Cryptic Messages/Ghosts of Christmas Past

You may call me many things, but long-winded I am not. What follows is a terse relation of a story that may or may not have some basis in the truth.

Bear in mind, that if I tried to reminisce in too much detail, I would cringe to the point of illiteracy, so I will be ambiguous. Still, I will aim for beauty. What more can a man do?

I was _____teen and very awkward. I had caught the disease of self-consciousness in middle school (if I could decapitalize any further I would) and it wrought desperate havoc in the realm of my social skills. In my elementary years I was fairly good at getting along with everyone. I would even go so far as to say that I was a likeable little sod in those days.

Anyway, returning to my story. I was ____teen and very awkward. I had my friends, but I was an absolute failure with girls. There was a particular one, whose name is written in boldface at the back of my mind even to this day. She is an incredible person. I found her ravishing on her worst days, and I could scarcely sit still--breathe normally, even--on her best.

My ailments restrained me. The crippling self-doubt and the paralysis of its consequent self-loathing. I would resolve night upon night to ask her out, and in the morning I would buckle. Nightly I would climb into bed and dream about her. Painfully sweet dreams. I would awake and sigh. So much so that I feel that even now I know of no other way to exhale.

Days become weeks become years become missed opportunities. A couple of years removed and I learned that there had been no reason for my doubts and fears. I had squandered time.

He mocks me now. I hear him at every moment. The night of the discovery of my failure I had to take a long walk. I wanted to let her know the way I felt. There is no way now. Every cliched "It's never too late" shreds my insides. I find comfort in resignation and detachment. I don't expect. No longer do I dream. I can't remember my last one.

Failures in love carve a deep niche in a dark place. Relish vanishing time and know that there is no reward for dalliance except regret.

But if you have lost your chance keep moving. Try because the act is beautiful.

Earn the right to dream again.

The Secret Winter (Cont'd)

Slipper
I stood waiting outside the little general store for maybe three-quarters of an hour. I felt like a teenager again, just kinging around on the dusty wooden front porch of the place. It was a chilly day in December, and the remnants of the previous night's snow lay fresh upon the dreary ground. I yawned and wiped the sleep from my eyes. Groggy, yes, but then the cold always forces me to alertness.

So there I stood kicking about, waiting for something. For a moment I forgot my reason. I waited there for maybe three-quarters of an hour for the bent, old (though by all means indefatigable) shopkeep. He ascended the small stair to the porch deck with the heavy, measured step of a man relishing his own arrival. He looked up and gave me a warm greeting, which I duly reciprocated. He fumbled with some keys and let me in.

I just needed some lightbulbs, but I agreed to the old man's proffered coffee on the house. He and I made some idle chatter and exchanged obscene pleasantries. I finished the scalding, papery drink and went on my way. I heard the soft ca-chink of the bell on the door, and maybe some mumbled farewell too. Don't remember now.

I made my way lightly back down the fifteen-minute gravel path back to the cabin. I reached the steps with the sniffles. I then reached in my coat for the key and turned it in the lock. I entered the warm room and began to feel my age acutely. I turned towards the staircase: one flight up and another down. At the bottom of the darkened well I saw a small slipper.

Vulnerability can be the hearth of tenderest beauties, but never forget that in a world that is both cruel and unspeakable, fragility almost begs for abuse.

---

Those wails in the cold desert of this place. It's not quite so idyllic as I had hoped for us. A year ago I would have climbed the rising steps to you and all would be sacred, whispered oaths. Perhaps I would've waited until day had fully overtaken this shady town to go on my errands, to lose my age. Instead I couldn't stand that musty room a single waking second more. I took the flight of stairs down, picked up the slipper and replaced it snugly by its companion shoe. Next to the fire--alone, together.

Warmth...I almost forget the feeling.

The Secret Winter

First Snow
I woke up in the guest bedroom, and I glanced around. Rarely can I sleep past 9 AM in an unfamiliar place. I rose to my feet in the close space and moved towards the window. Oh, the sky was falling then, in crystalline perfection: brief, paradisal. The first snow, so that there was still some green to be seen. The evergreens at the edge of the forest dripping with the light frost. I turned where I had seated myself and pulled on my jumper. I went to the kitchen, softly, so as not to wake anyone.

I was standing on the frosty balcony in the early morning, disappointed, disappointed. When everybody wakes up late, the early birds get lonely. "To sleep, perchance to dream." I wish, I wish I could. Dreamless sleeps, I fear, are indicators of a dead spirit. Don't think I'm ready to lie in my sarcophagus quite yet.

So again, the snow. It comes down now, crystalline perfection. Blue-white diamonds glistening in a beautiful sequence of blinding flashes--each a gentle stab, stirring the embers in the fireplace.

Has it really been that long? I want meaning, I want more snow, I want so many things--yes, I am wanting.

Godly morning light. The way that the clouds are torn to shreds by those heavenly rays. Every substance in nature has particle and wave properties, Quantum physics. I doubt you could express my wonderment in terms of science. Still, the snow is water, frozen, so they say. As I feel it fall against me it is only soft.

Soft, soft.

Now, elsewhere I stand waiting against an overwhelming cityscape. My nostalgia is unbearable. I waste here, under these stolid confines. All drab grey, these grimy skyscrapers. They block the beauty of the Sun's lovely rays. One of the few ancient graces we have left, at least until we have patched the sky with cinderblocks. I suppose the day is not so far off now. I hope I'm wrong...foolish, even.

Night, night, night.

River weave. These two rivers cleave sacred earth in twain. Rolling hills, unfathomable canyons. And again, the snow. See it come down. Crystalline perfection; Brief, paradisal; Blue-white diamonds...glistening, faster, fast, fast.
Fast.

You can never match the first snow.

What You Will

And in those same murky streets you retrace your steps. Now, down the crooked memory lanes and desolate roads there are only the whisper ghosts of the long dead past. Every regret, oh, how we come to resent our own bodies. Oh, the filth. Someone crosses in an alleyway and you stop cold in your tracks.

The voices of children, now grown, but forever young in your mind. Every misstep and embarassed awkward embrace. You haven't much choice but to continue the familiar breathing pattern: inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. All the youthful adherents of the temple to disappointment: all lined up in a row.

Feels so slow now. Even so, I sit and watch you on a Spanish riverbank, perhaps two years ago. In my mind's eye I see you clearly now. I see the blue-red anguish of crippling self-doubt in your mirror. I missed my chance. No one else feels like you. My life is all miserable pleasantries and the idle observance of night turning day. Over and over. Shame, shame, shame.

And now the whisper ghosts wrap 'round you like a warm winter coat. The cold arctic wind sweeps through these streets. Even when the world is melting, it comes so icy, so bitter, so dry. I wake with faint pains. The old aches are there too, somewhere underneath the surface. Lurking, lurking.

I see a patch of frost from my summery glade. I walk into your memory. I surprise you in your dreams. All dressed up in restless tweed and I'm itching for your touch. I never really embrace you. I'm afraid to.

The doorbell: I can't hear it's toll. In a fit of youthful passion, I remember trying to go back. Some high school function, and you were there late. I resolved to wait with you before your father arrived to take you back home. I returned too late. Maybe you saw me as the car disappeared in the dark. The tail lights were bloody streaks, bittersweet.

You look so pretty now. Not pretty, but I can't make my tongue form the word without embarassing myself. It starts with you but it echoes in the canyons and crevices of my empty chest. Buried little treasures: x's mark the spots in the sand. Some of it's quicksand. How can I know where to dig without sinking. It's the only way to drown with both feet planted on the ground. Mother Earth betrays you. Pulled under and one with the entombed. I have now visions of Egypt from my shady glen. I wish, I wish, I wish.

As I so often speak of it, I am reluctant to mention to you, my love, the River Nile. Where your name is writ on the surface of the water. The current runs north, and like you it never stops running. In my dream you are the River Queen, upon the long boat, draped majestic. Leaves me now, escapes me.

And now you are sweet. Nothing.

"All that's left are vices torn"

In today's world of psychoanalysis, over-the-counter remedies, and big names for minor inconveniences, I sometimes wonder how much of it is just bullshit. But I don't know. I guess I go back and forth on the issue of modern (or post-modern?) neuroses. I've definitely had my moments and I think I've seen glimmers of it in others (some more certainly than others).

The Starbucks generation is dying a little all the time. It's just like every other one before it I suppose.

I can't decide what's embarassing, what's honest, what's acceptable to admit, what's acceptable to deny. How much shit are you supposed to take before you're allowed to really let someone have it? Why is politeness such a high virtue?

Should we all just bow at the temple or what? Why should I be considerate if I'm only going to be deemed a pushover by some over-confident strutting bastard?

The Hobbesian state of war.

I count down the days until the events I look forward to, yet I bristle under the mantle of wearisome time. I swear just yesterday I was about seven years old.

I can't stand it.