my road -dreams

Oh yes, but all you want to do is hear more about the sex.  It is what you think about, I know.  It is what I think about too.  I would like to paint her if I could paint, for she had the beauty of an artwork.  I would like to think she could be captured on canvas.  I would like to be able to hang her on my wall so that I could always go up and admire her, brush my hands against the texture.  

No one has adequately captured her in life.  I would like to do that in order to preserve her, but I cannot.  Only in my mind does she continue to live as she did then.  Nothing can fully capture who and what she was, not just to me, but to the city she saved.  The occasional artist or homosexual scientist who is discovered more or less after their death belies this, but generally it is true.  In this day, if you were to carve your words into stone, after the next apocalypse, you would achieve some level of fame, people of the future wondering why such a mediocre person was memorialized.  But most of the great are lost to history.

I had so little time that I shared with her.  And when were separated, it was so she could go on with a life that did not include me, but for a time we would talk.

“It turns out the tea I drink in the morning isn't totally decaffeinated.  It's close, but then I suspect in our world of dark fancy chocolates and clear caffeinated drinks, we shouldn't be surprised and I'm not sure that I care of that this betrayal matters in light of all the others in my life.”

“And how much are you betrayed by your tea?”

“I’m not sure of my favorite brand, but there is a caff-o-meter on BIGELOW teas that shows coffee at 100-120 mg, you’re coffee is stronger, I think.”

“You can bet on that.”

“I miss having coffee with you.”

“You know what we can’t.”

“Yes.  Anyway, black tea at a third of that, great tea falling on either side of black tea, and the decaf chai that I drink at a whopping 1-8 mg.  Herbal teas are alleged to have none, but who knows what those herbs are up to.

“I long ago stopped putting milk in my coffee, something I sniffed out, something for the amateur coffee drinkers of the world.  But when you drink chai, it's often de riguer to add sweetener and milk, so I add honey which I've always thought without reason to have magical qualities and a little milk which perhaps makes it more coffee like with its 1% of the caffeine.”

“And I don’t add anything to my coffee usually, but I do occasionally like almond milk.”

“I know,” I tell her glumly.  She laughs, it is musical.  She is also sad we are apart, but she knows how to laugh.

My dreams are obvious, trying to get somewhere by going into increasingly tight rooms, each one is more narrow and then there are blocked doors.  Dreams of riots driving people from their homes which will never sell, set as they are against wall to keep out what?

I see the world clearly at 3am when I am up and no one else is.  It is interesting to be on this side of virtue.  Having come from a lack of virtue, achieving it to some extent and now being on the other side.  I am in my meetings trying to deal with my realities, my problems, the last of them shuffling forward like beggers asking for their part of me.  Like the doors, they are too numerous to deal with them all, I must pick and chose among them to decide which one to squeeze through and then I find myself in an even more narrow place.

I was misled by my own interest.  She was a leader of men and was promoted as a result.  I was not and so I find myself alone.  My time alone allows my mind the freedom to look back and it is not freedom.  It is prison to be the prisoner of your own past.  I wonder if she ever regrets leaving me, but I think not.  She should not, because in the great scheme of rising up and settling, in our relationship she was always the settler.  I gave her something that was special in its own way, but she gave me more.

I can remember taking a bath with her because it was winter and cold outside.  After making sure I was as clean as I could get in the narrow tub she took me in her mouth.  My eyes closed and they close now with the memory, groaning then in pleasure and now in agony.  And when I opened them she still held me, but those sparkling, clear blue eyes looked up at me, enjoying the effect she knew she had on me.

Our relationship was both spiritual and factual.  It was governed equally by the friendship on which it was built and the passion which burned at the sacrificial alter which was the limited time we had together.

I want to go back to her, but virtue dictates that I must become something better than what I am.  I no longer understand what that means, but I know that if I truly can free myself enough to seek only to do the right thing in all things, then I can achieve the power that comes with virtue and that it will, by virtue of my conversion become irrelevant to me.  Could I, in such a state, find what we had together?

It is ironic, but with all of the power that virtue lends, it does not give you what you want, but instead gives you what you should have.