The Complications of a Kiss

For hours we talked. We talked of the Sun & the Stars, of everything around & under them. We talked of writing and authors, of our pasts and present. Of herbs and addiction, of friends and difficult relationships. We talked of romance. She said she was a hopeless romantic, I told her I was a hopeful one which made her smile. She talked about lovers, of past boy & girlfriends, but not having anything current to say from my side, I mostly kept quiet.

I looked into her ice-blue eyes and I could only think of clichés to describe them, and worried about a piece of the glitter surrounding her eyes falling into one. I found it kind of dorky and cute the way sometimes she stifled her laughter by pressing her tongue against her upper lip. We talked outside of time, the world moving on around us.

Although we could have sat there enjoying each other’s company for much longer, the growing soreness in our asses had something else to say about it. It was time to stand, to go. It had been a lovely time together, getting to know each other, finally meeting a decade after she had first heard my name from a mutual friend.

Instead of parting ways outside the café, we sauntered down Market Street, side by side weaving around the people & construction, enjoying the continued conversation & moving slowly, more as if we were strolling through a park on a warm spring day than in the rush of San Francisco as it left work & headed home. As far as I could tell, we were the only ones there.

“This is where I turn. I’ve had a wonderful time.”
A warm hug. I answer, we go our separate ways. On the way home I walk faster, at my normal pace, the hint of a smile playing on my lips as I hope that it actually will be soon, and, newly inspired, think about what I’ll write.

At least that’s what I expected to happen, but we kept walking, taking now about hidden treasures in Golden Gate Park. She says she’ll take me to the “Faerie Door”. I imagine her being able to take me through it to her true home. Now walking through Civic Center Park, I begin to wonder where she’s going. My mind starts spinning. Maybe she has an errand to run that just happens to be in the direction of my apartment. Yeah, that must be it. If it were ten, fifteen years ago, if we were walking away from a bar a little tipsy, if pretty much everything were different, then I could accept that she might be coming home with me – but these days? A lovely woman I just met coming home with me? What a silly thought. That just doesn’t happen to me anymore. She must have someone else she wants to visit close to me. Maybe she wants to get some Vietnamese food to take home. Quit having such foolish thoughts, kSea. You know better.

We wander up Hyde Street together, each step getting closer to my home and she is sill by my side. I start to get nervous, confused, trying to remember how to do this… this boy/girl thing. The game, the ritual. I can’t. Hell, the last lover I had was three years ago, and I don’t have the slightest idea of how to read all but the most blatant & obvious hints anymore – and those I’d likely even have trouble with, looking around the room for someone else and wondering if they were actually directed at me.

I need to calm down. This could be, and most likely is, entirely innocent. I don’t know what I’m thinking. Really. I have no idea.

We turn the corner to my apartment, which is now about 20 yards away. A friend of hers once looked at an apartment in the building next to mine I find out, and then I’m opening my gate. I apologize beforehand about the mess & dog hair everywhere. I refrain from saying that I wasn’t expecting company, thinking it might come across poorly and accidentally give her the idea that she isn’t welcome & make her uncomfortable.

I quickly grab the clothes off of my couch & toss them in the walk-in. “That’s your closet?”
“Yeah! I have another one right there.” That’s it, kSea. Suave as ever. Christ.

She sits on the couch without asking or waiting for me to say anything, and I like that. It makes me feel like she’s comfortable here. I offer her anything, and thankfully she’s happy with water. I can do that. I have water! I pull my finest ex pickle jar out of the cupboard for her & make sure it’s company clean, not just “me” clean. It passes. Must have been a good day when I washed it.

When I come back into the room I notice that she’s taken her hair down and nearly drop her water. It’s beautiful. She’s even more beautiful. I sit down beside her, leaving a good foot & a half between us. It’s a small couch. I mentally take the word “loveseat” out of my head.

The talking continues, she likes my knives (are you fucking KIDDING me?) and says she used to have one exactly like this one. We talk about knife throwing. (I can’t even make this shit up. Dear gods.) I tell her stories o fme as a child, crashing my mom’s car into our house at 11, setting my mattress on fire at 8. We laugh. Compare notes of families, talk about adoption & blood.

I’m terrified. This is what I’ve been doing my best to avoid every time I went out, and doing it very successfully for over three years. With clothes on, I look okay, but I’m reminded at the times I have to look in the mirror what I look like without them. Scarred & discolored legs, the umbilical hernia looking like a fetal twin sticking out of my abdomen, the inguinal hernia less horrible, but at the top right of my pelvic bone. Even if you know what to expect it’s hideous. I try not to look at it unless I have to. I don’t want anyone else to have to.

Even as rusty as I am, I know I could have swayed our conversation with a couple questions to a place where I could have found out if it was alright to kiss her, if she would allow me to, if she wanted me to… and I would have loved to. But everything inside of me wouldn’t let it happen for fear of the possibility of it going further. After some time she puts her hair back up. I feel like an idiot, just wishing I could get past all that’s inside of me. A warm hug, and we take the elevator downstairs. I bring Ruby so I have a reason to walk with her just a little more.

My Dr. had called me that morning, telling me that the surgeon still won’t agree to do the surgery on my hernia’s, now two instead of one. He says that there’s a 30% chance of complications due to the ascites (fluid retention) in my abdomen, but I can’t help but call bullshit. Though there may be some fluid, I work hard keeping it as minimal as possible with teas & herbs, and if he did do the surgery I’d work even harder, agreeing to even take the prescription diuretics they want me to. But still, he won’t. He’s afraid, he’s concerned, and he doesn’t have any idea how strong my will can be to live – when there’s something to live for.

It’s been nearly three years since I’ve even kissed a woman romantically, hoping that one day, with all the fighting to get the surgery done, he might give in – but still, there’s that 30% chance that I could die hanging over everything, hanging over a life that I now don’t even have the morphine to mask the oppressive loneliness.

What he doesn’t seem to understand is that, as my will to live fades, the chance of dying without the surgery keeps growing – with each memory of a kiss that never happened.

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Release

It’s been a minute, hasn’t it?
It’s fair to say that I’ve been busy, and I have – but that certainly isn’t a valid excuse to stay so long away from words. Not these words. These are the words I need – the ones that make things almost right enough inside of my head.
Almost.

Ironically, the main thing that has been keeping me away from journaling is preparations for my book: The intricacies of the launch for the Kickstarter campaign, the endless editing of copy for my author website, and, of course, the creation of it. It puts an interesting twist on it when I have little idea what I’m doing, and each new day is an attempt to get it to something relatively simple looking, very usable, and as close to exactly how I want it to be as I can get it… especially when exactly how I want it changes, just a little bit, every few days.
The end product will be worth it however. I keep working – and I keep fixing the things I fuck up along the way.
Soon though, it will be done. It needs to be. I have other things to do.

But… those aren’t the only things that have been happening.

I met someone. A woman. A very interesting woman – who seems to be quite interested in me as well.
There is definitely a mutual attraction & without question, there is desire – both physical & intellectual. Funny how things happen when I least expect them, when I’ve become so weary of even hoping anymore. When I’ve lost any faith I may have had in the “community” that surrounds me, when even something as simple as having coffee with a friend is nearly impossible. When the majority of them can’t even find the decency to respond to a message or email. It’s sometimes difficult not to take personally. I try not to. I don’t succeed.
We call each other “family”, and unfortunately, it seems as if that’s what we’ve become – all too similar to the family that bought & raised me as a child, who were so very seldom there when I needed them most.
Thankfully, there is a small spattering of decent friends in there as well – but the only time I see them is if we accidentally end up at the same event.
I guess it’s little surprise then that the woman I have found myself so attracted to lives in Sweden, 5,400 miles away, and I feel closer to her than most anyone else who lives within 20 miles & I’ve known for years.

She doesn’t need to think I’m sick or dying to simply check in & say hello. There’s a 9 hour time difference and we’re both almost constantly working, yet still, somehow, we find the time to have good conversations.

Imagine that.

You can please shove *your* excuses up your ass.

Okay, now that I’ve gotten *that* out of my system (which actually was intended to be much more positive & somewhat amusing until the vitriol inside of me took hold), on to a positive closing for this entry…

After a ridiculous amount of time and frustration spent on it, trying with no success to do it alone – the video for the Kickstarter was finally PROFESSIONALLY filmed yesterday! Three locations, fantastic footage, my Dr.s calling me “magical’ and saying other amazing things that made me feel wonderfully uncomfortable, and within 2-3 weeks, I’ll have an incredible, professionally filmed & edited video for the campaign to finish writing, edit, design, publish & promote my book!

Things are moving forward. It is, at long last, finally *happening*, and I am fucking elated!
Now, to get back to work on the website – after a good walk with Rubes to see what the outside world is like today…

Thankfully, the one inside my head is quite a bit easier to work with now that I’ve been able to get everything above out of it.
The bitterness, especially, was taking up FAR too much energy & space… and I’ll likely come back to writing about the beauty & challenges that she & I face on a later date.

Soon.

Until again, dear readers.
Like if you liked, comment if you desire.
Share if you’re feeling a little bit sadistic.

Love without the sugar coating,
~ Casey (kSea, Kasei, QueSi, etc…)

Spirals / The Game

It was our first date. We met over the internet, enticed and attracted to each other but of course, who knows where it might lead? That’s much of the fun or terror, depending on where your mind chooses to find home.

We agreed to meet for tea. It was a windy, rainy afternoon, and I found a place, a tea room, with a fireplace. I would meet her and we would walk there together, exploring each other, too old to put up facades and being who we actually were.

A call shortly before asking me how flexible I was. There was something she needed to do, someone she needed to be there for. I was invited, requested, as she knew a *little* about me… but not the most important thing, not yet.

The actual “date” transformed from meeting for tea to taking care of a friend of hers going through some difficult times. I loved how it showed me more about her, and I was more than happy to break from the norm. Besides, she was needed, I had been in her friends place before. I could help. I would be of value. Not just another anyone over tea.

We did what we needed, wanted to do. She thanked me profusely for being so flexible, thanked me completely unnecessarily. I would rather do this than sit in a tea room. I like showing who I am… though I have a tendency to think that most people I just meet, who don’t know me, think that it is only for their benefit. To perhaps impress them with someone I can’t help but imagine they think I usually am not.

I don’t know how to fix this, but I do know that it is MY mind that is the culprit, the perpetrator.

We go to a Mexican joint to get her food, begin talking about something besides how much she abhors the weather or laughing at her continuously failing umbrella. It is so easy to laugh with her…..

I talk of my recent past, how perfect it was, could have been if that one let go of her past, not carried it around as her identity. We talk of the East Coast, of NYC where she is from, and realize we were something of neighbors at a point. Life goes on – that was New fucking York, and finding people who you lived close to at some time is a strangely small thing…but then we start talking of names.

Her ex-boyfriend. My Ex-girlfriend. She tells me his name, I know it. Not him, ut his name as an artist – and I may have met him a few times, because my girl at the time knew him.

“What was your girlfriends name?”
It was an amazing relationship – she was in law school, I was working at times 70+ hours a week, managing a kitchen that I couldn’t find a suitable second employee for. I kept my apartment but lived with her becase it was closer to work, and if I didn’t live “with” her & our dog, Max – we never would have seen each other.

Begin fond memory:

Gods, she was incredible. Brilliant. Drop-dead gorgeous and SO fucking intelligent in debate that she could argue that it was daylight, the birds were chirping and it was another beautiful spring – when my argument was that it actually WAS 2am on a dark night of a dark moon in winter… and she would win. She never made me feel less-than, never made me feel small… still, it surprised me when:

I named her.

A few nights ago, I was on a date with a gorgeous woman who briefly dated my former girlfriend after I had left NYC to go to school. 20 years ago.

The world is a very small place.

She told me that B, my ex of twenty years, talked about me quite frequently. I didn’t ask about what, I didn’t think it would be bad, as we parted ways still loving each other, talked a few times after that and then… lost contact.
It surprised me when she said, without provocation, how much B used to say how much she loved me.

It certainly wasn’t one sided, but me? Then? I wasn’t much… at least not that I saw.

Twenty years, and I am brought back to B through the incessant toying of time and the people who dance through it.

I fucking love this life.

I told L (my date the other eve) what I needed to at the end of the night, giving her a chance to run.

28 fucking years, and it hasn’t gotten any easier. 28 fucking years, and I’m still pissed off when people don’t ask ME about what it means, what needs to change if anything. Twenty-eight YEARS, over half my life, and if you don’t dig me – cool. I can live with that.

Twenty eight years and I see SO much fucking more than you could even begin to imagine. From the first day I’ve had to look deeper into myself, into you, into every choice I made, not only sexually but in ANY decision that just might extend over a year… at least until recently.

28 years, and though this impermanence has constructed the way I see, it is not my identity… though by thes last few paragraphs that is hard to trust. Just venting…
28 years, and of those who were singular, those who were and are special, those who I told before we met in such a sweet sweaty sexual way, exploring & discovering the flesh, our desire, lust & how deep we could go into this intimacy, this knowing, this pure dirty innocence of what we discover…
only three. S, K, & L. Three in that entire time said “no” because of what I have been both cursed & blessed with.

I can dig it. Life goes on. Someday there will be another that I need to conjure up all of my courage to tell.

Oh, the stories I have inside of me… Interesting to know that this is only a small rant, and most of the stories have little to do with this strange HIV game.

I’m fucking exhausted. Good night.

as long as we keep dancing

It’s not a game. It’s not a game but it is a dance – a heated tango full of seduction, uncertainty, romance.

This is our move now, we hesitate. We see where it could be heading so the steps get more complicated and we challenge each other. This is me, all of me, take it or leave it. This isn’t a dream that fades when we awaken, but if we do it right it will be ours to share as long as we want, as long as we’re strong, forgiving, understanding that sometimes, we stumble. That’s fine when more of the time we are on the wing, gliding together and helping each other to remain aloft.

These are the real parts now, where we let down the veils, show the heart, the soul, and even with all they have been through we need to remember they are still fragile because we fought like hell to keep them that way with tooth and nail, blood and a sea of tears. To keep it that way or build it back up again from the emptiness of absence, from the loneliness of ‘never again’ to believe once more in the possibility of giving this heart away. It must be given in order to be mended, no one can reach it through the walls and we can’t do it ourselves, as much as we like to believe this and as much as we need to sometimes.

Take the paste and bandages, put right the parts that I cannot reach without your help, heal the wounds of the past and let me forget them in your eyes, at least for now.

Now.

This is the slippery time. Here, take my hand, I will do my best to keep you from falling. Look into my eyes and know you are safe. I promise that I will strive to do the same for you. Our wings will unfold and we won’t look down to where the countless hearts of those who were too afraid to let go and fly are piled, empty, alone, and broken. I’ll tend to your wings if you tend to mine, and together we will soar, we will warm the world as our hearts remember how to shine like the sun again, trusting in each other, trusting in love, trusting in romance, and knowing that the world is ours…

as long as we keep dancing.

 

Shall we dance?

away from and forward

12.17.12

When I quiet my mind, I hear it. Behind the noise of the city, beneath the streets, when I look at the stars, I hear it.

The Enchanted Forest is calling me back, back to find myself again, back to visit the sacred sites, the graves, The Grandmother Tree, the memories of the past and future.

I say The Forest is calling me, but more realistically, it is the road. There is a romance that is generated as the wheels spin, when the destination is unknown, when the city shrinks in the mirror and there is nothing ahead but the night and solitude, the broken white lines and blackness as distance passes by and the future is closer than the past with every passing mile that rolls underneath me.

 

I need to go. Somewhere, anywhere – just away from and forward to the beauty of the unknown…

in which dreams are formed

 

It was only a few minutes, nothing really to speak of at all – but for those few minutes, that brief moment this past Wednesday – I was home again. Where I feel best, where I feel I belong – with 454 cubic inches of motor singing its sweet, throaty song next to me in the driver’s seat of my motorhome.

 

Wednesday, 6:30 am and the alarm on my phone went off, my eyes barely opened as I lift this hellish thing off of my dresser and be certain I touch ‘dismiss’ instead of ‘snooze’. It’s not a noise I wish to hear again. Of course, the night before I had found the rare parking on Hyde St. which *didn’t*  have street sweeping this morning, but they were unable to start my girl the day before and needed the space for a 50 foot trailer that was coming in. Not expecting to find such ideal parking I promised that I would be there at 7:30 to move her…

It’s been a while – perhaps well over a month since I’ve been to the East Bay, as with fuel prices and bridge toll it’s not a trip I can make too often, and besides, except for just opening the door and sitting in her, there was little reason to go visit my motorhome.

I felt her welcoming smile as I opened the door and stepped inside again after so long – it was like visiting a dear old friend. Some may understand this; those people whose vehicles become, after a time, much more than just something to use in order to get around in – they become, in a way, a part of you. Part of your history, part of your future, part of dreams both realized… and yet to come.

I climbed into the driver’s seat – *my* seat – and sat there for a minute or three, just looking out the windshield with my eyes closed, imagining the roads we would someday travel, then with a bit of massaging and a small simple trick I turned the key and her heart roared to life, a deliciously low rumble as her blood was sucked up from the oil pan and started circulating again, feeling her strength & power as I pressed lightly on the accelerator pedal, checking the gauges to be sure all was well and, after far too long, moved the lever on the steering column to that sweetest of letters: ‘D’.

DRIVE.

I didn’t go far, just out the rollup door and around the building to the other side, but it was still a sweet little spree and reminded me of what I had been missing.

In those few short minutes, I was home again.

 

Perhaps some may think I’ve gone off the deep end in writing about a motorhome with such romance – words that are usually saved to paint poetic images of and for loved ones of the more, shall we say, *human* nature, and well, perhaps I have – but dreams are still dreams, regardless of what form they take or the way in which they are realized, and Serenity, my motorhome, is the way in which my dreams not only are formed – but can also become a reality.

…to me

6:41am – Hot coffee, a smoke, looking on the interweb for places to in the mountains to dissapear to for a few days or weeks, and getting my hair chopped & died today. Happy birthday to me.

On this day I always wonder where she is; if she thinks of me, if she’s even still alive. Searches in the past for her turned up next to nothing – I might have my nationality, but that’s pretty much it. She was a college student, so was he. Norweigan, Irish, Mutt & mutt – but I like the Norweigan & Irish so I’m sticking with those. With no known mother or father, I get to choose who I want to be.

No known beginning. I just… was. Of course with the amazing things that have happened all through my life once I started paying attention, the fact that after it all I should be dead a hundred times and am not, I fantasize about being more in the supernatural realm of things – but really, aren’t we all if we let ourselves see?

I’ve been reading a book that an acquaintance said I should, said I might like. By Deepak Chopra, it’s called The Way of the Wizard. It is based on Merlin & his teachings, and though I don’t really go for your common “Self Help” book these days, choosing more to remember all of what I’ve already read & experienced, there are many parts that I like in this one, that resound in me. One I particularly like is towards the end of the “Lessons”, where Merlin & Arthur are parting ways.

>>>”I wanted to give you a parting gift, and I could think of nothing better than this.” Merlin pointed to the road beneath their feet, which had also appeared overnight. “Roads are the sign of the wizard. Or did you know that?”… “Although you may fancy that you own a part of this world, in fact you only walk it. In spirit you are the dust on the road, the restlessness in the wind. You mortals build homes to protect yourselves from the world. To a wizard home is this moment, and moments are always moving–”     “On the road of time,” Arthur said, finishing the sentence for him.”…>>>

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I’m excited about the changes happening in my life right now. There is much of the past to let go of, many ways that I’ve become accustomed to, comfortable with, that I must transition away from – but with each death comes a new life, and hell, death is certainly no stranger to me. In order to learn how to live I had to accept the idea of my physical death over half of my life ago. In many ways, this is perhaps the most incredible gift I have ever received, even with all of the loneliness that has come with it, the sorrow, pain, and… and the child who would have been named Blue. It took me years of ripping myself apart, years of struggle, to realize I wasn’t getting anywhere. The problem was the struggle, and that in simply letting things be, looking at them, and truly seeing the clues, invitations, and finding the hidden treasures buried deep inside devastation & disaster.
That is where peace lies, where the answers are; and where I only recently realized what love truly is. At least I think so – the idea is there, but putting it into practice? Hell, I’m sure that will be a different story altogether. I still want that someone to share things with, still would happily admit that I’m imperfect enough to look for the person I wrote about in Enough”, “No Vacancy – and ridiculous amounts of other places over the years.

I don’t think I ever want to be so extraordinarily “Fool on the Hill” Self-satisfied as to forget how to deeply value the  perfection of moments such as watching someone I am in love with sleep, and wonder what they are dreaming about, of seeing the world grow brighter when they laugh, watching the little things they do when they think that no one else is watching… of wrapping my fingers through the hair behind their head & pulling them to me – and of sharing with them the beauty of such simple things as the road, eating crappy food & all the goofy junk that we can’t live without at truck stops (Mad Libs!), coming to the crest of a mountain and watching the world stretch out before us, knowing that it is us, and that it is ours, and feeling our love expand and enfold us in the awed silence we share… (Whoa. Whoa! That was intended to be much shorter. Like – maybe one incredibly profound line. I swear, when the romantic fool inside of me is allowed to say a few words ya just can’t shut him up.)

And the magick of life continues to unfold each moment…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I think I need to go do some manly stuff now after the fluffiness of that last paragraph – work on my Motorhome (Alice), sharpen my knives, scratch my balls (whether they need it or not – HA!), make Alice into a monster motorhome – and maybe even be so bold as to put those nekkid lady mud-flaps on her… and then, um –  get my hair done. In a manly way. By a sexy chick. (aka the lovely & talented Raven Amparo – hair goddess.)

It couldn’t be more appropriate that The Temple of Flux burns tonight – and for the first year, the Temple is not a building; it is a much more organic shape, depicting mountains & valleys & the like. Coincidence?

I think not.