In All The World Only One

So here I sit amongst the halls of stale books and periodicals heavily caffeinated from the bizillion cups of coffee I took in at a local café, while I waited for the library to open.

As I seem to have the luck, knack, habit or perhaps misfortune of doing, I have found a man to “scheme” during my downtime in the fair Circle City. A lovely, tall dark haired Australian who is responsible for my beaked up state at the moment. His name is not yet known to me, but after next Wednesday’s breakfast I have great confidence it will be.

It is amazing the energy that mutual, or even one-sided attraction can leaven in a room, perhaps knowing nothing of one another is the ultimate aphrodisiac, which may be why casual relationships were so wonderfully appealing to me in my past life. There is something delightful in the fact that he knows nothing of me…nothing of my horrible sleeping, my atrocious eating, my propensity for dirty talk, my revealing website, the fact that I’ve just come from an AA meeting, my closeness to my family, nothing… other than how I like my eggs, I prefer fruit over sausage, I take cream with my coffee and I’m half way through a hard back book in which I occasionally underline passages in black ink. And I know nothing about him… other than he is obviously foreign, exceptionally diligent at topping off my beverage and not particularly good at making small talk. But yet an undeniable force fuels the interaction. I play coy, as is standard protocol for such occasions, undermining both our knowledge that “it” is obviously “on.”

But what is one to do about “it” ? In my old days I may have shamelessly written my name and number on a napkin, or blatantly mentioned I’d be back next week. Now however, residing on my newly turned leaf, I just left. Leaving both he and I to wonder if our paths may ever cross again and him to make one last ditch attempt, by poutingly uttering “Leaving so soon?” in his fabulously thick accent and despite the fact I had sat in a dingy Naugahyde booth nursing the contents of my mug for upwards of two hours. Anyhow, this “leaving strategy” is a new one for me, so I’ll be sure to inform you all of its outcome, if any.

As apparent by the fact that I’ve even deemed this topic “blog worth” I find this phenomenon quite remarkable and one that has marked every long term relationship/flirtation I’ve ever know. While I have no doubt that this energy is not unique to me, but most likely widely known to all baby-faced brunettes endowed with blankets of hair and shifty eyes, who feign uninterest in and abject gratitude for their waiters, I do think it possible that I have a rare appreciation for it.

I thrive on these sorts of interactions, for me it is one of the things that makes life worth living, I love the “beginning of the game.” Like the excitement that courses through a race aficionado when they hear ol’ Trevor Desmond’s distinctive “And away they go,” or as stage performer feels the moment right before the curtain lifts and lights burn, or a ball player feels immediately preceding the ump’s cry of “Play Ball!” These uncertain beginnings hold so much life and excitement in them that they resonate with me to the core (maybe even as much as my elation surrounding my birthday…maybe).

This sort of energy really only scratches the surface of a topic I’ve been unable to shake from my thoughts for a while now. As Ben Harper sings “There’s something in everyone, that only they know” and it seems to me that everyone does indeed have their something, so deeply desired, that they feel certain if they were to obtain it, ecstacy would undoubtedly be theirs. A want, so private and glutenous that they dare not ever utter it aloud for fear of the judgements of others. A thought that if ever materialized would create such rapture that it must certainly be sinful to even think, if only in the darkest recesses of one’s mind when head hits pillow, it would surely be cause for damnation (if you believe in that sort of thing). But yet it can never be quieted all together, can never be made completely silent and it will always continue to compel always continue to fester, even if realized, it may alter forms, but it will always continue to burn.

Perhaps I’ve been unable to shake my obsession with this thought for days now, because I’m a bit scandalous (and without question a lot masochistic) or perhaps the tumultuous stories of the alcoholics I’ve been immersed in are skewing my world view, but as I hear the tales of the diseased, who have found sobriety, who have pulled themselves up from their own personal Hells I can’t help but think it is our fear of this festering secret desire in all of us that helps to create the “holes” in people, which we all (whether you like to admit it or not) seek to fill, in our own unique way(s). Some through work, some through God, some through drugs, some through sex and still others through flirtations with nameless waiters.

And it is these holes partially caused by our disdain for our throbbing beloved demon desire that leads to the emotional poison we kill ourselves with and spew at others, knowingly and unknowingly (to borrow the central metaphor from The Mastery of Love, by far my favorite Toltec spiritual guide book). Society shapes us to believe their myths of what we should want, how we should act and as we inevitably don’t measure up or deviate from these often impossible standard, our spiritual holes, our emotional wounds grow. And rather than patching these wounds in ourselves we rub the salt of self hate and self destruction into them. As we do so, we perpetuate the lies of human kind, lies like women must be a size 2 with D-cup tits to be desirable, that men must make 6 figures + to be worthwhile, that we will never be good enough, we will never be attractive enough, and living as such wretches with our secret lust brewing in our souls we will never be perfect.

But it is our choice to believe these lies and to expose our wounds, at anytime we can stop. Who wants to be someone else’s definition of “perfect” anyway? Can you think of anything more boring? Imperfection is what creates character. Through this knowledge is where self love, self understanding and self acceptance lie and act as bandages. Once we are repaired we can begin to assist in helping to dress the wounds of others. Only then can we be of any use to ourselves and those our lives touch.

I was baptized Catholic, a religion whose teachings I personally view as repressive, irresponsible and hurtful to the lives of Millions (my apologies to all the Catholics reading now, if it works for you, hats off, but I can show you a few Mexican families it’s done nothing but hinder). So I fought that affiliation tooth and nail as a young adult, finding my disdain for the religion overwhelming my search for my own spiritual beliefs, it was not until later in life that I’ve formulated my own spirituality. One of the ideas I always use as a touch stone the moment I begin to pity myself or others is that we are all responsible for the events in our lives, that we chose these happening to help perfect our soul, that we needed the lessons that come from every event, good and bad, to be a more well rounded entity. We do this for ourselves and we do it for God, a God who is all knowledge, and needs our experiences to be well rounded himself. Because knowledge without experience is never complete.

In conclusion I take responsibility for the events of my life, I take responsibility for the healing of my own wounds, I won’t continue to blame the circumstances of my life (a warring family, dysfunctional and arguably abusive relationships with men and a genetically predisposed aversion to moderation). I will break the cycle of injury and do my very best to keep my emotional poison to myself and not allow it to ever burn the spiritual flesh of another. I embrace all the “somethings” inside my heart and my head, all the things so private that not even I, who has made a permanent home for her heart on her sleeve can bring herself to articulate.

After all why shouldn’t I embrace them? They’re my demons, my desires, I created them, I fuel them and I need them … How else do you expect me to get a date with an Australian waiter I know nothing about?