectations had melted in spite of him; I thought I was falling in love.

I was gone only a few hours when he called and we held each other for a while as we allowed our bodies to exchange subliminal messages of intimacy and adoration. It happened twice, once while sitting around a dining room table in the fluorescent glow of a home furnishings department, and again while stepping over the chain link divide of a neglected churchyard, that he cradled my face in his hands and said those words ‘let me see you’, though this time each episode was marked with a kiss. I favored his lips to conversation, and we were in bed together in the backseat of his car in a sort of surreal setting of intellectual abandonment, learning only about the sensitivities of our exposed flesh. His touch was so soft, so smooth: the perfect compliment to the savage smoke from the purple-weed we inhaled earlier. The music from the car stereo played something emotionally disturbing, and my eyes became swollen with tears which drizzled from the corners of my eyes as the weight of his body impressed upon mine all the while we made love.

Afterward our sights seemed narrowed and our airways were clear and he reached to cradle my face in his hands; “let me see you”, he whispered, and I smiled for what felt like the first time in my life. That’s when he said “I need to tell you something…”, and I swore I heard the shots of a rifle in the distance and I became supremely defensive, pulling my face from his hands in preparation for some awful news.”I’m leaving tomorrow for New Orleans”. A ringing bell sliced through my fantasy and it shattered like a window at the mercy of a steel metal baseball bat. “Really?” was all I could manage to say through the tepid wind that escaped my deflated lungs.

Like a lost limb in the aftermath of a shark attack I was left minus one important part of myself, to bleed until I retired from grief and exhaustion. Our relationship had expired sooner than the milk I had purchased days before we met. I said goodbye after a night of patient caress and slowly released the idea of him from my imagination, like a child letting go of a balloon. He boarded the craft and as I turned to leave I saw her, the beauty, an attractive presence in an otherwise formidable setting of lingering sadness. She had come to say goodbye too. I felt the cold chill of winter’s approach though the heat of the day was all around me, and my heart began to beat wildly and my chest collapsed: had she meant something to him too?

I was confused, upside down and rationally guarded: I must have exaggerated the details of our indulgence, indeed I was no more special to him than the beauty, and I wanted to be gone from this moment of stark revelation and shrivel against an icy portal of isolation. I calmed myself, refusing the temptation to soak in self pity, and walked quickly to the ladies’ room on the second floor of central station.

I looked at the pathetic reflection of a hopeless romantic in the opaque mirror of the bathroom and cried, my knees bending as I slid my back against a steel door and took a seat upon the colonies of filth forming on the bathroom floor. To have been introduced to love and have her stolen away was devastating: add an ounce of insecurity and a pinch of jealousy on account of the beauty and I was in absolute ruins. I collected myself and walked hurriedly through the crowds and into a place introduced simply by the words from the pen of an Asian artist. I came here because I didn’t know of where else to go where I could escape the tormenting heat and rest without being punished by guilt which would surmount until I gave in and purchased some useless thing which would serve as rent paid for the space I embodied. It seems I wasn’t alone; the population here is a handful of other heartbroken fools, where instead of committing suicide one simply decides it would be easier to make the trip to the local wishing well. I was watching the carousel which was so out of place in the midst of the nightmarish fortune that was unfolding before my tired feet. I sat with a penny in my hand reluctant to release it into the waters and I wondered if it was even worth the effort to make a wish. I opened my hand and the bronze button slid clumsily down the length of my palm and seemed to linger a moment at the edge, hesitating, as if to mirror my disposition on this regrettable day. In a single moment the object spiraled towards its aqueous fate and I imagined that it contained both the power to preserve and destroy me, and I clenched my eyes to avoid witnessing its final descent into the bottom of this artificial pond, to join other decaying hopes and dreams now breathless at the end of this sepulcher for wishes. It’s done, and now it rests in the pit of pale blue, and the process proved as unfulfilling as the day was born, and I turned and walked towards the door.

Before I am able to depart from these afternoon moments of misery and self loathing I am asked by a blinking light to forfeit a quarter and a quarter of my skepticism and stand tall upon a machine no less than half my height. The quarter seemed happy to part from my mess of pathetic personals and slipped down the throat of this steel beast, the clinking and clanging grew soft as it settled amongst the collection of other silver refugees. I awaited the results with a long face and a heavy heart: 123 pounds of me weighing down upon this earth, and a lousy excuse for a daily insight: the machine says ‘love will find you’. How appropriate: the lack of which has brought me to entertain this soulless trap is the very thing which is now promised to me. I sighed and left, into the sunlight, though I thought I was walking into a veil of disgruntled rain clouds on a scorned day.

And to my dismay there she was, it seems as though I cannot escape her. I recall the image of his Hollywood smile, and in betrayal of my self confidence a portrait is displayed before my mind’s eye of him and of her laughing at the world through a crystal ball. I approached her, did I have a choice? Suddenly she became the object of my affection because she was the bearer of great emotional power; within me she had conjured a royal fermentation of evil prophecy fit for the last meal of a wizard’s king. I had to get close to her, to understand her; if she was worthy of his affection she would be worthy of mine. I drank my tears and decided that I would invite her to begin.

“Hi”, I said, feigning a regal composure. In an instant that seemed as rapid as the flash from a Polaroid camera she was beside me and we were no longer enemies. Rather we were bonded; our curiosities outweighed our hormonal response to such a messy circumstance. She was an adventurer and was older than her appearance portrayed though younger than me. I was a bit more reserved but I accepted her invitation to begin and followed her home.

We shared about our time with the boy, both having suffered upon hearing the plans of his sudden departure, the boy who held our faces in his hands and whispered with a rosy hint of eternal affection “let me see you”. It was by nature of having been recognized so tenderly by the boy that we were now inseparable. We discovered that it wasn’t worth our efforts to be bitter towards one another: he proved to be the catalyst for our blossoming romance.

We moved into a cottage by the pond behind the busy streets of an empty neighborhood. We had a bedroom window that never quite closed and a bathtub that would forever own the stains of the red wine she had spilled while bathing. In my arms she was always welcome, always loved, and always adored. I never forgot those precious moments when the cruelty of the world would invade her heart, and her green eyes would weep the sorrowful harmonies of a harpooned whale, and she would become limp like a child in my possession. Her coffee brown hair I would brush against the length of her moist lashes, and I would hold her face in my hands as delicately as the petals of a garden flower. Her smile would rise up from behind sheets of tears and to witness this would leave me without a voice and I would drink her in.

There was nothing strange about the two of us: we forged at a unique point in our lives because of the boy from New Orleans.

There was nothing exceptional about the two of us: we lived like the rest of the world, enchanted yet directionless, a shoulder to cry on, a reason to survive, one phone call away from the grave; she pulled me exponentially closer to love. Neither of us ever heard from the boy from New Orleans, and we never spoke of him really. We dreamed of what it would be like to see him again, by the edge of the water in the wishing well. She laughed when we made mention of it, but I often wondered if he would come to know the weight of his lighthearted actions, and if perhaps he would hold both our faces in his hands and say softly those words that stirred the swelling tides of our noble hearts; “let me see you”. I shrugged the thought away, and looked over to see Ash, a silver emblem in the shape of a star glazed the skin beneath her emerald eye and her hands were cupped, a bronze button resting within like a baby in a bassinet. It caught the shine from the midday sun as it slipped down the length of her palm, and she wore a slight smirk as it dove into the waters of the well, though this time the penny had only the power to preserve; I no longer had any use for destruction.

From ‘Love and Furlough’

Jord: It is strange-our connection, like a hide a key: always there but you only know when you look.

It is early morning at the train station, the chill of the mist is biting, and I relish in the thought of a hot coffee, as I skip over the tracks in route to the nearest oasis. My fingertips begin to tingle as the warmth of blood returns, and I pause, studying the cast and crew of this early bird production: a gathering of officers has my attention, in costume and fully armed.

The grassy voice of the oboe slices through the mumbles and murmurs, and as I warily watch the uniformed chums babble and laugh, I realize just how human they really are. The presence of their weapons gradually becomes insignificant in my overall assessment: they appear as children, faced with he unfortunate future of danger and uncertainty because of the badges they carry. It almost brought tears to my tired eyes: I wanted to thank them for having allowed me to see them as such: vulnerable and afraid.

Before me a family of three takes three seats around a four cornered table. The tabletop is set with solo cups and pastries, and before a single slice of the confection is enjoyed, they grasp hands in a religious act of silent prayer. I wonder to which God they pray, and to whom they owe their words of piety. All that is apparent in this moment of divinity is their love for one another: otherwise, it is in the faith of mankind, and not God, that they bow heads in unison. It is so, that the properties of God and our ideas of Him exist within our minds, and not outside of him, nor in any other being. When one man says he knows of the existence of God, another who hears him may believe out of a need to appease his own curiosity and abate his nerves: the belief in God is then a mere belief in the words of that man. History is the greatest account of these phenomena, where from the awe of unexplainable good and from the unsettling fear of a lurking and mysterious evil spawned a need to trust in the word of our fellow man when he said to trust in the good of a power greater than ourselves; God. God shows himself in nothing but our own expressions of Him; in our own exhausted explanations of universal processes which are religiously defined. What we call ‘God’ is that to which we attribute those phenomena which simply cannot be explained by methods of science or rational thought. However, it is a force nonetheless, a force of human imagination and a manifestation of the relentless will of man to quiet his worldly suspicions and grief thereof. We still need each other in ways of which we are quite unaware; that we have an unspoken faith in the word of our fellow man despite the devastating condition of mankind is reassuring.

A child’s voice brightens the mood, which has become somber with the sad strokes of a stringed bass emanating from someplace within this espresso scented sanctuary. She is cuddled against her father’s chest as he reads from ‘Little House on the Prairie’, her petite face marked with round pillows of cream from her mug of hot chocolate. She looks in my direction though past me, sharing a moment with another little girl propped against the cushions of the filth spattered bench, a pink stemmed flower clutched in her delicate hands. The two are connected by the nature of their youth, exchanging innocent messages through the intensity of their virgin eyes: an experience which can only be had by the souls of children in a mature world. In the corner of the cafe is the sudden sound of steam escaping a metal vat and I am interrupted by the awareness of time: I must leave if I am to meet the train.

The station features a unique element of uniform contentment in that the presence of eager passengers is not forsaken by the presence of nervousness and anxiety, as when the mean of transport is by way of flight. Announcements fill the space between the queries of curious children and the laudable laughter of couples engaged, and my anticipation is fed on behalf of the light hearted energies of my traveling companions.

I take my first step onboard the California Zephyr, and already I can feel Jord’s presence, so comforting and familiar, the italic script in smoke-blue snaking across the tanned skin if his muscular back. It’s been a year since our last embrace, six since the beginning of our friendship: he is the sole reason for which I am a passenger on this vessel. We would find each other during trivial lapses of proper insignificance in our lives, and would welcome the opportunity to unite, usually under conditions of disparity and loneliness. When all other avenues of love had failed, when time reduced my romantic soul from wildly beating to broken-hearted and the thrills of life had become swallowed by the overgrowth of depression and boredom, I would reconnect with him, my dearest friend from the past. In his arms he would take me from bruised to beautiful, from dull to daringly enthusiastic. And when he called, I always answered, knowingly sacrificing my condition for just one glimpse into his hazy blue eyes. In opposite directions our paths had diverged, the similarities between us were fewer now than ever before. Though the consequences of our choices depict us as two opposites trapped in a cyclical perpetuation of an impotent romance, none of it is of any significance: together we are simple, all affects of our commitments and responsibilities have no bearing in our tiny corner of the world. Whence we stand in front of one another for the first time after a lapse in communication, our weapons are laid, our baggage is left behind: we surrender our images and are nothing but wholly ourselves. Our differing worlds collide in an empathetic moment of universal forgiveness.

Against the backdrop of the high sierra mountains we now reside in the bliss of each other’s company. The tendrils of his dirty blond hair are wildly wavering in the soothing breeze, and the cool of the country night is all around as we sit like children at the edge of the river’s shore. His voice is humming the tune of some forgotten melody as his fingers fondle the nylon strings of his guitar. I cannot remember a time in space where things were as simple as they are now. Torn blue jeans and bare feet, he had a young soul, delighted with the art of the outdoors. He would tell me of hunting tales he survived on islands in the North Pacific, where he roamed the territory armed with a shotgun, seeking a fatal confrontation with a black bear. His spirit was never more vibrant than when he spoke of his life then, of his times of vagrancy in an uninhabited land, and as a fisherman out at sea. It seems he flourished under such conditions, as he embellished his native origins, being just as well versed in the literature of his ancestry as we was experienced in their primitive life style. The ebbing water in the river before us seemed to extract traces of those experiences within him: the inflections in his soft voice were tainted with a sense of eagerness and excitement for things past. He had his own way of denouncing the modern and neglecting the fast-paced, and it was in his style that the truth of this was evidenced. He knew the stars as well as I knew the lines which defined his rugged face, and he referenced them in the songs he sang on this late summer night in the Nevada countryside. The constellation Cassiopeia twinkled politely in the far away distance in accordance with the love which was so gratefully accepted by the both of us.

I often wondered why we had spent so much time apart, but as I complete the thought in my mind, I am already certain of the answer: between him and me, a romance could not exist in any other way. The essence of our attraction is that we are not bound by the shackles of commitment, and perhaps if we had forged at one cross in time our interests for each other would have depleted, and that would of left us empty, hurriedly engaging in our long term goodbyes. Relationships are patterns: we repeat behavior which causes pleasure, and avoid those which cause pain. Ours was a distinct pattern marked by periods of indifference, which made the times we were together all the more pleasurable. It was at a distance that we were the best symbol of the harmonies of man and woman, and to desire anything more would be to tweak the course of our lives in a direction devastating to our friendship. “Better to let things flow”, he would say, after rehearsing a passage from the epic adventures of Crazy Horse.

“Across the cold midnight sky, you walked by, you walked by…and now you’re mine. I reached out and held your hand, I will love you till the end, of my life. Baby don’t be angry at the world, though it seems so cruel, I have you. Don’t fight with your hands, for hate there is no use…I love you….” He sang those words in an almost whisper, his eyes finding mine each time he breathed the words “love you”. I was sitting besides him with my bare knees in my chest; the linen from my dress formed a pond of fabric around me. He put his guitar aside, and slid across the mulch on the earthy ground, closing the space between us. I accepted his offer of embrace and relaxed my neck so that my head rest upon his shoulder.

“Do you ever wonder”, he said calmly, “about people…who die victims, before their time in this crazy world? I don’t know…like those girls you read about in the newspapers; young, beautiful, and taken by men who then took the lives of their youthful captives Every passing moment of their lives, every choice they made or which was made for them on behalf of those who cared was such that it brought them closer to death…”

I was as calm in listening to him as he was in speaking, but I lifted my head and looked towards the stars, searching perhaps for some guidance which would help me to respond to his random inquiry. It was always the case, however, that when the two of us would find one another, we were able to travel outside of ourselves in thought and conversation, toying with ideas which made the both of us feel safe only within each other’s immediate presence; we spoke of things which were cause for fear, and that made us feel humbled and small.

“I guess”, I said weakly, “that though it was, perhaps, a fateful end, it couldn’t have happened in any other way. It may seem as though we have choices, but only when we are able to view the consequences as they have already happened. While we are in that delicate moment which defines us in ways that have yet to be revealed, we are usually guided by forces unseen; we choose that which would benefit us, and which would leave the balance all around undisturbed. There is no other choice; just the next best thing. Had they chosen differently at certain points in their lives, perhaps they would still be alive. But they would see their end another time, in another place, as is the fate of us all. And maybe there are no horrible accidents in life. Perhaps there are those who are born to grow beautiful and strong, and retain their innocence so that on this one day, in this seemingly arbitrary nonessential wrinkle on the evolutionary clock, we may learn from the way of their departure from this world, and perhaps shift our awareness, and subsequently, the direction of life on Earth. Maybe that’s what it takes to spark people’s interest in making a change for the better good of the whole. That would be the philosophy behind suicide bombers, wouldn’t it? People don’t listen to words anymore; they don’t call in sick to work in order to attend the regular March for Peace. In our waking lives we are sedated, happily complacent, and lazy: only when we become disturbed do we begin to think for ourselves again, to question the reality within which we live. In death we rally, in death we unite, in death we open our eyes to the horrible truth of what our constant state of passivity has allowed human civilization to become; nasty and full of evil. And those poor girls; well, nature perhaps chose them to be the suicide bombers of our societies. It was their fate from birth. It’s sad, but perhaps we can say it is necessary in order to attract the attention of us all, and motivate us to do things which prior to the event were not being accomplished.”

He was watching me the entire time I spoke, and I was only half convincing, knowing that if I became too impassioned he would be inclined to wrestle me playfully to the ground.

“Well then…every passing moment of my life has brought me closer to you, now…” he said, with a smile on his face. It was such a smile as was deserving of a kiss, and I released my knees from the wrap of my arms and leaned over to touch my lips to his. I pulled away and returned to my previous position, my head resting upon his shoulder, my arms cuddling my bent knees.

We sat in this way for a short while longer, until the need for sleep was no longer avertable. Sitting on the bench seat of his pick-up truck, he had one arm around me, the other in firm control of the movements of his vehicle. The windows were rolled down and the breeze from the stale summer air filtered through the cabin, licking loose strands of my unkempt hair. In the sky it seemed an artist had wept the pastel paints from the edge of a wand: a swirling tapestry of pink rose, lavender, and dense white clouds loomed overhead. We turned off the main road, the headlights catching the glare of two sparkling rubies in the distance: the eyes of a fawn, alert and rationally hesitant. On the way the truck rumbled over the uneven surface, and I glanced back to watch clouds of dirt drift upwards to greet the clouds in the sky. His arm never left my shoulders, his sight never strayed from the road ahead, and when we had reached our destination, the sounds of the engine were suffocated by a simple twist of the key, and all around was silence save a symphony of creek insects and shallow breaths. “Shall we?” he said, and I smiled softly as our hands met and we escorted one another to the porch steps of his unadorned dwelling.

The floorboards creaked under the weight of the intruders. He set his keys next to a picture from the past, where by a pool of turquoise blue a young mother held in her arms a beautiful little boy in a pinstriped bathing suit. Jord wandered up the wooden stairs, and I followed, turning slightly into the master bedroom. The drapes along the open window’s barrier were pulled aside, flowing gracefully in the welcomed breeze. The light of the moon was upon his face, and in between the spaces of midnight blue on the quilt spread across the modest bed, the glow of night illuminated our haven for sensuality and surrender. We undressed in unison, and took our places atop the blankets, resting on our sides, his chest pressed against my back. His arm reached around me so that I was able to kiss his hands, of which the skin was rough, cracked and scabbing from years of work in the trade of skilled labor. We were cuddled, holding each other as if we were to be faced with our last moments on earth, content that we would not have to face it alone. As my eyes coerced my mind to rest with involuntary episodes of chronic blinking, I wondered about the moon, visible outside the window from where I lay, though shielded by the masterpiece of the artist in the atmosphere: for whom was it also shining, and what part were they to play in this world?

A coat of moisture soaked the skin on my face as I awoke to the presence of the sun, and to Jord, who seemed so alive in gradually waking from his slumber. “Hey sweet pea”, he said, as he nuzzled his unshaven cheek against the blade of my shoulder.

“Hey you”, I said in a hoarse morning voice. Branches from the tree outside were dancing in the light of day, and I relaxed the urge to spring from bed, watching the performance just beyond the bedroom window. Jord looked outwards as well, and he sighed in agreement of our delayed departure from the wrath of sleep. “You know…looking at that Maple tree, I am seeing all of it: every tiny branch, every irregular leaf, every imperfection and inconsistency, every flaw, every speck of color, all which composes this thing, and yet it still appears as one fluid entity before me…”

“Every tiny golden hair planted slightly above your wrist, every curve and bend of your body…I see you, and you appear as perfection in whole before me…” he said, exploring my skin with his coarse hands. I spun around to face him, and then rose up from the wrath of blankets. I peered across the room, where in a corner a shotgun was angled against the wall. Jord was a hunter of duck, dove, and deer, learned by his father, and his father’s father. I was his most attentive audience, listening with extreme intent as he recalled stories, enamored by the radiance of his natural spirit when he spoke. Some stories I had heard more than once, though because of his love for sharing such tales was admirable, I never stopped him from telling it once more. “The eagle feather,” he had narrated to me years past, “that I wore in my hair guided me to the bearer of that feather…I followed that bald eagle for miles, never once losing sight of him, until the both of us approached a rise in the land, and he flew from sight, ending our journey together. I searched the sky with eyes so wide, wishing for one last encounter with my spiritual companion…instead, not but a short distance ahead stood a buck of supreme stature, and our eyes met as I slowly drew my rifle, neither of us committing to any rapid motion: just me and him, suspended…it was pure existence, watching as the beast watched me, seemingly understanding my motives, but making no effort to escape…he knew death was inevitable, such is nature…I had one shot, and with it I took his life…”

When he told such accounts he did so with vitality and grace, never looking in my direction, but afar, as though the memory played like a slideshow of tangible images before his pale blue eyes. Hunting wasn’t a sport to Jord as much as it was the revival of ancient tradition, and a kill was never cause for celebration; it was an opportunity for sacred prayer and an essential element of surviving man’s evolutionary superiority. Jord killed only that which he would eat, utilizing the life of the land in harmony with creation.

“Let’s go to the river”, I said, tearing my eyes from the weapon.

It was still morning when we made it to the rocky shores; the river was animated as gravity performed her usual duties, tugging the snow melt downstream. In a small cove the two of us sat, each on separate stones, Jord with a fishing pole in hand. The energy of the day was static; it seemed as though I had lived in this way for an eternity, and that here I could remain for eternity still. Perched upon this solid slice of sediment I thought of what was said last night, regarding fate and choice. To what extent do we have choice, and power over the present? I wondered about his story with the buck in the wilderness, and inquiries surfaced in my mind; what course of events, what choices defined the scene which displayed the two characters, together in that exact location in that exact moment in time? It would seem as though since the instance of Jord’s arrival on earth and the birth of the animal, a series of seemingly unimportant events were consciously lived by the two, though separately, which would find them, hunter and prey, as it happened far off in the future. Perhaps it was decided by powers unrecognizable that the buck would meet his end at the front of Jord’s rifle. Perhaps they were guided to that moment so subtly yet so perfectly, as Jord had felt escorted by the bald eagle, never once questioning their paths or fighting the urge to participate in their lives.

Only in retrospect can we see that the power of choice was ours, or not ours. Power over destiny is an illusion similar to God, in that we are comforted by the belief in having it, yet so mystified when made to explain it. It is that great power we all wish to possess, that we are in control, that we have the freedom to choose our course in this infinite world. We may think we have power when the moment at hand finds us miserable, believing that our inadequacies and personal defects have led us to perpetuate a series of wrong choices. We may think we have power when the moment at hand finds us happy and free, that our courage and brevity have led us to perpetuate a series of good choices. But only during occasional pause are we afforded the privilege of invoking memories which allow us to access the insight of hindsight, and thus the illusion of power of fate is fabricated by our imaginations, propelled by a desire to know and understand, and a will to possess that power. In a world full of billions of people, inhabited by an infinite number of life forms, it seems silly to say that I am the sole director of my own life, for how could I possibly shape my future when unpredictability is looming, and whatever lays ahead is mysterious and hardly promised?  We are all heavily bombarded by interactions with our surrounding environment and all that is within. Truly, the only power we possess is in how we choose to react to the natural forces which are all encompassing, and very much alive. In acceptance of the truth of a connected and reciprocal existence we find that our course runs smoothly; in self-seeking we find that our paths are tumultuous and defined by disorder and struggle. We have passions, that mental aspect which decides our interests and desires, and we have memory of positive and negative consequents of action; these two factors in conjunction with universal motion often finds us conscious in the present moment, looking into our crystal ball and wondering “how did I get here?” We just are here, however time may find you, guided by forces outside of our own control but within the power of acceptance, on a unique journey with a definite and uniform end. The choices we make in our lives are arbitrary; they usually mean nothing until they are set in the context of our pasts and colored by the nature of the present. Jord and the beast were guided by mystical forces of existence and nature from the very start of their lives; that buck could not have met his end in any other way, and Jord could not have been in any other place during that window in time.

Some sound seemed invading to my train of thought, and I turned to see Jord skillfully winding the reel of his pole: he had caught a fish. Steady, steady, wrestling with the creature, with not but a wand and string between the two. I watched him, and not the water, for his movements were poetic, foreshadowing of a glimpse into the subject of fate which has me baffled and thoughtfully rambling. On shore now, he has the fish subdued as it flounders helplessly atop the sitting stone. Grasping a rock and in one simple motion he strikes the fish’s head, leaving it still in the unchanging atmosphere. Jord whispers something not meant to be heard over the rush of water in the river, and I make no sound, in awe of the peaceful essence of events I had just witnessed. In some way it felt as though time had lost meaning, and I pretended as though civilization had not yet come to be, and this was the fish which would serve the purpose of extending our lives for one more day.

Now on the train returning to my origin I recall the memories of Jord, as I had days before our retreat, pondering the nature of our connection. We had parted after a lengthy goodbye, in which he said, “until next time, sweet pea…”, and I can’t stand to resist the inkling that some part of me rests with him, though we are now miles apart. However the forces of life guide me in matters of fate and choice, all that is needed is a simple fold, a crease in time, which would reunite my world with his, and the shadows of our pasts will collide once again, and we will be wholly ourselves, in tune with the nature of direction and in love with the present moment of togetherness. As the train conquers layers of track ahead I wonder of what choices I have yet to face, and how they will evolve in unison with time in such a way as to bring me back to him. Until that day, I will miss you Jord.

From ‘Love and Furlough’

Modern cell phones are a powerful tool for intercommunication: the capabilities of the most common devices can send messages instantly and offer direct access to e-mail and other online accounts. News is reported and received almost as soon as it occurs; conversations can be continued on throughout the day without a ‘hello’ or a ‘goodbye’. It’s a social instrument which can be manipulated and abused, offering shade from emotion and sensory expression. It presents everything neatly and in an organized manner, one word after another, with the bonus of allowing you to safely edit and spell check your entries prior to sharing. With text messaging and virtual mail, there is no ‘on the spot’: you always have time to censor your responses, to absorb the content of the message received and craft a rebuttal to depict yourself as accurately as your verbal skills allow.

How brilliant it is, that whilst I engage in the mundane rituals of life I may perpetuate a secret meeting with my lover who resides across purple mountains majesty. I preserve our entire relationship in the archive of our phone chat, comfortably resting in the butt pocket of my favorite jeans. Like a sweet, sweet drug my phone has become, tempting me with its subtle vibrations and quirky ring tones. When I am in a state of boredom, I slip the secret password beneath the badge of my fabricated persona and steal a peek at an unopened virtual letter. When I am awkwardly assembled between a disgruntled boss and an outraged customer, or when I simply want a taste of his ‘textual’ sense of humor I grasp my cellular device and feast my eyes upon those delectable words: ‘new text message’. He has become the phone and the words in his e-mails: without them, I feel disconnected from his fleshy form.

What is happening to me? Is it that wonderful a long distance liaison that I truly am drawn to his every printed word and minimally expressive emoticon? Or have I who punish all who openly flaunt their virtual addictions become addicted to digital dating?

Relationships have evolved parallel to technology. E-dating, e-mailing, instant messaging, pop-up invites, internet status updates, portfolios and e-files: it seems that although many people claim to find true love through such portals, these avenues of meets and mingling only serve to complicate and frustrate the owners of lonely hearts. We put ourselves out there in the web of social networking to be viewed and reviewed. Unlike a traditional first date, where the mean of rejection is a lack of follow-up or a verbal ‘this just isn’t going to work’, the world of technology hosts a thousand different ways to execute rejection. The mere thought of potential repudiation is enough to turn an eligible profile into a neurotic obsession, and time soon finds me reading into the font of perfectly printed words, studying them for any trace evidence which could offer insight into the disposition of their emotional origin.

Because the nature of computer dialogue is bland, it’s a grueling assignment to interpret the words in such a way as to attach meaning to a message. Words are dry when they are simply words on a screen, and although they may, as such, lack in value, it’s how the word is expressed which is relevant to how it was meant to be understood. In the virtual world, it is also that which must be deciphered. This can lead to many misinterpretations, and surmounting paranoia and stress if performed by someone, say, like me. Negative feedback, missing punctuation, delayed responses, periods instead of exclamation marks at the end of vivid sentences, an emoticon at the wrong emoti-moment: all of these become clues which serve to support the self inflicted theory that the person with whom I am virtually engaged isn’t interested.

After suffering through a devastating time warp of technological indifference, I think to myself, ‘maybe I should text him to find out. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should just text ‘hi’, or send a picture, or text ‘hey’ (insert pic) add ’.

There are also those rare defining moments when I courageously take a risk, sending a blurb as bold and blunt as my curiosity and angst, hoping to dramatically alter the natural course of the message chat in a more favorable direction. It isn’t well received by my now disoriented accomplice in computer-chat crime, and I am powerless to excuse myself. Oh, crap. What have I done? Delete? Erase?…too late. The words have left their mark in history; they are permanently imprinted in the fibers of our cell phone marriage.

It’s exhausting. I have the option of calling, but as I remove the phone from the grip of my opposable thumbs, it occurs to me just how frightened I am to hear his voice. By calling I would be surrendering my weapons of spell check and auto revision. I would be exposed, naked; my voice might reveal things about me previously concealed by my Palm powered identity. In text I am simple, black and white and easy to understand. I am without my feminine insecurities and hormonal syndromes, and as attractive as there are adjectives to describe.

Oh what a wonderful world I have built for myself. If only this were true: instead I sit here staring at my cell phone, which is turned upside down on the table, a false declaration of my independence from the touch screen which ignites waves of adrenaline each time it glows that soft bluish green upon receipt of a message. I pretend to ignore its blinking reception signal, urging me to take a gander at the welcome window from the corner of my eye. My will is strong and the cell phone remains in its shallow grave; however, I must check my e-mail, then my Facebook account, followed by MySpace and AIM: all empty! For how much longer can I deny the spell cast upon me by romantic internet affairs and its text message mafia?

And worse; it seems as though my self-esteem suffers at the threshold of all this ambiguity. My heart sinks at the sight of an empty inbox. I didn’t want to resort to such measures, but maybe I should send a naked picture of myself…oh no. Something has to change.

I know what I must do: break up with my cell phone and cancel my stale dating accounts. I must abandon QWERTY and downgrade to a less digital form of dating. Although the benefits of internet alternatives offer supreme hospitality to a single twenty-something in the city, the consequences have been proven to torture my female inquisitive brain. I wonder…what were relationships like before technology stole our hearts?

Relationships were organic, built upon a foundation of meet-‘n’-greet soil. There was never any paranoia precipitated by the allure of match making web genies and the promise of love at first click. People met on the streets, in cafés, at local pubs. They wrote love letters, their personalities bleeding into the words on the page with every unique stroke of the pen. They danced not to mp3’s, but to the dynamic blend of ethereal orchestras. He stood before her, and she stood before him; they were grounded from the very beginning; the first impression was naturally contaminated by the beautiful truth of a real connection.

And as much as it dazzles me to be able to showcase my literary love blurb talents, I am unable to compromise honesty and straight forwardness for love in an alternate dimension. The prospect for disappointment and unnecessary hurt is a big turn-off; it’s a risk I simply cannot take.

Perhaps it is just that I am unwilling to continuously update my technological image in an effort to seem more available and more ‘the best things of me’. I must remind myself of the fact that I have a voice, I am three dimensional, and I exist in a world of brilliant color, where words have meaning in many different styles of language. However difficult this breakup will be, I take comfort in knowing that in the least I can save myself the cost of unlimited texts and the forsaken pain of thumb cramps.

(That’s not to say that I am retreating into the solitude of single life. For a typical Piscean the pursuit of romance is always worth the wager; hope endures, and love conquers all!)

I was his lost little treasure, completely submissive and willing. I would wait for him in places bustling with sounds of laughter and life, bathed in the light of the moon, wondering when he was going to approach, and for how long he had been watching from the disguise of shade and shadow. And when he would appear and violate the boundaries of clothing draped over my virgin skin, his creeping touch like gentle intrusions, I would quiver and hear nothing over the thundering of my own heart.

It was a strange union of man and woman, or maybe not as strange as it was strangely comfortable. It seemed familiar from the beginning; that I was carefree in his wrath of power, that I had nothing to be but to be his, to belong to him in every way, a beautiful and precious object of his every desire. An object, yes; but an object to be protected and coveted, to be taught and disciplined, valued and loved.

It feels natural when we are together; I feel strangely empowered by having been stripped of power; that my most instinctual desires are realized as I practice acceptance of what I truly am; a woman, a receiver of man, a weaker creation in need of a guardian. No longer do I feel the need to challenge authority, or fight in an attempt to match his masculine strength. I am not plagued with feminist ideals of equality and sexuality because I cannot deny his inherent dominance, which extends beyond the realm of choice, but is within the boundaries of admission. The intuitive cravings of human nature are fed on behalf of such self sacrifice, and suddenly the fluidity of red wine bears a striking resemblance to the consistency of blood, and I am secretly ravenous and raging with a need to survive my primordial essence, as all impediments placed upon me by the demands of civilized norms vanishes in light of him. I am on my knees before him, even as I stand a mortal witness amidst the grave circumstance in the kitchen of this establishment, my eyes gleaming as I subconsciously experience the suppressed fantasies of my feminine soul; guide me, Jude, and I will forever be yours.

And as his statuesque presence absolves even the slightest fragments of my insecurities, I am at peace. Although his calm is like a threatening mist forewarning of erotically demanding acts of ultimate surrender to come, I know that it is from all else that I possess fear, and so long as I maintain my position beneath the rule of his autocratic sanctuary, I will live an eternity as a blissful servant to the virtues of this remarkable man. He has my heart so long as I possess the strength to lower my eyes in recognition of his role as master in my so called life.

His ambitious nature is manifested aggressively within the context of the bedroom, in which I am happily his with whom to experiment and pleasurably abuse. It is freeing; no harm would ever come to me, nothing could ever be taken from me, as to Jude, I have already willingly offered myself unconditionally. It was a matter of compliance to that oath I had already agreed to obey; I was never to be a victim of anyone again.

And with this simple acceptance of powerlessness comes great relief and inevitable gratitude. Only when I have acknowledged that I no longer possess power of control can I be free to express my creative capacities. I feel safe enough within the boundaries of my relationship with Jude to venture through life as a fiercely brave child of the world, and learn all that I may in an attempt to strengthen my heart and fulfill my potentials; luxuries afforded for me by simply saying ‘yes’ to the man who made a grand proposition. “Give me control”, he said assertively, “and I shall show you happiness”.

We left the restaurant that night and navigated the solitude of the streets of Denver on a warm August night. My hand in his, he said nothing as we journeyed from someplace public to the lonely space of his sixth floor apartment. He didn’t know this, but even as he subtly guided my movements throughout the evening in such a way as to have me almost naked before him now, I felt cuddled; the warmth of the summer air lingered upon my skin and was complimented by the tender way in which he cared for me, despite his seemingly distant and cold manner. I truly admired this man, and there wasn’t anything that would keep me from believing in our untraditional affair of love conquers all standards of gender equivalence.

“Darling, you know I would never keep you waiting, and I would sooner die than cross you”, I said shyly, as I purposefully teased him in the slow removal of my undergarments.

“Good girl”, he responded in a soft whisper, and he held his gaze sternly for a moment, and then turned and walked away, leaving me safe but alone in the confines of his personal space, to wonder about what adventure we would the two of us next engage.

In the modern black and white display of furniture and art in his lavish abode, I succumbed to fatigue and lay down to rest upon the bed. I could vaguely hear sounds echoing throughout the barren halls of his bachelor kingdom; first the soothing tones of an unknown elixir filling a crystal glass, and then the deep rumble of steps as he made his way from kitchen to couch. The television began to echo sounds of late night programming, and I closed my eyes as I accepted the invitation to retire from service for the remainder of the evening.

I awoke easily to find myself in his arms; his pale skin clashing with the golden tones of mine; the soft light from the candles in the bathroom displayed the two of us entwined in the midnight atmosphere. Without moving my head I raised my eyes to meet his and understood that which was never spoken; he held me firmly and as I began to tremble and coward before his growing presence, he reached to cradle my chin so that it was impossible for me to turn away. His lips boldly met mine, and in a moment it seemed as though all the life had been taken from me and replaced by some alien energy which was stimulating and exciting, the both of us becoming heated with passion and anticipation. He rose upwards in a consistent poetic motion, moving beyond the bedroom and into the vanity bathroom, where a warm bath laced with the fragrant scent of freshly soaked rose petals awaited. I obediently followed behind him and entered the pool of water to meet him in a romantic scene of fairytale essence. As I slid my back against the porcelain bearing of the tub, he took a seat in front of me so that his back was pressed against my tender breasts, and I expressed my love and adoration for Jude with every sweeping stroke of my fingertips, which caressed the moist skin of his bare backside. I was his, and his for whom to care, and I cared for him now while he melted into me, his larger than life appeal fading blissfully into a beautiful display of innocent compassion. “Thank you”, he said. I always remembered those two words of gratitude he had confessed to me that evening, and recalled the importance of that simple declaration whenever I began to question the philosophies which survived our relationship. Like slave and master we were, but in the most harmonious way, the pair of us deeply understanding that the one could not survive without the other, and because of that fact, a nurturing attitude developed and was always adhered and forever recognized in the most intimate of moments. In response I had said nothing, but bent forwards to kiss the sweet drops of bath water from his neck. In the silky residue of lavender oil lingering in swirls around us I had written the words “I love you” with the tip of my forefinger, though they were hardly visible except in my mind. I wanted him to know, but I didn’t wish to disturb the nature of our togetherness. I thought it was better that I could feel and express such fondness obscurely, knowing that the words would soon dissipate into the lagoon of sexual perfection we had created.

Emerging from the bath we then engaged in a visceral performance, physically displaying raw emotion as we danced to the sounds of pleasure moans and melodious breathing. At times his body swallowed mine, and I disappeared beneath his massive frame though comfortably experiencing a plethora of orgasmic energies. At times his hand was wrapped around my neck, a form of intimacy which was symbolic of my lesser position within the realm of our sexual ideal; I was at his mercy, and it was from the deepest bond of trust that he was able to perform such an act, though I was well aware that at any moment he could suffocate the very life from me. The commitment we had made to one another accounted for this solemn covenant of absolute faith in our partnership; I was to surrender myself before him and allow him to lead me into a world unknown. Just as a vampire takes his victim gently from the sphere of life into the realm of the dead, Jude took me from a woman of stature and poise to the one before him now, helpless and subdued under the firm grasp of his muscular arms. I was able to transcend all mortal thoughts as I allowed myself to be swept away into the placid calm of sensual divinity. When he was satisfied he collapsed besides me, and we once again found ourselves interlaced amongst the tangled sheets of his bed. I fell asleep that evening content, with a smile on my flushed face.

The next morning I awoke to find myself alone with penetrating rays of morning light, the scent of fresh brewed coffee permeating the air of his apartment. It was eight am, and Jude was in his office conducting business of sorts; in what avenue of affairs I never bothered to know; it was of little use for me to understand the nature of his work related interactions. I had adopted the habit of squandering any inclination which would possess me to verbally inquire of what we were going to be experiencing that day, where we would be going, and how I should dress for the occasion. Jude always guided me in choosing the only decision; all that was needed from my end was quiet compliance. I wrapped a robe around my naked body and wandered into the kitchen. I prepared a cup of coffee for Jude and served it to him in his office, after hesitating at the door, waiting for permission to advance. He reached his hand up the length of my dress and fondled me for a brief moment, then refocused his attention onto the screen of the computer console. I departed so as to begin my daily duties, which included fixing the bed in which we had made love only hours before. When I had finished with the chores, I sought personal refuge in the seclusion of the bathroom. Alone, I dropped the robe and examined myself in the mirror, noticing the faint hints of violet and blue coloring the length of my neck, a territorial indication of my belonging to Jude. A smile escaped the corner of my mouth; the presence of the bruises filled me with intense pride; the temporary swellings were indicative of the eccentric duo in which I belonged, and I wanted them to be a part of my wardrobe as much as Jude wanted his painful manifestation of dominance visible.

As I stood before the mirror, the bathroom door opened and Jude entered behind me. I wasn’t startled, nor did I turn around in acknowledgement of his sudden appearance. He approached and looked at me from our reflection in the glass, noticing that which had me radiating with excitement.

“I own you”, he said, as he caressed the contusions just beneath the curve of my ear. He slipped by me and undressed, entering the shower. I stood undisturbed, until the opening of the shower door interrupted the serenity of my thoughts. It was an invitation to join him in the rain of fresh water, and I obediently slipped in through the crack, and we laughed together at things irrelevant and silly as we cleansed ourselves of our soils and sins.

To Be Continued….

(From ‘Love and Furlough’)

So here I am, my companion and I equally excited for the hike ahead, gearing up and heading out side by side. In the beginning, I’m breathless at the many sights and sounds we encounter together on our walk, paying little attention to the muddy residues of bear prints and wildcat warning signs. But then I begin to notice that he’s walking ahead, making a conscious effort to keep a significant distance between us. I start to wonder if I’ve done something wrong, but I can’t reach any such conclusion.  I struggle to keep up, hastening my pace, and in the process neglect to absorb the beauty that is all encompassing. Instead of an inspiring exploration, I am now on a mission to  maintain the speed he has chosen, which is too fast for any novice outdoors woman. Eventually, my partner in the wild is too far ahead to be seen, and I call his name in desperation, but my efforts are not rewarded: I am now alone in uncivilized territory with nothing but a water bottle and chewing gum to protect me from the swarms of pesky mosquitoes and the sweltering heat.

Alone and miserable, not to mention slowly becoming overwhelmed by fear, I stop in my tracks after exhausting all attempts of reuniting with my estranged companion. Tears building in my eyes, I swallow my self-pity and decide I will try and enjoy my time in the boughs of Mother Nature. I spin myself around and begin the lonesome trek back to the point of origin. However, I am unable to trick my mind into adopting a meditative framework for insightful reflection. I am powerless over the many questions produced by the thoughts racing in circles around my head. And so it goes that a journey to the woods spawns a journey into the nature of man, or my man at least.

I can think of only two reasons that a man would leave his mate alone on a hike in the woods: first being that he despises her, loathes her existence and silently wishes for her death with every fake kiss and artificial smile. On the contrary, the act of the pair becoming isolated from one another may have happened due to a case of innocent neglect: he may have been so engaged in the beautiful rapture of his surroundings that he had simply forgotten to turn around and recognize his responsibility to his other half.

My fragile heart didn’t want to believe that my beau disliked me enough to invite me for an outing and then abandon me just as it started. However, it didn’t seem possible that he could accidentally forget that he was a member of a small group, and simply continue on the trail without a thought to reconnect with his company. So, as my feet tumbled down the hill they had previously scaled, I denied both of these possibilities. There must be another reason to account for my solitude, some other facet of his character to which I owe a bounty of nasty words.

And at the exact moment that a falling branch mercilessly hits the fibers of my shoe, the truth hits the corners of my mind, and all other clouds of thought vanish as I am startled by the occurrence of both phenomena. There are two types of men in the world: those who walk side by side with their feminine counterpart, and those who walk ahead. I envy those darling couples I see on sunset hikes in city parks, her hand cuddled in his, their movements perfectly syncopated so the space between them is so small it’s practically immeasurable. I think of how a walk with a friend or a family member retains a sort of subtle Romantic quality, an unspoken law of commitment being obeyed by all participating parties, and which was sorely lacking from my current affair. It all boils down to this: insecurity. He left me because his insecurity is so consuming it masks his judgment of all else, an enormous detriment to the sense and sensibility of human interactions. To him, the hike was actually a primordial competition in which the dominant male, overcome by a natural fear of defeat, and encouraged by insecurity, submits to these unforeseen forces. He is essentially compromising decency and compassion in order to finish first. Insecurity is so powerful a condition it devastates a person’s ability to care for anything outside of satisfying his craving for a feel-good fix of self reassurance. Because insecurity is an affliction of the mind similar to that of an addict, the insecure person cares for nothing more than getting ‘high’, which in this case translates to an undeniable will to power, control, and success. and, like an addict, there are moments in time where caring for someone falls second place to caring for oneself. my partner simply doesn’t care.

To care for someone is to actively experience empathy, the universal glue that holds us all together. Empathy is that beautiful natural emotion embedded deep within our soul that is responsible for our cohesive existence. Without empathy, no one would be concerned for anything but their own well being, and societies would be chaotic and dangerous as people scrambled to protect their own interests at whatever cost. Without empathy, people wouldn’t care for one another, and a global epidemic of boyfriends leaving girlfriends in the woods would obliterate a significant portion of happy duos. Empathy is the soil from which the roots of care are planted, and from which relationships begin to blossom and grow.

That’s not to say that the man I am dating is a monster who altogether lacks the mechanism for producing the most primitive of human emotions: even in his haze of insecurity he cares for people, for things. I know at least this much, as I briefly reviewed the array of framed photographs arranged in an attractive pattern about his modest apartment. He loves his dog, his family, and his things: his care for such amenities isn’t in question; he simply doesn’t care about me. My presence is threatening; I am the tangible manifestation of all which stirs his uneasiness with his own existence. He would deny this if confronted with my speculation, the words ‘of course I care about you’ rolling in succession from in between the cracks of his polished pink lips. But I know better, as I have scientifically evaluated this unavoidable test of compatibility, and I have reached a concrete conclusion: despite the fact that my presence may annoy him, despite that he may have actually been distracted by the undeniable aura of serenity, despite that he may have more confidence in my hiking capabilities than me, the fact remains that he left me behind him, to walk at his heels, to follow his arrogant lead until the arrival at the mapped destination. It didn’t matter that I fell so far behind that I inevitably had to abort-mission, or that I grew weak striving to match his pace. My well-being is of no concern to him: his chronic condition of subliminal insecurity has shaped him into a timeless mold devoid of any emphatic dispositions: he just couldn’t care less.

I smile as I accept my findings, which are a testament to the true nature of this man, and I realize that I can relax and slow my achy yams as I hear the rush of rapid water flowing beside me through the dense thicket of brush and trees, signifying the near end of this depressing vacation. Actually, I am grateful to the mystic forces which guided me to this lonely epiphany, as I was able to learn more about this man from a seemingly insignificant recreational day trip than I had previously from hours of intimate conversation. All I really need to know about a potential lover I can learn from a hike in the woods: if he’s the kind of man to leave a woman behind, then he’s the kind of man capable of hurtful behavior. And if he’s capable of hurtful behavior, then he lacks a valuable element necessary for the success of any could-be alliance.

So ladies, be forewarned; if during a hike in the woods you find yourself a noticeable distance behind your date, waste no time. Wash your hands of this blatant carelessness, of this obvious disregard for you, when the consequence of his selfish act is simply that you had to complete the hike alone. A man who interprets an ‘outing for two’ as an opportunity to ‘ditch the bitch’ is not one who should then afterward receive the privilege of bedtime affairs. My interest in maintaining a relationship with this man was shattered the moment I lost sight of him amidst the sequoias and evergreens, and no apology is necessary or wanted, as no retribution can be paid to excuse a character defect that is likely to come into play in similar future rendezvous. I made it back without having to play dead or make noise, and I need not waste another moment of my life with this selfish man.

‘Where did you go?’ he asks when we finally met back at the car. ‘I guess I was lost’, was my response. A short car ride later I exited the vehicle, and upon closing the passenger door, turned to him as he said ’so i’ll call you later?’ I smiled and lowered my eyes to meet the pavement before me, quietly strutting towards my front door. That is the last time I will ever see that man, and for future relationships, I will be sure to encourage an outdoor play date, so that I can accurately measure the value of commiting to the person I could potentially grow to adore. When I do find that remarkable man with whom a hike in the woods feels more like a fantastical tryst to a magical place, where heartwarming opportunities for gestures of intimacy and love nurture the fears of wilderness survival, I will praise him for his displays of patience and confidence, and thank him for allowing me to hold his hand. And maybe, just maybe, the end of the hike will mark the beginning of a relationship in which it is worth investing.