eight days, and counting.
28 September 2013 § Leave a comment
In eight days I’m to marry the only woman I’ve met who is not only willing to tolerate my shit post-poetic charm, but professes to love me regardless.
She’s the kind of storyteller who speaks joy and inclusivity to the point where you might think, if what she says is not true, it should be. She’s human, and knows it. I hold that secret too, and tell myself in the mirror. Learning to be more so daily. We’re earning PhDs in Each Other, and some of the vocabulary words run off to be alone in the midst of planning a wedding. Later, to pout or cry in front of old friends.
Today was the first time in the two years since we met that I questioned whether, at the end of the day, I would still want to be her lover.
Engagement is not proving to be easy. I heard somewhere that we’re supposed to be at our most happy now, and I’ve experienced but bookmarks of bliss since we returned from fishing in Alaska this past summer. Then, the lesson was that our opinions of a ‘fantastic season’ differed.
I’m picking up words of a new language hourly – those of Love, of course, and it is everything it’s made out to be: mysterious, even when you know each other’s bodies like the route to the restroom in the dark; deep in the way that sub-sea level trenches cannot be trawled. They’re old explanations, yes, but once again, I’m in the Rite of Passage of Discovering Truth in Cliché, and writing, for me, has never been easy in these moments. I despise appearing within throwing distance of the normal way of doing things, and speak absolute truth less often than I’d like to think. Choosing the words of others to describe my emotional vortex does not work for me.
Ed Gish, the 85-year-old reason Heather and I chose life together in the same hemisphere, recently re-entered our space. He’s the officiant of our ceremony. Speaks Human, Potential, Spirit and Hollywood in the same paragraph. He’s the man I manifested from wanting to attract into my life a great storyteller from whom to learn. His greatest lesson for me? Be with the story; stand upon that makeshift stage, and tell it the thousandth time like it happened yesterday.
When counting to a number like a thousand, I’ve learned that each number likes to be remembered. Sometimes made up nicely, even tailored. The fine lines I color outside with my speech are the blurry limits of truth, which changes form as I learn more from the experience. What was truth for me in the month I spent walking through Scotland is different from what I’ve learned from the trip since. Now I’ve seen the world from the meanwhile perspectives, and can speak for all of them. I will tell the story our conversations needs most. We all know that this can border on what we do while sleeping.
I’m not sure of the money I’ve spent on this nearly-marital education. Today at the JazzKat Café I daydreamed, and pictured myself sometime in the future telling a woman the story that I was once almost married, once almost strong enough to face my true reflection, once almost loving enough to give everything for this thing I’ve wanted for decades, for which I’ve traveled thousands of miles – and over again, just to see – and kissed dozens of lips with hope and often envy. When I came back from the dream, I tried to remember how old I felt – was it close to now? Will I, in a weak moment, fall into the role of Wandering Traveler, who runs for the sake of running, because he was Once Almost, and needs to find himself again?
I’ve learned this before – I’m right here. A passport stamp will not change this. New photo albums and facebook friends, plane tickets and full moleskine notebooks do not carry me away from the life I’ve created. If there’s anything I can teach, it is this.
My heart knows small things. Like that when a man like Ben Kaplan-Singer calls me to express that in lieu of his presence at my wedding, he offers lifelong friendship and accountability, my only option is to accept. He is one of those men whom, if I could have one person witness the ceremony of my life, I would choose without hesitation. My posture improves on the phone with him.
To my proximity to influential and desirable men I have succeeded in a short time looking. I am honored by that the above paragraph could apply to any of two handfuls of men whom I consider brothers, fathers, and revered elders. In another life, some even lovers.
This morning, Heather discovered my secret that ‘Home’ is an idea that changes within me all the time. In consideration of her biological processes that are now thinking that she has found a mate with whom to nest and procreate, I understand it may have been a difficult notion. And, the idea impacts the world to which I wish to contribute; for example, one of clarity.
One year, five months and eleven days ago, in my flyest outfit and charm, I walked out of my hostel in San José, Costa Rica, hyper-aware that my last night of seven months in Central America was nigh. At a Mexican restaurant where she made forty cents a day, I met a nica named Dayra, and waited outside until she finished her shift. In the moments before she got into the taxi (for which I paid), I wondered if I’d ever hated myself more, or if my actions would convince Heather to do the same.
In eight days I’m to marry the woman for whom, since returning the the States, I’ve learned to manage and focus my energy, even when we don’t seem to know how to communicate desire.
Readiness is not the question; I am more prepared than ever, more inside the knowledge that this will be exactly what we create, and nothing more or less. To this extent our sway has no boundary.
Eight days until we begin again. My confidence in our strength grows, even on days that seem more like apocalypse. I wonder, how common is this?