ok with being alone tonight

Dinner earlier on in the evening at a place called PM. Trendy ethnic flavors and a glass of wine, and I feel mellow. Now, it’s 10 o’clock on a Monday night, and I’m getting sleepy. I leave a club, where aging rockers are lost in a Clash tribute reverie, reliving the good old days of real rock‘n roll. It’s a beautiful night, and I'm driving by people still clustered on the patios of bars and restaurants. Members of the lonely hearts club perch on the front porch of a late night coffee shop, doing nothing. I’m going home alone, but I’m ok with being alone tonight.

I walk in the door, the cat shadowing me. She goes to eat, and I sit down at the piano to play. I love these ivory keys and the warm tones they sing. I get up from the piano after a little while and pick up my digital camera. I set it on a ledge here, a table there, letting it take automatic photos. My boyfriend is thousands of miles away, and he wants pictures. Of course, he probably wants something a little naughty, but I’m thoughtful and not feeling sexy tonight. I give the camera one final sleepy smile, then turn it off. I wash my face and crawl between the sheets. I miss him, but, I’m ok with being alone tonight.

Itch

I feel myself itching to get out of town. Here I am, on the verge of buying a house, and everything inside of me wants to go, to move, to get on the road. The freedome of being able to go anywhere. Somewhere else, where no one really knows who you are, and you could be anyone. It's like a performing a cleanse of sorts. Cleaning out the closet of expectations on you, to be who everyone else thinks you are. To act instinctively, rather than always as you should. The road has always known who you were, but it's nice when it can take you where you can be who you are - even if only for the weekend. Monday morning will see me back at work.

A chapter in the life of love and the road

Love is a teacher. We love in order to learn.
Pain is a teacher. We lose and we hurt, but still, we learn something. You could conclude that we love to learn, because we so often long for love. And then love often brings with it, that other teacher, pain.

I do not so much long for love as I long for a resting place (though love should provide a resting place). Because, the thought of losing love is made that much worse by the realization that you no longer have a "home" and have to pack your bags. Get back on the road, where you had been, just trudging along, when someone pulled over and picked you up. Taking a chance on a lonely traveler, like picking up a hitchhiker or finding a stray cat. He took you home, and you sat with him on the back porch. He smiled and leaned into you, and you took a deep breath for the first time in what seemed like forever. Ah, rest, you thought. Finally I can rest.

But, like the stray that you are, one day you realize you seem to be constantly underfoot. You rub up against the now familiar warmth, you purr, and curl up in his lap - as you normally would. Then, he sneezes.

“Oh, I’m allergic to you,” he says, a bit concerned, “and, well, now that I think about it, I prefer tabby to calico (or Siamese or Persian - whatever it is that you are not). Yeah, I’m afraid this is not going to work out, but we sure had some good times.”

Inside, you feel broken, a little stunned. You should have trusted your instincts when they first told you to run. Still, on the outside you can appear very composed. With all your feline regalness, you hop down and stretch, deliberately licking each of your paws,

“No, don’t get up, I know how busy you are. I can show myself out the door.” You've done this before.

I take it back. It is not the loss of love, but the loss of hope that hurts the most (I'd like to think that love, if it really was love, would never have gone). The discovery of love, your heart’s home, was the hope. Love was hope’s empty promise. The lesson we learn is one your mom taught you long ago. Don’t go riding in cars with boys, no matter how tempting the offer.

An Introduction of Sorts

Every story begins on the way somewhere. Between where you are going and where you were.  Sometimes you’re on the road, driving.  Maybe because driving is therapeutic.  When you are driving, you have time to think, time to reflect.  It’s when you talk to yourself, or you talk to your companion, the road.  There are times when I like to driving in complete silence, just the sound of the engine and the tires on the highway.  Other times, I need music.  Loud music that I can sing to at the top of my lungs; because I am angry or full of some exuberant emotion.  Then, there are the times when I’m sad, and it’s hard to see the road through my tears.  Driving is perfect for when I’m sad, and I want to escape or go somewhere that I feel safe.  Just me and the road.  And I love my car, because it takes me there.   

I bought a new car a few months ago.  I drove away from the car lot singing, “I got a new car, I got a new car…”  I sang that song for miles.  For days.  I still thank God a few times a week for that car, even though I’m not entirely sure what kind of terms He/She and I are on these days.  Me and the road have a new vehicle for going places, and we love going places.  New places.  Old places.  I prefer driving fast on smooth pavement, but I’m very understanding of occasional potholes and dirt roads.  Nobody’s perfect, and after all, variety is supposed to add spice to life.  It may even add character.  That’s another reason the road and I get along so well.  There is no judgment here.  I don’t have to be anyone but me.  My occasional tears don’t embarrass the road, and it doesn’t flinch when I yell out, “Fuck you, Motherfucker!” at the car that just cut me off.

My windows are down today.  The wind is blowing my hair all over the place, a few strands keep getting in my face, but I like them there.  I am leaving the parking lot of the bookstore.  An hour and a half in there, and I walked out bored and empty handed.  Hundreds of books, and nothing I feel like reading.  I guess you just have to be in the right mood.  Besides, lately, there probably isn’t enough room in my head for imagining someone else’s world.  Mine is taking up too much space.  I fight the urge to throw my head back and close my eyes, as I take a deep, cleansing breath.  Mmm, that felt good.  I turn up the car stereo.  I love this song.  I wonder for a minute what people think when they pass by and see me completely lost in the music.  I love driving like this, it’s invigorating.  Some people start their day with a cup of coffee or the newspaper and cigarette.  All I need is the road.  Me and the road.

I think it makes sense that my story begins on the road.  I have spent more time there than anywhere. There are always those typical questions people love to ask, when they first meet you.  First, it’s, “What your name?” and then, “So, where are you from?” I know that no one really wants an essay answer, so I typically, reply with something like, “Oh, everywhere…” Well, maybe I should just start saying that I grew up on the road.  Yeah, that’s where I’m from.  I’m a gypsy, a nomad.  It’s kind of exciting and intriguing.  After all, that is where I go when I feel like I don’t really know where I belong.  So, I’ll begin my story with the only place that feels like home.